After several reckless measures, they skidded to a stop. The trio sat gasping, sweat pouring down their foreheads. The Jeep sat, skewed on the road, almost in the median. It was clear: a tire had blown out.
“Oh God,” Lane gasped. “Oh my God, what are we going to do?”
“Calm down!” Clay said. “It was probably damaged from the ditch a few miles back. The Jeep has a spare, doesn’t it?”
Lane nodded. She let go of the steering wheel, deep marks in her palms where she’d clung to it too tightly. She wiped her sweating hands on her jeans and jumped out, walking to the back and out of sight.
“You okay, Alayna?” Clay asked. “I heard your head hit—”
“Yeah, sure,” Alayna said, blinking several times. “Jesus, it hurt. But I’ll be fine. I just hope we get back on the road soon. It’s nerve-racking, being out here in the middle of nowhere. It felt much safer when there were six of us. More protection.”
“We’ll get there faster this way,” Clay said firmly. He climbed out and walked to the back, where Lane was pounding her fist on the spare tire. Her face looked almost skeletal. Clay’s heart dropped.
“It’s useless, isn’t it?” he said, already recognizing it. “Jesus.”
“It’s not damaged,” Lane said, clinging to the tire. “It’s just flat.”
“Well, that doesn’t help much, does it?” Alayna said, joining them.
“I can’t believe I didn’t check it before we left,” Clay said, leaning heavily against the vehicle. He ran his fingers through his thin hair, wanting to scream.
A sense of dread filled the space around them. Lane flopped the spare on the ground and sat cross-legged on the shoulder, looking out at the horizon. It was clear she felt guilty.
“All right,” Clay said, cutting through the silence. “Let’s think about this logically. We’ve been on the road for hours. How far do you think we are from Dearing?”
Lane scratched her eyebrow with a finger. “I think we’re probably three or four hours drive away.”
“Shit.” Alayna turned toward the median. She stood with her arms stretched out, as if she were looking to hitchhike somewhere. Anywhere.
“That’s over a day away walking.” Clay joined Alayna. Lane was stretched out on the ground, crying.
He hadn’t prepared for every possible scenario. And that was his one job, as sheriff—as their de facto leader. Now his daughter was going to pay the price. He, Alayna, and Lane might have to pay, as well.
Chapter 21
Clay leaned against the Jeep, staring off into the either. In the distance, fields of long since abandoned rye were verdant, indifferent to the ongoing apocalypse. Between the fields and the highway, steel rails paralleled the road in either direction. A rail car had been left there long enough that it was in a state of decay.
His mind raced. Beside him on the ground, Lane held her hands against her cheeks.
“Clay. I’m so, so sorry,” she said remorsefully. “It’s my fault. I should have made sure that everything with the Jeep was ready to go. I know I said that nobody drove my car but me. Jesus, you should have been the one driving the entire time.”
“Don’t beat yourself up too much, Lane,” Clay said, leaning down, putting his hands over hers. He pulled them away from her face and peered into her dark eyes. He wanted to insist she be all right, but he knew he couldn’t change her feelings. “It’s my fault, all right?” he said. “I didn’t think about every possibility. And that’s on me.”
Alayna appeared behind him, casting a shadow across his back. The sun was almost overhead, growing hotter with each passing minute. “What do we do now, Clay? Walk the rest of the way?”
Clay sighed. “That’s one option,” he said. “We take as many of our supplies as possible, and maybe sleep somewhere halfway, provided we find shelter.”
“Jesus,” Lane murmured, feeling the weight of his words. “I don’t know if I can walk that far.”
“It’s a good point, Clay. She hasn’t been out here with us for very long,” Alayna said. “What about back in the last cluster of cars? I think I saw another Jeep. Maybe it’ll have a spare we can use.”
Clay had seen it too, but hadn’t given it a second thought. And now, it was their potential solution.
“That’s a possibility.” He stood and reached for Lane. She grabbed his hand and pulled herself up. “If it’s not damaged or flat.”
“Don’t we have to take that chance?” Alayna said.
Clay didn’t answer right away. He imagined walking back to the cluster of cars and finding nothing, just an empty hole without a spare. They’d have to walk all the way back, wasting the rest of the day and growing more fatigued with every step.
“I should just go myself,” Clay said thoughtfully. “I can walk back and check it out. Grab the spare if it’s good, and bring it back. I could be back here in two hours, tops. I’ve got this nanite power in me,” he said, trying to make a joke. “I might as well use it.”
Lane’s eyes were wide and panicked, Alayna still clung to her bad-ass persona.
“You girls okay waiting here?” Clay asked. “Or should we go together?”
Alayna tipped her head at Lane, leaving the decision up to her. Lane checked her watch with then said softly, “There’s no point in all of us going. If you think you can get back here in a few hours, then you best get on it. It’s getting hot as hell.”
Clay scratched the back of his neck and stared down the road in the direction of the other cars. He realized then that he hadn’t been alone, without other survivors, since this all started. Not having anyone to watch out for made him edgy, as if he didn’t really matter unless he was holding up his friends.
Jesus. Being a sheriff was engrained in him more than he’d realized.
“All right,” Clay said. He grabbed his canteen from the back of the Jeep, which still sloshed with water. He slung a rifle over his shoulder, and then snagged the car jack from the tool compartment. He shoved it deep in his backpack, alongside a single granola bar. He zipped it with a quick motion. The sound was familiar, reminiscent of Maia getting ready for school.
“I’ll be back as fast as I can,” he said, his eyes tracing his companion’s faces. He wanted to memorize them. They could be the last faces he ever saw. “Wish me luck.”
Chapter 22
Clay felt the sway of the rifle against his back as he walked. He’d been walking for over a half hour, and the sweat beads were rolling down his back and his chest. He ripped his shirt from his back and hung it around his neck, blinking up at the bright blue sky. He’d never seen it so open.
He wondered if Maia could see the sky where she was. She’d love it, despite her current “teenage angst” phase. When had that started, anyway? He could see right through it, always. It was a façade. It was, perhaps, the armor she had to wear to survive high school. He couldn’t blame her for that. He’d worn similar armor. Hell, he was wearing armor now, protecting himself from the conflicting feelings he had for Alayna. He’d felt miserable ever since he’d slept with her, on the eve of the end of the world. Now, with even a glimmer of hope of surviving, he knew he should be thinking about Valerie instead and protecting himself from pain by doing all he could to keep moving, to keep fighting.
Everyone was just doing what they could to survive.
With Maia constantly on his mind, Clay wondered if she was thinking about him, too. Surely she expected him to come save her. That’s what he did, after all. He’d made that very clear from the beginning. And he’d expected many more years of that. Rescuing her from prom, if she had a bad date. Visiting her at college and taking her out for ice cream—or beers, even—and listening to her problems about classes and professors and roommates. He’d take care of it, if only because he listened, and listened well.
He’d made a point to be there for her since she was young. Even more than Valerie, he was the protector. The one Maia had raced to when things went bump in the night.
He could
n’t believe that had been an actual time of his life. It had been so fleeting.
When Maia was a little girl, he’d taken her to the playground after work quite often, giving Valerie some time to go to the gym or the grocery store or out for drinks with a few of her girlfriends. He and Maia’s time together had become sacred, something of a ritual. He’d pick her up from school and help her load up her backpack, hand her a snack as she chatted cheerfully about what they’d done that day. He could clearly see the image of her biting into a bright green apple, her eyes dancing as she told him about playing the recorder for the first time.
“It was loud and stupid,” she’d said.
He hadn’t been a musician, either.
At the park one day, Maia had raced off with several of the other children, leaving Clay off to the side, still dressed in his Sherriff’s uniform. She’d been seven years old, and he’d trusted her, but still monitored the perimeter. He sat beside one of the mothers, who was reading a magazine about celebrity gossip and didn’t bother to look up.
After several minutes without seeing Maia, Clay had sprung to his feet, feeling terror building in his stomach. He had a sixth sense for things like this—for knowing when his daughter was injured, or frightened. He dashed through the playground hunting for her, past the ruby red slide and around the swings. All of the children were pink-cheeked and pudgy, so unlike his bright, thin-limbed daughter.
“MAIA?” he’d cried, looking behind trees. “MAIA. WHERE ARE YOU?”
The other parents had begun to pay attention, standing up and watching the frantic man in uniform cross through the sandbox. “MAIA!”
Finally, he’d raced to the nearby parking lot, seeing a circle of children gawking down at the ground. Clay had felt his stomach in his throat, bile forming along his tongue. He’d pushed through the crowd to discover his daughter, slim little Maia, with her arm badly broken She looked up at him with the same bright eyes she’d revealed as a tiny newborn, just as frightened, just as shocked.
“Jesus, Maia,” he’d said. He’d dialed the ambulance immediately, using his ancient flip phone, and then bent down, careful not to move her. “What happened?”
“I ran after the Frisbee,” Maia whimpered, glancing at one of the boys in front of her—probably the one who threw it. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I know you said to stay where you could see me.”
This had stabbed Clay, making him close his eyes momentarily. He could feel Maia’s pain palpitating up and down his arm.
He’d righted himself, and brushed down Maia’s messy bangs. “Honey, taking risks is a beautiful thing. It’s the reason we’re alive,” he’d told her. “We’re alive by chance. And so we have to take those chances, every day.”
“But what if we break our arms?” she’d whispered, almost losing consciousness from the pain.
“Then we let them heal, and then we get back out there,” Clay had said, as the ambulance stopped nearby. The men had lifted Maia onto a gurney, careful not to jostle her arm.
God, what a memory. Clay had thought that would be the worst thing that ever happened in in his life, feeling responsible for his daughter’s well being, even as she was pushing herself to be the best possible, most exciting person she could be.
Clay finally saw the battered Jeep. It was facing him, almost challenging him. The area was eerie, quiet, the other cars ominous. Clay couldn’t look at them now, without seeing the scene that Alayna had painted before. It was clear that people had died there.
On closer inspection, the Jeep didn’t have a spare. But its tires were in great condition, two of them nearly brand new. With a practiced hand, Clay knelt down and cranked the back of the Jeep high, removing the tire with ease. The sweat that had been pouring down his back was now dried, his skin cool. His muscles seemed to brim with strength and agility, enhanced by the technology. He hoisted the tire onto his bare shoulder, snagging the granola bar from his pack and ripping at the chocolaty snack. The sugar was an instant punch to his brain, the way he’d imagined cocaine to be. He closed his eyes with pleasure.
Should he have tried cocaine? Should he have taken more risks? What was this life now, in comparison? There were no rules. Only those of physics, of biology. And with the nanites rearranging his insides, how could he know how much time he had left?
He turned to go, with his backpack zipped and the tire positioned easily on his shoulder. He had another hour before he got back to the girls and they could continue on toward Dearing. If he could hurry, even just a little, they would reach Maia that much quicker.
A feeling began to spin deep in his gut. And he didn’t like it.
He heard a horrendous screech in the distance, somewhere behind him. Every cell, every hair, every muscle tensed. He knew the sound. That sound meant he might never see his daughter again. It meant that safety was only an illusion he’d created in his mind.
That sound meant that the crazed were close. And they were hunting for him.
Chapter 23
Frozen in place, Clay sensed that one of the crazed was bounding toward him, perhaps as close as the other vehicles now. He spun to see what was behind him.
The mutant that approached had once been a six-foot tall man, a near-match to Clay himself, with broad shoulders, a thick-ish belly—one surely bred and born from meal after meal from his wife, wherever she lay. It seethed, its eyes wild, bugging out. It strode toward him, it’s gate elongated. As it approached it reached out its arms, ready to tear at Clay’s throat.
Clay’s weapon was over his shoulder, blocked by the tire he was holding. With a surge of energy, he threw the spare tire at it, on instinct more than anything else. Clay was surprised to see the tire sail through the air more than a dozen yards.
“Jesus,” he whispered, his jaw dropping. His muscles revved from the pure bliss of the effort, as if they’d craved releasing that kind of power.
The tire blasted directly in the center of its chest, knocking it backward several yards. The impact cracked the monster’s ribs, a bone-chilling sound echoing through the air.
It lay on its back for several seconds, but Clay remained alert, watching. Huffing, it pushed the tire off his chest and started to hum a sort of guttural chant, which swelled into a low, horrible growl. It drew chills along Clay’s neck and arms, but he remained still, watching, waiting.
Then in the distance—at the crest of the hill—four more of the crazed appeared. Cracking his neck first to the right, then to the left, Clay focused on the approaching monsters. The first one had let loose a grating battle cry, apparently alerting others of their impending attack.
He pulled his rifle from his shoulder, raising it in a smooth motion. The nearest crazed effortlessly flung the tire to the side before rising to its feet. Blood and entrails oozed from its chest, looking like the remains of some mad experiment dripping down its half-torn shirt. Clay couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt disgusted—something that made him turn away.
You could get used to anything, he guessed.
As it approached, Clay fired a bullet through its head. It collapsed, dust puffing up from the road.
But the others were approaching rapidly, forcing Clay to turn his attention to them, energized, alert. He aimed at the far left one.
“Today’s the day, fucker,” he whispered.
When the crazed monster was ten or so feet away, Clay fired a bullet into its brain, then into the brains of the rest, leaving a pile of bodies.
Clay’s gunshots echoed out over the mountains, making his ears ring. The guttural screaming told him that more crazed were coming, wanting a piece of the action.
Leaping to action himself, Clay grabbed the tire from the side of the road, seeing the blood of the crazed dripping from the rubber to the ground. Heaving it over his shoulder once again, he turned and began his trek back toward his stranded companions. He knew they were losing time—and quite possibly losing humanity. He started to run, feeling no sense of exhaustion. And being alone with his thoughts left h
im with considerable self-doubt. It wasn’t ideal for his sense of survival—his sense of purpose.
If everyone was dead, why should he go on? he thought. His tongue had its own heartbeat, a reminder that he needed water, he needed more oxygen, he needed food to remain alive.
But it was all for Maia, his brain whispered back. For Maia. This became his mantra as he drove forward, his feet pounding against the pavement, his toes bleeding, the nails digging into the skin.
If he was going to keep fighting, it would have to be for her. It couldn’t be for anyone else. And certainly not for himself.
Chapter 24
It was nearly forty minutes later when Clay returned to where he’d left Lane and Alayna, what felt like a million years before. Coughing slightly, his throat raspy, he realized that he was standing in the precise place they’d broken down—he could even see the ragged, black tire marks and the abandoned railway car. This was certainly the place.
But the Jeep—and the women—were nowhere in sight.
His heart ramping up, he dropped the tire to the ground, scanning the horizon. “Fuck. Fuck,” he bellowed. His skin tingled and grew cold as his mind raced. Several scenarios played out in his thoughts, including one involving the women just pretending that the Jeep was broken down, calculating a way to leave him behind.
Maybe they feared for their lives, maybe he was showing increased signs of being crazed, too crazy to be around other humans. He was growing increasingly stronger, practically inhuman. Maybe when you turned, you didn’t recognize it in yourself until it was too late, until suddenly you were eating another’s flesh, tasting the juicy blood and allowing it to roll down your tongue.
“Fuck,” he grumbled.
Of course, there were other options. The women could have been taken, kidnapped by some deranged individual. Or something much more horrifying. They could have been eaten by the crazed. He had no real understanding of the world outside of Carterville, and knew that humans were animals, first and foremost, and would ultimately form packs, protecting themselves from outsiders.
Humanity's Edge- The Complete Trilogy Page 29