by Kate Myers
“The bridge was out when we came through,” I add.
“I think they came from a different direction, didn’t you, Sanchez?” Quinn questions.
He begins to speak, but I interject.
“There are two entryways on the property.”
“Oh, that makes sense.”
I find myself speaking, unable to stop. “How do you know so much about what’s going on?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“You just seem super official, I don’t know. I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but you’re incredibly knowledgeable about what’s happening.”
Sanchez responds, “I understand, sir. I’m military, or, well, ex-military. Honorable discharge.”
“How does that translate to you knowing what’s going on, though?”
Quinn stumbles over a branch, nearly falling down, and I reach out to steady her.
She mouths, “Thank you.”
Sanchez speaks, “I’m uncomfortable speaking in this capacity. I have already briefed your father on the questions he posed and would rather we discuss this at a different time and place. You never know who’s listening.” He motions to the landscape around us.
And with this, I’m the uncomfortable one. I don’t know why it’s hitting me right this moment, but why do we trust this guy? We know next to nothing about him, mainly that he brought Wiley to us, and is ‘military.’ My heart beats harder, thudding loudly in my ears. My mind races, and just as I’m about to lose my cool, Sanchez speaks again.
“We have the same enemy.”
Quinn states, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Sanchez lets out a small laugh. “Yes, ma’am, that is correct.”
We walk in silence farther from safety, I assume either with our own thoughts or from focusing on the terrain, maybe even a little of both. I still can’t help but feel like Sanchez is hiding something, and maybe it’s none of my business, we’re all hiding something. But will his something hurt us, put us in danger? Will it stop us from helping Skylar?
I have to believe I’m overreacting, that I’m thinking way too much into this, because he rescued Wiley, and why would he have done that if he was going to hurt us? Why would he offer my dad information and offer his own resources to support us? Maybe he only helped Wiley to get to us, to get to my dad. He did say that my dad was known to The Resistance to be a great chemical engineer. What does he know that we don’t, though?
All this thinking about who Sanchez might be or his intentions has me questioning my dad, and myself. I felt so oblivious about Quinn when she told me a bit of her truth, and I’m sure there’s so much more to her than we know. Maybe there’s so much more to all of us that we haven’t said.
I killed a child. I know I’ve killed more than this one child, but I keep coming back to her, to the girl who was still in grade school, helpless but violent and deranged. She will never know her future, and although I understand the virus is what took that from her, I can’t help but feel like it was my fault for making it so certain. I had no other choice; we couldn’t get away. It was them or us, and Skylar and I both had to make that decision.
I’ll never forget that moment, feeling the weight of the trigger, the sound of the gun crackling through the air. Seeing her body hit the ground as the life left it. Falling apart with Skylar’s arms around me, doing her best to hold me together.
She promised me she wouldn’t tell them what I did. I don’t know why I made her promise, but she did. Maybe because if I spoke about it, if I told my dad and Wiley, it would somehow make it more real, and the pieces that I was trying to keep together would all fall out of place? I had to stay strong, I had to be whole for Skylar. Little did I know, she was what got me through that.
And she’s going to be the one that gets me through this. I have to do this for her. I will save her, I don’t know how, or if it’s even possible, but I promised I’d protect her, and I won’t let her down. If I lose her, I’ll lose myself. I don’t want a world without her, especially this insanely screwed-up world.
A warm touch startles me, and I’m surprised to see Quinn’s hand on my elbow.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, sorry, I got lost in thought there for a moment.”
“I understand, but try to stay with me here, don’t leave me alone with this guy.”
She lets out a small laugh, but I know she’s more serious than she leads on.
Sanchez walks ahead, with nearly fifty feet between us. Changing courses slightly, he peers over his shoulder and motions with his rifle to follow him. Quinn and I pick up our pace and catch up to him.
“We’re almost there, only a little farther.” He motions again, this time up ahead.
The forest all appears the same, tree after tree after tree. Minimal paths mark the ground, random bushes and overgrown grass fill the voids. The ground is drying from all the rain we’ve had lately, although it’s still on the softer side. I look ahead to where he motioned, and, in the distance, the fender of what I’m assuming is our vehicle pokes out.
I brace myself for what’s to come and say a silent prayer that everything will be okay, that it will all go to plan.
We’ll take the vehicle straight to town.
We’ll go to the clinic.
We’ll get the supplies.
We’ll try to find a body along the way.
We’ll stay alive.
10
Quinn
There is a very real possibility that I could die today. And even though it would suck, it’s something I find myself not totally terrified of. Don’t get me wrong, death is a scary thing, the finality of it, but so is living. Living knowing all that has been lost, and suffering through a constant internal battle of never being able to change the past.
I would never be able to do it myself, but given the circumstance, if I had to die for the greater good, I would face it without fear. And there’s a sort of calm in that, in accepting whatever life, or death, throws at you.
I know I’m expendable. No matter how Max tries to reassure me, it doesn’t make it any less true. Keith is capable of doing everything I’ve done, and all I seem to be is an extra mouth to feed. I don’t want to be a burden to them, but it’s difficult to see it any other way.
Cynthia was my rock, securing me firmly with her kindness and assurances, helping me wade through the endless cycle of self-loathing. I was content, perhaps even happy, with her. It’s not right to need someone so desperately, but we were opposites that attracted, and her absence is like losing this gigantic chunk of myself.
I get a glimpse of that same thing with Max, the way he looks at Skylar, the constant determination he has to stay by her side and begging her to return to him. I may not know their story, but I know enough to understand she means the world to him, and that if he lost her, it would open up an infinite void I’m all too familiar with.
Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to help him, to help her. The world doesn’t deserve to continue to lose great loves. Their family has already lost so much. Keith briefly but painfully told me about losing his wife, Max’s mother, unexpectedly. The fleeting story paved the way to my understanding of Max’s intense love, only being natural, considering his parents.
If I stay determined, focus on helping him save her from this consuming illness, use this as a distraction from the constant agony, perhaps there is hope for me. Cynthia would have wanted that. So I’ll put on my happy face, wear this situation like a bandage over a seeping wound, and pray it gets me to the other side of this torment.
11
Max
I shift uncomfortably in the rear seat of Sanchez’s Toyota. Quinn called shotgun, totally catching me off guard. Half the time she doesn’t say anything, and then sometimes she surprises me with her sense of humor. I can’t help but think it’s all part of some act, that she’s desperately trying to hold her shit together. But then part of me thinks that maybe she’s better at handling things than I am. Maybe I have somethi
ng to learn from her.
She looks to me kindly and offers a smile. “You okay? You’re not going to get car sick, are you?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m good.”
Sanchez chimes in, “If you puke, you’re cleaning it up.”
“I’m not going to puke, guys. I’m fine.”
“Do you know how to get to the clinic?” Sanchez asks.
“Yep, it’s not far at all. I think we only live like ten…maybe fifteen minutes outside of town.”
Quinn blurts, “Really? I thought we were farther out than that.”
“I’m saying town very loosely. ‘Town’ is like a dollar general and a gas station. We happened to luck out and there’s a small clinic. The guy who runs the place mostly does house calls for the elderly folk who still live around here and can’t travel to the city.”
We come to an intersection, not a car in sight. The orange glow of morning light bounces across the farm fields, corn already past the knee-high-by-fourth-of-July requirement. We sit there for a second, and I catch a glimpse of Sanchez wide-eyed in the rearview mirror, waiting on my direction.
“Oh, sorry, turn left. Then it’s only up a way.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies—always so formal.
My mind wanders with purpose to whether or not we should be putting our trust in Sanchez. My gut tells me there’s something he’s simply not saying, something important. But I could be wrong. I was wrong about Quinn, I was wrong about my dad, I was wrong about Skylar. This thought of Skylar brings me back full force.
“Do you know what supplies you’ll need?”
Quinn shifts in her seat to face me, her seat belt digging into her neck awkwardly. “Yeah, I have a general idea of what I need, what I’m hoping is there, and the bare necessities. You said this is a little doctor’s office or something?”
“Yeah, it’s a decently small office, but the guy treated nearly everything. I think he even performs minor surgeries, although I have no idea if it was up to code.”
Quinn shakes her head. “We should be good then.”
“I hate to be this guy right now, but do we have a plan for this whole getting a body for my dad thing?”
Sanchez, hands on the wheel, attention on the road, replies, “And I hate to admit this out loud, but I think we’re going to have to wing it, improvise a bit.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Quinn adds.
“We’ll figure it out, ma’am.”
“You can just call me Quinn, no need for formalities.”
“Thank you, ma’am—err, sorry, Quinn.”
Approaching the town, Quinn and Sanchez exchange a smile. My gaze shifts anxiously across the tiny town, it’s barren and desolate nature both welcoming and downright creepy. Adelphi isn’t typically crowded by any means, but seeing it like this—empty—is unsettling.
Our SUV slows to a creep, and I point ahead. “The clinic is the last building on this block.”
Sanchez rolls up to the building and puts the vehicle into park, cutting the ignition.
We let out a collective deep breath, and Quinn breaks the silence.
“It appears we’re alone, that’s a plus.”
“I wouldn’t be so naïve. Always assume the worst but hope for the best.”
He’s either a wise man, or a smart-ass—I’m still working on figuring out which.
“We move as a team. You follow my lead, my direction. Do as I say, and we get through this without issue.”
Quinn nods and glances to me.
I nod in agreement. “Yes, sir.”
“All right, then, let’s go.”
Once we’ve all exited the vehicle, we walk the few feet to the front door of the clinic. Quinn tries to peak inside, but the glass is that one-way type, where you can see out but you can’t see in. So instead, she does a lousy job smashing her face to the front glass with no success. Sanchez wiggles the front door handle and confirms that it is locked.
He looks to me. “Keep an eye out, sir.” And with one swift movement, he lifts his rifle and forces the butt of it into the door’s window.
Glass shatters, and the large crashing sound has me certain that someone will hear, someone will come, and something bad is about to happen. But instead, we stand there in silence, letting the reverberations of what happened, happen. Nothing. No people, no bad things, only silence. A few seconds pass, what feels like forever, and a dog barks in the distance, startling us all.
I’m grateful it’s merely a dog, but then I’m struck by the sad realization that there are probably animals, people’s pets, all over the place that have no owners, no one to take care of them.
Quinn breaks the silence. “That’s sad.”
Sanchez, eyebrows furrowed in utter confusion, inquires, “Excuse me?”
“Oh, just, that dog. I hope he’s okay and he’s not starving to death or something.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sure he will be fine. Now here, continue keeping an eye out.”
He reaches his hand through the glass and opens the clinic’s front door. The door leads into a small corridor, where another door is located to get into the clinic.
One by one, we step into the corridor, still no commotion from outside. We settle into the small space and a foul odor fills my lungs. Rotten eggs, it definitely smells of rotten eggs.
I quickly cover my face. “Do you smell that?”
Sanchez, clear as day and totally unfazed, declares, “Death.”
“That’s what I thought, I just didn’t want to say it,” Quinn states.
“Oh, god, it’s gross.”
“That’s definitely something, or someone, decomposing. Yay med school.”
Sanchez insists, “Do your best to take your t-shirts and cover your mouth and nose. It’s only going to get worse inside, if that’s where it’s coming from.” He pauses, allowing us to cover ourselves accordingly. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He lets out a sigh, gives us a firm nod, and then breaks the glass of the remaining door with his rifle. “Let’s go.”
And just like that, we’re through the threshold of the clinic and swimming in a thick fog of death.
12
Max
I swallow the bile rising in my throat and press my t-shirt tighter around my nose and mouth. My eyes uncontrollably water, and I have to raise my right arm to wipe at them with my shirt sleeve. I scan the room, and it’s exactly as I remember.
My childhood consisted of a few trips here. Stitches in my left eyebrow from running straight into a tree branch during an epic game of hide-and-seek, resetting my shoulder the time I fell off the porch, that gnarly chunk of glass I accidentally stepped on in the yard that I had to have removed.
“I don’t think anyone is here,” Quinn affirms, muffled under the minimal protection of her forest-green shirt. “Follow me over here. I’m assuming there are supplies this way.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We make our way down the long narrow hallway, a few patient rooms on one side, offices on the other.
We reach the farthest room without issue, and I wonder if I worked myself up for no reason. Quinn stops in front of the door, which happens to be one of those half doors, I think it’s called a Dutch door—my grandparents had one on their front porch, and they often left it open in the spring and fall, and those perfect summer evenings, filling their house with such sweet, fresh air.
As I look past the door and into the room, there is nothing but darkness. The light is off, and not much natural illumination fills this space of the clinic; I think that’s typically preferred for these types of medical situations. Quinn places her hand gently on the door handle and looks from me to Sanchez.
Lifting his rifle and aiming into the dark room, he nods.
The breeze from the door being pushed open shoves a swift rotten-cabbage-like smell out and I fight the urge to vomit even more than earlier.
“What the…?”
Sanchez speaks, “Flip th
e light on, ma’am.”
Quinn reaches into the room blindly, feeling around on the wall, frantically trying to find the light switch. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, and when they do, I locate the cause of the horrid smell.
A man.
The man, actually.
The old guy, Dr. Lombardi, lying lifeless on the ground, slumped against the wall and the shelf. A syringe in one hand, a vial in the other. His body stiff, bloated, gray, and motionless.
Quinn takes a step forward, and Sanchez reaches an arm out to stop her.
“This is strange,” she emphasizes.
“What is, ma’am?” Sanchez replies.
“He hasn’t been dead long, a few days maybe.”
“How do you know?”
“The rate in which his body is decomposing, it leads me to believe this is sort of recent.” She kneels and tries to get a closer look at the vial in the man’s hands. “This appears to be a multi-dose influenza vaccine.” Continuing to cover her mouth and throat, she leans over the man. “He has multiple entry marks; I think he gave himself several doses.”
Sanchez clears his throat, something he does often before speaking. “One of the ways this virus was being spread was through vaccines. The vaccine supplies were easily accessible, which made it a likely target, along with the public water supply.”
Why does he know this?
“Ma’am, if you don’t mind, can you verify the supplies you need are here?” He nods toward the huge medical supply area.
“Yes, of course, sorry,” she agrees.
She seizes a box off the shelf, takes a small breath, and releases her shirt, freeing up her other hand to open the box, revealing face masks. She quickly puts one on and then hands one to me and Sanchez. “It’s not much, but at least it will give us our hands and reduce the number of breathable bacteria.”
“Thank you,” I say once the mask is secure on my face, the stretchy ear loops pulling slightly on my overgrown hair.