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by Matthew Costello

  Other states, Christie knew, were far worse. Nevada apparently had fallen into total chaos. Whole chunks of Kentucky had become blacked-out zones where nobody knew what the hell was going on inside.

  Jack had once said to her …

  “If this isn’t stopped. If they can’t somehow stop this, then … I don’t know where we can go, Christie. What we can do.”

  He immediately apologized for his words, for scaring her. It had been after a bad day on the streets.

  “Don’t worry,” he had said.

  But it was too late for those words. And they never really talked about the future again. These were not days to make plans.

  Now it was all about staying safe, teaching the kids, waiting for the government, the army, some goddamned they to figure out what hell was going on.

  And stopping it.

  As she drove now, she came back to the question she had never asked but would occur to her nearly every day … What if there is no they?

  It would be down to us.

  And now—

  She shook her head as if resisting the thought, the very craziness of the idea—

  Now—it’s down to me.

  She saw a flashing light ahead, and slowed.

  * * *

  A Highway Authority patrol car blocked two lanes, leaving one open.

  The squad car with its flashing lights had a line of cars pulled over … four, maybe five cars, all in a line.

  One officer stood at the front of that line, while another stood by the side of the road, making a two-hand gesture to new arrivals to slow down.

  Christie wondered: What is this? What’s going on … as she slowed to a stop.

  No one behind her.

  She pulled up to the officer, who looked like a state trooper from a decade ago, except that his new Highway Authority uniform was a steely black, serious, intimidating.

  Announcing … that they controlled the roads.

  “Morning, ma’am. Checking papers.”

  She looked up at him. She knew both kids would be watching him carefully as well.

  Should she simply blurt out the whole story, and plead for the permission to travel on?

  “I—I don’t have them.”

  He nodded. “We know that some stretches of the highway north of here have had failures. Power down, people just slipping through, trying to get out. Understandable. But I’m afraid—”

  She reached a hand out to touch his arm.

  “I—we live in New York City. Staten Island. Something happened—”

  She sputtered on as she felt his dark eyes, hiding any flicker of understanding or empathy, look at hers, then drifting a bit, taking in her whole face, what her face must look like. Then to the back of the car, to the kids while she carried on.

  She stopped herself, and also looked back at Kate and Simon.

  She couldn’t do this in front of them.

  Not the whole story … not all that they had lived through.

  “Officer, can I get out? Talk to you?”

  A moment’s hesitation, then a nod as he backed up so she could open the door.

  Christie got out and walked over to him.

  * * *

  She reduced the story to what she thought were the barest essentials.

  And only as the words rolled out did she realize how insane it sounded, this babble. But as if possessed and compelled to finish, with the officer still looking at her, she went on.

  “We went to this camp, Paterville. A vacation. My husband … he is … was an NYPD cop. After a Can Head attack wounded him, after rehab, he took us there. Had a lake, boats. Food.” She felt a sudden tightening that seemed to hit her nostrils, her eyes. Another word and she could easily start crying all over again.

  She stopped.

  “It wasn’t a real camp. They—they would kill people, and then there was this place they—they—”

  The Authority officer finally reached over and touched her shoulder.

  “Okay. Okay. Hold on. We got a report something happened up there. Not that there was much we could do. Not with everything going on. Things happening all over. And your husband?”

  Christie looked away.

  My husband.

  An eternity before she turned back to those dark eyes.

  “He saved us.”

  And she thought: Please don’t ask me how.

  Now the officer hesitated.

  But, his voice low, he had one more question:

  “He didn’t get out?”

  A head shake, biting her lower lip. To stop herself.

  She sniffed the air, losing the battle.

  “So you see … you see, we need to get home.” A nod to her kids. “We need to go home.”

  The Highway Authority officer’s eyes had narrowed. Was he like Jack? she wondered. What horrors had he seen out here?

  And what does that do to someone?

  He looked over to his partner, talking to other drivers.

  “Most of these people, they think the city might be safer. Any city. Most—don’t have papers. All pretty desperate. Some of them—well, let’s just say we’re not too sure who anybody is anymore. I guess—”

  His eyes, in the gray morning light, seemed to radiate something new now.

  Understanding? Empathy? Pity?

  “—you would understand that. Better than most. Things are different. With the Can Heads. Could be—” he shook his head “—these days … almost anyone.”

  Then Christie said, a plea: “Can we go?”

  The officer nodded.

  “Yes. But I need to tell you something first. Okay?”

  The air was still cool. The blistering sun still masked by the unusual layer of clouds. Clouds that would be vaporized in the next hour.

  And then she listened …

  * * *

  “Been things happening during the past few days. Big power failures all over, and then all hell broke loose. Whereabouts you from?”

  Christie looked at the officer, and felt her fear, which slowly ebbed the farther she got away from Paterville, once again building.

  “Staten Island. Did it affect—”

  He shook his head. “I—I honestly don’t know. But it was a big blackout, hit parts of the highway system, even with all their backup power. I doubt the fence is secure as you get closer to the city. Just warning you.”

  She nodded.

  And now what? she thought. What the hell could she do with that information?

  “Is the power back up?”

  “In some parts. Like I said, it’s been hard for us to get information. But—”

  He hesitated a moment, and Christie sensed he was reluctant to say what would come next.

  “—well … there have also been reports of Can Head break-ins. Lots of them. And in big groups. It’s—different.”

  “But they stopped them, right? I mean, that’s under control?”

  Nothing.

  Which was answer enough.

  “I wish I could tell you more. You’re headed there. So—just a warning. It may be all right by the time you get there. Could be … all fine.”

  Or maybe not.

  She wondered if she should—what? Stay here? Find some place that was safe, a place with fences working, a motel, hotel, or—

  She looked over at the car. She had been out here for a while. The kids were probably worried. She saw Kate looking right at her.

  A smile at them, then back to the Highway officer.

  “Any place around here … I could stay? With the kids. Until I know more.”

  The officer nodded, tightened his lips.

  “In Troy, I hear they have made the RPI Field House a safe place. Imagine you could go there. A few hotels in Albany with security, but I imagine they’ll be full. Not even too sure how safe they are. Don’t know what to tell you.”

  His words clarified what Christie felt.

  No way in hell she could stay here. Not knowing anyone, not knowing if a place was prot
ected.

  If she was taking them home, then that’s exactly what she should do.

  Maybe their community was fine. Power failures don’t last forever. And they had probably dealt with any Can Head break-ins by now.

  Telling herself all these things.

  Not knowing whether she believed them.

  But knowing that she had decided what she would do.

  “Thanks. I think … I’ll just try to get back.”

  The Highway Authority officer nodded.

  “Be safe, ma’am.”

  She smiled at that.

  Be. Safe.

  As if that was even under her control.

  She walked back to the car, ready to return to the highway south.

  4

  The Trunk

  Kate and Simon both had questions. What did the officer want? Why were they talking so long?

  And then the last, eternal question from Simon …

  “Mom? How long till we’re home?”

  She actually smiled at that one.

  As if maybe, perhaps, some things would never change.

  “About two hours,” she said. “Maybe a bit more.”

  Then, for added assurance: “It won’t be long.”

  In the quiet, she drove in that same steel-armed position she had held since they escaped the camp—two hands on the wheel, slightly hunched over, as if that increased alertness.

  She tried to take stock of … herself.

  First, there was the pain. A dull ache in at least four different parts of her body. Though she worked out—the government ran ads promoting the importance of being in shape …

  These days …

  When you might need to run, to be fast …

  —still, her upper thighs hurt, too much sprinting, clambering. She didn’t know. The ibuprophen didn’t seem to do anything. (And she had to be careful—she didn’t have a lot of that. She didn’t have a lot of anything.)

  And her arms, shoulders, all achy. Was that from the kick of the gun as she fired, or just the incredible tensing of those muscles as she blasted at the things that attempted to grab them as they raced—still a family, still together—through the woods, down to their car?

  She rolled her head, a relaxation exercise, hearing the tiny cracks of the stretching muscles as she did so.

  And then she asked herself a question.

  And inside? Inside my head?

  How is my thinking? Is it clear? What about—what the hell—how about shock. Am I in goddamn shock? Are my kids in shock?

  And if I am, what do I need to do? What do I need to watch out for?

  She thought of how Jack had prepared their SUV for the trip, all that armor. The weapons he had told her about, and then the ones he didn’t. He did the same with their house, with the roll-down metal windows at night, the reinforced basement doors and windows. Trying to make their home a fortress even though their development was surrounded by a fence that would toast a Can Head in seconds.

  The big question …

  Can I think like Jack?

  She knew one thing. Doubting herself wouldn’t help. No, she needed to stay focused. All the time.

  She nodded at that. That would be her mantra. Stay focused. One thing at a time.

  She rolled her head again.

  And in midroll, she heard the explosion.

  * * *

  The Honda immediately swerved violently to the right, into the far-right lane and nearly onto the side of the road. She quickly overcorrected, and nearly sent the Blair’s beat-up car streaming into the guardrail on the left.

  From the backseat, squeals, yells, and the ever-present shouting …

  Mom!

  A loud clatter accompanied the car’s swerving, a thunka-thunka-thunka sound that now only took her seconds to identify as she began to slowly apply the brake.

  “It’s a blowout kids. Just a tire.”

  Just.

  Shit.

  Do. Not. Need. This.

  Now she steered the tilted car, limping on what was left of a blown left rear tire, to the right lane. And then—the car crawling at fifteen, ten miles an hour, off to the side of the road, onto the brown crunchy grass.

  She felt the tire’s rim dig into the dirt as she got the car fully off the highway.

  Another few feet, and she was off the road.

  But she had her hands still locked on.

  She reminded herself—so soon!—of her mantra.

  Stay focused. One thing at a time.

  And now that one thing was checking that the kids were okay.

  She released her hands from the wheel and turned around.

  * * *

  Kate looked at her mom, and then she turned to Simon.

  When she had felt the car seem to sink to the left, Kate had yelled, as if her mother had done something wrong.

  Simon had also screamed and he quickly turned to her.

  Turned to me, Kate thought.

  As if I could—what?—protect him?

  But Kate looked back to her mom, her dark eyes, looking right at them.

  She looks so different, she thought.

  Something different in her eyes. She’s still my mom, Kate told herself. But a lot of things have happened.

  Things like running away. Like killing the Can Heads that had attacked.

  Kate reminded herself of one unbelievable fact.

  I killed one.

  I used the gun. I shot it in the head. And then it stopped.

  Simple. Easy. Just like Dad taught me.

  (And I could do it again.)

  And she had this thought, though not clear what it meant …

  Simon had seen it all too. Had seen us shooting, fighting our way out of there. My little brother had seen me kill one of them.

  And Dad.

  Dad.

  So—if my mom’s eyes are different—that shouldn’t be surprising at all.

  “Kids—”

  “Mom. What happened?” Simon said.

  Kate noticed that her brother’s voice sounded different. It always used to bother her, so loud, so whiny, always wanting things. Now it seemed quiet. Just asking a question now and then again.

  She wanted the old Simon back.

  Mom nodded.

  “Well, we just had what’s called a blowout. A tire blew.”

  That’s not supposed to happen, Kate knew.

  She had heard her father talk all the time about how strong the tires were. How they couldn’t get a flat.

  But this wasn’t their car, the one Dad had made so strong.

  And even that car hadn’t been strong enough to save him, Kate knew.

  Mom had gotten them out of the camp … but when she heard the explosion, she knew.

  They’d never see their father again. It was just the three of them.

  Kate had been glad that they drove in the darkness so she could, for all those hours, sit in the back and cry quietly, hidden from her mother, muffling the sounds, the pain twisting so hard at her insides.

  Now it was morning.

  A new day.

  “How’d it happen?” Simon asked, his voice unable to hide his concern.

  “I don’t know, Simon. This—isn’t our car. Maybe the tires weren’t that good. I—I—”

  Kate rushed in to fill the gap, suddenly afraid that her mother might lose it.

  “Mom, there’s got to be a spare, right? We can put the spare on, and—”

  Then Kate did something that felt so natural but—if you had asked her—she would say that she had never done it before.

  She smiled at Simon, making her face bright, a slight smile, widening her eyes that had squinted closed with tears all night—

  “We can just … get the spare on and get going again.” Back to her mother. “Right?”

  Her mother nodded.

  “I’ll help,” Kate added. “I’ve seen Dad—”

  That word again.

  Her mother looked as though she was about to say no … but Kat
e held her mother’s gaze, her eyes tight on hers.

  Then a nod. “Okay—we can all do it. Just stay close.”

  And her mother turned to open her door. A look at the nearby woods, and in the distance, sections of the highway fence.

  The door popped open.

  “C’mon, Simon,” she said to her brother, and they got out of the backseat.

  * * *

  Christie used the key to pop open the trunk.

  “Now stay close. I’ve done this before, but this isn’t our car. Just stay near me, okay?”

  She looked toward the woods. Quiet. No breeze. The air warming as the sun climbed higher.

  Maybe the kids would be safer in the car?

  But if they wanted to help, to be part of this—maybe that was a good thing.

  She looked down into the trunk.

  Luggage.

  (Of course.)

  Three or four different-sized bags, one purple, another red, one black, one small and filled with ponies the color of rainbows.

  The Blairs’ bags.

  She said nothing.

  But she grabbed the heaviest bag and lugged it out of the trunk.

  At least when it hit the grass, it had wheels, though the small rollers didn’t seem too effective in the crumbly mix of dry grass and dirt.

  Kate had already grabbed another one, and with a big oomph pulled that out as well.

  And then, sweet God, Simon grabbing the one with ponies.

  “Look at this! Who’d want a dopey bag like this!”

  Christie almost laughed at … Simon being Simon.

  The pink bag with rainbow ponies.

  That belonged to a little girl who a terrible thing had happened to …

  Simon didn’t ask though.

  Who’s this bag belong to? What happened to them?

  Some magic wall that kept him from those next few thoughts, those terrible questions.

  About what might have happened to the people whose things they had just pulled out of the trunk.

  Christie quickly grabbed the last bag, and tossed it to the side.

  “Okay. Thanks, kids. Now, let me see—”

  No tire visible; probably, she thought, under the trunk’s floorboard.

  The tire, the tire iron, the jack.

  She looked around again. Everything so still around them. That’s good, she told herself.

  But then, why doesn’t it feel good?

  She leaned into the trunk and started running her fingers around the edges, digging her nails under the trunk’s matting, until she made a gap and could get both hands in and pull the trunk floor mat up.