I look back at the short distance. If I explain, I’m going to seem like an idiot for calling. If I don’t, I’m going to seem like an idiot for swimming across a lake. So I summarize. “A small part of it. The bridge wasn’t passable.”
“Still,” she says. “You could have drowned. You need to—”
“I saw someone.”
She’s silent on the other end. Waiting.
“At least I think I did. He...or she was on the horizon, on the far side. I couldn’t go around.”
“Did you find them? Who is it?”
“I just crawled out of the water,” I say. “I just had to tell—”
“What are you doing calling me?” she says, excited and impatient for more news than I’ve given her.
“My legs are Jell-O,” I say.
“Man up, August!” she says, sounding almost chipper. Long quiet days with Luke have helped her heal from the dog, from Leila and everything else. She’s proven to be resilient, and her good nature seems to be increasing in time with her waist size. She’s showing now. Not that I’ve seen. These phones don’t take photos. But I picture her as best I can. Poe, the pregnant. Poe, the strong. “You said you’re in better shape than ever. Get a move on!”
Poe, the slave driver.
Without realizing it, I’ve gotten back to my feet, her words spurring me onward. “I’m going,” I say, and grunt as I lift the pack and sling it over my shoulder.
“Call me when you find him...or her. No matter what time it is. You call me. But...be careful. Make sure they’re not, you know—”
“Crazy Lady,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“I’m on it.” I start up the incline and return my feet to the pavement. The warmth of it beneath my feet reminds me that I’ve got no shoes. Damn. “What about our regular check in?”
“Let’s call this the check in. You find that person, August. Don’t call me until you do.”
“I will. Hanging up now.”
“Okay.”
“See ya.”
“Bye.”
The last exchange has become our traditional hang-up. This isn’t the movies where we simply make a declarative statement and then hang up, leaving the other person to wonder if they lost a signal. We’re clinging to each other with each call, neither of us really wanting to say goodbye, even now, with a potential new survivor just miles ahead of me.
The pavement is hot beneath my soles, but the sting keeps my feet moving quickly and the terrain on the side of the road, while grassy, is uneven and mired by stones, broken glass and who knows what else. I could pillage shoes from the dusty dead, trapped in their cars, but I don’t want their shoes. Don’t want their dead particles on my feet. I keep my pace even, walking in the shade of stopped cars whenever possible, hiding my eyes from the descending sun by donning a pair of sunglasses and lowering the bill of Claire’s Red Sox cap. I walk this way for hours, scattered homes, endless foliage, and not a single living thing, other than the occasional distant bird. When night falls, I don’t bother looking for shelter or setting up my tent. I keep right on moving, knowing that if I’m going to catch the stranger, it will only be when he stops.
I walk through the dark for two hours, headlamp mounted to my head, a mobile lighthouse, sweeping back and forth in search of life in the darkness. But it’s not my eyes that finally detect the survivor, it’s my nose.
Something is burning.
I quicken my pace, jogging up the road, my bare feet slapping and stinging. There’s nothing chemical about the scent. It’s wood. And when my mouth starts salivating, I realize there’s another odor wafting through the night—cooking meat. My stomach rumbles, but I pay it, and the promise of a hot cooked meal with a fellow survivor, no heed.
My jog becomes a run.
I see the light ahead, off the side of the highway in a clearing by the trees. A campfire.
“Hey!” I shout. “Hey!”
“What the—holy shit!” a man says. “Who’s there? Where are you?”
I see the man, bearded, but young, standing on the far side of the fire, flickering orange.
“Put it out!” I say. “Put the fire out!”
“What? Why would I—”
I leap the guard rail and charge toward the camp fire in a way that must look aggressive because the young man stumbles back, raising his hands. “Whoa, man!”
I kick dirt on the fire and when it’s obvious that’s not going to work, I tear my sleeping bag off the back pack, unfurl it, fold it in half and throw it atop the fire, following it with my body, smothering the flames beneath my weight. When I feel the heat reaching through the fabric, I roll away, pulling the sleeping bag back before it can catch fire, too.
When I stop and look back, the campfire is mostly out, reduced to bright orange coals. I get to my feet, hurry back and stomp on the single branch that’s still burning. “Gah!” I shout, pulling back my bare, singed foot.
“What the hell, dude?”
“They’re going to see it!” I say with enough urgency to get his attention.
“Who?”
“Just put it out!”
My earnest fear is enough to propel him into motion. He crushes the small flame and glowing embers beneath his booted feet until it falls dark. I switch off my head lamp and the night swallows us up. I turn my eyes to the sky, searching the stars for signs of movement.
“What are you looking for?” the man whispers.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Mark Corotan.”
“Well, Mark, I’m looking for anything strange, like a—”
“Like that?” he says.
“Where?”
“Behind you. Looks like a star, but growing.”
29
AUGUST
“Run!” I shout, shoving Mark toward the nearby woods. But he resists. I might be another living human being, but I’m still a stranger, and in his experience thus far, a little bit crazy.
“Who is it?” he asks, looking at the brightening light while holding me at bay, arm raised between us. “Looks like a helicopter.”
“A heli—do you hear any noise?” I’m still borderline freaking out, but I can’t think of any other way to act with that light dropping down from the sky. “Anything at all?”
He listens for only a second, before I say, “You don’t! Because it’s not a helicopter. It’s the...things that did this. That killed everyone. That turned the human race to dust.”
His eyes widen, turn upward and then toward the woods.
While he’s distracted, I close the distance between us and clutch his shoulders. “Please. I don’t want to lose another survivor.”
“There are others?” he asks.
“I know of three others,” I say. “Now one. Because of them.” I look back at the light. It’s descending straight toward us and will arrive in seconds, which is a blessing because I know it could have dropped down in a wink. They’re looking for us, I think.
Mark takes a step toward the woods. “My gear.”
“We’ll come back,” I say, and drop my backpack. “We need to move, now!”
His glacial resistance cracks and falls away, setting him free to move. And he does, faster than me. Before the light reaches us, he’s in the woods, bunny hopping through the brush and making a racket. I charge after him, but lack his natural agility—not to mention shoes—and fall behind. I’m in the trees before the light drops above the camp’s embers, illuminating the smoldering campsite with the brightness of the noonday sun on Mercury.
When I’m a hundred feet beyond the tree line, I slow and listen. My heart pounds despite my new level of fitness, the tempo set by fear, rather than a need for oxygen. Hearing no trace of Mark, I whisper, “Mark, where are you?”
“Over here,” he replies, just twenty feet beyond me, peering out from behind a tree. Though the craft’s bright light is filtered by the trees, there is still enough to see by. A sliver of bright white cuts across Mark’s startled f
ace, but slides away as he leans back to give me room behind the wide tree.
“The hell is that, dude?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“Best guess,” I say, and point upward, to a star-filled clearing in the foliage above.
“Seriously? Aliens?”
“That’s probably the best word for them, yeah.”
“So this is like, what, an invasion?”
I’ve considered this question many times since my first encounter. I have yet to come to any kind of conclusion, but I’ve ruled out invasion. “If this were an invasion, there would be more of them. I haven’t seen any of them setting up shop, have you?”
He shakes his head. “Naw, dude.”
“Then this is something else.”
“Extermination,” he says.
I don’t agree out loud, but this is my leading theory as well. For some reason, the human race is being wiped out, while every other species has been left alone. After a month of travel, I’ve seen a large enough assortment of wildlife to know that only humanity was turned to dust. Best guess, these aliens are some kind of interstellar environmentalists. Maybe life is so rare in the universe, so precious, that after discovering Earth and finding the environment in dire threat thanks to human activity, they’re exterminating the vermin, like we would termites. The theory still feels wrong—mostly because Poe and I were spared, but it’s in the lead.
I peek around the tree, thinking, go away. Just leave. We’re not here. But unless these are the stupidest extraterrestrials in the multiverse, they’ll know what the still warm embers and strewn gear signify: they just missed us. That they didn’t simply blink to life over our heads, tear us into the air in a beam of light and aren’t tracking us from above, through the trees, means that there are limits to their technology, that they are still slaves to physics, to some extent.
We still have a chance, I think, and then I have my hopes dashed.
The light flickers for a moment, accompanied by a pulsating hum that I recognize. The last time I heard it was when the Blur fled the scene of Steve Manke’s murder.
I grasp Mark’s forearm. “It’s coming.”
“What is?”
“The Blur,” I say. “One of the aliens. Maybe more.”
“Shit,” he whispers. “Should we split up? Leave two paths? He points southwest. “You go that way.” Shifts his finger northwest. “I’ll head that way. Go like a quarter mile and turn back in. Maybe we’ll meet up again in the middle.”
I appreciate his quick thinking effort, but I’m not sure—
Crack! A branch snaps behind us. It’s like a gunshot at the start of a race. We both take off, me running in his planned path and him taking mine. Doesn’t really matter I suppose, but as my legs carry me through the woods, I start to feel heavy. Emotionally more than physically, but the crushing weight saps my strength just the same. Then I realize why.
I’m never going to see him again.
Why? some part of my intellect asks. That doesn’t make sense.
I run another fifty feet before the answer comes.
Because they’re not here for me. They’re here for Mark.
I stop, breathing hard, hands on knees. It’s hard to hear anything over the sound of my gasping. I can feel fright creeping up on me, tingling in my fingers and toes, and I recognize it as the force that kept me from acting to save Steve Manke. I probably would have failed, maybe died, but there’s also a chance the man would still be alive now if I had beaten my fear.
Without another thought, I shift the direction of my sprint, heading southeast at an angle I hope will bring me back to Mark sooner than planned.
The further I get from the craft’s bright light, the harder it is to navigate the woods. It’s hard to hear much beyond the sound of my own footsteps, crushing brush and snapping twigs that stab my bare feet, coupled with the heave of my panicked breathing, but there are sounds in the forest that don’t belong to me. And a scent. Metallic.
Like pennies.
Like blood.
And ammonia.
They’ve found him already, I think. Mark is dead.
And then, he’s not. But the pitch of his scream says he soon will be. The shout came from the northwest. I’d already crossed his path in the dark, but he’s deeper in the woods. I change direction and run with abandon, risking a collision with trees and low hanging branches, knowing that if I don’t, Mark will face the unknown and unseen, on his own.
I consider shouting to Mark, telling him to watch for the shimmer, but decide to not announce my approach any more than the sound of my feet are already doing.
“The hell,” I hear Mark say, his voice near and terrified.
He’s seen it, I think, but doesn’t know what he’s seen.
The trees clear and I see Mark ahead of me. He’s on the ground, shuffling backward on his butt, looking at something I can’t see, but evidently, he can. His face is twisted up in fear, the kind you might see before the downward cut of a guillotine blade. He’s looking into his own certain death.
At least, that’s what I think his face looks like. It’s actually hard to tell. The air between us is distorted. Shifting. It’s right there. I’m seeing Mark through it.
Making fists feels unnatural, but I manage it, first squeezing my thumbs beneath my fingers, and then moving them to the outside. It’s not until I’m within striking distance that I remember I’ve got the rifle, its seven pound weight slapping against my back in a futile attempt to get my attention. I’m here, it says, use me! But I’m committed, angry and desperate.
I shout something like a battle cry just before the moment of impact. It’s like a high-pitched roar, unnatural and frightening, to me at least. But the Blur, it just turns. I can’t see its body or face, so if my dramatic arrival triggered any kind of surprise, I’ll never know. The reaction I do experience not only argues the contrary, that it was not surprised, but also says that my arrival and attack was anticipated.
An invisible force, the same that flung me off the Blur’s back a month ago, lifts me off the ground and propels me upward. My own forward momentum carries me over the creature. It has parried my attack with almost no effort. Before landing, I see the shimmer turn back toward Mark, shifting as a long, dark finger, a black icicle, rises from the light-bending cloak. It’s going to stab him, I think, as I slam into the forest floor, strike my head and am absorbed into the emptiness of unconsciousness.
30
AUGUST
Mark’s scream pulls me back from the abyss. For a moment, I think I’m still not able to see, but the prickly limbs of dry leaf litter poking my face tell me I’m lying face down. With a grunt, I roll through what feels like thick pudding, but is really just thick, humid air. Spring has come early to the South.
The sounds of struggle push adrenaline into my veins. It strengthens me and polishes my thoughts, but does nothing for the resounding pain pulsing through my head. If anything, the pain has intensified, but perhaps that’s simply because I’m more aware of it. I lean up and get my elbows under me. I must have only been unconscious for seconds because the scene hasn’t changed much. Mark is still on his back. The Blur looms above him. But the confrontation has evolved and nearly reached its conclusion.
The creature’s dagger finger is just inches above Mark’s chest. The only thing stopping it from impaling the young man are his hands, wrapped around the digit, holding it back. But not for long. His arms shake from the effort, and the sharp tip slides forward, an unavoidable fate.
Unless I can stop it.
Remembering the rifle, I slide it over my head and off my shoulder. The weapon is loaded, but I haven’t chambered the first round for fear I’d accidentally shoot myself. I’m afraid the Blur will hear me and take action, but I have no choice. And it could work. It’s already repulsed me once. It could still be recharging. Or maybe I just need to catch it off guard. Surely, a bullet can move faster than these things can
think and trigger their defenses.
Mark screams as the fingertip pierces the skin of his chest, directly over his heart. His grip weakens for a moment, but then he grits his teeth and growls, shoving hard, pushing the tip back out. He’s a fighter. I can’t let this man die. I need him. The world needs him. Poe needs him.
I pull the rifle lever down and back up, sliding the first round into the chamber. I raise the weapon to my shoulder and aim toward what looks like empty space distorted by rising heat. The barrel of the weapon is all over the place, propelled by the chaotic shaking of my arms. I slip my finger around the trigger and then—
The shimmering mass spins, and a long, wooden face emerges, dead, oily eyes focused on me. I’m not sure if the sudden, fear-inspiring stare was intended to startle me into submission, but the opposite happens. With a terrified shout, I flinch back, my fingers squeezing, pulling the trigger.
The weapon kicks hard, the rifle butt slamming into my shoulder with unprepared-for force. It knocks me back and around, the rifle falling from my grip. But I’m awake now, and the pain in my head and arm are forgotten as I roll back around, grasp the rifle once more, snap the lever down and take aim, looking over the shaking sights.
But there’s nothing to shoot at, aside from Mark, whose heaving chest reveals a still-living man. I climb up to my feet, disregarding a wave of dizziness, and hurry to his side.
He flinches back as I fall to my knees beside him. When I reach for his chest, he shouts and slaps at me with his hands.
“Stop it,” I say. He’s lost in panic, blind to who it is reaching for him. I catch his wrists and hold them still. “Stop! I just want to see how badly you’re hurt.”
His eyes find mine and his arms go slack, but then he’s lost again—and not looking at me.
He’s looking behind me.
I dive to the side and attempt to roll away, but just end up sprawling onto my gut, which has shrunken considerably over the past month. Despite my lack of grace, I avoid being struck. I can’t see the attack, but I can hear the whoosh of something sailing past me, and feel the breeze it kicked up. I roll to my back, lift the rifle and somehow pull the trigger with my ring finger.
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