A Single Light

by Tosca Lee

  The end of it comes away in his hand.

  It’s been cleanly severed.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “The communications feed from the silo. The reason our messages weren’t received.”

  “Who would do that?” I say.

  He traces the sticky backing of the missing label beneath the red indicator. The only live thing on the panel.

  “Noah,” he says quietly.

  “What?” Nelise, in my ear, and I both say at once. Karam just looks at him like he’s talking gibberish.

  “Obviously he left. Everyone left,” Micah says.

  “They abandoned us,” Delaney says from her post outside the office.

  “I don’t think so.” Chase.

  “I don’t, either.” Micah.

  “You think someone forced them out,” I say.

  “Maybe,” he says. But his frown says no. And then he’s searching the console, pulling down security screens, tugging components from the cabinet above. They dangle from cords like bungee jumpers, a few of them falling onto the control panel with a clang before crashing to the concrete floor.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Guys.” Delaney.

  “The security footage drive.” Micah.

  “Guys, I thought I just heard something.”

  “Something like what?” Chase says, stepping out.

  Across the room, Micah’s murmuring to himself, saying something ought to be here. It comes through on the VOX, hogging the channel.

  “Micah, shut up,” Chase says.

  I grab Micah’s arm. Hold a finger to my lips. When he doesn’t stop, I grab his walkie-talkie, yank the cord from it.

  Chase: “You hear it again?”

  Silence.

  “No—wait . . .” Delaney says. “No. It’s gone.”

  “Let’s go,” I say. And then, when he doesn’t move: “Micah.”

  He doesn’t answer, searching frantically, yanking down anything within reach.

  “What’s that?” Karam says, pointing. I follow the line of his finger to the cabinet, which is mostly bare thanks to Micah. There’s a black splotch against the back wall, darker toward the corner, as though emanating from the point where the cords were fed through it. At first glance, it looks like black mold spreading across the Formica.

  No, it’s not mold. It’s singed.

  “I think we know what happened to Noah’s video feed,” Chase says.

  Once, when I was thirteen, lightning struck the Enclave’s laundry. It left a char like that—in addition to a black hole in the corner of one of the dryers.

  “He knew we were coming,” Micah says. “That we’d need answers. Instructions. How to find him after—”

  “Micah, it was lightning,” I say.

  “Yes, I know!” he snaps, gesturing with one hand toward the fuse box set in the adjacent wall. Now, in the light of the lantern, I see the umbra around its edges. “The feed might have fried, but the strike should have triggered a backup system for the security monitors . . .”

  He stops. Looks around. Steps back and takes in the cords snaking across the floor, and then feels along the underside of the panel. Pauses. And then slides out a black component that looks a lot like the cable box in Julie’s living room.

  At the thought of her my pulse spikes.

  “We good?” Chase asks. This time Micah nods, cradling the box in his hands as Karam reconnects his earpiece.

  Upstairs, the kitchen looks even more abandoned in dawn’s diffused light. The plates on the counter picked clean by unseen rodents, the cupboards open, pots spilling from one, the door hanging off its hinges.

  Micah, Delaney, and I crouch at the top of the stairs, waiting for the all clear. A breeze stirs the tendrils at my nape, and now I remember leaving the front door open as we ran out through it earlier this morning.

  A snuffling flap issues from the direction of the porch just as Karam follows Chase around the frame of the arch into the living room.

  “Who’s there?” Chase shouts.

  “Don’t you move!” Karam yells in reply.

  I push Micah against the wall. Feel, more than see, Delaney tug him down a step toward her as Chase passes through my line of vision.

  A split second later I hear his heel find the porch, his arrival greeted by a low, snapping growl.

  “What’s happening?” Nelise.

  A shot cracks the air.

  Karam runs out after him.

  When no answer comes, at first I wonder if Chase didn’t fire the shot, but took it instead.

  I try to school my breath. Force myself to stay put, where I’ve launched forward onto one hand, ready to sprint like a runner. The pistol in my other hand.

  The silence is terrible.

  “Chase,” I say, loud enough not to have to push the button, my voice hoarse. And then: “Karam!”

  “Was that one of you?” Nelise. “We heard a shot!”

  I launch forward. Am across the kitchen when static hisses in my ear.

  “That was us.” Chase. He walks back inside. “Some kind of co—”

  He turns as I come through the arch. Holds out a hand, trying to ward me off.

  Too late.

  I see it. Not the thing on the porch, but the figure on the couch.

  Flesh rotting away from the bones, the skull picked clean of all but gristle.

  I stifle a scream, raise my forearm to my nose.

  “Some kind of what?” Nelise says.

  “Coyote,” he says, as Karam comes in and strides off toward the bedrooms, pistol raised. “By the way, I think we found the pilot.”

  “Clear,” Karam says, reemerging from the back.

  Micah and Delaney appear at my side.

  “Oh, my God,” Delaney says, turning away. An instant later I hear her retching in the kitchen as Micah turns up the lantern and moves toward the sofa.

  It’s far worse in the light, blackened and charred, tendons like jerky.

  It’s the head, though, that’s the worst. The back half of the skull is missing.

  As horrific as the corpse is, far more unnerving is the fact that I know it wasn’t here two hours ago.

  “What is that?” Karam says, pointing.

  There’s something metallic blue and slender protruding from one of the sockets where an eye should be.

  My penlight.

  5:45 A.M.

  * * *

  The fog is burning off with the sunrise by the time we emerge from the house to find the UTV gone.

  Before I can turn on Chase, say this is his fault—that we should have gone for the UTV when we had the chance—I notice the dead coyote in the driveway. Or more specifically, the crow twitching in its mouth.

  Another spasms on the gravel nearby, coated with a fine layer of gray dust.

  “What’s wrong with all the birds?” Delaney says.

  I glance up in time to watch a turkey vulture circle in the distance.

  “The pilot was sick,” I hear myself say.

  Her brows lift as though to say, So?

  I look from her to Chase. “The pilot was sick. The birds have been picking at the corpse’s brains since the fire went out.”

  His eyes widen. “They’re infected.”

  “And so is anything that eats them.”

  “Guys?” Delaney says, staring past us. She points to the farmhouse door.

  It’s marked with a red spray-painted X and a single dire message:

  10 DEAD

  7 A.M.

  * * *

  It takes an hour to secure the ranch. To track the path of the plane through the solar field before it crashed into the barn. Search for graves—and come up empty-handed. Find the gaping hole in a section of chain-link fence large enough to drive a small vehicle through. Dispatch Irwin and Preston to repair it, and debrief the others, who have more questions than we have answers for.

  Was there any electricity? Did we get a cell signal?

  Where did the o
thers go? Was Noah with them? Why didn’t he leave a note?

  “We don’t know,” Micah says. “I’m hoping the security footage can give us some answers.”

  “Obviously Noah left because the pilot took out the solar field,” Ivy says.

  Chase shakes his head. “The crash had to happen after. No way Noah would’ve left an infected corpse right outside the silo entrance.”

  “Maybe the power lines just need repair and they’re too short-staffed. There has to be power in the cities. It’s been six months! And what about the vaccines?” Rudy says, looking for all the world like a disgruntled shopper at a customer service counter.

  “We’re running out of food, we don’t know anything, and now you’re saying the animals are infected?” Sabine says, sounding like she might be on the brink of a nervous breakdown. “What are we supposed to do? We can’t stay here!”

  “I’m going to town,” I say.

  “What are you going to do? Walk?” Ivy says.

  “Yes,” I say. “Gurley’s a few miles from here. I should be able to get news, find out what our options are for supplies.”

  I feel Chase’s gaze but don’t turn to meet it.

  “Until then, you have water, enough food. Assign guards, set up a patrol. Bury the dead.”

  “What if something happens to you and we’re just here waiting?” Rudy says.

  “The walkie-talkies have a thirty-mile range. You’ll know as soon as I do what I find. Till then, I need food, fuel—anything I can trade.”

  “We’ll get you set up,” Irwin says.

  Downstairs, I shove a change of clothes and a bottle of hand sanitizer into a backpack. Go out into the women’s dorm and rifle through the bin of Julie’s scant belongings. Pocket a few of the Excedrin from the bottle she keeps for migraines. Pause upon finding a photo of Ken standing on a sandy beach that I recognize as the Indiana Dunes, where they took me last fall when I was in the throes of obsessive panic, waiting for my meds to kick in.

  I find her wallet. Feel a little guilty rifling through it even as I help myself to all of the cash inside—a stack of hundreds and a few twenties—as well as her credit cards.

  It’s a strange concept, money. Until eight months ago, I’d never bought anything for myself. Never had any money of my own. Never even touched it except when selling packets of heirloom seeds and tomato seedlings at the New Earth farmers’ market stall.

  I waver on the stairs on my way to the infirmary. My feet ache, and I feel vaguely like I’m swimming as I realize it’s been well over twenty-four hours since I last slept.

  Nothing to do about that; I won’t be getting any rest soon.

  Rima rises from her desk at my arrival, moving so swiftly to intercept me that I think she’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear. I stop, the heat leaving my limbs.

  Instead, she raises a finger to her lips.

  “The girls are still asleep,” she whispers.

  I nod, move toward her, knees like water. Ezra’s asleep in a bay across the room, his foot bandaged and elevated.

  “How is she?”

  “The same. What did you find?” she asks. “Is Noah there? Is the electric—”

  I shake my head. “No. There’s nothing. I’m going to town for news and to get Julie the medicine she needs.”

  “Be careful,” she says, her eyes, so large normally, widening.

  “I will.” I grab her hands. “But I need you to watch the girls until I get back.”

  “Of course,” she says, squeezing my fingers.

  “Thank you,” I say, pulling away, feeling if I let her reassure me any more I’ll break down right here.

  I stride on silent feet to the bed where the girls are sleep-

  ing. Drink in the sight of them both. Smooth a tendril of hair

  from each of their faces before bending to kiss the top of Truly’s head.

  Stepping out, I quietly pull the curtain closed.

  “What do you want me to tell them?” Rima asks.

  “Tell them I went to town to get Julie’s medicine. And that I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  I’ve just crossed to the stairwell door when a voice sounds from across the room.

  “Wynter. Don’t.”

  I turn. Lauren is standing barefoot outside the curtain.

  She rushes toward me, throws her arms around my shoulders.

  “Please don’t go!” She starts sobbing.

  “Lauren, I have to,” I say, stroking her hair, baffled by this reaction. “Your mom is really sick.”

  “Let someone else go!” she says, clutching at me.

  “I wish I could.”

  She pulls back and stares at me. “It won’t matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s dead anyway!” she sputters on tears and snot.

  “Don’t say that!”

  “It’s true. I’ve heard them talking. She isn’t going to make it!”

  I take her by the shoulders. “Yes. She. Will.”

  “How do you know?” she squeaks, her eyes begging for an answer I know I cannot give.

  “Because she’s tougher than you think.”

  “What if she isn’t and you don’t come back?” Her voice

  goes up an octave into a tight keen. “Who’s going to take care

  of us?”

  “Lauren.” I hold her away from me so I can look her in the eye. “I’ll be on a walkie-talkie. Someone will always be able to tell you what I’m doing and where I am and when I’m on my way back. I promise I will come back.”

  I hug her tightly to me. Hear myself tell her to take care of Truly and listen to Rima. And then I’m kissing her forehead and tearing myself away.

  Only when I’m alone in the stairwell do I double over, my hands shaking. Sweat rolling down my ribs beneath my clothes.

  8 A.M.

  * * *

  In the kitchen I help myself to as many MREs as will fit in my pack. Fill two bottles with water. Leave a note of what I took for Delaney, who, like Nelise, is crashed out in her bunk.

  Irwin meets me in the atrium, where Chase is stashing a container of fuel in a rolling suitcase, effectively disguising it. As he zips it closed, I reach for the handle, but he doesn’t hand it over.

  And then I notice the bag over his shoulder. The black watch on his wrist. The headset over his ear.

  “I’m going with you,” he says.

  “No,” I say.

  “I go with you or I can just stalk you. Either way, I’m going.”

  “These are fresh off the charger,” Irwin says, hooking a walkie-talkie to my belt and handing me the headset to loop over my ear. “Should last eight hours at least. Twelve at the very most. After that, you’ll have to find batteries.”

  If I don’t find the medicine Julie needs in twelve hours, it won’t matter anyway.

  Karam comes to see us off, shadows beneath his eyes. “I wanted to come with you,” he says, looking from Chase to me. “But it’s going to take at least ten of us to patrol this place, and I can’t leave my mother.” He reaches in his back pocket, takes out a filtration straw, and hands it to me.

  “Thanks,” I say, stashing it in the side zipper of my pack.

  He looks as though he’d like to say more but then, with a glance at Chase, simply nods. “Be safe.”

  Ten seconds later we’re ascending the stairs to the door, where we’re let out by Sha’Neal.

  The sun’s up, glinting off dew on the overgrown grass. Preston meets us at the hole in the fence. It’s been mostly repaired, enough of a space left open to admit a person at a time.

  “We haven’t found the keys to the gate,” he says, holding the chain link aside as we duck through, and then helping Chase with the suitcase. “Or any keys, for that matter.”

  Straightening, I take in the stretch of county road before us.

  It’s been six months since I stepped foot outside this ranch. Since my two-and-a-half-month visit to the outside world I’d
been taught to regard as evil.

  For a minute, the earth tilts beneath me.

  “You okay?” Chase says, grabbing my arm. I jerk away.

  “Fine,” I say and start walking. A moment later I hear the wheels of the suitcase drag along the gravel behind me.

  The sun is arcing up into the eastern sky on a cool June morning. The birds are singing. Just not the same song as before.

  Nothing is the same.

  “She dumped me for a doctor,” Chase says.

  I glance sidelong at him.

  “My fiancée. Former fiancée. She dumped me for a doctor. She wanted a different life than what I could give her. She worked in pharmaceutical sales. He’d been trying to get with her for years. Held out hope that entire time. I thought he was an idiot for marrying someone obviously after his money.”

  I walk faster. Wonder how quickly I can cover six miles with this pack on. Can hear him dragging the suitcase faster, wheels tumbling over gravel.

  “I ran into her a couple years later. She was pregnant, back home to have the baby. Said he’d sold his practice to join Doctors Without Borders—they’d spent the last year living in a hut in Nepal. Thing is, she was genuinely happy. I could see it. That guy wasn’t an idiot. He’d seen something for them that he couldn’t give up on.”

  “You know, just because you’re coming with me doesn’t mean we have to talk.”

  “Yes, we do. Because I need you to know that I would have told you eventually. I just didn’t have a chance—”

  I spin back, instantly incensed. “You didn’t have a chance? When exactly did you not have a chance? When we were holed up in a barn for a night during a blizzard and—oh, that’s right—you threatened to leave me and turn me over to the police if I didn’t explain the samples in my possession? You hypocritical bastard!”

  He lifts the suitcase and jogs to my side. Sets it back down to bump along behind him. “Wynter, you have to understand: I’d been told you’d stolen a bunch of medical samples! Except things didn’t add up. You didn’t add up. I just couldn’t figure out if you were really that good a con, or—”

  “Or what?”

  “Or as naïve as you seemed. Or just that good, period. Which is what it was. What it is. You’re a good person, Wynter. And when I think about that night in the bunkhouse—”