by Joe Schlegel
“Yeah, sure,” Ben played along skeptically, “I’ll watch her. But I don’t think you can get infected just because you get your hands dirty. There’s nothing to suggest that she’s a danger.”
Satisfied, David nodded appreciatively. He sped up and rejoined his spot in line.
They crossed a vein of the network of bike paths. Ever watchful for random stragglers, they checked both directions, the way that led out of town, and the way that led closer to the central intersection.
Before the bike path jogged alongside the race track, the heavy tree line on North Team’s left side thinned out into an open field. Semi-truck trailers, piles of tires, broke down industrial equipment, a one-car path that connected the various, decaying monuments – all resided on the other side of the chain link fence beside the path.
Among the overgrown vegetation, a lost and desperate one of them jogged slowly through the brush, eager to chase breakfast.
Trapper, in the lead, called over his shoulder to the group, “Remember him for the return trip! We don’t need any unnecessary surprises!”
A stop sign loomed ahead and marked the road beside the race track.
North Team coasted slower.
Before them, the starting line of the drag strip panned into view. The expansive, concrete abyss hosted just enough bleachers, buildings, and fencing to prevent any clear view of the racing campus. Asphalt veins stretched to and around an enclosed track beyond the nearby drag strip.
Nothing moved except for the overgrown grass in the morning, summer breeze, though dangers threatened to lurk just out of the North Team’s obstructed view.
The wide gates that once prohibited traffic from the road spread open invitingly.
“That is some spooky shit,” Corrine mumbled uncomfortably. Delicately, she addressed Trapper, “What’s your gut saying?”
They slowed down, and they diligently checked around for them.
Trapper sighed. It reverberated with tension and worry, “If Freddie’s not on the garage’s roof, then he could have used Kil-Kare as a giant circle, loop back safely in order to make it back home. And I need to make sure my nephew’s bike isn’t laying out there somewhere.”
Jake nodded, “This is why we’re here, bro. We don’t go back until we know Freddie and the others didn’t come this way.”
Obediently, albeit hesitantly, North Team filed onto the drag strip.
They hunted around the stands, checked underneath the bleachers, and peered through the glass of every grimy, unwashed window.
Down along the drag strip, the aluminum ladder plainly stood in place against the garage, undisturbed and ready for use.
Trapper’s shoulders sunk nearer to his handlebars.
Then—
Two of them noticed North Team from a distance.
They sprinted along the concrete lanes to attack the wayward Xenians.
With plenty of time to pick them off at a distance, the survivors slowed to a stop. They all retrieved the rifles from their backs without unseating from their bikes.
They aimed at the nearest one.
And they all fired near the same time as each other. Their percussive gunshots echoed throughout the wide open expanse of Kil-Kare.
The first one collapsed, overpowered by the deadly aim of all five shooters.
North Team aimed at the second.
They fired with staggered timing—
A shell casing from Jake’s rifle flipped into the collar of Deaver’s brown polo.
He fired reflexively as the scalding metal stung his neck.
His shot veered wide, missed.
Deaver scrambled and danced and swatted to brush the abuse from near his throat, even before he understood what had happened.
The casing tumbled to the ground.
Jake gasped apologetically, “Was that one of my casings? I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”
Deaver dabbed at his fresh wound fearfully, “How deep is it? Did it break the skin?”
“It’s too fresh to tell. It will probably heal over just fine, though.”
Fundamentally unconvinced, the soul in Deaver’s eyes deadened from mounting terror. He straightened his posture like a man who found himself toe-to-toe with his darkest demon, and he couldn’t look away. His heart chilled by the specter of evil beneath his very skin.
Suspicion of more lingered after the appearance of the two. North Team set off to loop around back to the enclosed, oval track, and they scanned the enormous race track campus.
The gate that opened up to the bike path gradually panned back into view.
As they neared the bleachers, though, Deaver slowed.
He coasted to a silent stop.
Then he removed the pistol from his side holster.
Deaver raised the barrel underneath his chin.
He squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot caused the rest of North Team to flinch.
They halted and checked around the drag strip.
Deaver’s bike and body toppled over sideways, lifeless.
“No!” Trapper scrambled back to his fallen teammate, “No, we can’t lose someone all the way out here! We can’t lose anyone else!”
Horrorstruck, Jake gasped, “The fuck? Why? Was it because of the casing burn? This is my goddamn fault...?” The skin around his varied tattoos bleached and paled, and new ink and old ink stood out boldly.
“It was this world,” Corrine mournfully corrected. Her tragedy-stricken grimace recalled every nameless face and faceless name who checked themselves out of the misery that suffocated Xenia. “Plenty of people haven’t been able to cope, to transition into our new reality. Some we can see coming, but most take us all by surprise.”
“But we haven’t had a suicide in over three weeks, right? Why this one only fifty feet away from us? My casing, that’s to blame, right...?”
“When you snap... you just snap. Jake, it’s impossible to predict when someone reaches their final trigger. Even something small or wholly insignificant can finally, completely entomb a person in their own hopelessness. This is not your fault.”
Trapper pedaled heavily back to the rest of North Team. “All the way out here,” he muttered despairingly. “How are we going to get Deaver’s body back to the community? ...We’ll have to come back after the search effort, bring a large carrier.”
He lowered his head, ashamed and deeply hurt. “My search effort... We’re only out this far because of me...”
“Our search effort,” Jake defended. Corrine’s words guarded him, if only while they stood in the presence of their fallen neighbor, against the fresh lashing of grievous guilt. “We’ll be back for Deaver, and we’ll be heavily armed. He won’t be left out here for long. For Freddie – and for Wesley and William – we need to continue.”
Trapper nodded his grave approval.
He encouraged the group’s shift and meandered along the drag strip to the bike path, though somewhat slower. With their grim faces set even longer than when they arrived, they all stood on their pedals in a single file line.
They exited through the wide gate.
Down along the path, Trapper spied its wild movements on the asphalt path.
“Eyes ahead! It looks like our friend found a hole in the fence!”
Then he charged for it.
At the last possible moment, he juked his bike to the side.
It barely missed him.
And its balance tilted.
Corrine rode past next on its other side.
It flailed its arms to wrap the cyclist up but failed to tackle breakfast.
Jake sped past – it jumped dizzyingly at the bike.
He swooped sideways, and it missed.
It spun around after the fourth cyclist. Sloppily dizzy, it slammed numbly down to the ground.
Jake peered behind them to watch it labor back to its feet. It hurriedly limped after North Team, yet the cyclists left it further and further behind them.
10.
Seven an
d Rhea
Tamed, domesticated cats and dogs mostly starved without the care of their owners. Stray animals hunted the abandoned, naive house pets who were wily enough to escape their homes.
And coyotes circled the town, poaching the town’s strays.
Every creature knew to avoid the pillaging humans with firearms on their backs.
The constant hum of civilization silenced, replaced with a louder cacophony of bugs, pests, and wildlife.
Surviving Xenians rummaged the leftover homes of their long-dead neighbors. Everyone had jobs to perform. Even the youngest of us adopted our roles of support. We were indoctrinated to work life immediately. It was an everyday lifestyle, and weekends were as busy as Wednesdays.
The survivors resupplied the caches with whatever essentials they found. Most everything entered the community’s stockpile, yet personal effects were claimed as needed.
Privacy existed in rare moments. Even staring at a small trinket for hours at a time served as a suitable escape on sleepless, candlelit nights.
To approach their designated, plundering neighborhood, Seven led Rhea out and around the Detroit Street’s hill. The much-longer loop followed Main Street for a few blocks, then it jogged up another concrete artery toward the edge of town. It allowed for a more forgiving incline for her daughter’s young legs.
Seven’s bike pulled a child cart with another child cart tied to it. Just beneath her seat, a loop of rope poked out sideways and at the ready.
The detour dead ended outside the transportation department’s campus.
They turned back onto Detroit Street.
Rhea pedaled alongside her mother.
She glanced up at her, who intently searched the area for them. Then she returned her own gaze straight ahead, and she set her jaw the same way as Seven.
They churned up a small ridge, and a small stretch of Detroit Street curved down to the intersection of Prugh Avenue, then it curved back up to the back side of the crest of Detroit hill. Prugh jutted sharply to the left, directly across the street from a collection of baseball and soccer fields.
Mother and daughter followed the asphalt, pedaled past the first couple homes, each with a strip of bright orange duct tape across the door. On either side of them, each house bore the same mark, all diligently searched for various supplies and resources.
Seven slowed her deep blue road bike. Her caravan of child carts bunched up slightly behind her.
Rhea halted, too.
They both inspected the first untaped door on Prugh Avenue, a residence not yet branded with safety-bright orange. Together, they unsaddled from their bikes. Rhea nearly mirrored her mother’s motions point for point after watching her for months.
Seven surveyed the side yards, rifle off her shoulder and in her hand. Her daughter dutifully grabbed hold of her shirt and searched the street all around them.
Then they began their steady march toward the unmarked, one-story house.
Rhea paced along in tow. Her head oscillated up and down the road.
They stepped onto the porch.
Seven approached the front door with an eye on the windows, watchful for curtain movement and shadows.
She twisted the knob, and the latch easily slid into the assembly.
After she drew a readying breath, she pushed the door open slowly.
She inched through the doorway, rifle pointed further into the abandoned home.
Rhea watched their bikes as she backed into the house with her mother, her fist still filled with a wad of her mother’s shirt.
Seven searched the living room.
Then she checked the kitchen.
She listened. They never stopped moving unless they fed – a trapped one would fight to escape into the wide open world. Silence nearly guaranteed their solitude.
No creaks or shrieks meant a home rested peacefully.
“Okay, get the door.”
Rhea released her mother’s shirt and scampered to the front door. She closed it quietly.
She locked the knob with a proud, serious sense of mission.
Placing her rifle on the counter, Seven opened a kitchen drawer and rummaged through it. She set several unopened packs of batteries beside her firearm. Then she opened the cabinet doors beneath the sink and detached the water filter.
And she paced to the bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet and read the labels as she turned each bottle. Using her shirt as a catch-all, she piled several to take with her.
Seven snatched toothpaste and wet wipes, towels and tools, trash bags and shoes. She dumped her treasure on the counter beside the rifle.
She opened another cabinet door and removed a tall stack of paper plates.
Rhea dragged a blanket into the kitchen, “Did you find anything to carry the stuff with yet?”
“Sure didn’t, princess.” She shook her head as her bangs danced across her forehead, and she pilfered the canned goods on a cabinet shelf, careful to check each expiration date.
Her daughter brandished her great find, a turquoise blanket thick enough that she had to drag it behind her.
“I found this in a closet. Is it perfect?”
“It’s absolutely perfect,” she admitted as she peered over her shoulder.
Rhea beamed proudly. She spread it out across the floor, “There were girl coats in the closet, too! My size!”
She scampered to the counter and grabbed the batteries. Then she hauled her mother’s loot to the middle of the blanket and cautiously placed them on the ground, careful not to make a loud noise. “And that means she had toys, right? May I go look?”
Seven carried matches, flash lights and plastic ware to the turquoise blanket.
“Quietly, but yes you may.”
Rhea nearly skipped happily down the hallway.
Assembling the canned goods on the floor, Seven piled the rest of her plundered items in the middle of the blanket as well. She searched for clothes her size, gathered jeans and shirts and jackets.
She dumped them onto the blanket on the kitchen floor.
Rhea bounded in with a floppy, stuffed bunny. She held it out to her mother, pleadingly, “It’s so cute! I wonder what the other girl named him!”
Seven slowed her urgent work. Her eyes softened, and she smiled maternally.
She nodded to the floppy bunny, “He looks like he’s been lonely for a long time. Maybe he’s okay with a new name from his new friend!”
Excited, Rhea squeezed her newfound, priced possession with a tight, welcoming hug. Then she placed it delicately atop the pilfered supplies.
“We have work to do,” she explained to it patiently, “but I’ll find you when it’s done.”
She helped her mother load up the last of her supplies.
Lastly, Seven held her breath as she opened the fridge. She scanned the contents quickly then slammed the door shut again.
As the rancid stench of spoiled food permeated throughout the abandoned home, she tied the corners of the blanket together and hauled everything to the front door.
She removed a well-worn roll of safety-orange duct tape from her pocket, stretched a two-foot length, and the rip caused Rhea to flinch.
Seven handed the strip to her daughter, who held it out from her, diligent to prevent the adhesive from touching itself. She swung the blanket over her shoulder, retrieved her rifle from the kitchen, and moved toward the front door.
Rhea scampered after her mother, and the orange strip fluttered in her hand. She unlocked the knob.
And she opened it several inches.
She retreated immediately behind her mother and clutched her shirt again.
With her foot, Seven inched the door wider still.
They crept out onto the porch.
Rhea removed her hand from her mother’s shirt. Seven halted immediately— Her eyes scanned everything within her residential view.
Silently, Rhea pulled the door silently shut, and she smoothed the reflective duct tape with both hands.
; She spun quickly and gripped her mother’s shirt again.
Seven marched out toward the child carts, her daughter in tow. She deposited the blanket in the first cart.
Then she led her daughter around the bikes.
They walked to the other curb.
Mother and daughter stepped up onto another porch.
Rhea watched around them intently.
Seven tried the front door knob.
It resisted, locked.
She led her daughter to the living room windows.
Laying her rifle down on the porch furniture, she pushed up on the first window with both hands, her palms flat on the glass panes. It too resisted, locked.
Unimpeded, she sidestepped to the second window.
Rhea kept her dire vigil fixed upon either ends of the street alternatively. She dared not spare a curious glance back to her mother’s activities.
Seven pushed up on the second window. It didn’t budge either.
“Look sharp,” she whispered, “I have to break glass.”
Rhea leaned away from her mother but refused to release her shirt. Her face scrunched up with great concentration as she scanned the residential plat.
Seven retrieved her firearm. She reared back, then smashed the window with the rifle’s stock.
She dragged it along the edges and knocked away the shards.
And she leaned into the house, listened intently for sounds of them.
Rhea oscillated her head back and forth. She listened intently to the neighborhood.
“Gotta lift you through the window now, love,” Seven whispered.
Her daughter spun and raised her arms expectantly. She lifted her up high, and they both worked to maneuver Rhea safely around the shards.
Seven reluctantly let go.
Rhea scampered through the house. She rushed to the door and unlock the knob.
She reached up for the dead bolt, but her fingers wiggled a few inches too short.
Frantic, she ran to the dining room.
Rhea dragged a dining chair to the front door, positioned it under the locks, then climbed up and flipped the dead bolt loud enough to signal her mother.