by Brad Manuel
“I guess, I mean, I know how to read a map, it’s kind of far, I can’t drive.” Greg was terrified.
“Don’t try to drive, the highways are shut. You’ll get picked up. Locked up. Studied. You have to go at night, in the woods, or on back roads. When you see the military, you have to hide.”
“You really think everyone is going to die?”
“Greg, you are about to grow very fast. Yes, everyone is either dead or in bed with the rapture. The phones are going to stop working, maybe even today. The power is going to stop working, maybe today. Here is what you need to do. Stay low at school for another few weeks, hiding like we talked about. Wait until you don’t see anyone for three or four days. As soon as you are clear, head to Hanover. Get up there, find a house, maybe the one where I grew up. Find food, make fires to keep warm, boil water. I’ll come for you when I can. Use the lake house if you want, but get up there. If I live, I’ll get there. Your Uncles will get there. Remember, people are scared, they’re desperate, don’t trust anyone you aren’t related to. The police, the government, they are trying to find a cure. If you aren’t sick, they’ll take you and do whatever they can to try and save others. Don’t get caught. “
“Dad, I’m scared.”
“I know. I’m scared too. I’m sad, I’m scared, but I know you can do this. I love you, know that I love you.” There was a pause. “Greg, tell me you understand what you need to do. Stay at Hightower, hiding, and then get to Hanover when you know everyone is dead.”
“I can do it. I love you too, Dad. Tell Mom I love her. Tell Matt and Craig I love them. I’ll see you soon. Whenever you get there, I’ll be in Hanover waiting.” Greg was crying.
“Greg, I love you, your mother loves you, your brothers need you to stay alive. I don’t know how long it will be, but we’ll see you again. Don’t lose faith. Stay alive, just stay alive. I love you.”
Cell phones signals ceased a day later. Greg did not tell his dad about his food situation, or how the radiators were out and the cold was keeping him awake. He could not talk about the smell, which grew stronger and more rancid every day. Greg kept all of the windows and doors shut in his dorm to escape the odor.
Greg was cold, and he was almost out of food.
Late October in New England is beautiful, but it can be unpredictable. Greg looked at the thermometer suction cupped to his window, 42 degrees inside his dorm room. “I have to leave today. It will be freezing over night in the next few weeks.” He talked to himself. It helped him deal with the new world’s silence, and almost made him feel as if there were other people around. He was not having conversations with himself. He was not losing his mind. At least he hoped he was not losing his mind.
He looked at the other bed in his room. His roommate, Darrin, died months ago when the rapture spread through his dorm and the rest of the school. School had not started. Greg and Darrin were attending a baseball camp. Half of Hightower Academy’s students were back on campus attending academic or athletic clinics. Darrin left to go to the quarantine dorms the first week. Of the six dorms at the school, four were converted into hospitals, servicing the students, faculty, and residents of the town. Two of the dorms were converted into morgues soon after. Travel restrictions meant parents could not claim bodies. Most of the parents were sick or dead. Even without the travel issues, the kids and their bodies, were orphans.
Darrin and Greg were best friends since the first day freshman year. They played baseball together in the fall and spring. When roommate signups came out the previous year, they knew immediately they would room together, share baseball stories from the summer, help each other out on homework. It was a friendship that lasted a lifetime, Darrin’s lifetime.
Greg kept Darrin’s bed made and left his side of the room alone after they took Darrin away in August. Darrin did not like his property touched, not that anyone did, but he was particularly protective. Greg kept to his side of the room for the first month, even after he knew Darrin and all the other kids were dead. Greg did not so much as sit on Darrin’s bed or touch his books, desk, or clothes.
Soon after the last phone call with his father, Greg went through Darrin’s things. He looked for anything he could find that would help him survive; better clothes, knives, maps, anything. Greg searched the entire dorm. He knew he had to travel light to Hanover. He treated his mission like a scavenger hunt. One day he looked for the best pair of pants. He would find a pair and put them in his shoulder bag until he scavenged better pants with more pockets or warmer fabric. The scavenger hunt list included essential items he needed for the long trek north.
Greg began sleeping under his bed after they took Darrin away. He set up soft blankets on the floor, and went under at night. Anyone looking for students or scavenging for food and supplies would not see him through the small door window. Greg found a master key on one of the dead counselors in the morgue dorm. He randomly locked rooms in the dorm so it would seem natural that his room was locked. He also messed up his room, giving it the appearance of having been picked over. He found food in the cafeteria and moved it to his room so he would not have to leave the dorm. He stopped using light at night.
Greg was used to being monitored. He was 14 and at prep school. It was hard for him to understand that no one was looking for him. Even after the phone call with this father, when it was explained that everyone was dead or dying, Greg was certain there were other people around. He treated finding food, staying out of sight, beefing up his supplies, like it was a game. How quickly could he get in and out of a building, how slowly and stealthily could he move through campus?
Greg was too young to realize Hightower Academy’s campus shut down weeks earlier. Doctors worked in the dorms, people in yellow hazmat suits moved bodies from the quarantine to the morgue, but all activity stopped long ago. The power was off. The phones did not work. No one came to campus. Greg managed to slip through the cracks. He was the only person alive at Hightower, and had been for close to a month.
Greg stayed in his room and hid, but no one was looking for him.
The world was dead.
After the doctors and yellow plastic people left campus, Greg continued to hear airplanes, helicopters, and loud diesel military vehicles. When Greg spoke to his father on the phone, the helicopters and jets were a constant in the air, moving from air force bases in New Hampshire and Boston. Each week the number of aircraft lessened until there was one plane a day or every other day. One week ago Greg saw a jet heading out to the Atlantic, straight East. Since that last plane, all manmade noise ceased.
Greg was in New England in late fall, needing to travel 100+ miles by foot or bike to Hanover, New Hampshire. He studied maps, and knew the two highways he needed to take. Despite his father’s warnings, Greg planned on using major highways to Hanover. Today he decided to leave campus and walk to his English teacher’s house in the town near the highway. He packed his bag during the morning hours, thought about his route, and went to sleep at 10am.
Greg awoke in the dark. He got dressed, brushed his teeth, and grabbed his gear. He was used to working in the pitch black after four weeks with no power. The moon was half full, and provided enough light when he left the dorm.
The smell hit Greg as soon as he opened the door. He put the crook of his arm over his mouth and nose, and hoped the odor would subside as he moved away from campus and the morgue dorms. It was cold, crisp and dry outside. Leaves covered the ground. No one was around to rake them and keep the campus its typical immaculate condition. The dry refuse crunched under Greg’s feet as he walked out of the school’s gates.
Hightower Academy was a mile from Greg’s destination house. He wanted a test run on this first night, staying close to campus. If he ran into people, Greg could return to the safety and security of his dorm room. Campus was deserted, and he believed he could tough it out for another 8 months, if he could find food and stop the horrific smell.
Greg picked his English teacher’s house because he saw her in the
morgue dorm when he lifted the master key off his dorm counselor. Ms. Berry was a single woman just three years out of college. She lived alone. Her house should be empty. It might be ransacked, but there would not be any bodies in the house. Greg was brave, and growing braver everyday of his independence, but he was still 14, and decided he would rather not sleep in a house with a dead body.
Greg remembered being dropped off three months ago by his mother. They turned off the highway and drove three blocks when Greg pointed to the small yellow house.
“That’s where Ms. Berry lives. She had our English class over for a cookout last year. “
The car ride was the last time Greg saw his mother. She insisted on driving him to school, spending the time with him. He wanted to fly, despite his secret fear of flying, land at Logan Airport in Boston, and take the shuttle to Hightower. His mom would not let him. It was like she knew their time was fleeting. She forced him to take the long car ride with her.
He missed his mother. He missed his family, but he could not let his grief stop him from moving forward.
Greg made the two turns onto the town’s main street, and began the long walk towards Ms. Berry’s. Every house was dark. It was 8:30 pm. The smell of fire and smoke should have flowed out of chimneys all over town. Other than an occasional bird or squirrel, and the crunch of Greg’s feet in the leaves, there was no sound or indication of life.
Clouds drifted in front of the moon, blocking Greg’s source of light, and he stopped to listen for noises. He did not hear any. He walked for 10 minutes, and as far as he could tell, he was the only animal on two feet out this evening.
Greg moved painfully slow, and he was soon frustrated with having to watch his step in the dark. He came to the crest of a small hill. Normally, while he could not see the city of Boston, there was an orange glow over the horizon. Tonight, on this late October evening, there was no light. A town of several million was dark. Greg expected fire, carnage, something to show such a large concentration of people once existed, hopefully still existed. Nothing. No sound from the highway. No light from the city. He might as well have been walking through a secluded rain forest or national park.
Greg decided not to talk to himself while on his trek, but he could not stifle the “wow,” as he let the realization sink in that he was probably alone in New England. How many people had the disease killed? Were the survivors friendly? Were there even any survivors? For the last month he followed his father’s advice, hid from people, moved around at night. He was more or less playing a game rather than living in fear. Now he did not know how to feel.
Greg looked around. He had a creepy feeling that he was being watched. He did not hear or see anyone. He shook off his fear and continued towards his destination. After twenty minutes he stood in front of Ms. Berry’s. The house was dark and quiet. He tried the front door. It was locked. He walked around the house to find a backdoor he remembered from the cookout. That door was also locked.
“Darn it.” Greg muttered. He noticed a window was open a crack. He reached over and pushed it up. The window was at chest level, and Greg struggled to pull himself up from the ground. He looked around in the moonlight and noticed a lawn chair. He pulled it under the window, and a moment later he was inside Ms. Berry’s house.
It was cold and dark inside. Greg timed his journey with a rising half moon. He had two weeks of half to full and then back to half moon again. It provided light for his hike. Inside the house his only source of light was gone. Greg stood in the kitchen just inside the window, as if he were a burglar, keeping quiet and still. He considered using a flashlight, but he did not want to draw attention to the house.
The home was empty. It was a perfect place for him to spend his first night, but Greg was wide awake. The short trip had taken more time than he expected, but there was plenty of night left for him to walk.
He considered his options. He could go back to campus, and settle into The Founder’s Library at Hightower. It was a small brick building with comfortable furniture and a giant fire place. He could live there through the winter. He thought the cold might mask the smell of the rotting corpses.
Hightower was the safe and easy choice, except there was no food. Greg scoured the dining hall kitchen for non-perishable food, but it was all gone, eaten by healthcare workers and government officials during their occupation of the school. He scavenged a few cans of franks and beans, and one large can of green beans, but his food options were reduced to sifting through dorm rooms for candy bars and snack foods. Yesterday he ate his last bowl of beans.
Greg had not spoken to anyone for a month, and he desperately wanted to see another person. Hightower was deserted. If making the trip to Hanover gave him the opportunity to find his father and brothers or one of his uncles, and he could talk to someone? That reward alone was worth the journey. Greg needed companionship.
He made the decision to move forward towards New Hampshire. The practice run to Ms. Berry’s was over.
Greg’s eyes adjusted to the darkness as he felt around the kitchen cabinets. He opened several in hopes of finding food. He was rewarded with a pantry of soup. He pulled the top off a can and used two fingers like a spoon to taste the contents. He could not read the label in the dark, but was so ravenous he did not care what flavor he scooped. He brought the can closer and continued to finger the thick, cold split pea soup into his mouth. Despite the temperature and unappealing consistency, Greg devoured the can quickly.
He washed his fingers in the kitchen sink before cupping water into his mouth to drink.
Greg placed the two additional cans of soup from the cabinet into his backpack. His former teacher was a single woman who hated to cook. The only other food he could find was a box of raisin bran. Greg pulled the plastic bag from the box and placed the cereal in his pack before zipping the top compartment and slinging it.
He unlocked the door to the backyard, walked outside, and made his way to Highway 93 North.
His stride was longer and his pace quicker as he began the journey to meet his family in Hanover, New Hampshire.
“Rock and roll.” He said aloud. His white teeth reflected the moonlight as he grinned.
9
When the Dixon brothers hung up the phone on what would be their last call, Paul was in mourning. His house was in a small subdivision setback from the road and away from busy streets. His location provided the advantage of being in a populous area, Cincinnati, while remote enough that it would be overlooked. He was in essence hiding in plain sight, and faced no danger of being found or captured.
Cincinnati, Ohio’s population was just over one million people. Like many Midwestern cities, it did not have a natural border such as a large lake or ocean. It sprawled in all directions. Some might argue the Ohio river presented a boundary as it ran along the southern border of the city, but in reality, the river posed only a state change to Kentucky. People who worked in Cincinnati commuted across state lines. The million plus population of Cincinnati lived over hundreds of square miles, multiple counties, and dozens upon dozens of towns. Without a centralized population to patrol or contain, the government was helpless with regards to looting, rioting, and unrest, and was toothless implementing any plan to capture the population. As Cincinnati burned, Paul lived safely in the house he and Rachel shared for the last ten years.
He ate, listened to the radio, and read books while he waited for everyone to die. If Cincinnati’s timeline was consistent with other major cities on the coasts, Paul would be safe and alone by the end of October. He would begin looking for survivors in November or December.
Paul was a packrat. Rachel kept him honest, making him part with broken items, but Paul’s basement held things from his graduate school and bachelor years. He found his old hotplate and an electric tea kettle, both of which would work off his solar panel back-up generator. His inability to dispose of bachelor days provided a way to boil water and cook food.
He owned an additional handheld solar charger for smal
l electronics, and a solar shower if he needed to get clean. Paul and Rachel enjoyed hiking, and utilized solar technology when possible. They were not environmentalists per se, rather outdoor enthusiasts who wanted fully charged cell phones while on the trail.
Paul’s life was boring, safe, and offered a few conveniences when the sun shined.
He and Rachel, though a household of two, shopped at warehouse clubs. They typically had a few months’ of food stored around the house. He had a 25lb bag of rice and a 10lb bag of dried beans. He had pasta in all shapes and sizes, and he had 30 or more cans of tuna fish. He and Rachel were athletic, power bars and gels were abundant. Without scavenging at other homes, which he intended to do, Paul had several months of food, perhaps half a year, if he rationed.
The first month of Paul’s solitude was stressful. Paul listened to the radio as newscasters relayed panic and hysteria, the death tolls in the East, the devastation on the other continents, and the 100% contagion and mortality rate of the rapture. Scientists and doctors spoke about not having enough time to figure out the disease. After the first month, the radio broadcasters were gone, replaced by a government loop message “Survivors should come to government shelters. If you are not sick, seek help immediately. Food and water will be provided.”
Each day Paul sat on his deck and debated going to a shelter. Some days he would get into his car or jump on his bike, but he never made the trip. Paul was not sure if the shelters were a trick to round up healthy people and use them as guinea pigs, or if the invitation was sincere. The swiftness of the rapture made Paul’s decision for him. Everyone died before he could turn himself into the authorities.
Paul stayed in his house, bored, whittling away the time reading or staying in shape on his bike trainer. During his third month of solitude the government messages stopped broadcasting. The lights from Cincinnati were out. Paul waited two weeks after the radio went dead before he set out to find other people.