The Distance

by Jeremy Robinson

  I’ve been with Mark for forty-three days, and I’m now officially lean and on my way to a six pack. My arms are looking pretty good, too. But my legs? They look like someone else’s. I have muscles in places I didn’t know muscles existed. We’ve both got full beards, so we look like mountain men on mountain bikes, but there’s no one around to judge us, so shaving isn’t a priority. Though we’ve both agreed to clean up before meeting Poe in person.

  While Poe and I continue our daily check-ins, she also talks to Mark. From what I can tell, their conversations are much different. Where Poe and I talk about future plans, survival, childbirth, aliens, the fate of the planet and all things serious, Mark does a lot of laughing on the phone. Which is good. Poe needs her spirits lifted. Poe, without meeting her, has become a daughter-figure in my life, and I love her dearly. But Mark...he might fill a different role for Poe, and for Squirt. So let them laugh. That bond needs to be forged and unshakable. I’m old enough to know that my life expectancy, without modern medicine, might be reduced significantly. Up until the industrial revolution, the average lifespan was just thirty years. Sure, some people made it to sixty, but just as many didn’t get past age one. Unless we come across a doctor, I’m probably already well past the new average lifespan. Which also means that Poe and Mark are past middle age.

  This line of thinking depresses me, so I focus on the road ahead. We’re on Interstate 64 in Kentucky. In the suburbs outside Lexington, the roads were congested with rush hour traffic, but here the roads are mostly empty. We’re crossing through the top most reach of what was once the Daniel Boone National Forest, and mankind’s influence, which is already being assaulted by Mother Nature, is less evident here.

  We ride in single file, using a bike riding technique Mark told me is called drafting. The rider in front takes the wind head on, reducing the strain on the next in line. It works better in larger groups, but is better than both of us taking the wind head on, all the time. I’m a fan of efficiency, so I’ve been on board since he brought it up, about five minutes after we raided a small downtown bike shop. In a perfect world, we’d be splitting the burden 50/50, but Mark takes the lead most often, allowing me to go just a little further each day.

  Mark, who is currently riding in front of me, uses traditional hand signals mixed with a few of his own. So when he holds his arm straight out to the right, I know he intends to take the next exit off the Interstate. I look up and see a sign. Exit 133 to route 801. Sharkey Farmers. This is a deviation from the plan, and I want to argue the decision, but Mark’s out-stretched hand becomes a thumbs-up, which translates the message to, ‘Let’s turn right, dude,’ and I’ve become a sucker for his California charm. Besides, he’s a smart guy and I trust him. If he wants to get off the road here, he’s got a good reason.

  I figure out the reason thirty seconds after we’ve turned right onto route 801, which is really a small country road leading deeper into the national forest. A small wooden sign on the side of the road reads, Cave Run Lake. I smile. Mark has deemed today a ‘feast day.’ This will be our third and Mark insists on them for ‘morale and meaty protein.’ We generally get by on protein bars, but Mark is a skilled fishermen and carries a collapsible rod and reel on his back, along with the rest of his gear.

  We only make fires if it’s still daylight, which is to say, not very often, because we try to keep moving during the day—emphasis on try—and sleep all night. So to have real meat, requires an early stop. It’s 3pm now, so if Mark can haul some fish out of the lake in the next two hours, we’ll still have plenty of time to cook them up, have our feast and put the fire out before nightfall, which is the time we both now hate—not because the Blur are more likely to attack then, because really, who knows... Poe’s encounters have all happened during the day. We hate the night because we can see them, moving about in the sky high above, doing who knows what. We don’t sleep under the stars anymore. The population is dense enough in this part of the world that there is always a home or business around, some with dust to sweep, others empty of their previous owners.

  I struggled with the first few homes we cleaned of dust, but Mark seemed to have no trouble. When I asked him why, he explained that normal dust, the stuff that fills every home and is visible in shafts of daylight is, ‘Like 80 percent skin cells, man.’ I understood his perspective. We’ve been breathing in people dust since our first breath. It definitely helped me deal with the dust piles still lingering in sealed homes, but it also made me a little more wary of normal dust. I try not to look at sunlit air inside houses anymore.

  I look up at the sound of Mark’s squeaking brakes. He has his hand raised, signaling me to stop. Lost in thought, I didn’t see it. I squeeze my hand brakes, but don’t stop in time to miss bumping Mark’s rear tire. When he doesn’t notice or comment, I know something important has his attention.

  After tumbling half way over my handlebars, propelled by the weight of my pack and the rifle slung over my back, I get my feet on the ground and ask, “What is it?”

  When we’re not biking or sleeping, Mark is talking, so when he simply points ahead, I look without further question. At first, I don’t see it. But a subtle shift in the wind pulls the object across the road, making a dull scratching sound as it sails across the sea of cracked pavement. It’s a piece of trash, like a hundred others we’ve seen along the roadsides, but with one glaring distinction.

  I hop off my bike, shed my backpack and run toward the object. On my hands and knees, I pick up the foil wrapper. It’s shiny. I hold it up to Mark. “It’s new.” Every other piece of trash floating around outside has one thing in common. They’re old, dirty and faded. But this...it even has some melted chocolate still inside the wrapper.

  We both know the significance of this.

  Someone was here. Recently.

  Mark squints at the wrapper. “I didn’t know they still made Chunky bars.”

  “Well, they don’t now,” I point out.

  “Yeah, but, there must be a lifetime supply of them out there somewhere, right?”

  “Lifetime supply of everything, I suppose.” I stand. “Any idea where our snack food friend headed?”

  Neither of us are trackers. We tried hunting once and failed miserably. Never even got to take a shot, because despite knowing there are deer in the woods, we couldn’t find a single sign of them.

  “Unless they’re on the move,” he says, “The lake is the best place to set up shop. Fish, game trails, water.”

  “Sounds logical,” I say, which gets a funny look from him. Despite our constant conversation for more than a month, we still speak like we’re from different worlds.

  “Good thinking, dude.”

  He chuckles while I gather my gear and return to my bike. “Let’s keep going,” I say. “But we can’t get sidetracked. Whoever came through here might have gone the other way. We can’t spend any more time than we were already planning.

  “Right on,” he says. “Squirt awaits.”

  Moving at half speed, we close the distance to the lake, the air becoming noticeably cooler, and sweeter. I’d never really noticed nature’s varied scents, but I’m now able to smell water up to a mile away. We ride side by side, and slow together as a set of signs come into view. Minor Clark State Fish Hatchery and Cave Run Cabins—Lodging, Boat Rentals, Pool.

  “A fish hatchery, with probably an unlimited amount of fish, easy to haul in, cabins to stay in, boats and a pool.” Mark raises an eyebrow and turns toward me. “Have we seen a better place to live, post-apocalypse?”

  I shake my head. Not by a long shot. Whoever dropped the wrapper has to be here.

  Mark starts pedaling again, but I stop him, hissing, “Wait!”

  He looks back at me caught off guard by my tone, but it’s not me he has to worry about. He knows about Leila, aka Crazy Lady, so all I have to do is say, “Could be a Leila,” and he gets it.

  “Right,” he says, and he climbs off his bike. “Let’s scope it out first.”


  Leaving our bikes behind, hidden on the roadside, we enter the woods that separate the road from a clearing that leads to the long strips of artificial hatchery ponds, and the cabins beyond. Even without binoculars, I can see movement. Feeling excited, I tap Mark’s shoulder and point to a short hill further to our right. “I’m going to get a look from up there.”

  He nods, already lifting his binoculars.

  I move through the woods, doing my best not to be noisy, but failing. I’m breathing heavily, tired from the already long day, my shoulder itching, when I reach the hill’s crest. But my heavy breathing isn’t all from exertion. I’m excited. Beyond excited. I fumble with my binoculars as I lift them from my pack and put them against my eyes. I nearly laugh aloud. There are several people. Five. Seven. More! I can’t see them clearly, but they’re moving around the cabins, doing...chores? Everyone looks hard at work. A good sign, I decide. Crazy people probably don’t coordinate like this.

  I turn my view to the hatchery ponds and find three more people, hauling in a net full of fish.

  I’m about to head back down to Mark, when I hear him shout in surprise, and then anger. “Dude, what the f-oof!”

  I start toward him, shouting, “Mark!”

  His reply stops me in my tracks. “Run, dude! Ru—”

  The way his voice is cut short is ominous and reinforces the message. Run. So I listen, turning away from Mark and fleeing in the other direction. But I’m not alone. My pursuers crash through the woods behind me.

  38

  AUGUST

  I now know what it feels like to be hunted. Not stalked in that slow predatory way, but the actual chase. The desperate weaving. The quick, instinctual decision making. But despite being in the best physical shape of my life, I’m slowed by the faded rash’s side effect...and I still have the mind of an astrophysicist. I can navigate the night sky without opening my eyes, but charging my way through the tangling woods of Kentucky is a new experience.

  My shoulder clips a tree as I run past. It’s not large. A sapling really. But it’s more rooted than I am, and the impact spins me. Nearly topples me. I remain upright and use the twisting motion to look behind me. Three shapes bound through the trees, moving with far more agility and speed. This is a race I cannot win. They’re indistinct, fragmented by the vertical trunks and horizontal branches. A sloppy grid. But they’re definitely human. Any relief that fact brings me is dulled by the violent intent I sense. That, combined with the fact that they are closing the distance in a coordinated way, suggests they’ve hunted together before.

  The land drops down, and my speed increases as I follow the slope. But with the extra speed comes less control. Gravity increases my momentum beyond the top RPMs my legs can manage, and my top half overtakes the bottom. When the land at the bottom of the hill levels out, I slam into the ground like I’ve fallen the distance straight down, which is close to accurate. The air in my lungs coughs free and pain ruptures up and down my right side.

  My intellect is momentarily blinded by the pain, but instinct keeps me moving. Unfortunately, there isn’t much my body can do without oxygen, so I suck in one loud breath after another, filling my lungs and replenishing my body to the point where I can once again think clearly. That also happens to be the moment I notice the three sets of legs beside me.

  Knowing I’m caught, that there is no action I can take to free myself, I focus on breathing. I flop onto my back, body slack, and I look up into the non-faces of the people around me. For a moment, I fear I was wrong about them. That they’re not human. But then I pick out the bandanas, sunglasses and hats covering their faces. They look like bandits. Deep woods, Southern bandits.

  Fight, some part of my mind shouts. Become the silverback!

  I roll away from the bandits and get my feet beneath me. Before I’m standing fully, one of them has closed the distance between us. His pants are camouflaged in shades of green and brown. His shirt, a black long sleeve—too warm for the balmy June heat—hugs his muscular torso. Everything about him, except for his slight stature, screams military.

  “Should’a stayed down, old timer,” he says, and throws a punch. The swing is almost casual, but lacks enough force to drop me if it connects. Which it doesn’t.

  I lean away from the punch. The fist sails past my face, and strikes a tree. The man shouts in pain, clutching the hand. He’s underestimated me, and overestimated his abilities. If he was actually in the military, he wasn’t long out of boot camp. The hard lessons of battle haven’t been instilled. Not that I know better. But a real soldier would have put me on my butt already.

  Thinking I might actually have a chance, I kick the man between his legs. He drops to the ground, contorting into a position that suggests he’d like to return to his mother’s womb. I nearly smile, but there isn’t time. The biggest of the three, a man standing over six feet tall, struts toward me, arms by his side—not casual, but confident.

  I take a step back, trying to find a weakness or escape route. But before I can, my knees are struck from behind. My legs pop forward, and I bend so fast, that I’m thrown to my back, wedged between the last two bandits and a tree. No rolling away this time.

  Maybe they’re reasonable, deep woods, Southern bandits? I think, and ask, “What do you want?”

  The big man leans over me, and I see that he’s holding a rifle—my rifle. I must have dropped it when I fell. Too bad I didn’t think of standing my ground with it. He says, “First things first. We’re going to teach you a lesson about spying.”

  “Jeb, don’t,” the third bandit, a woman, says. She reaches a hand toward him, but fails to prevent what happens next. Jeb lifts my rifle up and brings the butt of it down on my head. I hear the crack of it, but I’m spared the pain as unconsciousness whisks me away, before the pain sensors in my brain get a chance to fire.

  I wake to the pain I thought I’d been spared. With consciousness comes an uptick in my heart rate, pushing blood into my injured head, harder and faster. Each beat brings a fresh wave of pain. After twenty beats, it begins to subside, or maybe I’m just getting used to it. Thirty beats later, I open my eyes.

  The first thing I see is what I already knew. I’m bound to a chair, arms and legs. A gag fills my mouth, tasting and stinking of old engine oil. The scent contrasts the view. Cozy looking cabins. Green grass. A distant lake view. Before or after the apocalypse, this is a paradise. Of course, the masked group of people surrounding me kind of ruins the tranquility. My mind, quick with numbers, counts twenty-seven.

  They stand there, arms crossed, looking angry, waiting. They’re all masked in one way or another, hiding their identities, or perhaps hiding their emotions. Right now, they’re all ominous, but if I could see their faces, maybe the story would be different. The woman tried to spare me, after all.

  The lowering sun reaches my eyes, dilating the pupils and generating a fresh wave of pain. I turn toward the ground and notice a third foot, next to my right. I follow the leg up and find Mark seated next to me, similarly bound, but still unconscious.

  “Mark!” I shout, but it comes out as a muffled, ‘Muk!’

  Movement pulls my eyes above Mark. The short bandit is there, sunglasses-covered eyes on me. Though his face is concealed, I sense a smile and imagine a horrible fate.

  I struggle against my bonds, shouting a muffled and threatening tirade that is beyond comprehension. The short bandit just turns his eyes from me and starts pouring a bucket of water over Mark’s head.

  Mark sputters awake, confused and thrashing, blowing the water from his nose and gagged mouth. The bandit doesn’t stop until the water runs dry. The short man drops the bucket and joins the others. Twenty-eight in all.

  Mark and I look at each other. His eyes look as apologetic as I hope mine do. We failed each other. We failed Poe.

  No, I decide. That’s not going to happen. These are people. They’re survivors. Like Poe. Like Mark. Like...

  My head snaps toward the mob. I shout at them but it comes o
ut garbled, “Lemah sayu fay!” When no one replies, I try again. “Peash! Lemah sayu fay!”

  “What’s he saying?” asks a familiar female voice. The woman bandit. She’s the closest to me. Disapproving hands on her hips. Masks can’t hide body language. She doesn’t like this.

  I turn to her. Calmly. “Peash.”

  “We haven’t checked them for the rash,” Jeb says with authority.

  Rash? I try not to react to this. While mine has faded, it is still visible, and their need to check for it unnerves me. I get the sense that people with the rash will be treated unkindly. It also implies they’ve come across other people who’d survived violent encounters with the Blur. But why fear those people? Is anyone who’s made contact now a pariah?

  The woman bandit waves him off. He’s not as in charge as he seems. “They’re tied up. He can’t kill us with words.”

  Kill them? They’re afraid of us?

  Before Jeb can complain further, the woman reaches up and frees the gag from my mouth. I spit to the side twice, trying to get the oil taste out. When that fails, I say, “Thank you,” to the woman.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea,” she says. “We’re not pals. Now, what was so important?”

  “I would like to see your faces,” I say. “Please.”

  When no one replies, I add, “I’m tied up. We’ve already established that I can’t hurt you with my words. And I get the distinct impression that if we don’t pass some kind of test, you’re going to feed us to the fish. Why are you hiding?”

  “We don’t know what they can do,” the woman says. “If they can see us through you?”

  “You mean, them?” I ask, looking up.

  She nods.