“Alex,” he says when I’m halfway through the bedroom door. “Thanks for making dinner.”
He gives me a smile—or something close to one. I nod in return, holding my hatchet close to my side, thankful for his smile—for that one, very human gesture. At least we still have that.
Chapter Twenty-Two
~Before~
Seven Weeks Earlier
My dad calls me to his office, the one down the hall from my bedroom. I pass my mom who can’t even pretend things are okay. That’s my first signal this isn’t going to go well. The next sign is the look on my father’s face when I enter the room. He’s pulled down his face mask, probably in direct violation of all policies, and held his arms out to me. I’m not the biggest daddy’s girl. I’m more of a can’t-wait-to-get-out-of-the-house kind of girl, but all of this is imploding. Like, the world is imploding and this may be the only chance I may get.
He hugs me tight and starts talking. And talking. We’re like this for minutes, his mouth close to my ear. He tells me everything he knows. That the infection is spreading, it’s an epidemic, and it will kill nearly everyone. Stay away from people. If they’re bitten, run. If you are around someone and their eyes turn black, run. That’s the final sign. That’s the part that means they’re contagious.
“What do we do?” I whisper.
He continues explaining that the military is fighting—building shelters, keeping people safe—but not to go there.
“Wait here for me,” he whispers.
“What if they make us go?” This has happened. Some communities have already crumbled. People aren’t take the end of the world well.
“Even then. Don’t go. I’m close to solving this.”
“What happens then? When you solve it? Does everything go back to normal?”
“That depends on the military and the government and how quickly they act. How quickly they choose to act. If there’s more coming,” he rambled sounding increasingly distressed. “It has mutated fast and it’s unpredictable. You’ve got to stay with your mother. Wait for me here.”
“And what if you don’t come back?” There’s a reason I’m valedictorian.
“Give me two weeks. Then head south. Find your sister. It’s imperative.”
He pulls something from his pocket, a small rectangular pouch with a string attached to both ends. He loops it over my head and gestures for me to wear it under my shirt. “That is half of a greater whole. Your sister has the other half.”
“You saw her? How did you get it to her? Is she okay?”
“The last time I spoke to her she was okay. She’ll meet you outside Atlanta.” The address is in the pouch. We’re to go find her and wait.
I nod at my father but narrow my eyes, looking for signs of cracks. Is he making this up? Losing his mind? He’s been under pressure for weeks—if not months. He’s brilliant, a genius even, but right now I’m not sure. He’s talking crazy. He sounds like a conspiracy theorist.
He sounds a lot like me.
There’s nothing I can do but agree to his requests. “Two weeks,” I whisper, wondering who is listening. LabGuy? The security person? Do they care?
He hugs me tight and makes me promise one more time.
“I promise. We’ll get Jane. Don’t worry.”
“The military,” he says pausing at the door, hand clenched on my arm. “It’s complicated. They aren’t the bad guys, but they also aren’t the ones that will cure this. They’ll keep you from getting to Jane and that is the most important task right now.”
After that he rushes out of the house, hugging my mother once more. They get into a van—the only vehicle on the street and drive away.
“Two weeks?” I ask my mother, wondering if he told her the same thing.
She nods, wiping away her tears. “At least we have a deadline,” she says looking more confident than before. She needed a plan, something to focus on other than baking and inventorying supplies. My dad knows her better than anyone else and I guess he figured that out. I watch, stunned as she walks back to the kitchen and her list and making sure we have enough supplies until he returns. Or, at least, I hope he returns.
Chapter Twenty-Three
~Now~
I fall asleep and wake to the sound of scratching. I freeze, listening for the howls and screams but realize it’s just mice burrowing in the walls. Their activity is constant, as if they are as disturbed by me as I am by them. I’m too tired to care.
Rubbing my eyes I try to push aside the overwhelming exhaustion. I go to bed and wake up tired. There’s no change. Just pervasive exhaustion. I felt it before when I was with my mom but now it’s different. Now I carry the burden of her death as well.
What’s one more burden in the grand scheme of things? Like the one hanging like a rock against my chest. There are times I forget the pouch is there, it’s almost become part of my body, like the friendship bracelet Liza and I made for one another in the fourth grade. We wore them until the woven thread frayed and fell apart. It’s the final connection to my father—the link that keeps me pushing forward.
I remove the pouch, lifting the strings over my head. It’s made of vinyl, weatherproof. Black and flat, smaller than a wallet—about the size of a credit card. I never opened it before—it was just another piece of my father’s work I would never understand. Now that my mother was gone I felt some need to see what exactly she died for—why we took the risk.
The case is closed by a Ziploc type clasp. I open it carefully and peek inside and find two different square shaped cards tucked snugly inside. I pull them out and hold one eye level between two fingers. The white card has two separate sealed dots of watery red, suspended as though they’re on a lab slide—blood if I had to guess. I try to bend the edges or peel it apart but nothing happens. If I had to guess I’d say the cards are made of some type of heavy plastic, the window a thick lamination.
The other card is identical in shape and size but this time instead of fluid, two square microchips float under the plastic. I flip the cards front to back. There’s no information other than what I see.
I sigh and carefully return them to the pouch. I’d expected no more. Secret data from a secretive man. I’m assuming my sister knows what to do with them once I find her.
After wrangling my hair into pigtails and washing my face with rusty well water I walk into the kitchen and find Wyatt cleaning his gun. He works methodically, rubbing each inch with a cloth. He’s got a wrinkled piece of paper on the table.
“What’s that?” I ask while opening the package of a half-smushed protein bar.
“It’s a map of the lake area. I found it in the kitchen drawer.”
Wyatt explains that he wants to leave the house soon to search for fuel. Apparently he likes the truck better than hiking. His plan is to leave me at the cabin—under the guise it would be easier for him to go alone and meet me back here.
“No. Let me get one thing clear right now,” I say, hands on my hips, rage boiling beneath the surface. “I’m not sitting around waiting for you to return. If you want to leave and go it alone, then do it. But if we’re sticking together, then we stick together. All the time.”
“That’s a little extreme don’t you think?” he asks. His face is blank other than the tick at the corner of his jaw. God, he can’t stand not being in control all the time.
“No, I don’t. I have no desire to wait around all day to see if you survived or not. Waiting around to get attacked or spending time looking for you if we separate.”
“Okay then,” he says rubbing the back of his neck. “We never separate.”
“Never separate. That’s rule number one.”
“Got it,” he agrees although I’m not entirely sure he agrees at all. “What’s rule number two?”
“I’ll let you know,” I say with a bright smile.
I follow him down the porch steps, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his gray t-shirt. He’s carrying a rusted gas can that he found out ba
ck near the carport. The bottom is covered in dirt and leaves.
“Maybe a boat?” I suggest, thinking of places to get gas. “I think there are more boats up here than cabins. We could hit up the marina.”
“How far is that?”
I unfold the paper map. “Maybe a half a mile that way?” I say pointing around the curve of the lake.
We stick to the tree line, following a rough trail around the lake. Wyatt is on alert—another thing that nags at my spidey-senses. He seems to be either on or off, the off button only activating when he’s asleep. Even then I’m not sure. He has to have some sort of military background.
“You said the Eaters aren’t dead, right?” he asks after a couple of minutes.
“That’s what they say.”
“So how do they exist otherwise? Do they hang out together? Watch TV? I don’t get it?”
“I don’t either, first of all because I’m not hanging out with them and second, because the stupid virus keeps mutating.” I sigh, annoyed with all the questions. “I think they go in sleep mode or just search for food. They’re parasites. They want to feed.” He looks skeptical and I snap. “Do I look like I would have the answers to all this? I’m eighteen for Christ’s sake.”
He turned and gave me the once over. “Eighteen?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
Those shoulders move up and down. “Just thought you seemed younger.”
“How old are you?”
‘Twenty–two.”
Seems about right since he doesn’t look like the boys from my high school but not quite like a man either. I’ve got nothing else to say on the subject, but it doesn’t matter because we’ve reached the marina. A couple dozen boats fill the slips, some definitely nicer than others. “Too bad we can’t sail to Georgia,” I joke, eyeing an extremely nice cabin cruiser.
We wait and watch but there’s no movement other than the slight rocking of the boats from the water. The waves lap against the sides, and we walk out in the open, down the dock between the slips. “We’ll search each one,” Wyatt says. “One searches—the other keeps watch. Look for anything useful but mostly extra fuel.”
We start the process, alternating jobs. I find an unplugged mini-fridge with sodas inside. I stash two in my bag. In another, Wyatt uncovers an emergency kit, complete with knife and flares. “Good find,” I say looking at the flare gun. It could come in handy.
We save the biggest boats for last, both huge boats, one with a slide off the top deck. Wyatt jimmies the lock using the knife we just found.
“Check it out,” he says stepping back on the deck.
I climb down the stairs and find myself in the most luxurious boat I’ve ever seen. It’s way nicer than my aunt’s cabin. Okay, way, way nicer. I make a quick search but don’t find anything useful. There’s a full bar over the sink, and an enormous bed. The seats are leather and I do find several packages of fancy crackers in a cabinet.
I hear a knock on the door and I race up the steps to find Wyatt standing on the deck with his back to me, rifle drawn.
“Dude, come see this place, you’ll never believ—”
I hear the Eaters before I see them, growling loud in unison. Five below and two climbing the ladder to get on board. Wyatt lunges, fighting one off and I reach for my hatchet. “I’ve got this,” he yells swinging his gun like a sword. The Eater’s head cracks down the side and blood spills from its ears and mouth. Wyatt flips the gun around and pulls the trigger, unloading into the now, very dead man.
“They’re still coming,” I say, the echo of the gunshot alerting others to our whereabouts. They file out of the small marina shop on the other side of the dock. I rush forward and attack the one at the top of the ladder, slicing into her throat. Blood gurgles and I recoil, vomit rising up the back of my own throat. She falls backwards taking the other Eater with her. They fall in a jumbled heap on the dock. Two more take their place, spastically climbing the ladder.
“Where are they all coming from?” I ask breathing heavy.
“I don’t know. It’s like they were hiding or something.”
Wyatt goes after the next one coming up the ladder and I glance over the edge. They’re scrambling to climb on one another’s shoulders. Organized. Intentional.
“Should we jump?” I ask looking at the water.
“We’d sink with the packs on.”
He’s right. I swing my hatchet cutting off the hands of an Eater climbing up the railing but there are too many, coming from all sides. Eyes black, drooling mouths, rage building in their chests. They’re so very angry—I can sense the hatred they have for me—for the living.
I swing at one climbing over the rail but he’s too big and my hatchet only swipes at the side of his arm. Another grabs me by the throat, screeching in my ear.
“Alex!” Wyatt yells, rushing toward me. He knocks the Eater off, bashing his head in with the butt of his rifle. “Let’s go!”
“What? No! We’ve got this!” I shout.
“Get in,” he grunts. He left the door open, and when I get close enough he shoves me in. I tumble down the stairs, landing hard on my side. The door shuts with a slam, as the Eater’s bang against it from the outside. I scramble to my feet, convinced they’ll get inside but I hear the bolts sliding across the door with a loud snap.
“What the hell?” I say. “We could have taken them.”
“That should keep them out,” Wyatt says. Sweat drips off his forehead and when he tosses his pack to the floor I see the front of his shirt is soaked too.
“Yeah,” I say. “But how do we get out of here? That’s the only exit.”
He shakes his head and says, “This gives us time to figure out a plan, I couldn’t hold them off.”
That’s when I notice how pale his face is and that the stain on the front of his shirt isn’t water but blood. “You’re hurt.” I stiffen—a familiar dread bubbles to the surface.
Wyatt lifts the hem of his shirt reveling a long cut. Blood drips down his side, soaking into the top of his cargo pants. “It’s not from them. I ran into something on the side of the boat.”
“Lie down,” I order and he complies, crawling on his hands and feet to the leather couch. He sprawls across the cushion with a groan.
“Can I look?”
He nods, jaw tight. I kneel next to him and look at the wound. It’s ugly—red and bleeding. I run to the small kitchen and find a towel hanging near the sink—grabbing a bottle of alcohol at the same time. Soaking the towel, I press it against the cut and watch his nose wrinkle in pain.
“Does it need stitches?” he asks.
“I have no idea.” I admit.
“Can I see that for a second?”
I hand him the bottle, filled halfway to the top with clear liquid. Wyatt lifts his body and takes two long pulls before dropping on his back.
“Better?”
He laughs. “A little.”
The cries from outside have subsided a little bit. Maybe they’ll lose interest and go away. I don’t know. That’s the problem with this whole new world. Too many new rules and I don’t understand any of them.
I sit on the floor next to Wyatt, keeping pressure on his wound, careful not to lift it and stop the clotting. I guess we’ll know soon enough if he needs stitches, I just hope he doesn’t bleed out before then.
“Hey, Alex,” he says, his voice soft.
“What?”
“Guess you were right about that whole never separate thing.” He graces me with a smile, a real one, and it almost knocks me back. I blush at the compliment, which is dumb, but it makes me wonder is he flirting with me? Do I want him to flirt?
No. I don’t. I just want to get to Atlanta in one piece and this guy will help me get there.
I realize then that there’s something else I’m not prepared for. Dealing with men in the apocalypse.
Chapter Twenty-Four
~Before~
Six Weeks Earlier
My mother and I wait. There’s little else to do. The state is on quarantine. Emergency shelters are filling up and new ones are created daily. If you don’t have enough food or water or need assistance the television and auto-calls tell you where to go. How to cover your mouth and nose and wait for the shuttle to pick you up. Everyone remain calm. That’s the key. Keep calm and cover your mouth. The meme for the end of the world.
We don’t leave for the shelter—even though it’s shifting from voluntary to mandatory. We probably have another week before it’s enforced. Hopefully my father will be back by then.
A week after my last shot, the day my father left, I hear a knock at the back door.
My mother is in the basement, organizing baby clothes. It’s better than sleeping or watching the endless loop of news. Whatever it took to calm her mind. What do I do? Our cell phones no longer work. All lines are being used to relay the emergency messages. Texting has ceased. The internet still works so I troll it constantly for new information and run on the treadmill. Suddenly stamina seems important.
I push the curtain back and peek outside. Liza waits on the back step and I open the door quickly, pulling her inside.
“Did anyone see you?” I asked, searching the yard.
“No,” she said. “No one is out. Not even the police.”
“Is it scary out there?”
She shrugs and we walk up to my room. Behind the closed, locked door she says, “It’s just weird. Quiet. Strange. I had to get out of my house. I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“Me too,” I agree. “Have you seen the others? Olivia or Matt?” Matt lives two doors down from Liza. She would have stopped there first.
She blinks and looks to the side. “Not Olivia. But yeah, I’ve seen Matt. He said they came and took Olivia and her family away.”
“Oh, my God, who?”
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