The Trip

by Tim Morgan

  They tried to find dry clothes in their panniers—they were still waterproof and hadn’t leaked yet. Meghan ducked into one tent, Dave and Chris in the other. Chris looked over to see Dave with a pair of socks in his hand.

  “What are you doing?” Chris asked.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” Dave asked. “I’m getting dressed.”

  “No, I mean with the socks.”

  “I want a dry pair of socks.”

  “Dude, your sneakers are soaking wet. You’re gonna waste a perfectly good pair of dry socks.”

  Dave sighed. “Mind your own business, okay?”

  “What’s up your ass?” Chris snapped.

  “My fried cell phone,” Dave shot back.

  “Dude, get over the cell phone. And all I’m trying to say is conserve anything you’ve got that’s clean and dry. We don’t know when we’re going to get to wash our clothes.”

  They stared at one another a minute. Dave unzipped his pannier and threw his socks back in. “You happy now?”

  “You’ll thank me for it,” Chris said.

  “Thank you. Thank you for talking me into this stupid fucking trip.”

  “Hey!” Chris shouted, “Don’t give me that shit! If I knew this was going to happen, you think I’d have come out here?”

  “I don’t care about you!” Dave said. “I’m talking about me. I should’ve stayed home.”

  The flap unzipped. Meghan poked her head in. “None of us saw this coming,” she said, “If we don’t stick together, we’re never going to get home.”

  Dave stood next to Chris, hands in his pockets. “I take that back,” he said. “It’s been a sucky day.”

  “This is just the beginning of the sucky days,” Chris said.

  “We’re good?” Dave asked.

  “We’re good.” Chris said. They gently punched knuckles together.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  If anyone is out there, we’re heading home. We should be in Billerica sometime early tomorrow. Can’t write much; internet slow, battery weak. Talk soon.

  They arrived in Billerica at a little after eight in the morning. The air was cool and crisp and the leaves were just starting to turn color. As they passed by Route 3 they had to pick their way through the maze of cars. Dave looked out over the overpass; both directions were jammed with cars as far as he could see. They didn’t talk as they rode.

  There weren’t as many cars on Boston Road, but there was a lot of trash blowing in the wind. They stopped at the Treble Cove Plaza strip-mall and stared at the remains of the Market Basket.

  “There may be food in there,” Meghan said.

  “Could be zombies, too.” Dave reached into his pannier. He took out the pistol. One bullet. We’ve got one bullet left. Please don’t let there be any zombies in there.

  “Let’s not go too far inside.”

  They stepped in through the smashed front window. Glass crunched beneath their feet. There was no electricity; the stink of rotted food filled the air. Meghan put her hand over her mouth. “Ugh,” she said, “smells like rotten fish.”

  As they walked past the row of looted cash registers Dave grabbed a pack of cigarettes and stuck them in his pocket.

  “What’re you doing?” Meghan asked. “You don’t smoke.”

  “I’m gonna start,” Dave said.

  They stole into the store. The only sound was the echo of their footsteps. Most of the shelves had already been looted. There were some boxes of snack cakes on the floor that had been trampled. They picked through the trash to find anything without a broken package.

  “We should check further back,” Meghan said. “Maybe there’s more in the back of the store.”

  “There could be zombies back there,” Dave whispered. “We should stay out here—we could get cornered in there, and we only have one bullet.”

  The only other things they found were a few cans of soup. They made their way back to the street with their booty in hand. Dave walked backwards, pistol ready, watching the shadows in the store for any sign of a zombie.

  Meghan unclipped her GPS and put it into her pannier. “I don’t think we’ll need this anymore,” she said.

  Outside they devoured the snack cakes in silence. Meghan looked at Dave as he licked the plastic wrap, trying to get every last crumb. She realized she was doing the same thing. What’s happening to us?

  They rode along Boston Road, past the remains of the Ford dealer. “Is it me, or does that look the same as when we left?” Meghan asked.

  “It looks the same,” Dave said. His voice was flat, without humor.

  Meghan nodded.

  They took a right at what was left of the McDonald’s and turned down Bridle Road into Dave’s neighborhood. Dave froze as they turned down his street. Meghan gasped.

  They saw it from the opposite end of the street. Dave’s house—the house where he grew up, was burned to the ground. Charred beams and paneling marked the outline of where the house once stood.

  Meghan followed Dave. He stopped at the street and stared at the house for a long time. “Dave, I’m so sorry.”

  Dave turned. He held onto Meghan and let out a wail as he burst into tears. “Mom! Dad! Joey! No! Oh, God no!”

  “It’s okay,” Meghan said, “Look—their car isn’t here.”

  Dave choked back snot. “It’s not?”

  “No, look. It’s not in the driveway. They weren’t here when this happened. I think they got away.”

  “I hope so.” Dave cried a few more minutes. He got himself back together, but still had tears streaming down his face.

  They rode along River Street with the Concord River on their left and the streets lined with abandoned houses. The grass was waist-high; most of the windows were shattered. Some houses had bloody handprints on the exterior walls. They could hear moaning coming from one house as they approached River Street.

  They saw the road was jammed with cars as they approached the corner of River and Bridle. “I wonder what happened,” Meghan said.

  “Good question,” Dave replied. The doors were open, batteries long dead. No sign of the people who fled their cars. Just empty metal hulks with bloody smears on their paint.

  Meghan closed her eyes and shook her head as they rode through clouds of flies. The smell of death hung heavy in the air. “Watch yourself,” she said. “Could be zombies in the cars.”

  They kept as far from the cars as they could—which wasn’t much—but it was a little more than an arm’s length. At least if anything is in one of these cars, Meghan thought, it’ll need to work to get us.

  After snaking through the wreckage they got to the intersection of Bridle and River. The convenient store on the corner had been gutted by fire. They could see jammed cars stretching to their right, up River Street toward the highway. Everyone had been heading toward the center of town.

  “There’s your problem,” Dave said as they rounded the corner. Jersey barriers blocked River Street at the bridge. Parked behind the bridge were two Humvees, with their machineguns still mounted and pointing skyward. The ground was littered with bodies, five or six deep, and the bodies were covered with flies and maggots. The unmistakable stench of zombies hung in the air like a sickening fog.

  Meghan coughed, pulling her shirt over her nose and mouth. “Ugh, this is awful,” she said. They picked their way through the bodies, between the barriers. She saw a couple of rifles on the ground behind the barriers, in long-dried pools of blood. Scraps of uniforms. A knife. Parts of bodies covered in maggots. Clouds of buzzing flies.

  They crossed the bridge. On the other side River Street was smeared with blood and rotting meaty bits for a good hundred feet. The road curved gently and ran up a hill; it wasn’t very big and after the ride it didn’t pose much of a challenge to them. The walls of the houses in this part of town were smeared with bloody handprints and there were no cars on the road.

  Meghan gasped as they arrived at the high school. The parking lot was jammed with cars, mil
itary trucks, Humvees, buses. One bus had been turned completely on its side; the Humvees had their doors torn clean off.

  “Oh my God,” Meghan said.

  Dave sternly looked around. “They were trying to evacuate,” he said. I think that’s Sebrina’s car. And Terry’s truck. And that car over there—I think that’s Mr. Stiles’ car.

  The doors to the school were pulled right off their hinges.

  “We have to check,” Dave said, “Maybe someone’s alive in there!”

  “You thought Market Basket was bad? That could be full of zombies,” Meghan said. “We need to stay away!”

  “That’s Mr. Stiles’ car! He could be alive!”

  “Dave . . . ” Meghan pleaded.

  “I’m calling a vote,” Dave said. He took his helmet off and tossed his reflector in.

  Meghan tossed her reflector in. Dave’s red triangle came out.

  “That settles it,” he said. “We have to check!”

  They parked their bikes by the River Street entrance. “I don’t know about this,” Meghan said.

  Dave unzipped his pannier and took out the pistol. “We’ve got one bullet,” he said “Let’s make it count.”

  Inside the foyer the floor was smeared with dried blood. The walls bore bloody smears and chips—Meghan guessed they were bullet holes. Just up the corridor there was a makeshift barricade of desks and tables and filing cabinets that was swept up by some kind of tsunami and tossed aside. Buried under the remains of the barricade was a body in camouflage that still held its rifle.

  They passed Mr. Stiles’ room. Dave looked in through the window. Nothing. They kept walking deeper into the building. They caught a glimpse of the athletic field out back. Two big helicopters—the two-main-rotor ones that sometimes flew by—were parked on the grass, rotors rocking gently in the wind. Behind them was the smashed remains of a third helicopter, charred by fire.

  The corridors were something out of a nightmare, the walls smeared with blood. Bodies, some with gaping wounds and staring eyes. Some just fragments of what used to be a human being. One of them looked familiar—was that Emily Lancaster? She was in my homeroom! Oh God, oh God, this is so screwed up.

  As they got closer to the new building Dave held up his hand. He sniffed the air.

  “You smell that?”

  Meghan took a deep breath through her nose.

  “Zombies!” Meghan grabbed Dave’s arm. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “Okay,” Dave agreed.

  They made their way back to the exit when Dave heard something. Faint, far away. Footsteps.

  Dave looked at Meghan. She gripped his arm tighter. They stole down the hall, rounded the corner back toward the River Street entrance.

  Standing in the entryway, silhouetted by the sunlight outside, was a woman’s figure. She shuffled awkwardly, as if dazed. Dave squinted. He recognized something about her—her hair, the shape of her body. The butterflies on the seat of her well-filled jeans.

  “Sebrina?” Dave called. Why did I say that? he thought.

  Meghan tried to hush him, but it was too late.

  Sebrina turned. Her posture changed and she let out a long, low moan as she broke into a run toward them.

  Dave pushed Meghan to the side soon as he realized Sebrina’s right eye and half her throat was missing. He tried to bring the pistol up but was too slow. Sebrina slammed into him, knocking the pistol from his hand.

  They tumbled backward. Dave instinctively grabbed Sebrina’s hands; she leaned in and snapped at him with dead teeth. The stench was overpowering and Dave had all he could do to keep from puking. He let go of Sebrina’s hands and grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her.

  “Sebrina!” he shouted, “Sebrina! It’s me, Dave! Don’t do this!”

  Sebrina answered by snapping her jaws together. She hissed, cold hands gripping Dave’s shirt, her eyes fixated on his neck.

  Dave pushed against her with all his might. Damn, she’s stronger than she looks! My arms are burning—I can’t hold her off forever! He closed his eyes as Sebrina hissed, her cold rancid breath making him gag, cold slime dripping on his skin. “No! No! No! No!” he shouted. “Meghan! Run!”

  Meghan rolled over, amazed at how fast Sebrina was. She scanned the floor—her eyes found the pistol. She grabbed it. “Hang on, Dave!” she shouted. Meghan raised the pistol. Single action, I need to cock it first.

  Meghan pulled the hammer back. She tried to level her sights on Sebrina. No! I could hit Dave!

  Sebrina pulled herself ever closer to Dave. He wailed.

  No time! Meghan ran up behind Sebrina. “God forgive me!”

  Meghan jammed the pistol against the back of Sebrina’s head and pulled the trigger. The top of her head disintegrated and she stopped moving. Dave threw her motionless corpse off him as Meghan dropped the pistol.

  “Are you okay?” Meghan asked, “Did she bite you?”

  Dave didn’t answer.

  “Dave! Did she bite you?”

  Dave shook his head.

  Meghan threw an arm under Dave’s shoulders. He was shaking. “Come on!” she shouted. They half-ran to the nurse’s office. Meghan looked through the cabinets—found half a bottle of hand sanitizer and some bandages. She pumped a generous amount on a handful of bandages and wiped slime from Dave’s quivering face.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “You’re all right, she didn’t get you. You’re okay.”

  Dave grabbed Meghan and held her tighter than he ever held her before.

  “I was so scared, I was so scared,” Dave said.

  “I know. So was I. That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” Meghan said. “Dave, that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Dave was still quivering.

  “Dave,” Meghan said, “Dave, stay with me, okay? We need to get out of here. There may be more of them. We need to get out of here now.”

  “Yeah,” Dave said, “let’s get out of here. Where are we going?”

  “My house,” Meghan said, “We’ll go to my house, and we’ll build a fire in the fireplace, and we’ll have some soup.”

  Dave rose. “Soup. That’d be nice.”

  “It will,” Meghan said.

  “I’m tired,” Dave said.

  “Me too,” Meghan answered. No, Dave, not now! We’re too close!

  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “We’re almost there! Don’t quit on me now!”

  They pedaled up to the center and headed south on Boston Road, dodging the wrecked cars. They passed the old nursery—now overgrown with weeds and untrimmed shrubs—an abandoned gas station and the farm stand and turned down Wyman Road to Meghan’s house.

  The neighborhood was in pretty good shape; not so many bloody handprints, not so many abandoned cars. Meghan hopped off her bike and tried the front door. Locked. She ran over to the garage. Be there, be there. She found the lockbox and entered her combination. The box popped open—and the key was there!

  She grabbed the key and ran back up front. Dave looked pale, his lower lip was trembling, and he was covered with sweat. She unlocked and opened the door. Dave staggered inside as Meghan went back to the bikes for their gear. She carried it all inside in one trip, surprising herself.

  Meghan flicked the lights—no power. Dave sat down on the couch.

  “We made it.” He said.

  “We did.” Meghan sat next to Dave, cradled his head in her hands. She kissed his forehead. “We made it home!”

  “We did,” he said quietly. “What now?”

  “We’ll figure that out,” Meghan said, “We need to survive the winter. Then we can figure out what we’re going to do.”

  “I’m so tired,’ Dave said. “I want to sleep.”

  “Me too,” Meghan said.

  They clung to one another. “Are we safe?” Dave said.

  “I think so.”

  Dave fell asleep quickly but Meghan couldn’t. She had to see the rest of the house, to make sure nob
ody was there. Meghan’s parents’ and Karen’s bedroom doors were open. The dresser drawers were pulled out and ransacked, as if they had packed in a hurry.

  The door to Meghan’s bedroom was closed. She opened it slowly. Inside she could see Rocket’s food and water dishes. They were empty. The faint smell of death hung in the air. Meghan pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside.

  Rocket was curled up in the middle of Meghan’s bed, his face toward the door, as if waiting for her to come home. Meghan walked in slowly, sat by Rocket’s side and stroked his fur. Hot tears ran down her face. “I’m so sorry, Rocket,” she whispered. Meghan gently closed Rocket’s eyes. She sat by her dog and cried for a long time. Rocket is cold, this house is cold, and I’m cold. I can’t take any more cold.

  When the tears stopped Meghan went to the back door. She opened it slowly, listened a few minutes. She stole outside to the wood pile and grabbed a couple of logs as a cold wind stung at her cheeks.

  She set the logs in the fireplace. Then she fished around in her pannier for one of the flares. Meghan read the instructions and lit the flare, tossing it on top of the logs. That ought to warm us up, she thought.

  The sun was low when Dave woke. He felt a lot better but was still weak. Meghan had a fire going, a small pot just outside the fire. She turned to Dave and smiled. “I was worried about you,” she said.

  Dave shifted, sat up. The fire was so warm, so comforting. “How’d you start that?”

  “One of the flares we dug out of that plane in Milan. It was in the bottom of your pack.”

  “Won’t that attract zombies?”

  Meghan poured soup into a coffee mug and handed it to Dave. “I don’t care.” She poured herself a cup and sat next to him. They sipped their soup together in silence.