Reversion

by Paul B. Kohler

  Hank raised his arms to address everyone, calling out, “We’re going to check out the gas station. If the coast is clear, we’ll come back and let you out a few at a time. You can walk around. Go to the bathroom. See the sun for a bit before we get back on the road. But it’s essential that none of you get off the bus before we give the go-ahead. Is that clear?”

  The passengers grumbled agreement, slightly reminiscent of caged animals. Quintin muscled closed the bus door behind them. Maia was speaking again, in an almost conspiratorial whisper.

  “And how do we know we can trust any of them?” she asked. “I mean, some of them were working for—for that woman who almost blew Malcolm’s head off. Daddy? They can’t be good people.”

  “We have to trust them,” Clay heard himself say. His gut told him to grab Maia’s hand and run, run, run away from whatever kind of civilization this was, to build them a cabin in the middle of nowhere and protect them forevermore with his rifle and his killer aim. “We’re all each other has, now.”

  Sherman appeared in the window directly beside Maia’s head. Clay leaned over, opening the window to hear Sherman’s report.

  “Gas pumps aren’t working,” Sherman said. “But there’s some cans in the shop. We can siphon fuel from some of the vehicles that were left behind. It won’t get us far, but, hell. It’ll help, won’t it?”

  Clay nodded. “Guess there’s not much else we can do.”

  Sherman’s eyes got stony. “Got ourselves a murder-suicide inside the shop, though, so I don’t think the crew do any scavenging. Hank’s salvaging all the food he can.”

  With that, Sherman disappeared. Quintin guarded the bus, watchful of the passengers exiting one by one. Holding his rifle at the ready, with his grizzled black and grey hair wild around his ears, he looked dangerous.

  He heard Maya say something, but it was drowned by surging adrenaline. Voices, other people’s—people he had never known, nor would ever know—began to echo through his brain. Clay burst up from his seat, his hands on either side of his head. He thought his eyeballs would fall from his skull.

  “Dad! Daddy!” She shook at his bicep, forcing him to look at her. “Dad? You’re scaring me.”

  Clay blinked several times and reality was back. He gave Maia a smile, gesturing with his head at the door. He could still sense voices in his skull, but he shoved it away. It wasn’t something he could mention without sounding like a complete lunatic. The feeling was similar to how he’d felt at Malcolm’s compound, yet more heightened. It was like a physical response to some kind of trigger.

  “What do you say we take a quick walk?” Clay asked. “I think it’s about time we stretch out our legs. It’s still going to be a long drive, we’ll regret it if we don’t.”

  What he said was so normal, so regular, that it made Maia forget the terror she’d seen on his face. She took his hand and followed him from the bus into the afternoon light. He prayed he wouldn’t feel what he’d just felt. Not again.

  Chapter 29

  “I can drive, dammit,” Lane said, glaring into the rearview mirror at Hank, who’d been trying to tell her she was “moving a little too fast, given the curves of the road.”

  “Just because I’m the only woman who’s up for driving,” Lane continued, her eyes flashing, “doesn’t mean you get to stand back there and tell me what to do. I’m a scientist. Didn’t anyone tell you that, Hank? I’ve done things in labs you can only dream about. What was it you did before, huh?”

  “Before what?” Hank asked, looking genuinely confused. He held up his hands, his fingers spread wide as if he was surrendering to the cops.

  “You know. Before this hellhole happened. That’s what—”

  “Let’s all calm down, now,” Clay chimed in, knowing that both Sherman and Quintin were too indifferent to try and keep the peace. It hadn’t really been their duty in Sam’s crew. They’d been the muscle, like Damon and Al. Clay sensed there hadn’t been much room for compassion. That’s what differentiated Clay from people like Sam, he reminded himself. His level of compassion.

  He had let Malcolm live for that reason. Because he still saw value in human life, even at the end of the world.

  “Besides, we need to stop again,” Lane sighed, gesturing to a rest area sign. “The tank’s running way too low, and I see a lot of cars up ahead—hopefully, some with fuel in their tanks. And I think some of us needs to pee.”

  With a jerk, Lane brought them off of the highway and toward the parklike rest area, which looked shadowy and strange against the backdrop of the trees. At nearly eight in the evening, the sun was setting, which made Clay immediately apprehensive about getting through the night. He stood and addressed the everyone after Lane cut the engine, explaining, “Listen, gang. I don’t know if it’ll be safe to let you off the bus overnight. This will be it for a while. We’ll scout the area to make sure it’s safe, and then I want all of you to do your business quickly. Then spread out and see if you can scavenge any supplies from these abandoned cars. We’re going to need them. We always do.”

  After Sherman gave a thumbs up, Clay led everyone from the bus. Once out in the open, Clay reached for Maia’s hand. Maia was taking stock of the other passengers. Alex was among them, walking with a slight spring in his step. Their eyes met and held each other’s briefly, then Clay led Maia further toward the bathrooms. Her hair swung forward, and Clay was unable to read her expression.

  He wondered if Alex reminded her of the bad times, locked up in the hotel with Malcolm. He still had so much find out about his daughter’s ordeal.

  Then Clay felt it. The voices, hammering away in his mind. Some of them seemed more articulate this time, calling out for help. “I’m still here,” one of them came, sounding almost demonic, raspy. “I’m here—”

  Clay bent over at the waist, gripping his knees as the voices rang through his mind. Maia stopped and stared fearfully at the expression on his face. Her own had was a sour green color. “Daddy? Are you—are you all right?”

  With all the strength he could muster, Clay forced his face to relax. He pressed back against the darkness in his mind, trying to drown out the voices. He nodded and straightened up. He had no idea what this chaos was, but he had to learn to control it, to push it away when he needed to. Whatever it was, it couldn’t affect his life.

  “Sure. Just a little queasy from the bus,” he lied, reaching again for her hand. “You know I always got sick on long car rides.”

  Clay walked Maia toward the woman’s bathroom without speaking. He could still feel the voices in his head. Maia continued to look up at him apprehensively.

  “Wait here,” Clay told her, reluctantly releasing her hand. “I just have to make sure it’s clear.”

  As he pushed into the bathroom, he saw a flash of light in his mind’s eye. Then it felt as if his skin was on fire, a lighter tracing his forearms and his neck. With the burning sensation, the voices were more insistent. He knocked the side of his head with his fist.

  “Fuck off,” he muttered, the epithet echoing off the tile. He kicked at each of the bathroom stalls, finding only unused—a bit dusty—but overall clean toilets. The crazed hadn’t been here. And with the only other entrance a small window near the highest corner of the room, he felt safe letting Maia in.

  While he waited for Maia outside, the voices began to escalate—words streaming one on top of the other, like water in a cascade, coursing through Clay’s mind. “Get out of here. Get out—get away!” the voices cried. Bringing both hands to his ears, Clay stepped toward the men’s door—just a few feet away. He tapped on the door. Immediately after the tap, he heard the stirring of bodies—seemingly all pressed together, like some sort of maggot hive. The moaning echoed across the cinderblocks. He backed away from the door; The crazed were inside.

  And that meant he would leave it alone. Not bother them. The attention span of the crazed seemed to be rather short. Seconds after the knock, they would surely forget it ever happened and return to their hi
ve mind.

  Clay heard rustling behind him and spun around. It was Lane, her large backpack over her shoulder. Her face was preoccupied, frustration on her crinkled brow. When she saw him standing in front of the women’s room door, she gave him a silent wave and headed for the men’s bathroom.

  Clay caught her just in time. But before he could explain, wooziness struck and he was shaking at the growing anger of the voices inside his head.

  “What’s going on?” Lane asked him, raising an eyebrow.

  “The Men’s is … out of order,” he said. “You can use the women’s as soon as Maia’s done.”

  Lane cocked her head inquisitively. “Clay, everything’s out of order. It’s the end of the fucking world.”

  Clay’s eyes closed as another wave of horrible voices clamored. His stomach clenched and he nearly vomited. The crazed inside the men’s room began to howl again and Lane immediately reached for the neutralizing device in her backpack. Clay tried to stop her. But before he could, Lane kicked the door open and a dozen crazed boiled out of confinement.

  Without a second of delay, Lane cranked the device, forcing each and every one of the crazed to fall to the ground—their grotesque green tongues flopping around their chins and cheeks, blood oozing from small slashes in their arms and legs. Lane’s eyes were flat, soulless as she returned the device to her backpack.

  There was instant silence, both around him and inside his head. He realized that the voices had stopped when Lane neutralized the crazed. His eyes searched the bodies—really analyzing them in ways he hadn’t since the first few kills. Three women wearing ratty-looking, plaid dresses. One of the men was Amish, bearded and garbed in black. People. Clay reminded himself of it. These were people.

  Clay, Maia, and Lane were back on the bus ten minutes later. As Clay climbed up the steps, Maia hung back, speaking with Alex. Clay sat in the driver’s seat, his hand on the wheel, watching Alex. He was holding up a necklace. The metal glinted in the last of the setting sun. As Clay’s eyebrows furrowed, Alex hung the necklace around Maia’s neck, clasping it under her hair. Maia offered a small smile, a secret smile, to the boy.

  “What are you waiting for?” Sherman grunted at Clay from above his left shoulder, interrupting his thoughts.

  Clay turned back toward the road. He felt the bus dip and creak as Alex and Maia and the other stragglers boarded and got situated. He turned over the engine and drove them out of the rest area.

  It was almost dark.

  Chapter 30

  It was just after eleven and Clay was wide awake. Most of the group was slumbering in the darkness of the bus behind him. Above, the stars sparkled at the tip-tops of the trees, and the mountains were dark shadows against the night sky. With the voices no longer invading his mind, he felt almost meditative.

  Maybe this was the first peace he’d felt in years.

  Alayna appeared beside him, perching at the edge of the passenger seat. Surprised to see her after not speaking the entire day, Clay greeted her with a smile, gesturing for her to come closer. She did, bringing her body against his. Her warmth was calming, making Clay’s muscles relax He felt her sigh. But before he could grow used to it, the hug was over, and she pulled back, a full foot away.

  “Maia finally fell asleep,” Alayna told him, her voice a whisper. “She looked better today. Stronger.”

  Clay nodded. “I’m making sure she eats. I don’t think she really wants to, but who would after what she’s been through?”

  Alayna nodded, sliding her hand along her stomach. Clay’s eyes drew back to the road for a particularly curvy stretch of highway; the bus lurched side to side for a moment, the heads of the passengers lolled back and forth in the rear-view mirror.

  “We’ve got enough gas to get us there, if my calculations are correct,” Clay said, tapping the gas gauge.

  “Good thing, Sheriff,” Alayna said. “And it looks like we’re making excellent time, as well.”

  “Should be there by dawn,” he replied. “And when we get there, we can get those tests run on you. See what kind of nanite damage we’re dealing with. Shouldn’t keep us in Helen too long. But I think it’d be better to know. Don’t you?”

  “Right,” Alayna said, her voice hesitant. “I wanted to ask you about your symptoms. Have they gotten worse? Better?”

  “In the last week or so, the rage has subsided. I’m no longer trying to tear Alex’s head off, for example,” he said, trying to lighten his own mood. “But the strength and endurance has come on tenfold. I feel like I could run twenty miles right now. Up a mountain, even. I could drive all night, and I will. But there does seem to be one side effect …” he began, trying to find the confidence to tell her about the voices. It was hard to describe without being suspected of poor mental health. He imagined Sherman and Quintin pushing him aside, explaining to the crew that he’d grown “schizophrenic.” That they couldn’t trust a leader like that.

  But as he searched for the turn of phrase, Alayna blurted, “Clay, I need to tell you something,” her voice low, and heavy with meaning.

  Oh God, he thought. Alayna’s hearing voices, too. Soon, perhaps, their brains would be mush—nothing but the chaotic voices of the crazed, trying to take them over. He squeezed the steering wheel tighter.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said, staring at the road.

  In the silence that followed, an absolute physical reaction tore through him. He bumped the bus toward the side of the road, nearly sliding off the edge of the pavement. He got the bus back under control, his heart bursting in his chest.

  “Please, be careful, Clay,” she whispered.

  Clay heard emotion behind her words. He glanced at her and saw a single tear glitter down her cheek. He recognized, suddenly, that he’d been pushing to find Maia, to fulfill his own selfish life, and he hadn’t noticed that Alayna’s “illness” was, well, very much related to him.

  “Wow.” He paused, hunting, and gliding his tongue along his teeth. “How are you, um … how do feel about it?” he finally managed.

  She shrugged slightly and rested her chin in a palm.

  “Are you sure it’s not just the nanites?” Clay asked. “Like, could it possibly be them making you feel this way?”

  “Lane and the doc ran the test,” Alayna told him, her voice small and childlike. “There’s a strong chance, though, that I’m both pregnant and infected … and that the baby will be infected, too. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what it means to bring a baby into this world like that …” She trailed off, her shoulders shaking.

  Clay pressed his lips together, another layer of worry falling over him. With his daughter sleeping behind him, he’d felt safer, sure. But now, with another child, his child, growing inside Alayna—preparing to enter a world he didn’t fully understand—he had no words to explain his fear, even to himself. Silently, with one hand still on the steering wheel, Clay took Alayna’s hand and squeezed it, letting her know—no matter what—that she wasn’t alone in this. But still, he was silent. He couldn’t imagine what words could possibly mean enough.

  Chapter 31

  Clay drove the bus into Helen at dawn the following morning, his eyes still wide open—nearly popping from his skull as he set the emergency break in front of the Helen Diner. The rest of the drive in, he hadn’t spotted a single crazed. In fact, Helen was a portrait of normalcy. The lines and lines of suburban-looking houses, all matching in light brown bricks and safe, slabbed roofs, was reassuring. Alayna slumbered beside him, still holding his hand. Her unconscious mind still needed him.

  But with a stab in his gut, Clay realized that—despite their circumstances—he was still committed to Valerie. He had to find her. He didn’t know what would happen then, with a baby coming. He could explain, maybe, what had happened between him and Alayna. It had been the end of the world. Maybe infidelity didn’t matter anymore, not the way it had before. And a new human life was never bad.

  Although a human life, infected with the nanites
? He had no idea what that meant.

  Clay’s ever-changing ragtag crew stood at the entrance of the diner, peering out across the town. Helen was bright in the new sunlight, like a bubble of hope in an otherwise rocky hellscape. Alex maneuvered through the group, getting closer to Maia. He was just a few inches taller and looked meek, almost alien beside her. Lane alone, stoic, while Agnes and Alayna were talking to one another. Walt hobbled along next to Hank, an arm over Hank’s shoulder and holding onto him tightly as they fumbled toward the door. Walt cackled, pointing at the sign outside the diner.

  “Think they still have 50-cent milkshakes on Tuesdays?” he asked. “Because damn, I could really use one.”

  After Walt’s wisecrack, they went in, Alayna and Agnes busying themselves at the coffee maker. The place filled with the nutty scent of brewing coffee. Clay found himself at a booth alone, while Sherman and Quintin took a booth near the door. Their hands remained on their rifles. It was clear the rest of the group felt vaguely apprehensive about Sherman and Quintin. They were almost overbearingly masculine, eliminating any chance for light chatter. The rest of the team sipped their coffee quietly, with the light of day streaming in from the large pane window, casting ominous shadows throughout the diner.

  It felt like it had been ages since Clay had been in Helen. Since they’d parted ways with what now felt like lifelong friends—even though their fellowship lasted only a handful of weeks. But, when time spent together was as arduous as theirs was, time is exaggerated completely. Damn, he missed them.

  “Clay, this place seems perfect,” Agnes said, her eyes bright as she settled a cup of coffee in front of him. “I didn’t see a single one of them on the way in. I was thinking, well … Why don’t we secure the perimeter here? In Helen?”

  Clay felt the truth of her words. He leaned heavily against the back of the booth, considering her words. Her bottom lip quivered, showing her nerves.