by James Cook
Miranda stopped on the sidewalk and watched two small children chase lightning bugs around a well-tended yard. Their parents sat not far away in lawn chairs, the mother sipping something from a plastic cup, the father holding a rifle in his lap, eyes constantly on the move.
“People don’t talk about that kind of stuff anymore,” she said. “Life before the Outbreak. Family. You might hear someone mention what they did for a living, but that’s about it.”
“It’s not surprising,” Caleb said. “I’ve said it before but it bears repeating—those of us left are still in mourning.”
Miranda turned a bleary-eyed stare in Caleb’s direction. “You know Eric and Allison Riordan?”
“Of course. You know I know them.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Anyway, did you know Eric did his undergrad work at Princeton?”
Caleb’s eyes widened. “No, I didn’t know that. He never mentioned it.”
“Yep,” Miranda said, stumbling a bit. “Majored in accounting. Then he got an MBA from UNC. Apparently they had a pretty good business school.”
“UNC was one of the colleges I was thinking of applying to when I finished my high school work.”
Miranda looked up at him and smiled. “It’s strange to hear you say it like that. ‘Finished my high school work’. Most people would just say ‘when I graduated from high school’.”
“It’s different when you’re home schooled.”
“I can’t imagine what my teenage years would have been like without high school. All my friends, and the football games, cheer squad, the parties, all the rest of it.”
Caleb shrugged. “I don’t think I would have cared for all that. I prefer my own company most of the time. Home school gave me more time to focus on the things I enjoyed.”
“Like training?”
Caleb looked down at her. “Please keep that between the two of us.”
“I will.”
“I mean it, not a word to anyone. You have to promise.”
They had reached Miranda’s front porch. She climbed the first step so she was eye to eye with him, took his face in her hands, and said, “I promise.” Then sealed it with a kiss.
Inside the trailer, they went to the bedroom and changed into nightclothes. Caleb lay down beside Miranda and raised an arm so she could entwine herself around him. He stared at the ceiling in the dim gloom, the pale light through the window revealing more of his surroundings as his night vision kicked in.
“I’m not tired yet,” Miranda said, twirling a finger through the fine sandy-blond hair on his chest.
“Me either.”
“Feel like telling me the rest of the story? If we have time that is.”
“We do. It’ll be late before I’m finished, though.”
“If you’re willing, I’d like to hear it.”
Caleb turned on his side so he was looking Miranda in the eye, her leg draped over his hip, their faces inches apart. His hand moved up and down the smooth curves of her back. “It doesn’t end well,” he said.
“These days, sweetie, nobody’s story ends well.”
Caleb decided he could not argue with that.
*****
Boise City, Oklahoma
My father and I drove to a hill overlooking the highway, parked out of sight, and climbed to the summit in our ghillie suits. We watched the convoy pack up and move out, a plume of windblown dust rising from the road in their wake. When they were out of sight, I put down my hunting rifle.
“Good riddance,” Dad said. “Although I will miss Tyrel.”
“Lance and Lola were nice too,” I said. “I hope we see them again in Colorado.”
“Lord willin’. Come on, let’s get back to the others.”
I hesitated, and said, “Dad?”
“Yeah? What is it, son?”
“Are you all right?”
He knew better than to insult my intelligence by asking me what I meant, so he said, “I don’t know, son. I guess it hasn’t sunk in yet. Or maybe I’m just too focused on taking care of you. Either way, I’m functional, and I plan to stay that way. I’ll have plenty of time to mourn once I get everyone to safety.”
“If you ever want to talk about it …”
Dad reached out and gripped the side of my neck. “I should be saying that to you, son.”
“It’s just … I love you, Dad. Whatever happens, I want you to know that. I could not have asked for a better father.”
The old man smiled, his eyes reddening with unshed tears. “I know. And I love you too, Caleb. I can’t tell you how proud I am of the man you’ve become. Now come on, we need to get going.”
We met up with the others back at the highway and reported our findings. Mike volunteered to take point, Blake assumed his usual role as navigator, and Dad opted to act as rear guard.
“Why don’t you drive Blake’s jeep so he can focus on the map?” I asked Sophia. “I’ll ride up front with Mike. He might need a gunner.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, stepping close and taking my hands in hers. “I’d rather you ride with me. If anything happens to you …”
I kissed her forehead and traced a thumb down her jaw. “Listen, these guys have been training me my whole life. I can handle myself. Mike and I make a good team. We’ll be fine.”
She looked dubious. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it.”
“Just keep your radio charged,” I said. “And your rifle handy. No telling what we might run into.”
“Will do.”
I pulled her against me and squeezed harder than I should have, but she didn’t complain. She drew a breath when I let her go and pressed her lips to mine. “What is it you guys always say? Keep your head on a swivel?”
I laughed. “Yes. And I will.”
We parted. On the way to the Humvee, I could swear I detected a faint smile on Mike’s face. Thankfully, he said nothing as we climbed into the vehicle and I stood up through the gunner’s hatch.
A thought occurred to me on the way to Boise City, and I fixed one of the M-4s with an M-203 grenade launcher, loaded several 40mm shells into a bandolier, and slung it over my shoulder. My thinking was we probably would not need that kind of firepower, but as my dad was fond of saying, it is better to have and not need, than need and not have.
We approached Boise City from the north, turning off 287 onto 385. Dad, Blake, and Sophia spread their vehicles out on the flat terrain in the fields surrounding the highway. The plan was to have them remain in reserve in case Mike and I ran into a situation we couldn’t fight our way out of.
“All stations in position?” Mike asked over the radio. After a round of affirmatives, he said, “All right, moving in. Keep your ears open.”
We rolled into the north side of town.
Calling Boise City a city was far too generous in my opinion. The place was brown, and dusty, and the buildings were sad and neglected, and I had the distinct impression the place was dying long before the Outbreak. It was small, no more than a square mile or two, and from the signs above doors and storefronts, it seemed the economy had primarily been bolstered by farming, ranching, and wildcat oil and gas drilling. There were the usual collections of hotels, fast food chains, strip malls, and rental agencies that were an unavoidable part of America’s homogenized corporate dominance. Aside from bull’s horns over the entrances of a few restaurants and stores advertising Native American artwork, if the place had any significant character or culture, I could not see it.
According to our map, the town was laid out in a simple grid pattern. We drove to the center of it and stopped. Thus far, we had seen no infected, no movement in windows or doorways or on the streets, no signs of life at all.
“What do you think?” Mike asked.
I leaned down so he could hear me. “I say we drive around a bit more, make some noise. If there are infected here, they’ll come after us.”
“Works for me.”
The radio squawked. “Anything yet?” Dad asked. “Over.”
“All clear thus far,” Mike answered. “Gonna poke around a little more. Will advise, over.”
“Copy.”
We drove through empty streets, harsh hot winds sending streamers of dust over the sunbaked pavement. Aside from a few startled rabbits and one prowling, mangy coyote, we saw nothing. Finally, we turned down Main Street and drove past the Cimarron County Courthouse. I tapped Mike on the shoulder.
“Hold up, let’s stop here.”
“Why?”
“Looks like this place was the county seat. There might be info on what happened here.”
As I said it, I noticed a hastily erected sign built of plywood and four-by-fours standing in the brown grass in front of the courthouse. The nails supporting one side of the sign had given way, leaving the plywood message tilted at an angle, the wind banging it against a post. I said, “Look over there.”
Mike did, eyes squinting. “Can you tell what it says?”
“No. Get us closer.”
He did, jumping the curb and driving straight over the dead lawn. The Humvee slowed to a halt a few feet from the sign. The words were spray painted in black over bare wood. It read:
Infected coming. Town evacuated.
If you are reading this, leave now and head for Colorado Springs.
God be with us all.
“Well, nothing surprising there,” Mike said as he put the Humvee in reverse. “There’s abandoned cars here and a couple of gas stations. Let’s call the others in and get what we need.”
I stared at the sign a moment longer, a queasy feeling in my gut. “All right. I guess so.”
We drove back to the street and Mike radioed for the others to converge on our position. For reasons I did not understand at the time, I had a nearly overwhelming urge to slap the radio out of his hand and tell him to drive as fast as he could for the edge of town. Back then, I had not yet learned to trust my instincts. If I had, it would have save me a world of grief.
Dad and Blake rode to the courthouse in Blake’s Jeep, Sophia bringing up the rear in her father’s truck. Evidently, they had swapped out somewhere along the way. They stopped their vehicles in the opposite lane while Blake pulled up next to our Humvee and rolled down his window.
“Where should we start?” he asked.
“There’s enough cars around here we should be able to get what we need from the tanks,” Mike replied. “Mostly gas vehicles, but a few diesel trucks as well. We’ll stick together, it’ll make things go faster. You and me can fill the gerry cans while the others keep watch.”
Blake gave a single nod. “Sounds good to me.”
We drove a short distance up the street to where two SUVs were parked on the side of the road, one of them diesel driven. There were buildings on either side of us, two to three stories each. The only way out was a cross street ahead and the intersection of two streets behind. I looked back and forth between them from my position in the turret and felt my sense of unease begin to grow.
“Uh, guys? Maybe we should look somewhere else,” I said.
“What’s the problem?” Blake said as he forcefully jammed a Phillips head screwdriver into the diesel SUV’s fuel tank, jerked it free, and shoved a bucket beneath the draining liquid.
My eyes darted around nervously, my heart beating faster, an inexplicable desire to flee rising within me. “I don’t like this,” I said. “Something isn’t right.”
“Settle down,” Dad said, exiting Blake’s Jeep and scanning the street, rifle in hand. He had also affixed one of the grenade launchers under his M-4 and wore a bandolier of shells slung over his shoulder. “It’s just nerves. We’ll be out of here in no time.”
I looked to Sophia. “Why don’t you get in the Humvee? Just in case.”
She frowned at me. “Why are you being so paranoid?”
I hardened my tone. “Sophia, please.”
She rolled her eyes, said, “Fine,” and stepped out of her father’s truck.
The big gray pickup was parked behind the Humvee. Blake’s Jeep sat with the driver’s side door open and the engine idling ahead of us. My father walked along the sidewalk, rifle held at the low ready, eyes scanning the distance. Mike squatted next to Blake, another bucket in his hands ready to go when the one under the SUV was full.
I stayed in the turret as Sophia climbed in the Humvee. The alarm bells in my head refused to stop ringing despite all the rationalizations I threw their way. My eyes strayed to every window, doorway, corner, and alley. There were too many to monitor all at once. A few times, I thought I caught something, a shadow of movement beyond the light. But when I looked back, I saw nothing.
Then, on the third story of a multi-use office building up the street, I saw a curtain move. The M-240 made a squeaking sound as I swiveled it and took aim. “Guys! We have company.”
My father looked at me and followed my gaze to the office building. He held a hand over his eyes to block the sun. “What is it, son? I don’t see-”
A shot rang out. High caliber, not more than fifty meters away. We all jumped. Dad and Mike ran around the near side of the vehicles and took cover behind the engine blocks. Blake didn’t move.
“Blake!” I shouted. He looked down at his chest in shocked disbelief. As I watched, a red circle expanded on his back, straight in line with his heart, and began flowing downward. There was blood spatter on the fender of the car in front of him, an impossible amount. The surprise never left his face as he fell onto his back, arms limp. He stared at the sky blankly, all the light gone out of his eyes.
“YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!” I sprayed the wall of buildings across from us indiscriminately, triggering the SAW in short bursts, aiming at every window and doorway above the ground floor. Dad popped up over the front of Blake’s Jeep and fired a grenade. It blasted the third floor of a storefront half a block up the street and reduced a car-sized section of brick wall to rubble. I was pretty sure it was the same place the shot that killed Blake had come from. I poured a dozen or so rounds into the hole just for good measure and was rewarded with a chorus of screams.
“Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here!” Mike yelled. He ran for the Humvee, climbed in the driver’s seat, and started the engine.
I heard the phump of someone across the street triggering a grenade launcher, and had barely a second to register panic before Blake’s jeep erupted in an explosion of flame. The blast knocked me backward, my vision going white, then orange, then gray. A searing, scattered pain spread up the left side of my body from my hip all the way to my face.
There was a hollow pressure in my ears as hands gripped me and pulled me down into the Humvee. I think I was unconscious for a few moments. Then there was movement, and I remember groggily watching my father reload his grenade launcher and blast another section of storefront. Small clouds of dust erupted all around where he stood, holes appearing in the walls and concrete behind him. He ducked for cover and shouted something I couldn’t understand at Mike. The Humvee moved and stopped next to the Jeep. Sophia fired her carbine out the passenger’s side window as Mike climbed over me, grabbed the M-4 I had equipped with a grenade launcher, and plucked a couple of shells from my bandolier. I heard him stand up through the turret, launch the grenades, then take hold of the SAW and began concentrating bursts of fire at places where muzzle flashes gave away the positions of our attackers.
Dad jumped into the driver’s seat, tossed his rifle back to me, and put the Humvee in gear. I tried to catch his weapon as it flew toward me, but my hands were too slow. The barrel hit me across the mouth, and I felt my lip begin to swell. Finally, I wrapped my arms around it and was dimly aware of buildings passing us by as we sped through the streets.
Ahead of us, several cars darted from alleyways and stopped in the intersection, blocking our way. Men jumped out of them and trained weapons in our direction. Mike wasted no time suppressing them with fire from the SAW while dad gunned the accelerator.
Something snapped in my head, and just as quickly as my wits had left
me, my mind cleared again. I took up my father’s rifle, loaded it with a grenade, leaned out the window, and fired at a small sedan in the middle of the road. The explosion killed one of the gunmen ahead of us and sent the rest running. Dad swerved to the far side of the roadblock, clipped a car on its front fender, revved the engine, and pushed through. Once past, he sped up and did not slow down until the low buildings of Boise City were a speck in the distance. I kept my eyes on our back trail, grenade loaded and ready to fire, but no one followed us. When we were somewhere close to twenty miles out of town, Dad brought the Humvee to a halt.
“Mike,” he said. “I need you to take over.”
The big Marine climbed down from the turret and looked to his old friend. “Why? What’s the matter?”
I leaned forward in my seat to get a better look. That was when I noticed the blood.
*****
During our time with the convoy, Mike had traded a Kimber .45 automatic and fifty rounds of ammo to a medic in exchange for five vials of morphine. We had retained a significant supply of pain meds, but nothing beats morphine, and Mike wanted a little on hand just in case.
For whatever reason, the Army had a surplus of the stuff, and in those days, it could be had on the cheap. I administered a shot to my father as Mike drove us north away from Boise City. After a few moments, the pain on his face faded and his eyes drooped. I had taken off his vest and cut way his shirt so he was bare-chested, then bandaged and packed his wounds as best I could. There was one bullet hole in his left shoulder that had missed the bone and gone straight through the thick muscle. If that had been his only injury, I would not have been worried. The old man had survived worse.
It was the three bullet holes in his abdomen that made me panic.
Dad wanted water, so I gave it to him. He drained both my canteens, then complained he was still thirsty. I had Sophia pull another canteen from Mike’s belt and gave it to him. He drained that one too. The morphine made him drowsy, but I shook him to keep him awake, worried if he fell asleep he would not wake up. I kept him talking, listened to him tell me he had seen the man who shot Blake but was too slow to stop him. Tears ran down his cheeks as his eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head. I shook him harder.