Falling Together (All That Remains #2)

by S. M. Shade

  I pull out the letter I promised Carson I’d leave behind if I couldn’t locate his father.

  Jon Needham,

  This letter is to inform you that your son, Carson Bailey, survived the plague and is alive and well at the address listed below.

  Our address is written on the bottom of the paper, and I also leave a map of the county. I don’t like leaving the directions to our farm where anyone could stumble across them, especially since the chance Jon has survived is slim. If he’s alive, it’s not likely he’ll give two shits about Carson’s welfare. Chances are this letter will sit here until it disintegrates.

  “This guy was something else,” Eric says, holding up a picture showing Jon standing under a banner at Comic-Con. “Plenty of pictures of him and his mother, but only a few of the kid. Self centered and a geeky mama’s boy.”

  I snort. “Sounds about like Abby’s description. I’m done here.”

  “Do you want to camp here tonight?”

  “Let’s pick another house.” Thinking about this guy and how he treated Abby and Carson makes my blood boil.

  “We can head home in the morning,” Eric chirps. I can’t help but grin at the thought. This trip has largely been a waste. I don’t have any more information about the whereabouts of Abby and Carson’s family than I had when we left. I just want to get home to Abby and my kids.

  Eric grins, hopping into the SUV. “I have an idea where we can stay, if it’s still there.” His smile widens when we pull into a tiny parking lot. “Come on,” he exclaims, breaking into a slow jog. The door to the small rectangular building is unlocked, and Eric chuckles when we enter, gazing around like he’s seeing Disneyland instead of a dusty bar. “Goddamn…like time stood still.”

  “What is this place?” A fireplace rests on a stone platform in the center of the room, couches and recliners arranged haphazardly around it. Tables and chairs are stacked along one wall and booths line the other. There is a small bar in the corner opposite a makeshift stage where a few guitars rest, collecting dust. The walls are painted a deep blue and plastered with posters advertising upcoming concerts and events, now years in the past.

  “The hangout,” Eric replies, plopping onto one of the couches with a sunny smile. “It’s a dive, I know, but I spent a lot of time here when I was young. It was a great place to get away. Everyone was real laid back, and the music was good.” He smiles at me sheepishly. “We don’t have to stay. I just wanted to see it again.”

  “It’s fine.” In fact, it looks pretty comfortable. “We haven’t seen a soul since we arrived, not so much as a footprint. I think we could start a fire without worrying about attracting attention.”

  He nods. “Let’s do it. If you want to make sure the flue is open, I’ll see if there’s still a woodpile out back.” He piles the split logs beside the fireplace while I unload the SUV. An hour later we’re lounging around a roaring fire, eating ham and beans. I’m truly warm for the first time in days.

  Eric tosses me a pillow and chuckles when it bounces off of my head. “You’re falling asleep sitting up.”

  “Asshole,” I mumble, wrapping myself in the sleeping bag and stretching out on the couch. “Is it raining?”

  “Sounds like sleet.”

  “Wonderful,” I drawl before closing my eyes again.

  I wake up shivering. The fire is out. Thin white light filters through the solitary window. It must be early. The room warms quickly after I rebuild the fire. We’re heading home today, and even if it takes us a week to get down Interstate 70 in the snow, we’ll make it back before Thanksgiving.

  Abby’s smiling face flashes before my eyes. I miss her. Her smart mouth and good hearted teasing. The soft skin on the back of her thighs that my lips can’t resist, and the way she shivers when I run my tongue across her neck. Fuck, I’m rock hard. My mind conjures a picture of her ass in the tight little boyshort panties she always wears, while my hand creeps down my shorts to stroke firmly. Eric snores from the couch while I think of her riding me mercilessly on the love seat in our bedroom. So hot and tight around me. I’m sweating buckets, sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in a sleeping bag and lost in pleasure while I imagine Abby’s hands on me. I may have come in record time.

  Eric wakes when he smells the coffee. “I’ll have bacon and eggs.”

  “You’ll have my foot in your ass if you don’t get up.”

  “Is this how you treat all your dates on the morning after?”

  “Only the ones who are shit in bed.” He snorts. He’s in a good mood as well. I suppose we’re both ready to get out of here.

  “Ohh…fuck me!” Eric curses when he opens the door facing the parking lot. I have to second his emotion.

  The good news is most of the snow has melted. The temperature warmed enough to allow it to rain overnight turning the roads to a thin slush. Unfortunately, it must have evolved into freezing rain at some point while we slept so now everything is covered in ice, some areas nearly two inches thick.

  Eric shakes his head at me. “We can’t drive in this.” No shit.

  “I’ll relight the fire.” I sigh, resigned to spending another day and night in the tiny bar.

  “I’ll get another propane canister for the stove,” he mutters. His feet slide as he carefully makes his way to the SUV. “Damn good thing we parked in the carport, we couldn’t have pried the doors open, otherwise.”

  Three days pass while we wait for the ice to melt. We’re warm and fed and bored out of our skulls. Drinking and playing cards quickly gets old. When we wake on the third morning after the ice storm and still see no improvement, I’m beyond frustrated. “We can’t just stay here all winter! How long does this shit usually last?”

  “I don’t know. This isn’t typical Indy weather. I’ve been through a few ice storms before, but of course the city would salt and clear the roads.”

  “The sun has helped a little,” I offer.

  “Yeah, now it’s wet ice.”

  “We could at least try to get out of here.” I’ve had it with waiting. Patience has never been my strong suit.

  Eric sighs and shrugs. “Fine. Let’s get our shit together.” An hour later we’re inching toward the interstate. Eric hunches over, his knuckles as white as the snow from his iron grip on the wheel. “This is fucking crazy,” he grumbles.

  I can’t help but be fascinated by our crystallized surroundings. Sunlight reflects off of every surface and makes the whole city sparkle, turning the dullest objects into shining works of beauty. Icicles hang in curtains from the awnings and rooftops like cascading sheets of twinkling diamonds. It may be a pain in the ass that’s royally impeding our progress, but it’s beautiful. I wish Joseph and Abby could see it.

  We come to the edge of a steep hill and Eric curses as he tries to avoid it by turning onto a side street, but it’s too late. “Oh shit! Hold on!” he barks. There is no point in braking. The SUV is now essentially a sled, and we have little control. We pick up speed at an alarming rate while Eric struggles to keep the vehicle straight. The road curves sharply to the right at the bottom of the hill. We’ll never be able to stop in time.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Eric yells, when we slide sideways and barrel down the hill at break neck speed. “I think we’re going to roll.” Somehow the SUV stays on all four tires, but we’re hurtling toward a large tree. With no way to prevent our inevitable crash, we brace for impact. The tree smashes against the front of the driver’s side door, shattering the windshield and Eric’s window. The screech of bending metal is enormous as the door and front quarter panel crunch and twist.

  “Are you okay?” I gasp. My heart is beating out of my chest, but there isn’t a scratch on me. This is the story of my life. The people around me get hurt while I glide through, unscathed.

  “I think so.” Eric glances at me with wide eyes. His face bears a few scratches from the glass, but otherwise he looks fine. “We’ll have to climb out your side.” I nod and hop out, pulling my pack and a few supplies ou
t with me. Eric gasps and grits his teeth when he attempts to scoot across the seat.

  “Fuck…my leg,” he hisses.

  “Is it broken?”

  “How the hell would I know?” he snaps.

  Fair point. “Can you move it?”

  He flexes his foot toward his chest and hisses again. “Yes, but it hurts like hell.”

  Shit. What should I do? “Stay put,” I order. In a small unoccupied house across the street, I locate a blanket. Eric stares at me dubiously while I spread it out on the ground just outside the demolished SUV.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You can’t walk. So you’ll sit on the blanket, and I’ll pull your crippled ass to the house.”

  “Just don’t break your leg in the process. I saw you fall on your ass on your way back,” he taunts, not unkindly.

  “Shut up.”

  “Sometimes it’s better just to let yourself fall, you know. Although, your little dance was very amusing.”

  “Just get out of the damn car.” He manages to slide into the passenger seat and I help him down onto the blanket. It’s surprisingly easy to pull him to the house, but it takes us a couple of tries to get him up the few stairs to the porch. Finally, I just pick him up and carry him over the threshold and into the living room.

  “This does not make me your husband,” he says between gasps, trying to stop his injured leg from swinging.

  “You’re a little hairy to be a bride,” I snort. “Let’s see the leg.” He tugs up his long underwear and jeans and removes his shoe. “Shit, Eric, it’s really swollen, and you’re bleeding a little.” A quick glance around the small living room alerts me to the unlucky fact that there isn’t a fireplace. “I’m going to hook up the kerosene heater, and then I’ll find somewhere to get a wrap or a brace.”

  “There’s a drug store on the next corner.” He winces as he attempts to get comfortable.

  Half an hour later I’ve unloaded all of our supplies from the totaled SUV. I’ll have to find another vehicle, but that can wait. I need to get Eric taken care of first. The heater hums, taking the chill from the air while Eric gives me directions to the drugstore.

  It’s unnerving to be out in an unfamiliar city alone, and I feel defenseless despite the rifle slung across my back. The front of the store is mostly glass, which I’m surprised to find intact, and it allows the sun to stream in so my flash light isn’t necessary. It doesn’t appear that anyone has been here since the plague. It’s so strange to see a store that hasn’t been looted. Did they evacuate this area early, perhaps?

  My breath fogs the air while I collect some first aid supplies and a pair of crutches. There are plenty of drugs behind the pharmacy counter and it isn’t difficult to locate a bottle of pain killers and antibiotics. I’m no doctor, but I know an infected cut nearly cost Joseph his life, and I’m taking no chances.

  A wave of homesickness suddenly sweeps over me at the thought of Joseph, and how Abby cared for him with such compassion when he was a stranger to us. What the hell am I doing here, three hundred miles away from them?

  Eric is asleep when I return from the drugstore. The room has warmed considerably, and I’m glad we thought to bring extra kerosene and propane. “Wake up, man. Let’s fix your leg.”

  He regards me groggily. “What the hell are you doing?” he demands when I produce a pair of scissors and slice up the leg of his jeans to expose the clotted wound and an extremely swollen ankle.

  “Would you rather strip?”

  “Proceed,” he replies dryly. His hisses and moans make me cringe while I clean the wound with peroxide and coat it in antibacterial ointment. I’m not good at this sort of thing.

  “Sorry, but I’ve heard gangrene smells really foul, and I have a weak stomach.” After covering the cut with a gauze pad, and wrapping his foot and ankle in an Ace bandage, I give him two painkillers. “Here, these should improve your mood and give you a buzz.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll make dinner. You should take an antibiotic pill when you eat.”

  “Mmm,” he hums noncommittally.

  It takes days for the swelling in Eric’s ankle to subside enough to convince us it isn’t broken. It’s certainly the worst sprain I’ve ever encountered. A patchwork of black, blue and green bruises travel from his toes almost to his knee. At least he’s able to maneuver around the little house on crutches.

  I’ve made multiple excursions to the drugstore and some surrounding residences for activities to fill our time, and combat the boredom of waiting for ice to melt and flesh to heal. We spend hours reading books and magazines, and playing cards. I commandeer a dartboard and darts from a neighboring house, along with a chess set.

  “Do you know how to play chess?” I ask.

  “Yes, do you?”

  “Nope, but I can learn.”

  “We’ll see.” He smirks.

  A week after our accident, the ice is finally gone. Eric’s leg is healing, but he’s still using crutches. I’m the one that insisted we drive in the ice, and since I feel responsible for his injury, I’m waiting on him to be ready to try again.

  “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving,” he states.

  “I know. Fresh out of turkey, sorry.”

  “If you drive, I think we could start back today.”

  “Are you sure?” I fail to hide the relief and hope in my voice.

  “I’m pretty tired of your face. I’m ready to go home.”

  “I’ll get us a car,” I volunteer, jumping up to grab my coat before he changes his mind.

  “Get one with a CD player.”

  “Not for your shit music, buddy.”

  When I return, Eric has managed to pack our belongings and pile them at the door. He has discarded the crutches in favor of limping. I’m tempted to kick him in his other leg when he spends ten minutes berating my choice of vehicle.

  “Seriously? In a city crammed full of cars and trucks you bring back a Camry? You couldn’t find another SUV?”

  “We know Interstate 70 is a nightmare, so I think we may have more luck squeezing through the traffic jams if we aren’t driving a damn tank. Now hobble your ass to the car before I lock you in the trunk.”

  The westbound lanes of US70 are just as congested and damaged as the east. It’s extremely frustrating. Two days after we leave Indianapolis, we have only managed to make it about fifty miles. “You know it won’t be this bad once we get to 41,” Eric reminds me. “Let’s stop for the night. If you take the next exit, there’s a small town named Greencastle. We can stay there.”

  It’s snowing again when we gather our few remaining supplies and carry them into the living room of a small brick house. It smells like the former owner had too many cats, but at least there’s a fireplace. Eric attempts to make conversation after dinner but I’m in no mood. We missed Thanksgiving. I promised Abby I’d return before the holidays, and my stomach knots when I think of how worried she must be. We bed down early so we can leave at first light.

  It takes us nearly three days to make it to Terre Haute. I’m convinced we could have walked it faster. “Quit sulking,” Eric gripes. “We’ll be on 41 tomorrow, another day or two and we’ll be home. It’s a good thing since we’re on our last tank of propane, and the kerosene is nearly gone as well.” I grunt an agreement and wrap myself in a sleeping bag to wait for morning.

  I’m awakened by a gust of arctic air sweeping through the room when Eric opens the door. Keeping the blanket around my shoulders, I join him in the doorway to stare into the blowing snow.

  “It’s a whiteout,” he sighs.

  Fuck. We aren’t going anywhere.

  Chapter Eight

  Joseph

  “Someone’s screaming,” Troy cries, throwing the covers aside and leaping out of bed.

  “Fuck! I smell smoke!” We’re dressed and out the door before my eyes are fully open.

  “It’s coming from Julie’s!” Troy shouts. The relief I feel that it isn’t Abby’s house is immediate
ly followed by guilt, then terror as I remember Lane was supposed to stay with Julie tonight.

  Columns of smoke drift from the windows, evanescing as they rise into the ink black sky. The sight is staggering, and I’m paralyzed, encased in a block of ice. Abby’s scream pierces through the panic, and I grab her before she can run into the house. After shoving her into Troy’s arms, and calling for Carson to grab a ladder, I dart inside.

  The first floor is hazy with smoke, and I know the second story will be worse. Heat sucks at me, sweat springing from every pore on my body as I rip off my T-shirt and tie it around my face before climbing the stairs. The second story is a nightmare, and I have to fight the instinct to turn and run. Julie’s room is at the end of the hall, but I can’t see it through the thick smoke. A second of hesitation costs me dearly as a chunk of the hallway floor collapses, peppering me with burning embers, and leaving a four foot gap.

  Fuck. I have to keep moving. I have to do this. Abby can’t lose Lane. She’ll never survive it. The smoke thickens, and the only air available is near the ground. Taking a chance the rest of the hall floor is intact, I leap over the jagged hole. My head swims from lack of oxygen, and I’m forced to my knees, crawling toward the sound of Lane’s cries.

  Flames lick from under the bathroom door, igniting the leg of my sweatpants, searing my skin. A quick roll back and forth extinguishes the flames, but the pain is indescribable. Only Lane’s cries and Julie’s voice calling for help keeps me focused and moving. When I reach Julie’s bedroom, I gulp as much air as possible before getting to my knees to open the door.

  “Quick! Don’t let the smoke in!” Julie screeches, pounding on the window. The room is miraculously clear, thanks to the pillows she has tucked in the gap. I slam the door quickly behind me.

  “Get me some sheets,” I demand before grabbing her desk chair and swinging it as hard as I can, shattering the window. She tosses me the sheets and jerks down the curtains, spreading them across the window sill over the broken glass.

  “Give me the baby!”

  “No, I’ve got him. Climb out. Get to the ladder.” She scrambles onto the roof. Oh, please let it hold up until I can get them down safely. Lane screams and kicks while I bind him in a bed sheet. He’s strong for such a little thing, and I don’t trust myself to carry him down the ladder while he twists and fights to escape my arms. I feel like my legs could give out at any second.