by K. M. Fawkes
It was the first thing he’d had that he hadn’t been forced to share with forty-nine other survivors. Rebelliously, he tossed the bottle into the street and grabbed another, chugging it down, too. He’d gotten the supplies. He’d seen that family. He deserved something.
“Hey! Get your hands up!”
Brad caught his breath mid-drink at the sound of the voice and got choked. The soldier standing a few feet away didn’t look impressed. Brad finished hacking the water out of his lungs and put his hands in the air.
“Have you been scanned?” the soldier demanded.
He was still standing at a wary distance. All of the coughing Brad had just done probably hadn’t helped make him looked like a healthy member of what was left of society. He cleared his throat and hurried to answer the question before he got shot.
“Yes,” Brad croaked out the minute he could speak. “At the medical center a few weeks ago. They tested all of us before we were moved into the Sunrise Tower safe house.”
A few people from the truck he’d been in hadn’t gotten into the safe house because of the results of their scans. He had forgotten that until now.
The soldier frowned, keeping the gun trained on the center of Brad’s chest. “The what?”
“The Sunrise Tower safe house,” he repeated, wondering why the man looked so confused. How many army regiments could possibly be left in Maine? “Do you…”
He trailed off and changed tactics. Questioning a soldier was probably a little tricky in the best of times. Now, it was more like navigating a minefield.
“I assumed you’d be headed there.” That wasn’t any better; it sounded like he was telling the guy what to do. The soldier’s frown deepened. Brad rushed on. “I mean, I saw your regiment earlier and I just thought…”
“I told you that I saw them, Jackson.”
Brad jumped when he heard a new voice from his right. He turned and saw four more men approaching from the hardware store. They were dressed in desert-style camouflage and they were all pretty bulky. If it came down to it, they’d be stronger, but he’d be faster.
Brad shook his head quickly to get the thoughts out of his head. What the hell was he thinking about, anyway? He wasn’t going to take on a bunch of soldiers in the street. He’d decided to be civilized, even when it wasn’t easy. He would prove to himself that it could be done.
Jackson looked at Brad, his jaw tightening as he stepped closer. “Which way did they go?” he asked, sounding tense.
These weren’t the questions he’d expected. Why would they be so worried about running into their fellow soldiers? It didn’t make any sense.
“Answer me!”
“I don’t know,” Brad said, shaken by the anger in the man’s tone.
“Bullshit!” Jackson yelled.
“It’s not!” Brad protested, his voice going higher than he wanted it to. He tried to force a breath in through his tight throat. “I really don’t know. I didn’t see them leave; I wasn’t here.” He stumbled to a stop before he gave too much away.
One of the other men stepped up and grabbed Brad’s shoulder, yanking him around so that he was forced to face the other group. “What were you doing out here if you’re supposed to be in a safe house, anyway?” the man demanded, shaking him slightly. “You’re probably not supposed to be out roaming the streets, are you?”
Obviously he was breaking the rules, but shouldn’t they have known what those rules were? Wouldn’t they have had survivors of their own to take care of at some point? “I…The army said they’d come back, but they never did.”
“So what?” one of the other men demanded.
“So we ran out of food,” Brad said. “I mean, we waited for a long time. Have you heard anything? Do you know Commander Metzger?”
Asking felt like a long shot, but he was grasping at straws for a common connection with these guys. He could feel the tension mounting rather than dissipating and he had no idea how to turn the tide.
The second man who’d spoken grabbed the backpack, jerking Brad off balance. The bike clattered to the ground as he struggled to keep his feet. He caught his breath as the backpack was yanked off of him, twisting his right arm.
“Is that what’s in here?” the man demanded. “Food? Do you have food?”
The men all moved closer. Brad stepped back slightly. He knew that expression. He’d seen it on himself in the mirror. Desperation.
“Yeah. And there’s some medical stuff, too.” He took a deep breath. He could be civil. He could prove that people were still people and they could reach common ground despite the situation. “But I need it. I’m taking it back to the safe house. I wasn’t lying. We don’t have anything back there.”
The men exchanged a smirk.
“Come on,” Brad said, still working hard to sound reasonable and not emotional. “Please. We’ve got kids back there and—”
The man with the gun stepped forward and yanked the pack away from his comrade. He pulled it open roughly, ignoring Brad’s words. Anger burned through him when he realized that they still weren’t listening.
“Where did you get this?” Jackson demanded when he saw the wealth of food stuffed inside.
“There’s a house down the street,” Brad said. “There’s plenty of food still there. I’m willing to bargain.”
“With what?” the taller man asked, taking the pack back from Jackson so that he could get a better grip on the gun.
“I can tell you where the house is if you give me my stuff back and let me go.”
“We’ll find it ourselves,” Jackson said.
“Okay, then I’ll get out of your way.”
Brad reached out for the pack. The last thing he saw was the butt of the gun as it rushed at his face.
Gunshots rang out in the streets, echoing off the walls of the clinic. Brad stood there, frozen in fear and indecision. Was this a riot? Had someone finally done something stupid enough to bring the threat of martial law down on them?
Should he run, or would running be his death sentence? Two completely opposing survival doctrines warred in his mind. Go while you have a chance! Wait for them to tell you what to do!
Then there was a voice, larger than life, ordering anyone on the street to step to their doors or windows. Brad moved to the big window that overlooked the sidewalk and saw a man raise a bullhorn to his mouth. There was a brief moment of feedback and then the soldier spoke again.
“Stay inside until a soldier knocks on your door,” the man ordered. “Anyone seen outside without a uniformed escort will be shot. There will be no second warning.” He put the bullhorn down on the seat of the army jeep and turned to his fellow soldiers, directing them quickly.
The knock on the clinic door came a few minutes after the announcement. Brad pulled the door open promptly. He wondered why his heart wasn’t pounding, why he wasn’t shaking. He’d certainly done enough of that in the weeks leading up to this. Maybe his system was simply too overwhelmed to panic.
“Commander Metzger with the United States Army,” the man outside his door said. “Have you been scanned?”
Brad swallowed hard. It turned out that he could still panic. It raced through his veins at the question. His palms went sweaty and he tried to wipe them casually on his jeans.
No, he hadn’t been scanned. He’d done his best to stay away from high concentrations of people, so going to the hospital would have been a little counterintuitive—at least, in his opinion.
Now, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the gun at the man’s side. If he answered honestly, would Commander Metzger shoot him? He’d heard rumors of soldiers killing people in other parts of the country. The military had been particularly ruthless in that Louisianan town where two of their own had been infected deliberately. Then again, if he lied and they found out…they would almost definitely kill him.
“No,” he said, bracing himself for a bullet through the brain. “I haven’t been scanned.”
“We’ll have that done, then,”
the commander said without any evident concern. “Come with me.”
Brad gripped the doorframe when his knees went weak in relief. “Where are we going?” he asked shakily.
“We’ve set up a safe house in an apartment complex nearby. You and this part of the group will be going there once we make sure that none of you are infected.”
For someone currently enforcing martial law, the commander wasn’t terrifying. He was brisk and businesslike, but there wasn’t any anger in his words. Brad found the courage to ask another question.
“How long?”
“You’ll all be taken to the safe house twenty-four hours after your scans.”
“No, I mean how long will I be at the safe house?”
Brad gripped the door knob of his clinic tightly as he waited for an answer, as if he could hold onto his old life just a few seconds more. The commander’s eyes met his and Brad read a brief moment of understanding there.
“Indefinitely.”
Waves of pain woke Brad some time later. It felt like someone was rhythmically smacking his nose with a hammer. That must have been where he’d taken that hit from the butt of the gun.
He rubbed his hands over his face without thinking about it and then winced, catching his breath at the pain. For one thing, he was sunburned. He didn’t know why that surprised him. He’d clearly been lying here for an hour or more. It had probably been somewhere around five in the afternoon when he’d run into the soldiers. It had to be close to seven, now. The setting sun was lighting everything up in lurid red.
Brad squinted as he looked west and felt the dried blood on his face crack as his skin moved. When he ran his hand over his face, he could feel that there was a whole lot more blood than he’d thought. His chin and jaw were covered with it and when he licked his lips, he could taste it—coppery and salty. He very gingerly gripped the bridge of his nose and moved it back and forth. It hurt, but he was pretty sure that it wasn’t broken. He’d take all the small blessings he could get.
He moved to his side and propped himself very carefully on one elbow, afraid that a sudden change in position would cause him to start bleeding again. Nosebleeds were finicky things. He glanced around, a little more hopeful than logic told him he should be. His backpack was near the door to the hardware store, completely empty. The bag of medical supplies was gone as well.
He wasn’t surprised, but he was pissed off. Everything he’d been through today had been for nothing.
As he moved to sit up however, he discovered a surprise. They had left his gun. He could feel it digging into his lower back. What the hell kind of soldiers didn’t even check a person for weapons? He sat up, wincing as his bruised body and sore muscles engaged.
What was he going to do now? Brad’s head was swimming from the change in position, so he rested it carefully in his hands, rubbing his temples to try to relieve some of the pain. He’d give anything for some painkillers right about now, which only made him angrier about losing his bags. Some water to get the blood off of his face would be great, too; nothing itched like dried blood.
He should be able to find both of those things back at his clinic. The last thing he wanted to do was go in the opposite direction of the safe house and add time to his journey back, but he stood up slowly anyway. He took his time to get his balance, which was still a little off. A blunt instrument to the face tended to do that to a person.
Squinting hurt too much, so he raised his hand and shielded his eyes from the setting sun that way. As he turned to go back down the street, he got another happy surprise. His bike was lying on its side a few feet away. It looked like one of the men had debated on taking it and then decided not to. Thinking ahead didn’t seem to be their strong suit, not that he was complaining.
Brad rushed over, checking the bike for damage. One handlebar was a little bent from being thrown aside, but the tires were still inflated and the frame seemed fine. The brakes worked readily.
He swung one leg over the seat and headed for his clinic, feeling a renewed sense of optimism. He could get a few things tonight, at least enough to get them a meal for the evening. Then, tomorrow, they could come back and…
He turned the corner and his heart sank.
The door to his clinic was wide open and he knew damn well that he hadn’t left it that way. Why the hell would any of those idiot soldiers think to look there? Then, he remembered, and the realization was like a punch in the gut. The medical supplies in the bag had been marked with his clinic’s name. He’d basically sent them an engraved invitation.
He doubled back and ducked inside the pet store. He had to do something. There was no way that he was going to leave empty-handed. A quick glance through the break room got him a single unopened bottle of water.
There was just enough light coming through the small window for him to be able to see his face in the bathroom mirror. There was a gash in his temple in addition to the bump on his nose, telling him that they’d hit him at least twice. That must have been why he’d remained unconscious for so long and why there had been so much blood. He leaned closer to the mirror and examined the gash, sighing in relief when he discovered that it wasn’t deep enough to need stitches.
Brad pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser to his left and poured some of the water onto them. He didn’t want to use too much of it, but he had to get his face clean or the itching was going to drive him crazy. The brown paper towels were rough and he washed his face and neck gingerly. Then, he leaned close to the mirror once again.
His face was bright red with sunburn, obviously. He’d always burned pretty easily. He blamed his mother’s Irish roots for that. But he knew that part of the flush on his skin was pure anger. Why had he thought that logic and reason still had a place in this world? He’d tried it and only a miracle had kept him from getting shot.
Get this through your head, Bradley! In a disaster situation, it’s every man for himself!
This time, when the voice rang in his ears, he didn’t try to shake it away. He listened to it. And he remembered.
The cabin was about four hours away by car. How long would that take on a bike? Two days? Three?
However long it was going to take, it had to be better than staying where he was. What was back at the safe house? Rats. Misery. And once he came back without any supplies, there would be disappointment and the judgement of forty-nine pairs of eyes.
The army wasn’t coming back. And he couldn’t protect the people in Sunrise Towers. Not if he wanted to protect himself.
Brad walked out of the pet shop, swinging his empty backpack over his shoulders and riding for the house at the end of the street once more. He couldn’t make that ride without some supplies. He wasn’t going to count on scavenging. Who knew what was left after the heat of summer?
One thing was going right for him: it didn’t look like the soldiers had gotten to the house yet. He smiled bitterly. They’d been pretty damn confident about finding the place without his help, but it didn’t look like they’d managed it. He took a deep breath of fresh air before he walked up onto the back porch and opened the door.
He gritted his teeth as the rotten smell washed over him once more. He avoided looking into the dining room as he grabbed a few more cans. He stuck to the canned pastas and veggies this time; simple food that he could eat on the road.
Then, he ducked back out as quickly as he’d gone in. There was no reason to hang around; for the first time since the panic had started, Brad had a plan.
Chapter 5
Once he was on the road again, Brad looked up at the position of the sun in sky, gauging how much time he had to ride. Not much, but he could get a good start. Now that he knew what he wanted to do, a familiar sensation began to drive him. Figure out what needs to be done. Don’t wait to do it.
With that in mind, he headed for the interstate. I-95 was going to be the shortest route to the cabin and that was exactly what he was after.
His legs were burning and the moon had fu
lly risen by the time he hit the interstate. He coasted down the onramp and then came to a halt as he looked at the road. A sea of metal and glass met his eyes in the moonlight. There were abandoned cars clogging all six lanes and he felt like an idiot for not expecting it.
Looking at the sheer number of them, he realized that there was no way that he could navigate that road in the dark. He could probably get through in the moonlight, but there could be anything in those cars. He’d seen a few too many zombie movies in his life to feel entirely comfortable biking through an automobile graveyard in the dark.
Brad looked back over his shoulder uneasily. Cars stretched out behind him, too. It was the most disquieting thing he’d seen this whole time. Probably because it was just so unnatural. Every single time he’d ever merged onto I-95 in his life, someone had damn near taken him out. He wasn’t great at merging, and furthermore, everyone seemed to drive like they were competing out here. And now, the stretch of road was completely silent.
For the first time since the whole thing began, he really understood just how much life had been lost. All of these people had been headed somewhere. All of them had been panicked. Some of them wouldn’t have even known where they were going, but the drive to leave had been strong in the later days. People seemed to think that they could outrun the effects of the virus.
Apparently, a lot of them had ended up here. But what had happened after that? There were too many cars backed up for them all to have been taken out by the EMP.
Were they all dead in their vehicles? It was too dark to tell, and the idea sent shivers through him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. A body in every car? It would number in the thousands. He really would be in a graveyard.
He could go back up the onramp and camp somewhere up there tonight, he decided. As if in protest, his right calf suddenly cramped and he hastily put his foot on the ground, walking the pain away. He had to rest and he definitely needed water.