by Wise, A. R.
“Oh really?” Her hand was in her pocket, as if ready to pull something out, but she relented, and calmed down. She walked over to his side, and put her hand on his shoulder. “You’re a better man than him.”
Red guffawed, shook his head, and said, “Not hardly.”
“Trust me.”
“You’ll feel different in a few days, after I fuck everything up. Porter might’ve been hard to put up with, but he knew how to take care of himself. He knew how to survive. He’s the one you’d want at your side to make it through this.”
“Not me,” said June. “I’d pick you every time.”
He smiled down to her, winked, and said, “Then you’re a dummy.”
“Come on, let’s get packed up and get out of here.” She left his side and headed for the truck.
“Does that mean you’re coming with me to Texas?”
“Looks that way.” She glanced over her shoulder at him and added, “As long as you don’t piss me off.”
“No promises.”
Day Three – 8:12 am
Red was afraid he’d see Porter on the side of the road, walking with a blade in his hand in search of a new victim to ‘help.’ The image of him holding that knife at the barn door was seared into Red’s imagination, threatening to live there for years.
They never saw Porter or the little man he’d infected. The road was clear.
The truck they’d been driving the day before was wrecked beyond repair, still stuck on the planters outside of the hoarder’s home. Red and June transferred their supplies to the Subaru Outback that was parked outside the bedroom window. After they siphoned out gas from the other vehicles, they left the dingy farm house behind, eager to get away.
The morning fog was burned away shortly after the sun rose above the horizon, giving way to a vast view of the barren, dead, brown plains that dominated half the state. The rippling hills did little to shield them from view, and as they left the farmland behind there was no place to hide.
They neared a railroad crossing, and Red stopped.
June looked for a train, found none, and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Red voiced his contemplation, “Maybe we should ditch the car and walk along the tracks. They’re headed south.”
“You want to walk to Texas?” Her snark was palpable.
He shrugged. “Might be safer. We haven’t had much luck driving.”
“We’re still, like, seven or eight hundred miles from your dad’s house. Walking there would take weeks, if not longer.”
“Nah,” said Red with a dismissive shake of his head.
“Yeah,” she said, mocking him. “You can’t expect to walk more than forty or fifty miles a day. And that’s if all you’re doing is walking, and not hiding from psychos half the time.”
“Fifty? You think that’s all you could walk in a day?”
“Yes. Fifty miles is a long ass way. And if you think the two of us could walk fifty miles, and then get up tomorrow and walk fifty more, you’re out of your mind. If we start walking, we won’t get to your dad for at least a month.”
“If we stay on the roads, we’re going to get attacked again.”
“We’ve got three options,” she said, raising her fingers as she counted down. “One, we keep driving and take our chances. Two, we walk until our feet bleed and we give up. Three, we find a place to lay low for a while.”
“I take it you’re hoping for option three,” he said.
“I’m not pushing one way or the other. I’m just laying out the facts. Those are our options. All three of them suck donkey balls, but we’ve got to choose.”
Red stared at the road ahead, hoping for an elusive flash of clarity. He groaned, shook his head, and spoke with a helplessness that turned his words to a whisper, “I don’t know what to do.” He looked to June and continued, “I’ve got no clue what to do. I’m not like Porter. I’m not good at this sort of thing.”
“No one’s good at this sort of thing.”
“He was. He was good at making tough decisions.”
“And it got him killed.” She saw Red’s angry reaction coming, and quickly stifled it, “I’m not saying he was wrong. I’m saying he’s gone. That’s the way it is. He’s gone, and we’re here, and we’ve got to figure this out. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. Then I guess we should look for a place to hide, because we’re not going to make it if we keep getting attacked over and over.” He started driving, his decision made.
“Hold on, let’s talk it through,” she said.
“What’s there to talk about?”
June looked up and bit her lower lip. It was a gesture of annoyance that she resorted to when trying to stay calm. “You Laws, I swear to God. You and your brother… Listen, there’re pros and cons to all three options. Let’s take a minute and weigh them out. You know? Talk about it for a second, and figure it out.”
He stopped the car suddenly on the tracks, causing them to jerk forward in their seats. “Fine, let’s talk.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Don’t be like…” he groaned. “I’m not trying to be like anything. Okay? For fuck’s sake. It’s been a shitty day. All right? I’m not trying to be a dick. It’s just… I’m scared, and I’m sad, and I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I’m fucking scared. Did I mention that I’m scared? Because I’m doing my best not to freak out, like all the time right now.”
“I know,” she said, and reached across the center console to rest her hand on his leg. “I’m scared too, but if we’re going to make it through this, we’ve got to be smart about it. I think you had a good idea about walking, and we might end up doing that at some point, but not yet. We’ve got no idea what’s going on out there, and how far this infection has spread, but what we do know for a fact is that it’s here, in Colorado. And if it’s really a bioterrorist attack, then we’d be pretty damn stupid to stick around here.”
“But it’s going on everywhere,” said Red.
“We don’t know that. It might be, but we don’t know for sure. And if it is going on everywhere, then it’s obviously going to be a bigger problem in the cities. Right? So the further we can get from the cities, the better. Think about it. We know the infection is here, so finding another house like last night and trying to hide right in the middle of what could be the epicenter of this fucking insanity – that’s a terrible idea. We need to get away from here, and head out into the middle of nowhere.”
Red looked perplexed. “Then you want to keep driving?”
“Actually, I think you need some sleep. Even if it’s just a couple hours, you need it.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She shook her head. “No, you won’t be. I know how you get when you’re tired, and now’s not the time for that. I need you firing on all cylinders. You need some sleep.”
“Do you want to drive for a while?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s smart for one of us to be driving and the other one to be asleep. When we’re on the move, we both need to be up and alert.”
“June, you’re confusing the shit out of me right now,” he said while grinding his grip on the steering wheel. “A minute ago you said you thought we should get out of here as soon as possible. Now you want to go find a place to sleep? Fuck that. I couldn’t sleep right now if you paid me.”
June laughed. “Bullshit. You could fall asleep riding a bull if you needed to. And we don’t need to go find a house or anything. There’re abandoned cars all over the place. Let’s just pull over, someplace off the road a bit, and I’ll keep watch while you get some sleep.”
“And then what? We drive south?”
She shrugged and nodded, “For now, yeah. That’s my vote. We’ll see how far we can make it.”
“If we’re voting, then I say we go now. I’ll be fine. I’ve gone for days without sleep before.”
“Red, I’m not asking you to sleep for eight hours. I’m asking you to get a couple hours. That’s it. Please?
”
“Why?” he asked, annoyed.
“Because there’s no way in hell we’re making it through today without something fucked up happening. I’d feel better knowing you had a couple hours of sleep before the shit hits the fan. I know you didn’t get a lot of sleep the night before last either. You’ve got to be running on pure adrenaline at this point.”
“If it’ll make you happy, we can pull over somewhere and I’ll try to get some sleep, but I’m telling you, it’s a lost cause.”
Day Three – 8:28 am
Porter regarded the butcher knife in his hand. Sunlight reflected off it’s clean edge. He looked at his companion, and the knife the little fat man wielded. Its edge dripped with blood, still fresh from the wound Porter had delivered into the man’s gut. After infecting his new companion, Porter found another knife in the kitchen, but it was clean. It wouldn’t do much good like this, clean and incapable of spreading disease.
“Medford’s that way,” said Hosta. He guided Porter through the field of corn, slipping between the rows with as much grace as his stubby, wobbling legs allowed.
Hosta stumbled, and gripped the wound in his gut. “Lots of people to help there.”
“Good,” said Porter, following several steps behind. Hosta kept sliding his steak knife across his belly, slathering it with more blood, eager to keep the edge contagious. Blood dripped to the dry earth, nearly vanishing immediately into the thirsty dirt.
Porter looked at the wounds on his hand. They weren’t deep, and had already stopped bleeding. If he was going to help more people, he’d need fresh blood on the knife. He placed the blade to his palm, ready to make a new cut, but then saw more blood drip from Hosta. He knelt to retrieve it, but the ground absorbed it too fast.
“Come here,” commanded Porter.
Hosta slowed, looked back, but didn’t stop. “What’s wrong?”
“Come here,” said Porter as he stalked after the man.
Hosta reluctantly stopped, giving Porter a chance to catch up. As soon as he did, Porter came at him with the butcher knife. Despite how Porter was the one responsible for Hosta’s mortal wound, the fat man wasn’t afraid of him. He watched, perplexed as Porter came at him with the weapon.
Porter didn’t stab Hosta. Instead, he slid the blade across the man’s grievous wound. Back at the house, Porter’s attack had been more zealous than needed. He’d jammed a steak knife deep into Hosta’s gut, and all but ensured the man would die from his wound. Now the cut oozed black blood, and white strips of fat were revealed, as if he was hiding raw bacon under his shirt.
“There, that’s better,” said Porter once his blade was dripping with Hosta’s blood.
“Okay, fine. Let’s go. We’ll help lots of them,” said Hosta, focused and determined as he staggered through the corn, leaving bloody handprints on dry, crackling leaves as he passed.
The sun was hot and unforgiving, bringing sweat to Porter’s brow that mixed with his tears. He continually wiped his eyes, but the tears kept falling, dripping from his chin nearly as fast as the blood from Hosta’s belly.
Hosta guided Porter west until they broke through the field of dead corn and reached a road. “The town’s this way,” said Hosta as he passed a green sign on the side of the road.
Porter wiped away more tears, and squinted at the blurry white letters of the sign.
MEDFORD
2 MILES
Porter rubbed his eyes, and tried to read, but the letters made no sense to him. He couldn’t make out what the sign said. He shook off the confusion, and continued walking.
Hosta tried to run, but his wound was too severe. His path wavered. He drifted into the road, and then back again, holding his gut and wincing as he panted. Despite his egregious wound, his eagerness to ‘help’ never wavered. He desperately wanted to spread the disease, no matter the cost to his own well-being.
Porter felt the same, although he wasn’t as fervent as Hosta at the prospect of stabbing people. He wanted to help as many people as he could, but Hosta was charging forth with unbridled passion, as if he’d waited his entire life for this opportunity.
Perhaps it had something to do with the severity of his injury. Hosta knew he would die without immediate medical attention, and he wanted the opportunity to help people before that happened.
Porter’s injuries were far less severe.
They stuck to the road, and let it lead them to town. Hosta kept up his pace, but his breathing became increasingly labored. Each step worsened his condition, and his blood kept dripping from the hand he had pressed to his belly.
“Let me see your stomach,” said Porter.
“Why?” asked Hosta, more concerned with the mission than his condition.
“Is it bad?”
Hosta moved his hand and looked down at the gash in his belly. There was a length of inflamed, pink intestine trying to push its way out of the gap, causing the entire wound to bulge. Each step of their journey exacerbated his agony, although he hid his pain well.
“I can still help,” said Hosta. His face was pale beneath the dirt and blood that caked his cheeks. Streams of tears drew clean lines down to his jowl. His lips were wet with saliva that hung in sticky strands, and each breath came as if it needed to be forced.
Hosta wouldn’t make it through the day without medical attention.
“Let’s keep moving,” said Porter, unconcerned with Hosta’s impending death.
Medford was a small town with only two stoplights, each within a few hundred yards of each other. The road they walked beside passed most of the businesses in town. There was a post office set back from the road. The building was smaller than most coffee shops Porter had been in. A bar’s placard promised half-off drafts between four and six, but there was no sign of life inside. Porter and Hosta seemed to be the only living souls around.
“Grocery… store,” said Hosta between gasps. He pointed ahead. He was several yards behind Porter now, lagging as his body revolted.
There was a market at the corner by the second stop light, but it looked ravaged. There were shopping carts overturned in the parking lot, and produce bins had been toppled, their contents stolen. The electronic front doors were chained shut, but the glass was busted, providing entrance to the looters who’d already stolen everything worth taking.
If a small town like Medford had experienced this level of rioting, what did Denver look like?
Porter increased his pace, doing his best to ignore his worsening limp. The wound on his left calf had torn again, and a trickle of blood seeped to wet his sock.
The sun beat down relentlessly, unclouded and intense, carrying summertime heat in the middle of Fall. The warmth didn’t stop the chills that ran up and down Porter’s spine, bringing goosebumps to his arms. It felt like the symptoms of a flu, ravaging him from the inside out, and bringing beads of sweat to his brow.
His vision was blurred by falling tears. The colors of the world filtered through a kaleidoscopic view that he tried to blink away, but it only momentarily cleared.
“Wait for me,” said Hosta, growing more distant with Porter’s every step. “I can help.”
Something moved inside the store. A shadow passed between the aisles, disappearing as soon as it was seen. Porter began to run, eager to help in the only way he knew how. Any pain caused by the reopened wound on his leg was ignored in the fever of the chase.
He pushed aside a shopping cart that was in his way as he neared the door. The cart clattered to the asphalt. His shoes pounded through the broken glass, assuring that his approach was anything but stealthy. His desire to spread the disease – to help – overcame all other thoughts or actions.
He needed to help.
“Someone’s here,” shouted a female voice. “Run!”
“I’m here to help,” said Porter as he breached the store’s entrance.
The small grocery store had been devastated by looters. All that remained on the shelves were cleaning supplies. Nearly every scrap of fo
od had been taken, leaving skeletal shelves like what might be seen in a famine stricken third-world. The floors were littered with broken glass, fallen displays, and signage that’d been tossed aside. Even the gum racks were empty.
The girl was on the other side of the store. She was thin and young, probably in her late teens, with black hair tied in a loose ponytail. She wore all black clothes. She looked as if the apocalypse had been an annoying detour on her way to a nightclub.
Porter chased her. He paralleled her path on the other side of the aisles, watching her like she was a picture in a slowly turning zoetrope.
A new face surprised him, close and angry. A man stood in the freezer section of the store, wielding a bat, ready to strike. The bat came down fast and hard, but Porter dodged the attack. His assailant wasn’t deterred, and recovered from his miss quickly. He swung haphazardly left, awkwardly thrusting at Porter.
He wasn’t much older than the girl, and dressed similar, as if the two of them had been attempting a modern take on Sid and Nancy’s aesthetic. The leather clad youth was brave, but foolish. His brazen attack left him vulnerable, and his two-handed grip on the bat’s handle gave him little recourse to block the knife that Porter stabbed at him with.
The knife sank into the teen’s neck, stabbing deep behind his clavicle, and dropping him to his knees. He screamed in pain and defeat, but didn’t stop fighting back. He swung at Porter’s legs, and connected directly on the wound that already hobbled him. Porter fell beside the boy, and tried to scoot away.
He had no interest in his victim anymore. He’d already helped the teen, now he had to get the girl.
Porter started to get up, but the young man grabbed his leg. Porter kicked the boy away just as he saw the girl running for the entrance.
The teen on the floor screamed, “Gracie, run!”
She tried to escape, but Hosta was at the door, blocking her way. She skid to a stop, her shoes sliding on the tile like squealing tires. Hosta swiped at her, but missed, and she ran back to the center of the store, hidden from Porter’s view by the tall shelves.
