by R. K. Weir
A frown begins to crease the corners of my mouth because I know that she's right. She stares at me and her eyes begin to soften.
"Look, Logan," she sighs, "Stella's one of the hardest chicks I know. She's tough and she's smart. Wherever she is I'm sure she's fine." She looks at me solemnly before smiling. "Besides, I don't think she's the type of girl to come crying back to daddy even if she does get into trouble."
"Very funny," I say. She begins laughing and I take the opportunity to look back down at the grave one last time. Everything she's said makes total sense and has even managed to make me feel better. Yet still I am anxious, to the point where my jaw is constantly clenched.
But she's right.
Stella made the choice to leave. If anything happens to her and I'm not there to help then that isn't my problem. And I sure as hell shouldn't torment myself over it. Rocket's right; it isn't fair. I'm not going to let myself feel bad for anything that happens. Not when I offered to go with her. Not when I've done everything right. Whatever happens to that damn kid is her problem. I shouldn't have to feel bad.
I shouldn't have to feel bad.
And it infuriates me to no end that I still do. I spit a curse on the grave at my feet, wishing in a sadistic way that I can bury my memories of Stella in the ground with Aaron's body. After a few minutes Rocket moves to stand beside me and I realize that I must have gone quiet longer than I intended.
"So," she says, letting the word trail off with the wind. "You ready to go?"
"Yeah," I nod, not entirely sure if I'm telling the truth. She offers a smile before stepping back and retreating into the house. I let my eyes sweep over the grave once more before following her.
Everyone must be on the bus and waiting because when I enter the living room it is in the same state as when we first got here. All the make-shift beds have been packed up and any sign of our being here has been completely erased. It wouldn't have taken them long to load everything onto the bus considering none of us have many possessions; some crude weapons and whatever food we managed to find from the surrounding houses. Not much, and it's definitely not enough to get us all the way to Canada, but it's going to have to do for now.
I pick up my bag from the living room floor and after making sure the photo of Anna is inside, I hitch it on my back and leave. I've already said my goodbyes but I bid the house one final farewell anyway. I don't think I'm ever going to come back.
The bus is teeming with energy as I shut the front door behind me. Even from outside I can see them all shifting anxiously between the seats, trying to attain a semblance of comfort. Rocket is already in the driver's seat, revving the engine and looking at me a little impatiently. I glance down the street as I walk towards them, half-expecting and half-hoping to find Stella just down the road. When I see nothing but an empty street, I figure I've stalled long enough and get on the bus before disappointment has a chance to catch me.
I hop up the small steps with ease, a light throb in my thigh the only evidence of injury. In the two days we've spent here my leg has almost healed, and the cut on my arm is free from infection and wrapped in clean gauze. Rocket is quick to crank the door shut behind me, almost catching my heel as she stomps down on the accelerator. We're racing down the streets at a speed I'm sure is unattainable by anyone else and my old home is gone before I've even sat down.
Everyone has spread themselves out evenly, looking happier than they did two days ago. My eyes linger on Gale who's sitting in a seat by himself with his arms wrapped tightly around his body. He's the only one who doesn't look any different from when we left the school. With a quivering lip, he looks to be teetering on the edge of a panic attack. I consider speaking to him but decide against it. He'll settle after a while, I'm sure.
I drop into the seat behind Rocket and catch Joey's gaze on my way down. He's sitting in the seat across from me – where Aaron used to sit – and I realize he doesn't look much better than Gale. Sunken blue eyes, darker than ocean caves look at me beneath tangles of blonde hair that stick out from being pulled at. Even his skin is pale and waxy, layered with a shiny coat of sweat. He manages to force a smirk before dropping his head to the ground.
At the speed we're going we'll make it to Canada in no time, if we don't run out of gas. Joey perks up in his seat a little bit and lifts his head up high enough so that he can make eye contact with Rocket.
"We can keep going straight on this road and it'll take us to Las Vegas and eventually Canada," he says. Rocket's grip on the wheel tenses as she pointedly ignores him, like she has done every time he's tried talking to her. He holds his head up awhile longer, but once realizing it's a wasted effort he lets his gaze drip back to the ground.
Although we've had no discussion about who should fill the vacant spot of 'Leader' in our small group, there's a mutually unspoken agreement that Joey is not a candidate. He knows this, but that hasn't stopped him from spouting orders and trying to imitate the authority of his late brother. It may have been Aaron's dying wish that Joey lead the group but I don't think it will be granted. As Rocket succinctly said, we'd be better off running down the streets blindfolded than letting Joey take charge.
Besides, he hardly looks well enough to take care of himself, let alone a group of people. I spare him a glance. Hunched over in his seat, he looks like he's ready to be sick. I have no sympathy for him, but I can relate in some way to what he's going through. When I stopped drinking it was difficult, although I would think withdrawal from drugs is different. And I can't even begin to imagine what kinds of drugs he was taking if he managed to fill an entire bag with them.
With a shake of my head I turn back into my seat, deciding that the best course of action is to leave him to it. The withdrawals have subdued him and he's no danger if he's in too much pain to even sit upright.
My thoughts stray back to Stella, but I'm quick to brush them away before they have a chance to take hold. Instead I focus on the landscape that's whizzing by. I'm so consumed by the dead land and mountains in the distance that I don't think to look ahead until I hear Rocket curse.
We've almost reached Las Vegas. Buildings are starting to line the road and down its length I think I can just make out the trademark welcome sign. It doesn't take me long to find the reason behind Rocket's curse however. The highway is like a creek after a storm has hit it, overflowing with untamed water. Abandoned cars are strewn down the road as far as the eye can see. Most are pointed towards us, desperate to leave the city, while some have been left crossing between lanes in a last ditch effort to turn around when their drivers realized that leaving in a car wasn't an option. At the front of it all is the cause of the roadblock that trapped so many; a pile-up of twelve or so cars, the wreckage a dam against the river of vehicles.
Walls on either side of the highway block us from going around and for the most part I see no way of getting through. A curse slips through my teeth as I sit up straighter and scan the block for any breaks that we can squeeze through, but I find none. The bus slows considerably but doesn't come to a complete stop as Rocket's fingers drum along the wheel.
"Maybe if we turn around we can—" Joey begins, but Rocket cuts him off.
"I know what I'm doing!" she snaps. For a moment I wonder if she actually does have a plan or if she just can't stand listening to Joey talk. Then she begins accelerating again.
It looks as if she's going to ram headlong into the pileup and a panic swells in my chest when she begins to veer to the side. I realize her plan an instant too late and my objections catch in my throat.
"Hold on!" she yells right before the bus crashes into the car on the very left of the pileup. Numerous people cry out as we're thrown forward in our seats.
The collision is hard and the old car breaks away from the rest as the bus pushes through. With the left side of the bus scraping against the wall, smearing the windows with scratches, the right side is inhibited by the car that has been pushed away from the pileup. Between the two the bus is wedged so tightly
that we've slowed almost to a stop and I'm certain we're going to end up stuck. The engine strains, but persistence pays off and eventually we manage to make it through.
There's just enough room on the very edge now that we've made it past the pileup, between the long line of cars and the towering wall. It's a tight fit, but there's enough space for the bus to creep up the road without having to scrape against either sides.
"Jesus Christ, Rocket! We could have gone around!" I say.
"What?" she asks. "You can't complain if it worked, and it did work."
"Yeah but it might not have," I say, wondering what we would have done if we had actually gotten stuck. The bus – although old and unreliable – is too valuable an asset to risk.
"Yeah, but it did," she says, and I can hear the smugness in her voice. I shake my head and open my mouth to respond when I hear a snap! I only need to look out the window to find the source of the noise.
Corpses that have been picked clean long ago are peppered over the road and crunch like fallen leaves under the bus. With no room for Rocket to steer except forward, it's impossible to avoid running over them. My teeth clench every time I hear the crackle of deteriorated bone being pressed down by the wheels of the bus. I look down the road to make sure there are no more obstacles coming up and feel relieved when I see that the wall ends a couple of miles ahead.
It feels like an eternity, but once we reach the end of the wall there's more room for the bus to maneuver and the crunching finally stops. Rocket begins to accelerate to her usual high paced speed and the buildings of Las Vegas start to grow on the horizon. We fly past the welcome sign at such a high rate that I don't even have a chance to read it. Everything is zooming by in such a blur that I almost miss the ball of yellow altogether. Once my eyes lock onto it though, there's no mistaking what it is.
My Jeep.
The sight of it renders me speechless and the bus almost shoots past before I manage to yell at Rocket to stop. The tyres screech to a wailing halt.
"What is it? What's wrong?" Rocket asks, twisting round to look at me. I must have projected my voice with more urgency than intended because she looks genuinely worried, but I'm too fixated on my Jeep to apologize.
"That's my car," I say, disbelief straining my words. Despite the Jeep being right in front of me, I half-expect it to disappear, as if it's some sort of mirage brought on from the dehydration. I move my face closer to the window, and when it doesn't fade or warble, I allow myself a smile.
It's my Jeep, it's really her. Having built it myself, there's no doubt in my mind that it's my car. I would recognize her anywhere, and here she is, sitting by herself outside a giant hotel.
"What do you mean that's your car?" Joey asks. I look at him and realize that the Jeep was stolen before I met him and everyone else. Only Stella knew about the Jeep. After explaining this to them, they become hesitant to stick around, worrying that the bandits who stole it may be lurking nearby.
It doesn't take long for my happiness to drain away however, because I quickly realize that the keys are probably not inside, or it's out of gas and been abandoned. Either way, there's not much point taking the Jeep and wasting precious fuel when we have the bus. I don't need Rocket to tell me this, but she does anyway.
"Yeah, you're right, you're right," I say, "lemme just check it out and see if it still has some of my things." I remember how devastated I was when she was first stolen, mainly due to the fact that she holds priceless memories. Birthday cards, drawings, presents and even useless junk that I would never dream of throwing away because it holds so much sentimental value to me. All contained in that big, yellow ball.
Rocket shoots me a concerned look but hands me the battered golf-club and cranks the bus door open regardless. From the top step I glance around, only stepping down once I'm sure the wind is all that moves. As I walk towards the Jeep, my grip on the club tightens when I notice a splash of red on the ground beside it. From this distance it looks like a small pool of dried blood. Good, I think bitterly. I hope those goddamn bandits got what was coming to them. But as I move closer I notice the pool of blood is lumpy, and it lies on the ground in a heap. It takes me a moment to figure out exactly what it is, and only once the realization dawns on me does my blood run cold.
It's a bag.
Not just any bag, one that I'm familiar with. One that I've seen before. My mind has completely discarded the Jeep at my side as I bend to pick the bag up. Only once it is in my hands do I remember where I've seen it before; in Joey's hands. So how did it end up—
The thought is cut short by a glint at my side. Turning, I find a small knife on the ground, a few feet away from the Jeep. The knife, the bag. When I put two and two together I'm sprinting back to the bus because I have to be certain. My heart is already pounding in my ears and I don't realize my hands are shaking until I throw the bag at Joey.
"That's hers isn't it?" I ask, and I'm certain that he'll know for sure because he spent most of his time holding it after he filled it with his drugs. His blue eyes only dip down for a second before he's looking at me again.
"Where did you. . ." His eyes drop back down to the bag, looking over it as if it isn't real, and that's all the confirmation I need.
"It's Stella," I say, "she's in trouble." My head is spinning when I step off the bus and I'm spinning with it, looking in every direction. The highway, the cars, the desert, the hotel. The fact that she's here and the fact that she's in trouble has hit me like a tonne of bricks. I've found her on the same day I thought I'd lost her forever.
"Logan!" Rocket's sharp voice steadies me and I stop to see her and Joey getting off the bus. "Are you sure?" she asks.
I tell her about the knife and her expression turns grim. Stella must have found the Jeep and then the bandits must have found her. Suddenly I feel so stupid for wanting to wait for her back at the house. Two days. Two goddamn days. She could be dead by now! I'm walking into the hotel lobby before I even know what I'm doing, because I know that this is the only place that she could be. There's nowhere else they could take her, unless they've hiked out into the desert.
"Logan!" Rocket shouts at my back but I don't stop to listen to her. "Logan!"
They're not in the lobby. I would have heard them if they were and they would have heard us. I reach the stairwell and push the door open when Rocket grabs my arm and my heart sinks. There are so many floors, the odds of finding which one she is on is slim.
"Logan!" Rocket snaps again. "We can't just go running in like this! We need a plan!" Joey is with her, nodding his head. She's right, we do need a plan. My heart is racing but I manage to slow it down a fraction.
Then I hear Stella and my heart jumps back into overdrive at the sound of her voice.
The sound of her screaming.
CHAPTER FIVE
Stella
Even in the dark I can see things that I shouldn't. Shadow people running at me. Walls melting into puddles at my feet. Stuttered movements in the corner of my eye. I begin to think that I'm safer in the light but when I turn around everything is different. The room I was in has disappeared. Where I expected to find willowy streams of candlelight I find only another dark hallway. How long have I been walking? Have I been walking? I don't remember walking. Again I find my thoughts running away from me and it takes a high degree of concentration to wrangle them back in.
I don't know where I am. The thought slices through me with the sharpness of a blade and I find myself wishing that I had let my thoughts run away rather than trying to grapple with them. My chest tightens and it becomes difficult to breathe, a familiar sensation. This has happened before but I don't remember it. All I know is that I have to calm myself down. Simple commands, I tell myself. Stop walking. I stop and rest my head against the wall. I'm not sure if I'm trembling or if it's the world around me that's shaking, either way I feel like I'm going to be sick.
Now breathe, slowly. It takes a few minutes, but eventually I manage to calm myself down enough to think so
mewhat coherently. Whatever drug he forced me to take, it's strong, there's no doubt in my mind about that. He may as well have given me a one-way ticket to hell. No, not hell, I think. Living in a world that's inhabited by the dead is already equivalent to being in hell. This is one of its sub-levels.
A silhouette at the end of the hall catches my attention. A figure stands stock still, noticeable only because it's the darkest shade of black compared to the rest of the corridor, that it stands out like a star in the night. There's no way to tell if it's looking at me, but I feel as if it is. I don't have to wonder for long before it throws itself into a sprint towards me. It runs soundlessly. I want to run too but I hug the wall instead and let out a shriek when it reaches me. And just like that it's gone.
It's not real. None of this is real. None of it. But thinking this is no help when it feels real. I just need to get out of here, out of the dark. Then I'll be safe. If I hug the wall and keep walking, it'll have to lead me out of here eventually. It'll have to, because if it doesn't I'm afraid that I'll be trapped in this maze forever. Maybe following the wall is what I've been doing all along, and I just don't remember. That would explain why I can't find the room I came from – the room where everyone was wrestling and the world was falling apart.
Hug the wall. Walk. Hug the wall. Walk. Over and over I repeat this so that I'm sure I won't forget. Another figure appears and only when I scream at the sight of it does it curl back into the corner from where it came. My hands are trembling uncontrollably but they never leave the wall. I keep walking for what seems like hours and nothing looks any different. I begin to think that this was a wasted effort when I feel it. Something soft under my hand.
It's the wall. The wall is soft. I push my hand against it and notice light leaking out of its edges. Light! I've found light! But something's blocking it. It's not sturdy like a door, and even though it's soft it's too thick for me to get a grip on. Then I remember coming down here the first time and seeing a rug strung up against a window. Is this the same rug?