It’s been at least four months since the last people died, at least the ones I’m aware of. Maybe Cincinnati held out longer than Detroit, but judging by the condition of Captain Reynolds’ body, some significant time has passed. All the noise and fuss and danger associated with the human world has now been shut off. If wild animals are still around, they’ll eventually find their way into the empty cities. The flies sure have. That means I’m not alone. And I’ll need to remember that.
Pack up my backpack as dawn’s pale glow begins to paint the street outside. Open a few cans of peaches and slurp them down. Pee in the alley beside the store and then set off.
Downtown Cincinnati looms above me. It’s bigger than I imagined, most of the buildings old and intricate. Wind through the streets and eventually spot the bridge. Bridges, to be exact. There are two complicated bridges, their metal supports like spider webs. They’re sort of beautiful, in a grungy, steampunk sort of way.
According to the map, several interstate highways collide and merge here before funneling onto the westernmost bridge. Stand at the foot of I-71, a highway that pours in from the east until mixing with I-75 and then dropping south across the bridge into Kentucky.
I’ve heard the sound for several blocks, the drone getting louder as I’ve wound my way through the cavernous streets. The cars on the highway I’ve avoided by walking through the city have found me again. Cars line all the interstates and feeder roads leading to the bridge. The sound of the flies is an earthquake. A strong wind blows in from the east, which carries the stench away from me. The air still stinks, don’t get me wrong, but it’s bearable.
Walk along Highway 42, which runs beside and then under the I-71 overpass. As I pass into shadow under the massive concrete and steel roads, the sound of the flies above me echoes in my ears. I follow 42 south until I meet up again with the traffic jam. This one is a jumble of cars feeding gradually onto the smaller, eastern-most bridge. I stop at the edge of the traffic. A red Subaru and a light blue minivan are the last cars in line. The rear window of the minivan is emblazoned with those ridiculous sets of family stickers. There’s a cartoon mom and dad, four kids of varying sizes and a happy-looking dog. On the rear bumper, another sticker proclaims “MY DAUGHTER IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT MARGARET SMITH MIDDLE SCHOOL.” The back window of the minivan is dirty. I’m grateful for that. It keeps me from getting a clear view inside. I don’t want to see their dead honor student.
From my vantage point at this end of the line of cars, I can see the bridge rising over the river. I’m too low to see the other side, the Kentucky side. Crossing over the bridge will get me closer to my destination. But crossing the bridge means walking through the cemetery. There doesn’t seem to be an alternative.
A quick glance to the right tells me the I-75 bridge downriver is not a better option. Cars are packed in tightly, and the backup extends far out of view. I know where it ends, though. Or begins.
Adjust my backpack and my courage. The wind has calmed and the smell has returned. Fight the urge to yack again. Throwing up won’t help. Take a deep breath and start walking toward the bridge.
I make the conscious decision to stare straight ahead. Glancing even for a moment at the disgusting contents of the cars I’m passing threatens to dislodge the tenuous hold of the peaches in my stomach. So I make it a game. Pass a car and not throw up, one point. By the time I’m across the bridge, I’ve earned seventy-one points.
The bridge rises in front of me. Its steel supports look chaotic and random. The intricate symmetry I saw from a distance has disappeared. The cars on the bridge are tightly packed. The rule of lanes has disappeared and the whole thing looks like some kid has dropped their set of toy cars on the floor. Like something Gabe would’ve done.
Pick my way through the jumbled cars. A few times, climb over hoods. Scrambling over the cars disturbs the flies, and I spend much of the morning swatting them away.
“Fresh meat, huh?”
The thought makes me queasy, and try once again to focus on the game. I’ve lost count.
Inching my way through the chaos of cars, I reach the apex of the bridge. I climb onto the hood of a white Hyundai and get my first look at what’s on the other side of the bridge.
A large metal barricade has been erected near the Kentucky end of the bridge. The structure is makeshift, and looks to be made up of big pieces of rusted metal. A portion of the barricade has been torn down. Through the empty piece, I can see military vehicles, Humvees mostly, painted the familiar sand color I’ve seen so often on the news. Leftovers from Iraq.
The barricade and the road in front of it are stained a dark red. Whatever rain and snow has fallen on the bridge has washed away the source of the stains. But I’ve seen enough blood to recognize its residue.
Kentucky defended itself. Put National Guard troops on the bridges maybe in a desperate attempt to keep General Tsao out. The soldiers had defended their barricade. Killed the people trying to break through. The hole in the metal likely meant they’d been unsuccessful.
“What were they thinking? Trying to stop a disease with guns and barricades?”
I look around at the cars and the barricade and the abandoned Humvees beyond. Fear. All of it was about fear. Blind panic had caused the people to flee the city. Terror had led to the barricades. Everyone was afraid of dying. And yet here they are, an endless sea of four-wheeled coffins. I can’t think of a less dignified way to die. Or anything more hopeless. The families, the kids in the backseat maybe feverish and contagious, spreading General Tsao to everyone else. The cars trapped, the traffic mocking them. No way forward, no way back. Maybe some of the people had started walking. Several doors have been left opened. But walked where? Back to the city? Or forward through the barricades? Either way, there was no way out. Knowing they were going to die. Too weak, maybe, to leave their cars. Or too scared. So they died where they sat, entire families simply giving up together.
The enormity of it makes me lightheaded. So many people. And then there were none.
No, and then there was one. Her name is Hannah. She’s alive. Despite everything, Hannah is alive. What does that mean? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll find out someday. My purpose revealed, the meaning clear. But that day, it ain’t today.
I climb off the hood of the white Hyundai and follow the bridge past the barricade and into Kentucky.
Tennessee
Rain shouldn’t last this long. It’s been three days, and the morning of the fourth isn’t holding much promise. It’s a steady, soaking rain, the kind that makes flowers grow but quickly soaks fourteen-year-old girls to the skin.
I saw the house up on the hill from across the winding river I’d been following for almost a week. Pigeon River, according to the state tourism map I picked up outside Knoxville. I’d followed I-40 east through the mountains and then over Douglas Lake before turning sharply south and following the river through bends and turns that made me feel like I would end up back in Detroit if I wasn’t careful. The house was the first sign of civilization I’d seen in days. I don’t count the little mountain town of Hartford as civilization. A gas station and a half dozen trailer homes doesn’t qualify to me. The gas station store was practically empty. Whatever truck supplied it hadn’t been there since long before trucks had stopped coming everywhere.
I-40 cuts through tall, green mountains. They’re beautiful but their height made me lose hours of daylight as the sun sunk behind them. Miles and days of walking through the mountains left me disoriented and worn down to nothing. The last truck stop I’d found had been equally short on supplies. Days began with me tearing down the tent I’d set up the afternoon before. Since food was limited to what scraps still remained from my stop in Knoxville, my breakfast and lunch were two halves of the same stale energy bar. Then walking and more walking, until my feet started to burn and my muscles were in full revolt. Once it was almost too dark to see, I pitched the tent again, crawled inside, forced myself to eat another half of an energy bar, and th
en pass out. Rinse and repeat. There was plenty of water, though. Nothingbut water. The river was a constant roar in my ears. I filled my water bottles at its edge. It tasted metallic.
The house on the hill caught the morning sun before the sun itself made its way across the mountain and into the river valley. The house is white, and almost appeared to glow. At first I thought it was a mirage. It’s such a ridiculous place for a house like this to be. And then I found the bridge that led across the river, and decided it might actually be a real place.
It took me most of the morning to hike up the mountain. There’s a road that cuts through the thick pine trees. Both the road and the trees hug the mountain like they’re afraid of falling off. There’s nothing else on this mountain, no other houses or even some secret government hideout or anything. I’ve watched enough History Channel (when we still had cable) to firmly believe that secret government bases are hidden all over the place. I have yet to find any. But this sure seems like an ideal location to hide one.
The house is immense. Even the gargantuan old mansion in which we’d lived in Detroit would have fit snugly inside the massive stone and wood living room. A black Cadillac SUV is parked in the round driveway. It has Tennessee license plates. Aside from the SUV, the house looked deserted. No lights, no smoke from the dozen chimneys. The huge front door was unlocked but was so heavy that I almost couldn’t open it. When I eventually did, what was inside took my breath away.
The room into which I’d wandered and in which I’m sitting now is at least four stories tall, taller than a lot of apartment buildings. Two winding staircases lead to the top floor, with landings at each level on the way up. And in the middle of the staircases, looking like another mirage, is a waterfall. Seriously. A goddamn waterfall. The sound of the water is at once out of place and soothing. I cried when I first saw it. They were tears of relief, mostly. I guess I hadn’t realized how scared I’d been since I’d wandered into the mountains.
I dropped my backpack on the floor and pulled out my flashlight. I’m getting low on batteries. Sleeping outside has provided a who’s-who of terrifying noises. Twigs snapping, animals chattering, thumps and bumps. My flashlight hadn’t gotten much more rest than I had.
I spent the first afternoon exploring the house. More navigating than exploring, because there are so many rooms. I found the family who used to live here up on the third floor, dead in their beds beneath stained sheets the mustard color of dried urine. There are five of them, mother and father and three kids. The children are young. Were. The youngest one died in its crib.
The house is so big that by keeping the bedroom tombs closed the smell doesn’t reach me downstairs. I have no desire to bury anyone else. The kitchen looks like something out of a design magazine, the kind Mom flipped through in line at the grocery store. The shelves are lined with canned soups and pasta, but most importantly there are cookies. I was so hungry that first afternoon that I sat down on the kitchen floor and ate an entire bag of chocolate chip cookies. They’re the best things I’ve ever tasted.
I still have no idea how the enormous waterfall functions. There has to be some power source, but I can’t wrap my head around how this ridiculous place on the top of some middle-of-nowhere mountain can still have electricity when nowhere else does. But it does. Lights turn on. The microwave works. Wind? Solar? Some generator I can’t locate? I don’t care. I’ve got water, light, a place to sleep. And food.
I found a bathroom full of exotic-smelling shampoo and soaps and I’m taking a shower in the waterfall. I can’t remember the last time I bathed. Its length is measured in months. Although my dwindling supply of baby wipes has kept my most abrasive areas functional, nonessential places like my hair and feet and fingernails, well, they were just plain gross. Not just Gabe gross, either. I’m talking homeless guy at the back of the bus gross.
The water is ice cold but I don’t care. I showered twice the first time, sometimes three times each day afterwards. I find a stock of firewood and both fireplaces in the enormous main room have been blazing ever since. The first day, I spent nearly an hour under the icy water, scrubbing and rinsing and scrubbing again. When I was done, my already pale skin was red with cold and friction. Dried myself off in front of one of the fires and pulled on a huge fluffy bathrobe I found in the bathroom.
I was asleep before my head falls onto the plush sofa in front of the fire. When I woke up, the sun was once again rising over the eastern mountains. It was the best sleep I’ve had in a long time. I felt such a burst of energy that I spent the morning running through the house. Ridiculous thing to do. But you won’t tell anyone. I’m pretty sure of that.
From time to time I find myself staring out the windows, looking down at the distant highway. A part of me is anxious to keep moving. Taking a break isn’t part of the plan. But another part of me, the part that convinced me to run through the house like an idiot and shower in the waterfall, it’s giving me permission to chill. So I chill.
Multiple days pass. I stumbled across a small library, nestled behind what looks like an office or den. I’ve also found cases of sparkling water, imported from Italy of all places. Even though it’s room temperature, the bubbles make me feel sophisticated. I have light and the waterfall works, but whatever is powering this house isn’t strong enough to maintain refrigeration. I’ve spent every waking hour since working my way through the books in the library and the cases of Italian water. Most days I don’t even need to light the fireplaces. The air’s warm. Not quite summer sticky, but definitely headed in that direction. At night, I sit outside and look up at the stars. I’ve never seen them more clearly. Dad would have a fit.
Entire days pass when I forget. The books and the solitude, they both carry me away to somewhere warm and familiar. And then all of a sudden I get a flash, some gruesome image that slaps me across the face and forces me to remember all of the unforgettable things I’ve seen. I love the days of forgetting. I love them almost enough to endure remembering.
The rain should have been welcome. For the first day or two, it was. But as two days have extended into four, the part of me that wants to keep moving grows more impatient. The house is a good place to stay. Lots of food, water, shelter. I could even bury the family if I wanted to. But staying means that everything I walked away from will eventually find me. And that’s the real reason why I keep moving. Not for any practical reason. Not because Detroit was any worse than anywhere else. Cincinnati proved that fact. But because moving gives me a purpose. And until I discover the reason why I’ve been left all alone, moving is something I can control. Control is something that is in very short supply.
The sun peeks out, finally. It’s the afternoon of the fourth day of rain. The trees around the house drip water from their heavy leaves, and the sound of birds grows louder. It’s as if the birds have been waiting for the rain to pass just like I have. The rain has washed away the reminders of death. The sins of the humans.
I knew I would leave before I made the decision. I guess I knew before I even climbed the mountain.
So I spend the last night restocking my backpack and preparing for the rest of the journey. Take another long shower in the icy water and sit outside with a bottle of Italian sparkles. It’s been two weeks since I climbed up to my mountain hideaway. By my calculations, however skewed, it’s the middle of May. School should been letting out soon. I’d be finishing seventh grade. There are a lot of would-be’s. How long will it take for me to stop marking milestones? There’s little reason to do so anymore. Time is something reserved for a populated world. The day of the week has very little to do with me.
Sleep fitfully and get up before dawn. In the dream, Dad stands on a distant mountaintop. I need to get to him, hold him again, but no matter how fast I run or how high I climb, he keeps getting farther and farther away.
I forgot how heavy this damned backpack is. Heave it up on my shoulders. Look around the huge, familiar house. Leaving is ridiculous. The house is an amazing sanctuary. Withou
t it and its comforts, I’m alone on the road again. But staying is impossible. The mystical arguments I’ve had with myself aside, eventually I’ll run out of food. I know how isolated it is on this mountain. I’ve spent long, lonely days learning that. Leaving now ensures that I stillcan leave. What’ll happen three months on when the cupboards are bare and I’ve gotten used to living lazy? I know I’m only talking myself into leaving. The house is a reasonable place to stay. There’s lots of food. And when it’s gone, maybe that would be my cue to say goodbye, too. Take a handful of the prescription pills in the upstairs bathroom. Just slip away. Pull a Captain Reynolds, without all the drama. But that’s not what I’m going to do. This isn’t a reasonable place for me. Maybe I’m just not ready yet.
The walk down the mountain and across the bridge takes most of the morning. The ground is soft and slips away beneath my feet. I nearly lose one of my shoes in a patch of thick mud. By the time I’m back on I-40, I’m sweaty and caked with mud. I stare back at the house on the mountain. It shines like a white jewel. Consider climbing back up for another shower, but in the end, as I’ve done everywhere else, I turn away and keep heading south.
Columbia, South Carolina
I pull the bicycle to the side of the road. I picked it up at a sporting goods store in Asheville, North Carolina, and can’t figure out why I haven’t been riding all along. Riding through the mountains was tough, sure, but the flat straightaways made it all worth it. The lush mountains zipped by me like green and brown kaleidoscopes.
I popped a tire outside Spartansburg, South Carolina and had to walk my wounded bike several miles until I found a Wal-Mart. After a few unsuccessful attempts, I replaced the tire and was on the road again by early afternoon.
The First Year Page 6