The Trip

by Tim Morgan

  Meghan felt guilty about not posting anything on her blog, but she really didn’t have time. The streets were jammed with every kind of vehicle imaginable: cars, trucks, motorcycles, dirt bikes, trikes, quads, dune buggies. People were on foot and riding bicycles and some were even riding horses. And in the distance were thousands of people on foot.

  It was surreal, seeing this strange convoy stretch for miles in either direction, moving along at a deliberate, lumbering pace. There was the occasional military truck or Humvee on the sides of the road, soldiers in sunglasses and body armor with machineguns waving people on.

  “Just a little further.”

  “Single file, please.”

  “Keep it moving, please.”

  A little further on one of the Humvees had a speaker system attached to it. “If your vehicle runs out of fuel, pull it as far off the right side of the road as you can. Take what you can carry and continue on foot. We are not responsible for any possessions left in abandoned vehicles.” The faces all around them were concerned, broken, tired. Meghan couldn’t believe her eyes. This isn’t supposed to happen—not here, not in America.

  “If anyone in your group has a fever, cramps, rash, or a human bite wound they will be denied access to the Stillwater Protection Zone . . . ”

  Chris breathed a sigh of relief. His own achiness passed a couple days before, and he was still a long way from breaking out with a rash. Or so he hoped. He saw people boarding up their house, covering the windows on the first floor with plywood sheets. The pop-pop-pop of the nail guns was drowned out by the rumble of a passing military truck.

  Afternoon sun hammered down on them. Heat reflected up off the pavement and burned the skin on the tops of Chris’ cheeks. He took a sip from his water bottle and slogged on.

  “When we set out on this trip,” Dave said, “This isn’t what I had in mind.” He wiped sweat from his forehead and took a long drink.

  “Neither did we,” Meghan said.

  “Dude,” Chris said, “You ought to watch your water. You’re almost out and I don’t know when we’re going to get more.”

  Dave nodded. “I know, but it’s so damn hot.” He knew how fast he was going through his water. He wished they could stop and actually eat something, but the pace was relentless. They were plodding along, not having any idea how far they had gone or how far was left.

  He stopped thinking about how bad it sucked when two Humvees went tearing by on either side of the road, soldiers manning machineguns on their roofs. In a field off to their right Dave could see three more racing toward the end of the line. The sound of distant gunfire broke out. Dave looked back. Smoke was rising from something in the distance.

  “What’s going on?” Meghan asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Chris said. “Keep riding. I think that’s it up ahead.”

  There was a ditch carved in the ground. On the far side was razor wire, as far as Dave could see. This must be the entrance, he thought. They were right behind a family in an Outback.

  They waited in line for hours. Soldiers drove back and forth, ordering everyone to keep moving. The car ahead of them pulled forward. The three of them followed.

  The sun was starting to set when they made it to the gate. The Outback pulled to the right. Soldiers waved Meghan and the guys to the left a few minutes later.

  “We need to get in there! I have a baby!” the woman driving the Outback shouted.

  “Ma’am, we have our orders,” the soldier said. His voice quivered a bit when he spoke.

  “He has an ear infection for God’s sake! If I didn’t tell you, you never would have known!”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t let you in if someone in your group has a fever. You can pull off over there and when his infection clears up, we’ll try to get you in.”

  “It could be too late then!” the woman shouted. “Those things are coming!”

  “Ma’am?” the solder next to Meghan asked. She turned to face him.

  “Yes?” Meghan asked.

  “How many in your party?”

  “Three.”

  “Any fever, rashes, or human bite wounds?”

  “No.”

  “Firearms?”

  “No.”

  “Illegal drugs or drug paraphernalia?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Just the bicycles and what you’ve got in those packs?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll need to check those packs.”

  “Go ahead.”

  The soldier opened their panniers. He looked inside, moved their stuff around and looked bored while he did it. He closed the panniers up when he finished.

  “Looks like you guys are good to go. Stay off to the left and let the cars stay to the right. You’ll be instructed where to go once you get inside the compound.” The soldier waved Dave and Chris in.

  Meghan looked over to the Outback. The woman was crying as she turned and pulled out of the line. A pickup truck packed with people pulled up next.

  “What are you, Dial-a-Ride?” the soldier asked

  It was dark when they finally made their way into the compound. They set the tent up under the harsh glare of electric lights. The air was filled with the smell of diesel exhaust mixed with port-o-potties. The dust kicked up by the cars, trucks, and boots hung in a dry cloud just over the ground. The rumble of gunfire and bass thud of distant explosions echoed all night. The gunfire and explosions were awfully close; the ground shook when a tank rolled past.

  The three of them huddled in a tent meant for two, Meghan between Dave and Chris. They held each other. Meghan cried. Dave trembled. Chris looked empty.

  “Why is this happening?” Meghan whispered.

  Chris shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” Dave said. “I don’t know . . . ”

  THIRTY-THREE

  We’ll be in Springfield midday tomorrow. I don’t know how but we made it. We’re going to try to spend the night there then do the last hundred miles over two days.

  Both of us are exhausted. We’re not bothering to keep watch at night anymore. We’re constantly hungry. It’s so tough to find food. There’s no running water anymore—hasn’t been for a couple days. So we find water—a stream, river, pond—dig a hole a couple feet away, and drink that. We can’t start a fire because there are so many zombies. The closer we get to home the more of them we see.

  Right now we just want to get home.

  Dave didn’t want to go through Springfield. The city was huge, probably the biggest one they’d have to ride through the rest of the way home. The sheer size left plenty of room for zombies to hide—and there were zombies all right. More than he’d ever seen before. They jammed the road behind them, and with the junk clogging the roads it was tough to get any speed up.

  And, of course, there were the mines. Dozens of them scattered so tightly in places Dave was amazed they didn’t set any off in their mad run from the zombies. The only thing on his mind wasn’t the hunger in his gut, it wasn’t the feeling his bladder was going to explode, it wasn’t the fire in his legs. It was that he had to ride—fast—faster than he’d ever ridden before—and he had to do it without hitting any mines.

  He zipped along, Meghan at his side, racing through the rubble, plotting a clear path through the mines while dodging grasping hands. They shot past on either side of a wrecked minivan as an explosion erupted behind them, the shockwave rattling their insides and raining pebbles down on them.

  Dave felt the shockwave but didn’t hear the explosion. The only thing he heard was his own labored breathing, his only feeling the pounding blood in his temples. He didn’t feel concern, he didn’t feel fear, he didn’t feel anything. He and Meghan moved as one with one purpose: escape.

  Meghan started a tight turn around a corner. Dave followed a little wider, dodging between two mines, their bright yellow skin almost beckoning to them. How easy would it be to hit one and just be done with it . . .

  No! Not here, not now. We’ve
come too far to just give up. You’ve been fighting all your life—you fought to get into Berkeley, you fought to come on this trip, you fought to get to this point. You’re a hundred miles from home. You can’t give up now! She looked over at Dave, wondered if she shared the terror on his face, wondered if he’d make it if he had to go on alone. Dammit; stop thinking like that!

  They finally made their way to a stretch of clear road. No mines, no wreckage, no zombies.

  “Ride!” Dave shouted.

  They gave it everything they could as two explosions erupted behind them, briefly drowning out the moaning from the horde.

  “Meghan, look out!”

  Meghan caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. She tried to swerve as a zombie rushed her from the right. Its hand caught hold of one of her panniers. The swerve slowed her a little too much—she came to a stop almost instantly. The zombie was bringing another hand in, hissing through broken teeth. He was an old man, his white beard stained brown-red with clotted blood. He let out a groan that sounded faintly like, “Help me.”

  Meghan acted without thought. She unclipped one side of the panniers. The zombie instinctively grabbed at it with his other hand. Dave was there a second later, brick in hand. He rode straight at the zombie, swerving at the last possible second as he threw the brick at the zombie’s face. It connected and made a strange noise Meghan had never heard before. She saw a flash of red around the zombie’s face as it let go of her bike. She stood on the pedals and rode like mad.

  She looked back in time to see the charging horde envelop the old man. Did he ask me for help?

  They rode on for a while. It was about noon before they stopped to catch their breath. Meghan got off her bike and sat, her head between her legs. Dave turned away from her and took a leak right there in the middle of the street.

  “That guy back there,” Meghan said, “he was still alive.”

  “No he wasn’t,” Dave said. “He was a zombie. He was covered with blood.”

  Meghan looked up at him, tears in her eyes. “He asked for help. He was alive.”

  Dave shook his head. “That’s impossible,” he said, “he was dead. Dead like the rest of them.” His voice wavered as he spoke because he wasn’t really sure. He saw someone grabbing Meghan, there were zombies on their tail, and if he didn’t do something they both would have died right there. If that guy was alive it was his own fault for trying to stop them, he should have minded his own business. If he was dead he was a zombie, and it’s either us or them. I’m not letting anything happen to Meghan, not on my watch.

  He didn’t know why he was even thinking about this—that guy wasn’t alive, he was a zombie, and zombies aren’t alive, they’re dead. So I hit a dead guy in the face with a brick because he was going to kill Meghan. So what’s the problem? The problem is I don’t know what the fuck is going on anymore because I can’t tell the living from the dead, and I want to say I don’t care but I do.

  Meghan rose. She folded her arms across her chest and looked at the ground. Goosebumps rose on her skin. “Did we just kill that guy?”

  “We didn’t kill anyone,” Dave said. “He was dead. Like everyone else in this town. Like everyone else on the planet for all we know. And if he was alive he shouldn’t have grabbed you like that, he should have minded his own business and maybe he’d still be alive. But he wasn’t alive, he was dead.” Dave paused a second. “Why didn’t we stay with Charlie? We should have stayed with Charlie, then Chris would be alive, and we’d be safe, and that guy would either be alive or dead and we wouldn’t know the difference.” Tears streamed down his face. “I hope he was dead,” he whispered. “None of this makes any sense.”

  “It doesn’t,” Meghan said. She went to Dave’s side. They held each other and cried together.

  “Is this it? Is this how the world ends?” Dave asked.

  “I guess it is,” Meghan said.

  “This blows.”

  Meghan managed to smile.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “The way you said ‘this blows.’ It was kind of cute.”

  “Well, it does!”

  They parted. Meghan nodded. “It sure does,” she said. “Come on, let’s go home.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Washington, DC (Reuters). Rioting broke out in cities on both coasts as the Mumbai virus tightened its grip on the United States. Florida, Georgia, and Tennessee activated National Guard troops in an attempt to restore order, bringing the total number of states declaring emergencies to 26. Firearm dealers reported empty shelves as the worst disaster in human history spread across the world.

  The President, speaking from a secure location, says the government is doing all it can to restore order. “This is an emergency of unprecedented proportions,” says the President. “Effective immediately, I am placing the continental United States under martial law. I do not take these measures lightly, and I assure the American people that this order will be lifted as soon as possible once the situation stabilizes.”

  Some law enforcement analysts see the order as too little, too late. Sources in Los Angeles and New York—prior to the quarantine and communications blackout—confirm that police and military forces were overwhelmed by panicked mobs numbering in the hundreds and more chillingly, hordes of infected numbering in the tens of thousands. Officials fear a repeat of the Beijing assault, when waves of zombies numbering in the millions stormed the city just before contact was lost.

  The news is not all grim: there have been scattered reports—perhaps a dozen or so worldwide—of people with natural resistance to the virus. “With any virus, there will be a segment of the population—usually three to five percent—who will have natural immunity to the virus,” says Dr. Christopher Pasko of the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. “We are working on identifying these people when possible since this could be the first step toward an effective vaccine for the virus.”

  Government officials are urging everyone to keep a two to three week supply of food, water, and medicine as well as a solar or crank-powered radio to listen for evacuation orders or government instructions.

  We were eating breakfast yesterday when we heard the news about Boston going under quarantine. Dad’s lucky he got out before they closed off the city. Did Uncle Bob get out too? How’s Karen—is she OK? Do we know anyone else who’s come down with the virus?

  Things out here have changed. When we started people would ask us where we came from, where we were going. They’d offer us drinks, or directions, or they’d let us camp in their yards for the night. Now nobody talks to anyone. They don’t make eye contact, and there are a lot of Army trucks on the roads. They’re full of soldiers who sometimes wave to us.

  Every time I see a story about how bad things are back home, I think maybe this trip wasn’t such a good idea. Everyone is saying this could last a couple weeks; I hope things are back to normal by the time we get to Seattle.

  The day dawned gray and overcast. It rained the night before and there were puddles all over the camp. Dave kept his cell phone clipped to his waist like he usually did. They were on their way back from breakfast when a Humvee came roaring by just a few feet away.

  Dave jumped out of the way. His foot hit a rock and he landed cockeyed, losing his balance. He stumbled a few steps and caught himself—not before his cell phone popped out of its cradle and tumbled to the ground.

  “Dave!” Chris shouted.

  “Your phone!” Meghan said.

  The phone disappeared beneath the surface of the puddle. “No, no, no!” Dave shouted. He stuck his hand in and fished around a moment before bringing the phone to the surface. It was crackling and popping and the display was flashing like something in an old sci-fi movie.

  “Dammit,” Dave muttered.

  “Maybe you can dry it out,” Meghan said.

  “I doubt it,” Chris said. “Listen to it.”

  “It’s hot,” Dave said. He held the phone at arm’s length, not sure whether he w
anted to clip it back into its cradle or not.

  “Put it down,” Meghan said. “You’re going to get electrocuted!”

  “He won’t electrocute himself,” Chris said. “It could catch fire, though.”

  “This sucks!” Dave said. Why am I such a goddamned klutz?

  “We still have the laptop,” Meghan said. She put an arm around Dave, who looked like he was about to cry. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s just a phone.”

  They walked along, their shoes filled with muddy water and sinking an inch or so into the mud. So much mud, Meghan thought. It’s everywhere: in the tent; in my shoes; in my underwear. The tent did a decent job of keeping the rain from dripping on them, but it sucked at keeping water from seeping up through the ground. Last night wasn’t too bad—the floor of the tent was damp, which made their sleeping bags damp, which made them damp—but at least there weren’t any puddles in the tent. It’s amazing how cold it gets in the summer when you’re sleeping in a damp sleeping bag.

  As they got back to the tent the clouds were burning off and patches of blue sky were poking through. “The sun’s coming out,” Chris said. “We ought to dry our stuff.”

  Meghan nodded. “Come on, Dave, give me a hand.”

  “Okay,” Dave said. He looked at his phone and held it up to his ear. “It’s not crackling anymore.”

  “Is it still hot?” Chris asked.

  “A little bit.”

  “Better leave it outside. We don’t want to burn down the tent.”

  “Yeah, that’s just what we need,” Dave said. “Dave fried his cell phone. Dave burned the tent down. Dave—“

  “Needs to stop feeling sorry for himself, and help dry our stuff,” Meghan interjected. I love him to death, but the poor guy can be so hard on himself.

  They pulled the sleeping bags out of the tent and unzipped them, laying them over the top of the rain fly. Once the sun poked through the temperature skyrocketed, from a muggy mid seventies to an unbearable 90 degrees. In the morning Chris had to deal with the cold, the dampness, and the achiness in his stomach. At least the achiness went away after breakfast, but now there was the heat and the humidity. All I want to do is find a dry spot to plunk my ass down and dry out. Is that much to ask?