by Bowman, Dave
Myra started to stand up. "I'll go talk to her."
Brody shook his head. "No, just let her go. She needs to cool off."
Myra looked at him, bewildered. "What was that all about?"
"Have you forgotten what it's like to raise teenagers?" Brody asked with a tired smile.
"But why did she say you’re not really sick?" Myra asked.
"She doesn't want to believe she could lose her father," Brody said, slumping back into the couch. "This is how she's dealing with that possibility. Denying it. Turning her anger about the situation into anger at me."
Myra thought about that. "I guess so. But still, that's no way to talk to you!"
"No, it's not. I'll try to talk to her later. But for now, she needs to be on her own."
Myra nodded, then swallowed. "Do you think she’ll still help me search for Henry?" She almost whispered her husband's name.
"Of course," Brody said. "She’ll be back down here in a few minutes anyway. She doesn't have any food up there, after all. And I'm sure she'll want to help you search for her grandpa."
Myra turned her head away so Brody wouldn't see the tears forming in her eyes once again. "Okay, I'd appreciate that. And we can cover a lot more ground on the bicycles." Her voice started to shake, and she stopped talking. She pushed herself to her feet and started to move toward the kitchen again.
"Mom?"
She turned back to look at him.
"Everything's going to be okay," Brody said. "You're going to find Dad. He's out there somewhere. I know it. And Heather, and Annie. You'll see them all again."
Myra nodded, the tears rolling down her cheeks. She patted her son's hand. "You're right, Brody. Everything's going to be okay."
She gave his hand a squeeze, then returned to the kitchen. She wanted to lose herself in banal tasks. She wanted to focus on something she could actually accomplish. Everything else in her life seem to be spinning out of control.
5
Sunday 1:03 p.m. - Southwestern Virginia
Heather Walsh had been riding for hours, since the early morning when she had left the cornfield in a frenzy. She was already exhausted, but she had many more miles to cover before reaching her parents’ house in Northeastern Tennessee.
The more she rode, the more she was filled with dread. She saw destruction everywhere – homes and businesses vandalized and looted, vehicles stripped and smashed. She had already seen two dead bodies on the edge of a larger town today. They had been stabbed, and they lay in a pool of blood. Her stomach turned as she recalled the gory sight.
She didn’t have enough food or water, and her hunger and thirst were catching up to her. She thought constantly about a cool bottle of water. And the exertion of riding the bike made her more ravenous than ever. Even with careful rationing of her supplies, she only had a little water and some dried fruit remaining.
She was coming upon another small town. It looked fairly quiet as she rode the highway downhill past deserted gas stations and houses.
Heather had mostly avoided stopping in populated areas. Ever since the EMP and the nuclear attacks, her faith in humanity had been at an all-time low. This was not a time she wanted to be dealing with strangers.
But her stomach was painfully empty, and her mouth was parched. There could easily be a delay in getting to her parents' house. And if she arrived any later than expected, dehydration would become more and more likely.
She came to a gas station. A few abandoned cars were scattered around the parking lot, and the station had been broken into. The glass door was shattered. But there was no one around. It looked like it had been empty for a while. The nearest building was a house in the lot directly behind the gas station. The house looked empty as well.
She steered her bike into the parking lot of the gas station. Maybe she could find some food left behind from the looters. If she was quick, she could get in and out without seeing anyone.
Heather coasted toward the front door of the store, then applied her brakes, skidding to a stop. She looked inside the store. It was destroyed, but empty of people. Turning back toward the street, she took one last look around the sleepy little town.
No one in sight.
Hopping off her bike, she leaned it against the front wall of the store and stepped inside.
The shelves had been cleared of merchandise. The doors to the refrigerated section had been torn off their hinges, and those shelves were empty as well. Heather's heart sank. With a lump in her throat, she walked up and down the aisles of the store, searching for any forgotten items.
Then, something caught her eye. A small cabinet underneath the coffee station, tucked in the corner near an end cap. The cabinet door was closed. Maybe the looters had overlooked it.
She opened the little cabinet door to find a small supply of juice boxes. It had apparently been an overflow area, and to Heather's luck, no one had seen it before her. She quickly grabbed the juice boxes, stuffing most of them in her backpack.
She had planned to take whatever she could find and leave, but her physical needs overcame her. She began to frantically tear open one of the juice boxes and guzzle its contents. The sweet liquid revived her almost instantly, and she moved on to a second and third box.
With the cabinet cleared out, she turned to leave. But near the front door, the corner of a bright blue wrapper caught her eye. Peering underneath the newspaper display, she spotted a small bag of cookies that had fallen into a little nook. Reaching into the tight space, she grabbed the package and pulled it out.
All her willpower flew out the window, and she wasn't able to save the cookies for later. She tore into the package and began shoveling the food into her mouth, eating it greedily.
Heather had been in the store several minutes now, and she was getting nervous about being in one place for too long. What if someone down the road noticed her bike and decided to come check it out?
Still dumping cookie crumbs into her mouth, she headed toward the door.
With her mouth still full and her spirits lifted a bit, she grabbed the bike's handlebars and swung her leg over the frame.
Just as she was about to push off and ride away, the sound of a child screaming pierced the air.
Heather felt her chest contract as she listened to the blood-curdling scream echo through the valley.
The scream had come from nearby, probably from the house behind the gas station. Heather felt the urge to get on the bike and ride away, but she heard the voice again.
"No! No! Help! Somebody help me!"
Heather felt the tightening move from her chest up to her throat. There was a little girl back there. And she needed help.
With shaking hands, Heather withdrew the knife she kept in her backpack. She set the pack down beside the bike, then began to walk toward the edge of the building.
What are you doing? Get out of here! Go!
A big part of her wanted to leave, and chided her for thinking she could help. But she couldn't just let a child get hurt.
Heather silently inched toward the edge of the wall, then looked around the corner of the building, toward the house behind the station.
In the front yard of the rundown wooden home, a large man was wrestling with a little girl of about eight or nine. She tried to run away from him, but he grabbed her as she squirmed, trying to wrest free of his reach. It was clear the two weren't related – they looked nothing alike. And even if he was some relation to the girl, the child was obviously terrified.
The girl slapped at him, her eyes wide with horror. Again, she screamed out for help.
"Leave me alone, leave me alone! Help, please!"
For just a moment, Heather hesitated. What could she do to help? The man was much larger than Heather. There was no way she could overpower him.
But then, there was no way she could leave this child alone to be hurt by him.
The man finally scooped the girl up and began to carry her off in his arms. They were headed toward the front door of the
house. The girl continued screaming and struggling.
Heather moved quickly, careful to keep quiet as possible. She ran lightly across the rear parking lot of the gas station, crossed an alley, then entered the front yard of the house.
Her heart thudded out of control in her chest. What would she do once she reached him? How would she make her move?
Though her mind was at a loss, somehow her body knew what to do. Clenching the knife as she neared the man, she covered the last few feet in a charge. Watching him carry that little girl so roughly, Heather was filled with rage. He wanted to hurt that child.
Heather wasn’t going to let him. Her anger fueled her movements, but she was careful to keep quiet. She gained on him as he scaled the top step of the porch. He opened the front door and was crossing the entrance with the girl when Heather lunged at him.
The little girl saw her first.
Heather plunged the knife into the man’s lower back, just to his side. It was a sharp, long blade, and it went deep. Heather was surprised at how easily it pierced his flesh.
The man let out an enraged roar. He let go of the little girl, who fell to the floor inside the house.
Heather reached for the knife still jutting from the man’s side, but he whipped around before she could.
His fiery gaze landed on Heather. Confusion flashed across his face for a moment. Then he understood, and his eyes widened in anger.
Heather took a step back. Keeping her eyes on the man, she nearly fell down the porch steps. The man's face went dark as he looked at her for a moment.
Finally, he made a sudden movement, lunging at Heather.
The sound of her scream filled the quiet town.
6
Myra pedaled the bicycle furiously, trying to keep up with her granddaughter.
They were on a Forest Service road, traveling on bicycles through the hilly, wooded land. Myra rode on Brody's bike. It was too big for her, but she was happy to have it. They were able to cover much more ground than Myra had on foot. Brody was resting back at the house, having assured his mother that he would be okay alone.
Another day searching for Henry, Myra's missing husband. Every so often, Myra would begin to lose hope of ever finding him. After all, he had been gone for over three days. But every time she found herself despairing, she pushed those thoughts away. She was going to find him.
Katie disappeared over the next hill. Myra panted to catch her breath. If she was constantly trying to keep up with the teenager, she wouldn't have time to search through the woods surrounding the road.
"Katie, slow down!" Myra called.
Myra struggled over the hill, scanning both sides of the road for any break in the dense green forest. At the crest of the hill, she saw Katie below. Katie watched as Myra coasted down the hill and came to a stop beside her.
"You're going too fast for me, kiddo," Myra said as she struggled to catch her breath.
"Sorry, Grandma," Katie said. "I'll try to slow down." Katie looked around, pushing her long, red hair behind her shoulders.
"Do you think we’ll find him out here?" Katie asked in a small voice.
Myra smiled. "Of course I do. He's out here somewhere. He probably twisted an ankle trying to walk back after his truck died."
Katie nodded, then looked away. Myra saw the worry on the girl’s face. The older woman wrapped her arms around Katie, pulling her close. Katie let herself be embraced without pushing away, which Myra took as a good sign.
"It's okay, sweetie," Myra said. "We're going to find your granddad."
Katie looked up at her and drew a deep breath. "But . . . what about water? He's been out here for a few days, hasn't he?"
Myra swallowed. "He always takes a big Thermos of coffee in his truck wherever he goes. I reckon he's made it back to his truck and has been rationing that coffee. It would be enough to keep him alive for a few days. But we have to find him today, all right?"
Katie sniffed and nodded. "Are you ready?"
"Ready."
They took off on their bikes down the dirt road. Katie seemed a bit more open to talking than she’d been back at the house, so Myra decided to broach another difficult subject.
"You know your father loves you very much, right?" Myra began.
"I know."
"I – I want you to be prepared, Katie. He's very sick."
Katie frowned. "I'd rather not talk about this."
"I know this is difficult for you. I know you care about him."
"Dad's going to be fine. It's just the flu."
"But Katie, he was out there after the bomb –"
"Yeah, he was worried about some other little kid. If he had cared about me, he would've stayed at home." Katie began to pedal faster.
"You mean the world to him! He was just trying to do the right thing and help that little boy who didn't have anyone. It doesn't mean he didn't care about you!"
"But he should've stayed with me. This is all his fault. If he had cared about me, he wouldn't have gone out there. And he wouldn’t have gotten sick!"
She began to race ahead, pushing her bike toward the curve on the road.
"Katie, wait!"
Myra watched as her granddaughter disappeared around the curve on the mountain bike. Seeing the child so upset pained Myra. Brody had been right – this was Katie's way of dealing with an impossible situation. Rather than face the possibility of losing her dad, Katie was lashing out at everyone around her.
Myra steered her bike down the road. She didn't try to catch up with Katie this time. Best to let her cool off alone.
If only I had a magic wand.
Everything in Myra's life seemed to be falling apart, and there was nothing she could do about it. Her husband was missing, her son possibly dying. And she didn't know where her daughters were. Or even if they were alive.
No. Don't think the worst.
She couldn't let herself fall into despair. There was too much work to do. She might not be able to fix all of the problems right now, but she had to keep trying. She had to do everything she could to find her family and keep them safe.
"Grandma!" Katie called suddenly. The alarm in Katie's voice sent a chill down Myra's spine. "Come quick!"
Myra's heart began to pound. She pedaled quickly, approaching the curve in the road. She steeled herself against what she might see.
Finally, she rounded the curve and saw Katie standing on the road, still straddling her bike.
Henry's truck was parked on the side of the road.
7
The two shooters pummeled the roof with bullets.
Jack slid on his belly to the side. One of the shooters never stopped, but the second one paused at last.
Jack lifted his rifle and aimed toward the first shooter. Gritting his teeth, he unleashed a torrent of rounds. First at one target, then the other.
Finally, all was quiet. A pool of blood expanded on the ground behind the garbage dumpster. The second shooter lay face-up in the parking lot, his eyes glazing over.
With his heart pounding, Jack began to descend the ladder.
His ears rang, and the voices in the distance were muted and fuzzy. But he could tell they were increasing in strength. More guards were on their way.
His eyes watered, mixing with the sweat running down from his forehead. Several feet above the ground, he jumped from the ladder, hitting the ground with a jolt.
He moved toward the first downed man – the first guard he had shot, who he’d mistaken for dead at first. Jack snatched up his AR-15 and found some ammo in the guy’s pocket. The man wore a Glock in a holster. With trembling hands, Jack unfastened the holster and snatched it up as well.
Jack ran to the second man behind the dumpster, grabbing his Bushmaster rifle and a small supply of ammo. As he grabbed the things off the dead body, he heard footsteps approaching from the front of the building, coming from the west.
With two of the rifles slung over his shoulder and the third in his arms, Jack took off running.
The footsteps pounded the pavement several yards away, then came to a stop at one of the guards.
Jack tore through the parking lot, heading to the south. He looked frantically to the left and right, his tunnel vision shaky and confused.
Which way, which way?
Voices made their way through his fuzzy hearing to him. People were nearby, coming from the left. He veered to the right, running between a cluster of abandoned cars at the edge of the lot.
He turned down an alley between two large apartment buildings.
There was someone on his trail. He heard them knock over a garbage can in the parking lot behind him. They weren't yet in the alley, but they would get there soon.
And once they got there, Jack would be spotted.
The alley opened up into a large road. Jack heard the sound of work being done in the next block – rhythmic clanging of hammers and other tools. If he ran out to that road, he would be seen by a work crew – and their guards.
He was trapped.
Up ahead, a fire escape ladder gave access to the apartment building on the right. Without hesitation, Jack began to scale the ladder.
His only hope was that could get inside to one of the windows.
He had to hurry. At any moment, the guard could enter the alley and shoot him.
He made it to the first floor. The window was closed. Jack pulled on it. It opened. He pushed the rifles inside, then squeezed himself through the small opening.
Silently, he waited inside the room. A moment later, the footsteps grew louder as a guard entered the alley down below.
It was a young man with a shotgun, dressed in an ill-fitting police uniform that was typical of members of the gang. Jack waited as the guy got close to the ladder.
If the guard climbed the ladder, Jack could take him. Jack was in the position of advantage – perched up high out of sight. He wasn't worried about this guard as much as he worried about giving his location away.
Firing a gun in that alley would send dozens of guards running. They would enter the apartment building, trapping him where he couldn't get out.