“Lots of possibilities. Her letter set in motion a chain of events I would give my own life to take back,” Matt said. “We had a good thing going out there and for a long time, at that. It was a good settlement. A settlement that had been in place since the beginning, and now it’s gone because she got a wild hair up her ass to all of a sudden be a mom again. It pisses me off in ways I can’t explain.”
Tiffany set her plate down and placed a sympathetic hand on Matt’s knee. “You seem like the type of man who prides himself on his every action, ensuring his pride isn’t tarnished and his ego’s kept in check, but only enough to not come off like a self-indulgent asshole. But the problem is, I see your pain, Matt. Your team does too. They won’t say anything to you. But I’ve got nothing to lose by telling you to stop. If you keep going down the path you’re headed, you’ll all die. I can tell you firsthand you’re making reckless decisions that’ll kill you at some point. So, ask yourself, why seek out the messenger? Why not just stop now? Take a new course of action and build a new life. Start over. The odds of your mother being where she said she was are slim to none.”
He caught a glimpse of Tiff’s smiled before he stared up at the American flag as little gusts of wind the night offered attempted to pick it up from its weakened, limp state and fly it proudly once again. It failed miserably with each attempt.
“My little brother, Michael. That’s why. This isn’t about keeping my ego in check or my mom and that damn letter. It’s about my brother. I left him when I shouldn’t have. I did nothing to combat her decision to send me away, and for that, he’s probably dead. But on the off-chance he’s still alive, still with her, I’d like to fix that wrong.”
“Sounds like you don’t want to feel guilty anymore to me, which is about as selfish as it gets. You’re going get your team killed over decade-old guilt?”
He admired her bravery for coming over to a stranger and telling him how it was. That took courage and confidence. But he didn’t appreciate it. He didn’t need someone who didn’t know to tell him how to survive and what was right and wrong or best for his team.
“Listen, I don’t need a life-lesson speech right now. I appreciate your concern, but we’re good. We’ll be out of here in the morning. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Tiff squeaked as Matt abruptly stood and walked away, leaving both his plate and her behind without any warning.
Tiffany paced around the cluttered inside of her camper. She had only tried to help Matt, warn him of the mistakes they were making and the route they were taking. But there was something else that bothered her. Not just this man and his crazy mission, but something about the woman and the boy. She had heard the name Michael before.
But where?
She repeated the name over and over again in her head. Michael, Michael, Michael. Where do I know that name? Denver! He said Denver. Who left Denver?
“No one did!” she said out loud.
She paced frantically, rubbing her face and her head abrasively. She pulled her hair back in a tight ponytail, then sat down on the floor and pushed around piles of files and paper that had the names of all the people they had encountered since going mobile.
Okay, think. Matt said he was from Virginia but had flown out to California before the outbreak. His mom and little brother stayed behind. Who have we picked up from the East Coast?
She continued to rifle through the years of faces, remembering most of them. Who they were, where they were from, and where they were going. She tried to place the name Michael, but it just wasn’t coming to her.
Why didn’t I get his mom’s name or his last name?
“Goddammit,” she huffed. “Who are you, Michael?”
Then it occurred to her. She hadn’t met Michael. No, she had never met a boy named Michael. But she had met a woman whose son had died, and his name had been Michael, and she’d been from Virginia. What were the odds her group had picked up a woman who happened to be Matt’s mom? The bigger question was, where had the woman gone, and should she tell Matt?
Tiffany closed her eyes and rubbed her eyelids and temples. The stress throbbed inside her head. Great, another headache. Not what I need right now.
What she needed was to think clearly and not let Matt’s problem become hers. But since when did she ever do that? It was what she did. She helped people. And Matt needed help. The problem was, he didn’t want it.
As she contemplated what to do, her fingers slowly slipped away from her eyes, and her head lolled to the side. The pounding of her brain against the inside of her skull weakened her. The ability to stay focused began to fade, and her breathing slowed. And as she processed memories and thoughts and concerns, she saw a piece of paper with a name on it.
A name she thought could quite possibly be Matt’s mother.
Next to it was written: Deceased by infection.
12
Zero Visibility
Chris danced around a campfire, telling dirty jokes to a group of men in Tiffany’s group. They laughed and spilled spirits as the boy entertained them, their stomachs full and minds buzzed. Jody and Greg silently passed around a small flask filled with a bottle of High West Double Rye they’d procured from the bar in their hotel.
Tara shopped for new clothes in the fashion outlets on the other side of the casino. To her surprise, the stores were mostly untouched by scavengers. Most of what the stores still showcased were not the best choices for days of endless wandering, but she wanted something to grab Steve attention without being obvious. New jeans and clean underwear and bras would make her feel more like a woman and less like the savage she thought she’d become. But she also wanted something a little special.
Matt retreated to the hotel bar and grabbed the first bottle of whatever he found. He intercepted a small hand-grenade-shaped container with a thin black net wrapped around it. A tan label was adhered to the glass. Blanton’s. The cork was attractive—a jockey riding a horse. He yanked it out and gulped down the amber fluid inside.
It burned at first, causing his chest, throat, and gut to protest, but he continued to drink like a madman, stumbling toward his designated sleeping quarters. It didn’t take long for the liquor to do its work. He took one look at his gear, then fell forward onto his bed. At least, that was what he had aimed for. He missed and rolled to the floor, vomiting on the maze-like images of the carpet. Then he passed out.
He woke to a blur of images. The dresser, an extended lounge chair, another chair, and a man who towered over him. He felt pressure on his ribs, then realized it was Greg’s foot kicking him awake.
“The hell you doing, son?” Greg asked.
Matt attempted to lift himself up, but the room spun out of control, causing him to heave yet again. The whiskey and other contents he regurgitated were reminiscent of his prior night’s poor decision. The smell of it was rancid enough to swear him off from ever drinking again.
Greg took a step back before kneeling down to avoid the upchuck. “You know, son, I reckon you ought not drink so got-damned much.”
“Ya think,” Matt said gruffly.
Greg stood up, offering him a hand. “Here, get up. We got to get going. Don’t want to overstay our welcome.”
Once Matt gained his composure, Greg walked off, bellowing something he was unable to make out. He had to brace himself on the dresser momentarily before he was able to kit up and walk out.
Everyone waited for him by the bar. The very sight of booze made his stomach want to release more. He felt the pulsing sensation of his gut as it attempted to relieve his body of the night’s toxins. Every attempt was nothing more than dry heaves and additional pressure inside his head.
“Fuck me,” he muttered.
“You ready, son?” Greg asked. “Let’s get before the sun gets after us.”
Matt looked around at everyone and noticed they all seemed to be well aware of his intoxication. Tara, in particular, seemed displeased with him. Her face was screwed up, her forehead wrinkled and eyes squinting
. Matt couldn’t tell if she was in pain or skeptical about his own well-being. Steve stood nearby, shaking his head with clear disapproval.
“You good, brother?” Steve asked.
“Well enough,” he croaked.
“Good, then pull your shit together.”
They walked out of Whiskey Pete’s Hotel and Casino for the last time and hit the 15 North before the sun broke the eastern horizon.
Tiffany woke up on the floor of her camper, still wearing the clothes she had fallen asleep in. It wasn’t uncommon for her to go to bed wearing the same dingy clothes she’d worn all day. The few attempts she made at sleeping in the raw or in a comfortable set of thermals always seemed to result in someone making their way to her door, waking her up, and forcing her to get dressed. So, it seemed best to sleep in clothes. However, this time, she hadn’t intended on sleeping. She’d been looking for something, something important, then her body had shut down on her.
Stress will do that to you, she thought.
She was relieved to find her head no longer hurt as she sat up. When she stood, she looked down and saw what she’d spent the night stressing over. It was the papers with what she thought was Matt’s mom’s information.
Her name, where she was from, and what had happened were written out, plain as day. It all came rushing back to her. She remembered everything now.
“Fuck,” she breathed.
She bolted out the door, sprinting to Matt’s hotel.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she rambled on, dodging sleeping bags and campers, jumping over curbs and slipping between cars. Tell me they haven’t left yet.
He needed to know what had happened. He needed to know his mother hadn’t sent that letter. She’d died years ago. His brother had been missing and presumed dead since the beginning. Sure, it was possible she had written it and given it to someone before dying, but she definitely wasn’t where they were going. Tiff was holding onto everything he needed to know to find peace. And if she wasn’t able to deliver that to him, Tiff knew she would hold herself accountable for his misery until the day she died.
She flew past the dilapidated KFC and almost tripped over the curb at the drive-through window, then picked her pace up again as she crossed the eight lanes of freeway and continued past the truck shop and the Chevron.
When she finally arrived at the doors of the hotel, she took a second to catch her breath, then jogged around, calling out his name.
“Matt,” she bellowed out. “Matt, it’s Tiff. You all still here?”
But there was no answer. No one was there to call back to her, to come out of the room and say, “Yeah, we’re still here. Oh, thanks for saving our lives. Sure, we’ll stay with your convoy and help out.”
No, not a word of that was spoken. Matt and his group had all left. They were walking a thousand miles to nowhere.
13
Your Future Ends Here
Matt and his group arrived in Mesquite, Nevada as the sun broke the high point of the day. They were exhausted from the continuous travel, malnourishment, and dehydration added to the stress of avoiding random withered zombies as they roamed around the dry, hot Nevada lands. A day or two of rest and resupply would do them all some good. Mesquite seemed as good a place as any to take up refuge.
As they crossed the county line, they were greeted by the same arid landscape they had seen through most of Nevada: pink stucco buildings surrounded by the occasional palm tree and desert shrub. Tall signs stained with age boasted slogans that once served to attract passersby cutting through on the freeway.
Jody read the city greeting from a red rock with finely cut black letters. “‘Mesquite—Your Future is Here.’ Do you hear that, guys? Our future is here.” He turned to look at Greg and made a ridiculous face, as if trying to be both comedic and awkwardly attractive. However, it only made him look psychotic. He repeated the words this time with a bit more enthusiasm. “Our future is here. Come on, now. It’s our future…and it’s here.”
“Quiet down,” Greg said. He was tired and unappreciative of Jody’s banter.
“Fine, fine. Just trying to lighten the mood, my friend, seeing how everyone’s so happy.”
Since leaving Primm, the team’s morale plummeted with one exception—Chris. The youngster seemed to be the only one enjoying the day-to-day grind of travel.
It wasn’t long before Jody started up again, reading the occasional hotel sign as they walked down the street. “Free Wi-Fi, free HBO. Oh, dang, look at this one over here. It has a Jacuzzi. I wonder if we can turn it into a bathtub like the one at Primm.”
“Imma drown you in that got-damn Jacuzzi if you don’t quiet down,” Greg said. His voice was no longer calm and quiet. Jody’s mouth snapped shut.
“What’s Wi-Fi?” Chris asked.
“Hard to explain, buddy, but it used to be very important. So important that without it, the world seemed to stop functioning,” Matt explained.
“I don’t understand,” Chris said.
“Like I said, it’s hard to explain.”
“Okay,” Greg said. “Let’s stop here and call it a day.”
They stopped outside a Best Western motel. It was two stories, with bright red doors and what had probably once been an off-white stucco but was now stained black and green with a rusty color that ran from the roof to the walkway in little streaks. The pool was shaped like a kidney bean and completely dried out. The bottom was stained the same black and green color as the walls. The glass doors leading to the front office had been shattered, the inside was a complete mess.
“This place was probably pretty decent at one point,” Steve said as he looked around.
Tara looked at him. “Is this the kind of place you would take a lady for your first date?”
Steve smiled back uncomfortably.
The lobby had been destroyed, either by looters or the dead, possibly both. All the glass had been shattered, forcing the team to step lightly as they walked. The furniture was all overturned and torn with the occasional stain of dried blood. The front desk was mostly intact except for the long, dried-up palm leaves that had blown in and covered the floor. However, through all that mess and mayhem, Steve still managed to find the tiny, silver service bell, and he decided it was best to hit the little knob on top to ring it. It rang out like church bells in a tower. Everyone stopped immediately, turned, and looked at Steve.
“What the hell, man?” Jody growled. “Are you trying to let the world know where we are?”
“Right, because our voices haven’t already done that,” Steve said.
Steve and Jody locked eyes like a pair of bucks about to battle for supremacy. The muscles in their faces tensed and their eyes narrowed. Steve’s hand twitched toward the grip on his rifle, not to shoot Jody, but because the hairs on his neck rose.
“In the room behind the counter. Chris, stay here,” Matt commanded as he pushed past Steve to position himself next to the door.
Matt lined up on the hinge side of the door while Greg positioned himself directly with the opening from the other side of the counter. Steve and Jody both were still oblivious to the threat situation when Matt pushed the door open. From inside, a single withered appeared wearing a blood-stained, white button-up work shirt and torn black slacks. The thing was missing a shoe and hobbled around, slamming itself into its desk and chair.
To the team’s benefit, the withered’s back was turned toward the door, allowing Matt the perfect opportunity to sneak up from behind and knife it. Matt’s blade entered at the base of its skull, popping it open like a spore of dried fungus. The withered clung to the sharp edge momentarily before he yanked it free allowing the dead thing to fall to the floor. It collapsed with a heavy thump.
“You two dipshits knock it off,” Greg said, shaking his head. “Ain’t got no time for this bullshit. Go find a room out yonder and rest up.”
Matt patted Steve on the shoulder and gave him a one-sided smile that bunched up the skin on his face. He whispered, “Awesome job,
buddy,” as he passed.
Steve shrugged and smiled before he joined them outside.
“That bell echoed all the way out here,” Tara said. “So, whichever one of you geniuses decided to ring it—”
Jody interrupted her and pointed at Steve. “He did it.”
“Anyway, I was thinking we should clear some rooms for sleeping, then go on a quick scavenge. I need some new boots bad.” Tara lifted her left foot and exposed her worn-down sole. “Really regretting not grabbing some while we were in Primm.”
“Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to see if we can get some more bullets for these anchors we’ve been carrying around, either,” Matt added. “In the meantime, two to a room. Chris, wait down here until we’re done. If someone or something shows up, just yell.”
When they walked away to begin clearing rooms, Chris pulled a small rubber ball out of his pocket and bounced it off the parking lot blacktop. A gift from one of the drunks in Tiff’s convoy. The man had given it to him after he had finished telling jokes. The man had said it was his son’s, and that Chris reminded him of his son, so he wanted him to have it. JD had been the man’s name. Chris had liked JD most of all, not because of the gift, but because the man was nice to him, despite his drinking habit.
He bounced the ball off the asphalt. Slow and easy at first to test its rebound, then slightly harder before finally going all in and slamming the ball as hard as he could. It shot high into the air, higher than he had expected. When he tried to track it through the sky, the sun blinded him, causing him to lose sight of it.
The ball fell from the sky and hit him on his forehead, then bounced off the ground again. He chased it. A door opened. The ball bounced. He chased it. A door smashed open. The ball bounced. He chased it. Another door. He chased the ball again and again until they came back to him and told him it was safe. In his head, all he wanted to do was be like them. The ball was an idle distraction. If he were lucky, they would let him scavenge on his own later.
A Thousand Miles to Nowhere Page 12