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By Cassie Decker
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An Unexpected Sanctuary
By Cassie Decker
An aggressive super-flu pandemic wipes out a majority of the population over the course of one Christmas holiday—and brings Tobin and Kyle together. For almost a year, they’ve been trekking across the country from Colorado toward a sanctuary in upstate New York. Kyle’s survival skills have kept them alive, and Tobin wants to repay the man he loves with a very special gift of his own making. He sneaks off in search of the last few pieces… only to get himself and Kyle kidnapped by a desperate stranger. With their journey to New York on hold—possibly indefinitely—they’ll need to accept that home isn’t always defined by a place as much as the person you’re with.
To Jep, for always supporting my dreams, and to Jamie, for giving me the encouragement I needed to act on them.
MY NAME is Tobin Abernathy, and it has been one year since the K3X8 flu pandemic brought the world grinding to a halt. I was in my junior year of college in Fort Collins, Colorado, and just a few days from finals week and the Christmas holiday when news started coming in of the global virus. It was fast moving, aggressive, and unstoppable. It started with a fever and a cough, then moved to a total system shutdown, and after that, you were just done. Average amount of time from the first symptoms to the last? Less than forty-eight hours. The incubation period was so long, though, many people didn’t realize they had been passing it along until it was much too late.
Mass hysteria doesn’t come close to describing the events that happened following the initial news of the outbreak. Panic set in like a raging wildfire, fueling the madness. Grocery stores ran out of food, airplane travel ceased, freeways clogged with people trying to flee densely populated areas, and quarantine zones were put up in all major cities in a futile attempt to contain it. But that was before it all went dark. No more TV or radio or internet to tell us what was going on in the rest of the world or even the next city over, no more cell phone towers sending signals, no more power grids running electricity to homes or businesses or hospitals. This was all within the first month.
We all found pretty quickly, though, as soon as the sickness hit, it petered out. There wasn’t really anyone left after the end who could do scientific research to explain where the virus came from or even how those of us who survived escaped without experiencing any symptoms at all. Some said those with stronger immune systems were able to fight it off more successfully, while others said strictly isolating yourself from everyone until it had passed was the key. But at that point, even with the threat of the disease ultimately gone, the damage to our modern way of living was already done. Society tried holding on to some semblance of itself, but we had lost too many too fast for it to go back to normal.
Those of us lucky enough to have survived the onset of the virus had to learn how to cope with life after the end. People were fighting for limited resources and searching desperately for places to shelter from the elements of that first brutal winter. Record-breaking amounts of snowfall did little to stem the hysteria. Violence became so commonplace it was almost expected. Roving gangs formed quickly and took what they wanted whether you tried to put up a fight or not. Our already-dwindling population was reduced further in ways that didn’t have anything to do with the K3X8, or KEX, as we started calling it.
I know I never could have survived this long without Kyle Morris. He’s been my protector, my partner, and he’s saved my ass more times than I can even remember. As a skinny scared engineering undergrad with absolutely no disaster preparedness experience whatsoever, or any self-defense knowledge for that matter, I was pretty much screwed from the get-go.
I literally would not be here today if I hadn’t run into Kyle on Christmas Day, a few blocks from the dorms on my university’s campus. I ventured outside for the first time in a week to find food, as my puny reserve of ramen noodles and canned soup were finally depleted. The snow outside was all the way up to my knees, and I had no hope of outrunning the three thugs who cornered me behind an already-looted convenience store. Kyle, my hero, fended them off, and from that moment, we’ve been inseparable. Neither of us had any family to look for or fall back on, we only had each other, so it’s just been the two of us against a hard, unforgiving world since the beginning.
Fast forward one year, past hundreds of rabbit stew dinners, countless abandoned buildings scavenged for supplies, five state lines, and here we are. We are constantly moving, on the lookout for a safe place we can put down roots. There was talk amongst other survivors when it all started of a sanctuary in upstate New York, so that’s the direction we’ve been heading in a meandering sort of way.
Over the months, I’ve learned a few survival skills from Kyle in an effort to contribute as well as I can. He’s a very attentive teacher, but I can never come close to the store of knowledge he has. He told me once his father taught him trapping, hunting, and tracking while he was still in diapers; I can’t really compete with that. We’re almost the same age, but he’s literally got a lifetime of experience on me.
To be honest, I sometimes wonder why he’s kept me around this long. I’m far from accurate with the bow, and starting a fire without a match is still a tricky task. I know I probably slow him down more than anything; self-doubt, unlike basic survival knowledge, is a skill I mastered a long time ago. But then he’ll look at me with his hazel eyes so full of love, and all my insecurities just melt away. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand what exactly he sees in me. Whatever it is, I’m glad it’s there, because after all we’ve been through together this past year, I’ve fallen pretty hard for him too.
So here it is, almost Christmas, or as close as I can figure it to be. I keep a rough hand-drawn calendar in a notebook in my backpack to tick off the days going by, and if I’ve been doing it right, we’re getting very near the last week of December. My scuffed little book is almost used up now, with the calendar and blueprint-type sketches I draw in it scrawled over each inch of the paper. I remind myself to search for a new notebook, among other things, the next place we stop to scavenge.
Kyle pauses for a minute beside me and pulls me from my thoughts. I glance up at a sign above the deserted freeway we’ve been walking along while he looks at our map. The sign shows the exit for Cedarville and Springfield coming off Ohio’s I-70. The sky is clear and cold and is changing from a golden yellow to a frosty cotton-candy pink as we begin to shuffle through the snow on the road again.
“There’s a little subdivision called Limecrest Terrace near here.” Kyle points southward on the opposite side of the interstate, away from the thick cluster of Springfield’s center. “I think it’ll be a good place to set up camp for a few days.”
I nod. We’ve been walking since first light. And while my stamina has strengthened considerably through this last year, from a guy who would sit around playing video games all the time to a guy who walks an average of twenty miles a day, I still feel like I’m bordering on exhausted from having to navigate a foot of snow for the last eight hours. Plus my feet have turned into size-twelve blocks of ice even through my wool socks and sturdy boots—not that I’m complaining or anything. Okay, maybe I am a little.
We follow the exit lane and walk for a bit until we start getting into the little community. We pass by a few empty fast food joints and one burned-out shell of a building that might have been a gas station. This city, much like many others we’ve passed through, is totally deserted. Even after all this time, the utter silence is still so strange to me. There are animals aroun
d making their noises, of course, but the absence of cars and airplanes and just people in general can be unnerving. We make a point to stay away from the bigger metropolitan areas because of the chance of marauders or those seeking to take what little we already have. Sticking to the smaller subdivisions and towns has worked out better for us. For this reason, we sometimes go weeks without seeing a single soul.
Continuing our way down the main drag, I spot a boarded-up jewelry store tucked away amidst a cluster of snow dusted pines. I immediately slip my hand in my jacket pocket and finger the windup watch hidden there. For the last four months, I’ve been secretly searching for parts and rebuilding the timepiece as a Christmas present for Kyle. I’ve always had a fascination with the way the gears and mechanisms all move together, and when I saw this poor busted thing on the floor in an abandoned house on the outskirts of St. Louis, I knew Kyle would love to have it. It’s pretty much the perfect gift: the windup feature eliminates the need for batteries, the hour hand can be used as a rudimentary compass, the second hand can help in medical situations if a pulse needs to be taken, and pretty much every other part inside and out can be useful some way if needed in the world Kyle and I find ourselves in now.
Christmas last year was pretty well nonexistent. Dealing with the KEX outbreak and its aftermath pushed all thoughts of the holiday far from everyone’s minds; we all had bigger things to worry about back then. But this year, even though we are still so much further from the normal lives we used to live and will most likely never live again, I want to bring a little normalcy back. This is why finishing the repairs on this watch by Christmas is so important. Kyle deserves something special after all he’s done for me.
I turn away from the jewelry shop and make a mental list of the last few parts I’ll need to gather to complete my project. If we find a place to bunker down that isn’t too far away, I can try to sneak out tonight while Kyle is asleep and get it all done.
A sudden echo of uneasiness goes down my spine, and my next step falters a bit. Is someone watching us? There is no movement in any of the deserted buildings around us, nor any crunch of feet in the snow to give any indication anyone is around. I wait for a moment but soon chalk it up to my tired brain sending the wrong signals after a long day. We continue our walk about another half mile down the highway, but when we turn off on a neighborhood street, I still don’t mention anything to Kyle—my premonitions are usually nothing more than a hunch, after all.
A frigid gust of wind sighs through the bare oak trees lining the road and makes them groan. I pull my coat tighter around myself to ward off the chill. The last of the day’s light is bleeding away above the branches to reveal the first few stars bright enough to shine before the sky is completely dark. We need to find a place to stop for the night.
My breath fogs out of my mouth like cigarette smoke when I slow my steps in front of a house. “What do you think about this one? It looks pretty cozy.”
Kyle follows my line of sight to the home. It’s a good-sized brick two-level with peeling green trim. The windows are all dark, and there are no footprints in the snow anywhere to be seen. It’s safe to say it’s as abandoned as any other place we’ve come across recently.
A strand of broken Christmas lights droops down to the ground on one side of the wraparound porch. With the fake evergreen boughs and sagging red felt ribbon wrapped over every free inch of the home’s facade, it has the feel of a B and B. My toe bumps into something hard under the fresh powder, and when I drag the thing out, sure enough, it’s a wooden sign proclaiming Jamie’s Vintage Bed and Breakfast in barely legible lettering.
Kyle cracks a smile and readjusts his crossbow slung over his shoulder. “Good choice. I like it.”
We break into the house and find a big stone fireplace in the living room just past the entryway. My frozen fingers tingle in anticipation of the heat that thing is going to put out. I walk straight over to it after dropping all my wet gear next to a couch. There’s a few fresh logs and newspaper scraps already on the grate and a long-neck lighter on the mantel. After being in so many different houses this last year, I can tell when one has long been empty. The former occupants of this place must have taken off in a hurry to find a safe haven, like so many others, and left these tokens behind like little gifts for us.
I turn toward Kyle where he’s standing by the door and give the lighter a triumphant little shake. “Looks like it’s our lucky day,” I say with a grin.
Kyle chuckles and squats down to rummage in his backpack for our dinner. “Mine especially. ’Cause we both know I’d be a damn popsicle standing here before you ever got a fire started using the flint. I should buy myself a scratch ticket or something.”
He deftly dodges a balled-up piece of newspaper I send flying his way.
Within a few moments of me putting my focus back on the fireplace, there’s a healthy blaze warming the room. Orange light dances over the floral wallpaper and various antique furniture placed around the room. It shines dully off the dusty ornaments on an artificial Christmas tree in the corner. The poor thing is leaning up against the wall behind it as if it has no energy anymore to stand straight after all this time.
People started decorating last year in preparation for the holiday, like every other year before, but never got a chance to celebrate due to the unforeseeable and tragic chain of events we were all subjected to. Almost every house we’ve stayed in has decorations of some sort still up. It gets kind of depressing after a while to be around all those long-untouched ornaments and sagging garlands, knowing those who put them up weren’t around to enjoy them. For all the scavenging we have done in those houses for our own survival, though, we have never touched any presents that happen to be under the tree. It just doesn’t seem right to go through them—it’s a rule Kyle and I have had from day one.
Kyle starts setting out our meager dinner on a coffee table near the fireplace while I go about unfurling sleeping bags on the couches. The second floor in this house probably contains a few nice bedrooms with big comfortable beds, but they’d be too far from the downstairs heat source. Besides, Kyle likes to be near a door, or “escape route,” as he calls it, in case we’re greeted by unwanted visitors and need to make a quick getaway.
Our meal tonight consists of the last few pieces of deer meat jerky Kyle smoked in October, a can of peaches from the pantry of the last house we stayed in, and of course, our daily multivitamin. With basic survival on the forefront of your mind, the last thing you want to worry about is coming down with a case of scurvy from not getting the necessary nutrients.
Tomorrow we’ll go through the cabinets here to see what we can take with us on our journey to New York. I’m really hoping we’ll find some mandarin oranges. You never realize what you truly miss until it’s gone, and this craving has been with me since Colorado. It has been so long since I’ve eaten them I’ve almost forgotten the taste altogether. It’s a real damn tragedy there hasn’t been one single can in any of the places we’ve scavenged.
The fire is still going strong and warm as we start to settle in for the night after we’re done eating. I’m sitting on the hardwood floor, propped against the couch with my notebook to look over the blueprints I’ve drawn up for a few of the gadgets I’ve made along the way. I want to see if there are any improvements I can tinker with. Most of the things I have created are designed to make things easier for Kyle, to cement my place in our little pack. My contraptions are hit and miss, though—sometimes things work, and sometimes they’re better just left as ideas. The water filter straw? That one worked great and is something we still use now. Same goes for the soda-can stove. The handmade night vision goggles? Not so much.
Kyle looks up at me from where he’s sitting cross-legged next to the fireplace, sharpening his knife. He brushes his shaggy brown bangs from his forehead with his forearm and smiles. I can’t remember the last time we gave each other haircuts. July, maybe? Or was it August? “Getting pretty close to Christmas, aren’t we?” he nod
s toward my notebook.
I look at my calendar and try to give an air of nonchalance like I haven’t been actively counting down the days. “Yeah, only a week away.”
“Well, at least all the decorations will finally match the time of year.” He looks around at all the dingy, tired garland, glitter, and ornaments, then pauses, his eyes going wide. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”
I jerk my head in his direction. Among all the other antiques littered around the room, there’s an old-timey Victrola record player sitting in the corner, the kind with the big horn attached.
“Do you think it still works?” An eager glint lights in Kyle’s eyes. It’s the same look I’ve seen when handing him one of my newest inventions. He is up at the machine and cranking hard on the handle before I can push myself from the hardwood floor.
“You have to be careful with it.” I grab for his hands once I reach him.
I show him how to turn the handle gently, then move the needle and brake. The record of vintage carols already on the turntable begins to play. It’s the first time we’ve heard music in a year.
We stand before the player, stock-still in reverence, just listening. A deep rush of nostalgia washes over me, and I grieve for our long-lost past. No more Christmas carolers or tree-lighting ceremonies or mall Santas. Tears burn my eyes, and I quickly blink them away. It’s hard to believe it was only a year ago the world fell apart so spectacularly—sometimes it seems like a million lifetimes have passed since I was sitting in my dorm room worrying about finals week.
“Dance with me,” Kyle says softly, pulling me from my sorrow.
I turn my head toward him. “What? To this?” It’s a beautiful song, really, with the swell of the brass and strings of the orchestra playing over a soothing undercurrent of pops and crackles. But the choir voices are singing about a holy silent night, and it seems a little silly to slow dance to such a thing.
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