by John O'Brien
“We’ll make it. We did the last time and we will this time,” Clarke says.
“Maybe. This is on a much grander scale, and honestly, I’m not sure I have the energy for it. I mean, I don’t have a choice, but I’m not going to like it much,” Brown returns.
“So, what you’re saying is that you’ll be grouchy.”
Brown turns sharply, a scowl on his face, but relaxes as he sees the wide grin plastered on both Clarke’s and Hayward’s faces.
“I think I found one that might work, but we need to verify it. If one of you has a phone and a good enough signal…” Handley informs, stepping over with the folded map.
Clarke manages to get one bar on her cell. Bringing up Google Maps, Handley inputs the coordinates. With the weak signal, it takes some time for the satellite image to render, but eventually the map fills the small screen.
“There are a couple of residences nearby with more distant ones, but it’s the best that I can find,” Handley says, handing Brown the phone.
Staring at the screen and moving the map around, Brown analyzes the area. There are houses and a couple of small commercial buildings nearby, with larger residential neighborhoods a couple of miles away.
“This is the best you can find?”
“Yes,” Handley answers.
“And they have the right kind of fuel?”
“The plate says that it does.”
“Then it’ll have to do. It’s better than trying to motor our way through millions.” Brown brings the map to cover a wider area. “Rostraver it is. Okay, we swing wide of the town approaching the airfield from the south, then swing out and come in from the west, missing these houses. We come in low and fast to minimize our sound to outlying areas and to try not to pick up a tail of infected following our path. You find what we need and land as close as you dare. Once we’re on the ground, you three take care of the refueling; I’ll handle security.”
The three follow along with his finger, then nod.
“Handley, tell them what they need to do.”
Chapter Four
Springfield
October 6
Emily pedals down the street, looking back over her shoulder to see if anyone saw her take the bike. She’s afraid to get caught and feels a little anxious about just swiping it, but she can’t think of any other way to get out of town quickly. Having escaped with the soldiers from Pineville and seeing what happened to her town, she’s afraid that it’s only a matter of time before the army starts bombing this one as well. The sergeant seemed to know what was coming and was in a hurry to get out. She feels that she has to get out quickly as well.
I don’t know where to go…how to get out of the city, she thinks, pedaling past neighborhood houses. I need to find a way to the highway.
In the back of her mind, even though the images of the bombing are still fresh, she wants to head to Pineville to search for her parents, or at least talk with the soldiers stationed near it.
Surely they’ll know where my parents are, or at least help more than the other ones did.
She doesn’t know what to think about the ones that helped her out of the city. Her thoughts are conflicted about them. They were nice enough, and there’s no doubt that they helped her, even saved her life, but they went back on their promise to help find her mom and dad. If she does find soldiers around her city, she hopes that they’ll be more helpful. Pedaling past ransacked houses, having to steer around debris left in the streets, she hopes to run across some sign indicating the direction she should take.
I wish I had paid more attention when mom drove us to Aunt Kathy’s.
The bike chain and pedals squeak with each rotation, breaking the nearby silence. In the distance, coming from every direction, she hears the faint screams of the bad people. A few blocks ahead, she sees that the road that she’s been following meets with a wider street. A stoplight hangs silently above the intersection, its light glowing red. The hope is that she’ll run across other survivors and that they can direct her to the highway. Anticipating vehicles crossing through her line of sight, she is disappointed as she pulls up to the empty intersection.
Reaching the crossroads, she stops at the light, even though it has turned green. Leaning over the handlebars, she looks down each branch. Strip malls and fast food places line both sides of the main avenue; the road ahead leads only to more houses. Shards of broken glass litter the ground in front of most places, some glinting as they catch the sun’s rays. Scraps of paper and other debris line the curbs and pile against the buildings. A few cars are parked haphazardly in lots, with a few angled along the main street, most with the driver’s side doors opened. Even though she can hear some shrieking far away, there’s not a soul in sight.
South…I know I need to head south, but that’s about all I know, she thinks, gazing in each direction for some kind of sign. I wish I had a compass.
She mentally inventories her pack: a thin blanket, some water and food, her phone and solar charger, a change of clothes, but nothing that will show her a direction.
Wait, my phone. I think I have Google Maps.
She excitedly peels her pack off and rummages through it, pulling her phone out. To her, the boot-up process is agonizingly slow. The home screen finally materializes and she quickly finds that she’s able to get a signal.
Yes!
She thumbs through her programs, finds the map application, and starts it up. One of the conditions of her getting a phone was that the location service always be on so that her “find my friends” app would always be available, so she doesn’t have to meddle with that. It dawns on her that her mom probably knew when she was at the creek, which painfully brings her mind back to mom and dad. She feels the deep sorrow of their loss in her heart and her vision blurs. With a sniff, she wipes the tears away with the back of her hand and types “Pineville” into the destination field.
I have to find them.
She tries again to dial and text everyone on her contact list, only to get voice mail. The sound of her mom and dad’s voices sends tears running down her cheeks. She sobs deeply. Wiping away her tears again, smearing dirt across her cheeks, she brings the map program back.
The application tells her to turn left. Looking that direction, she sees the tops of tall buildings in the distance, rising close to each other. The thought of having to go through the middle of town makes her anxious. Even though the bad people she saw earlier left her alone, it doesn’t mean that all of them will. And she knows that downtown will probably have a lot more of them, since that’s where everyone works. Emily thinks about trying to see if there’s an alternate route, but fears she’ll somehow mess things up.
She repacks her bag, shoulders it, and with a heavy sigh, pushes off and begins pedaling. Trying her best not to look at the dried blood smears on the sides of the cars she passes, she starts navigating. A block down the main avenue, she slows at the sight of a larger group of bad people emerging from a side street.
Her heart feels like it stops, then beats heavily against her ribs. The mob stops and turns toward her, their attention drawn by the squeaking bike. Emily doesn’t know whether she should stop and turn around or pedal faster. Unable to make a decision, she stops pedaling and allows the bike to coast on its own. The ones standing nearly motionless don’t scream or race in her direction. Feeling scared, almost more than when she ran into the first pack, Emily angles to the far side of the street and begins pedaling as fast as she can.
As she picks up speed and draws closer, Emily hears their panting breaths mixing with the squeak of the pedals and the whirring sound of the tires rolling on the pavement. The faces, the area around their mouths coated in dried and drying blood, all follow her progress with bloodshot eyes. Their hair is matted in places, glued to their scalps with gore. Splotches dot the rest of their faces and their clothes are darkly stained. Arms hang loosely at their sides, their hands coated dark red. The stench emanating from the group nearly gags Emily, her foot slipping of
f the pedal as her stomach recoils.
Emily alternately looks from the group to her path and back. Fear grips her when she remembers their gruesome attacks on those in the neighborhood. Her heartbeats sound in her ears; she feels the strong pulse in her neck and temples. Her entire body seems to be beating as the adrenaline-filled blood courses through her tiny body. She tries pedaling faster, but it seems like the pedals are already outpacing her feet.
She expects to be rushed at any moment and instantly overwhelmed. She stifles a whimper at the thought of those blood-stained teeth biting into her and ripping through her skin, almost feeling the pain. Those in the group merely stare at her as if fascinated by her speed and mode of travel. Then, she’s past. Looking over her shoulder, the group continues to stare her down menacingly. Then, almost like a hive mind, they turn their focus away and run across the wide avenue.
Seeing them run across the street away from her, Emily slows her mad pedaling and lets the bike coast. She looks once more behind her to see the last of the group vanish down a side street.
They’re not attacking me. Why? Did they do this before and I just don’t remember? No, mom attacked and bit me. But was she really one of them?
Emily tries to remember a time when the bad people explicitly tried to attack her, but can’t. Sure, they tried to get to the soldiers while she was with them, but not her specifically. She ponders this inconsistency as she continues toward downtown.
* * * * * * *
The buildings rise high all around her, blocking out much of the sky. Beams of sunlight shine through gaps between the buildings as she pedals down the street. Cars with doors ajar are crammed along the wide avenue. Dried smears of blood coat the sides of the buildings and pools of blood dry on the sidewalks. The continued squeaking from her bike echoes off the concrete and glass structures.
Emily works her way around the vehicles, weaving between the sidewalk and the road to avoid shattered glass. She stares fleetingly up at the tall buildings, which all seem to close around her, as she speeds into an open door. The thunk of her collision echoes down the empty street. Surprised and off-balance, she stumbles off the bike. Attempting to keep upright, her forward momentum carries her into the same door. Not of her own accord, she slides down the door and sits next to her upended bike.
She is still intimidated by the structures, which seem to lean over her. Being downtown scares her, especially without any people; the evidence of life they left behind is unnerving. She feels so small and lonely. A scream from far above sends flocks of doves leaping from their perches, the flutter of their wings loud. Emily rises quickly as she uprights her bike.
Looking toward the sound of the shriek, she sees the tiny figure of a person standing on a ledge high overhead. She makes out their arms reaching out toward the fleeing birds, trying to grasp them. The extended arms wave in the air like spinning propellers. The person, unable to right themselves, tumbles off the high ledge. With limbs flailing, the body plummets toward the concrete and pavement below, his features becoming clearer as he accelerates toward her. Emily’s breath catches in her throat as she watches the man fall, terrified yet unable to look away. The man is silent as the speed of his fall quickens. When he is only a couple of stories away from slamming into the ground, she averts her eyes, unable to watch anymore. Behind her, she hears a heavy thud and the sound of glass shattering. With a sob, Emily jumps onto her bike and rides away as fast as she can.
The image of the man falling and the sound his impact made when he hit replays in her mind. She rides between the cars, trying to escape the pictures that won’t stop. The stoplights change from green, to yellow, to red, and back again, but she doesn’t notice any of them. She navigates around the vehicles on autopilot, the terror of what happened foremost in her mind.
A large green sign near one of the corners points out Pineville and the highway to the right. She nearly pedals past the intersection, riding on pure adrenaline and fear. Putting on the brakes, she skids to a halt. Forgetting what her phone said, she looks down at the device still in her hand.
The screen is mostly dark with a large crack spanning the surface. Several lines of light show through the black. She stabs the on/off button to wake her phone, but nothing on the screen changes. She holds the button down until the screen goes completely dark, then powers it back on with the same result.
“Oh crap,” she mutters.
With the falling man nearly forgotten, and standing astride her bicycle in the middle of the intersection, she tries to get her display to work. The thought of finding a cell phone store enters her mind, but she quickly tosses that idea out. She wouldn’t be able to activate a new phone anyway. Still astride the bike, she walks backward a few steps until she can clearly see the sign.
Muted screams reverberate down the street, the sound bouncing off of tall buildings and forced down tight avenues like a fast stream roaring down a deep ravine. The echoes spur Emily into action. She steps on the pedal and pushes hard, turning down the street to her right. Once her path clears, she finds herself looking upward, fearful of more falling bodies. Without her phone to guide her, she follows the signs, slowly leaving the central part of the city. Several times, she meets small and large groups of bad people, but none of them pay her much attention, other than staring at her and moving on. Still fearful and feeling more than lost, she pedals onward.
* * * * * * *
Emily stands astride her bike, examining the highway from atop the on-ramp. The signs were easy to follow and she’s glad to be out of the confining inner city. With the large buildings looming over her, and the shrieks echoing down the streets, she felt trapped—enclosed—as if downtown had weight and was about to collapse around her.
But where are the soldiers? I should be able to see them from here.
There aren’t any helicopters or any sign of camps. Slightly confused, she can’t think of any option other than to continue. Thinking about leaving the city and actually starting down the road are two different things. Once she hits the highway, she’ll be gone, her aunt and uncle’s place left behind. Even though there are a lot of bad people roaming the streets, she feels utterly alone—as if she is the last person on earth.
She looks across all quadrants of the sky, searching for the helicopters she had been expecting to arrive, just as they did in Pineville. Except for a few birds in the distance, riding the winds, the heavens remain empty. There aren’t any soldier vehicles stationed around the town, no police cars, no bombs dropping. There’s nothing except a long stretch of gray pavement. Emily pauses, knowing that once she rides down the ramp, she’ll be entering an entirely new world. The drives with her mom took only minutes. On her bike, it will take hours and there’s a chance that she might never reach Pineville.
She looks toward the sun resting lower in the sky, heading toward the horizon. She read somewhere that if you hold your hand out, each span of four fingers between the sun and the horizon represents an hour of daylight remaining.
Maybe Amy told me that. I don’t remember, she thinks holding her hand out. Two hours.
She looks over her shoulder at the skyline of the city she just left, shuddering at the thought of sleeping so close to that many bad people. The sight of the downtown skyline sends a chill up her spine.
I’ll get as far as I can, then find someplace hidden.
Setting her foot on the pedal, she pushes off, the chain squeaking with each rotation. She builds up speed, then coasts down the ramp. Entering the highway, she starts pedaling on the paved shoulder. In a land filled with emptiness, there’s only a scared ten-year-old girl pedaling a bicycle along a lonely road.
* * * * * * *
With every revolution of the sprocket, Emily wants to turn around and head back to her familiar environment. Even though the bad people don’t seem to be attacking her, for whatever reason, she senses that she wouldn’t be able to live there for very long. Her best bet is to find someone still normal. And her parents loom large in her mind.
That’s where her true safety will be found. With every fiber of her being, she wants to flee the unknown waiting ahead, yet each push of the pedal propels her ever forward and she feels helpless to stop it.
Discarded bags, bottles, and other trash litter both sides of the road. She’s amazed that she never noticed this when her mom brought her north to visit her aunt. But then she was always complaining that they’d been in the car all day, wanting the trip to be over. Trees begin lining the road and she passes a sign telling her that Pineville is twelve miles away. Over the tops of the trees on both sides, she sees the outline of hills and wonders if one of them holds the caves she wandered through with the soldiers. As hard as she pedals, they don’t seem to draw any closer.
As the sun sinks lower in the sky, her legs begin to hurt. Her rear is sore to the point that she can barely sit on the seat without bringing tears of pain to her eyes. Scared, alone, and hurting, she thinks she made the wrong decision and stops. Laying the bike on its side, she rummages through her pack and gazes at the hills while taking a long drink of water.
Are they closer? Bigger? They seem bigger, but I can’t really tell.
She notices that the amount of trash along the side of the road has increased, bringing to mind the long line of cars she saw when meeting up with Aunt Kathy. That’s her only real measure of progress. The trees along the road are casting long shadows, reminding her that the day will soon be coming to an end. She had hoped to find someone along the highway, but hasn’t come across a single soul. Not even a single sign of life.
At least the screams are gone, she thinks, taking another big drink and putting the bottle back into her pack.
The idea of having to spend the night outdoors frightens her even more than she already is. But, the thought of staying the night at her aunt’s house with all of those bad people sends a shudder throughout her body. Even though she hasn’t been attacked since, she remembers her mom, activating her fears that her aunt and uncle might do the same thing. Shouldering her pack, she steadies the bicycle and starts off, wincing at the sharp pain on her tailbone when she eases down onto the seat.