by Riley Flynn
There was the Milky Way, an effervescent crease folded into the firmament. And then, all around, were the pointillist pinpricks of every other sun in the galaxy, in the universe, burning all at once. The light was ancient, Alex knew, but out here it was so fresh and filled with energy. He could feel it in his bones.
Never before had Alex felt so small. From his pocket, he fished out the ring. Lying in the tent, door open, and watching the sky, he closed one eye and held the ring over the other. He traced out the brightest stars, drawing lines between them like a jeweler inspecting the edges of a diamond.
Of all the world, of everyone who had worn this ring, of everyone who had been meant to wear this ring, it was empty now but for the stars. They were so far away. And they meant nothing. Not really. The only reason Alex could see all the way up into the atmosphere was the same reason those cars were deserted by the side of the road. It was all grey skin and bloody eyes. Exhausting.
The sunrise was the same. It arrived while Alex was still awake. At first, the stars simply shone a little less bright. And then an orange seal began to break up over the horizon. The darkness began to fade. That heavy sun of the fall, heaving itself over the distant hills. That was west.
When Timmy woke up, they ate and planned their day. An hour outside of Toledo, they decided to skirt around the city. If Detroit was on lock down, then it made sense to stick to the highways. The aim was to get somewhere safe. To escape. To figure out what the hell was going on. Pointless to swap one city for another.
Taking the side roads, following the map, they followed the sun’s journey west, riding straight into the light along the barren freeway. When they hit the I-475 and began to head south, they ran close to the city. It was on the other side of the tree line. But the smoke was rising up, all the same.
An hour later, they were back on 75 and heading south. Again, there were abandoned cars. They seemed to grow more common closer to the urban areas. As though people set out from the cities and slowly fell away. Only the strongest were able to drive far. When the cars became more frequent it was a sign they were approaching civilization again.
This happened near Bowling Green. As the empty cars and bodies began to pile up beside the road, Alex slowed down to talk to his friend. They were heading too far south, he felt. Better splitting the difference between Cleveland and Pittsburgh. When they came across a pool of dried blood stretching all the way across the freeway between two burned out cars, they took the first turnoff to the east. No need to linger.
At noon, the bikes slowed down to a crawl. They’d passed Freemont, stuck only to the smaller roads. There was no one around. They didn’t pass many houses. The road seemed free and empty until they turned a bend and found themselves amidst a bumper-to-bumper chain of cars stretching out for at least a half mile.
Riding out front, Timmy held up a hand with a balled fist. Between the two of them, this had commonly come to mean slow down. A flat hand meant stop. A waving hand meant overtake. They’d picked up the signals organically and had been chatting, over their food, how to make these signals more complex.
Right now, however, slowing down was enough. Under the helmet, it was hot. Alex could barely feel his thighs. The bike rattled and rumbled, shaking him at all times like an exercise machine from the forties. He was still wearing the leather jacket and the body armor.
With the heat from the engine, Alex had to wipe his brow every minute. Life on the road was more tiring than he had imagined. He’d had to switch to a shoulder holster because the saddle had pushed the pistol into his hip. The gun was now tucked up underneath Alex’s arm. The entire arrangement was uncomfortable.
The slowdown was a welcome chance to catch the breath, to cool off. But the chain of cars was a concern. There had been nothing like it on any road, as of yet. Timmy stopped, displaying another hand signal. Their universal sign for taking a leak.
“I’m going on ahead for a look,” Alex shouted. “Catch up with me.”
The bike crept forward at less than walking speed. At first, the cars were packed together tightly and Alex had to bob and weave, turning the handlebars this way and that to get them through the space. He could see inside. There were no sleeping drivers here and no grey-skinned bodies. Every car was alone in the line, discarded.
Passing by, Alex looked in through the windows and saw the spaces where the car owners would sit. One Honda had an ashtray packed with crushed-up butts. A rusty old Ford was fitted with two different GPS tracking units. They were both Chinese, Alex could tell.
There was something about the way they made plastic over there. Gave it this really cheap shine. Something to do with tariffs, he’d read once, we don’t send them some particular chemical anymore. Timmy would know more about that. The Ford owner had two of them, best way to guard against a reboot loop. Still cheaper than getting an American version.
As Alex stared hard into the Ford, wondering whether he should liberate one of the units, he heard a rustle behind him. Then a crack. It took a moment. Then it came. The pain. Right across the back. Already falling, Alex could feel the muscles and flesh of his back hurtling against his lungs, pushing all the air up and out of his mouth. With that, he crashed into the asphalt.
Cheek rubbing rough against the road, Alex rushed. He had to get up. Whatever had hit him had hit him hard. Before he was upright, a fist smashed into his jaw. Stumbling back, he hit a parked car. Raised his arms. Defense. Shield the head.
The sound of footsteps coming closer told Alex he had a moment. Dazed, he peeked through his forearms. A man was walking toward him, a baseball bat hanging from his right hand. A beard, long and plaited, hung from his chin. The man was wearing denim jeans with split knees. Big motorcycle boots. No mask. No hat. Just a bald head. He was already swinging the bat again.
This time, Alex dodged. Sidestepped. The man swung again. It smashed into the roof of a nearby car. The taste of blood was there. Rusty.
Rubbing his face, Alex watched again for the swing as the man circled round. Two hands on the handle, he swung the bat in a horizontal arc. It broke a window. Alex was elsewhere.
Stepping to the side, Alex threw a fist. It caught the man on the arm, just above the bicep. Nothing happened. He was strong.
Backtracking, steadying his feet, Alex tried to shake off the daze.
The man motioned to swing again, Alex stepped, and the man’s free hand caught him right in the gut. The attacker was enjoying himself.
Alex tried for his gun. First, he reached for his hip. Wasn’t there. Stupid. He should have known that. Nauseated, hands shaking, he was grasping around under his arm. The gun was there, but it was buckled into place. The man was circling around now, shrugging his shoulders and stretching his neck like he was in a batting cage.
The man started to run. There was about ten feet between them now. He wasn’t quick, but he was picking up speed. The bat was raising up above his head. Alex’s finger fumbled. A button. A catch. Holding the pistol in place. Could only reach it with one hand.
The man was closer, the bat higher. Five feet between them. Alex’s fingers were sweaty, slipping. The leather of the holster offered no purchase, Alex realized. There wasn’t enough ground between them. The man was almost here. Three steps away. Two now.
The bat was already curling round, aiming to hit him square in the chin. Should have got the helmet with the face protection. Should have done a lot of things. Should have called Sammy. Should have said all those things to Mom and Dad. Should have put the gun in a better place. Should have checked between the cars. Should have done plenty else.
There was a crack. Sounded like a whiplash at a rodeo. It came again.
The man was stumbling.
Rocking to the side.
Tripping.
Falling.
Alex looked around. Timmy was there. He had a shotgun in his hand. Staring. A cartridge rolled around beside his foot. Timmy closed his eyes. Alex too.
There was silence.
21
>
Feeling the pain in his back, Alex had given up on his gun. Even reaching for it hurt. There was no need for it now. Timmy had already run across to the attacker, was checking his neck and feeling for a breath. The man was dead.
Alex struggled upright, the body armor–broken and bullet-holed as it was–had saved the spine from any real damage. But it still hurt like all hell.
“Thanks,” Alex began, staggering towards his friend, ribs burning with pain. “You saved me there. Really.”
The shotgun was still warm. Alex took it. Timmy didn’t resist. His eyes had glazed over, his mess of red hair standing almost upright.
“Timmy, listen. He was going to kill me. You saw him with that bat.”
The only sound was the autumn wind, blowing softly between the cars. They were standing in an open stretch of road. On one side, two trucks had been parked at angles, acting as a blockade. The line of cars stretched back half a mile but here, they’d been split open, creating an arena or sorts. A trap.
“I… I just saw you in trouble.” There was a quiver in his voice, a falter.
“Yeah, Timmy. I was. Real trouble. You saved me.”
The pain was still shooting up Alex’s spine. This body armor needed to come off. It was already broken inside, the bullet having torn through the Kevlar layers. It wouldn’t stop another bullet. A bat, maybe. But how many more bats would they be facing on the road to Virginia?
“Here, come and help me get this jacket off, would you?” Alex asked, attempting to distract his friend.
Still silent, Timmy obeyed. Holding the shoulder of the leather biking jacket, Alex squeezed himself out. Moving the arms too much in any direction hurt. A lot. Together, they unclipped the fastenings of the armor and inspected the damage.
“He really hit you, man.”
“Yeah, and you saved me. I gotta say, you did amazing.”
Inspecting the armor, examining the impact marks and the damage, Timmy didn’t talk. Then he dropped it all to the floor. Ran back to the man’s body. Jumped down next to him. Grabbed his collar, pulling up. The man was bleeding, the pool of blood spreading and staining Timmy’s knees. He didn’t care.
“What the hell?” he screamed in the dead man’s face. “Why’d you do that? Why did you do that?”
Rushing over to his friend, Alex tried to wrestle Timmy away. With each movement, his back cried out in agony. Finally, he managed to pull his friend free, prying him off the body. Together, they fell backwards.
“Why, man?” Timmy was shouting at nothing now. “Why’d you make me do it? We just wanted to get past. Why?”
Timmy arched his back and shouted at the sky. Long, empty syllables. Not shouting anything, no words Alex could understand, anyway. Just raw, primal sounds screamed up at the heavens.
Running back to the bike, Alex found a water container. Taking it back to the makeshift arena, he found his friend sitting in the same place, head tucked between his knees. Encouraging Timmy away from the body, leaning him up against the nearest car, Alex passed him the water.
“Drink. Just drink it up. Breathe. Don’t think about it for a moment. You did good, Timmy.”
Doing as he was told, Timmy drank. Knocking his head back against the crumpled door of the abandoned car, he let out a long, hard breath. Alex let him have a moment. The man’s body was still there, still with blood pooling around him.
He’d been shot in the back. The pellets were spread out in a crimson constellation. Alex wondered whether the strays could have caught him by accident. Don’t mention that, he thought, it won’t do any good.
Crouching down beside the body, Alex could get a look at the man. He wasn’t sick. Not like the others. Body peppered with shot, bleeding out. Dead already, really. But there was none of that grey skin which had marked out the others. Everybody so far had been marked by that skin and the eyes, the whites marked by that intricate web of bloodied lines.
But this man’s eyes were open. It was disconcerting, the way they just stared upward, as though they were watching the heavens for any sign of life. This was a different kind of illness. A man prepared to do anything. A sickness of the soul. Alex stretched out a hand. He’d seen it in the movies, where they closed the eyes with one motion. This was why.
No one wants to be watched by a dead man.
Just as his hand was above the forehead, Alex felt his attention twinge. There was something different. Something not right. Looking closely, he tried to figure out what it was. Not the beard. Not the short scar just to the side of his nose. Not the ring which sat in his eyebrow. It was the irises.
One green, one grey, like all the color had been drained out. Odd. Alex had seen people in magazines and on TV with a similar condition. Hell, there’d been one of the cats on the farm who’d had non-matching eyes. It was cool back then. A bit different. Something to stand out.
But here, in the middle of the road, with a pool of blood at his feet, his friend still struggling for breath just a few feet away, it was almost inhuman. His hand closed the eyes. Leaving the man alone, Alex returned to his friend. “Listen, Timmy. I don’t know about you, but I think this guy might not be alone. We should get moving. Not too far though. I need to rest my back; we need to eat. Can you help me get back on the bike and we’ll stop in the next town?”
There was a trickle of water running down Timmy’s chin where he’d glugged heavily. Too heavily.
“You want to stop?”
“There could be more people, you know.” Alex grasped his shoulder. “And I need to rest. You’d be doing me a huge favor, man. We need to get out of this place.”
Wiping away the water, getting up on his feet, Timmy nodded. Mounting the bikes, they squeezed through the blockade and found an empty freeway on the other side. Alex let his friend ride in front. There would be a town up ahead but he had no idea where.
There were nothing towns all along these roads. It didn’t matter which one. Any port in a storm, he muttered, somewhere safe to rest. A nothing town with no one in it. That would be ideal. They passed a road sign but didn’t catch the name. It didn’t matter.
22
Three days ago, they had left Detroit behind. What should have been a ten-hour trip had been stretched and twisted beyond all recognition. Thundering through the third afternoon, the setting sun not quite ready to quit the sky, Alex Early and Timmy Ratz rode into a town.
It was barely a town. A street cutting through the middle, a tectonic crack between two uninhabited planes. On either side of the street were stores, a bar, a diner, and the other kinds of public spaces found in dead end settlements. Unessential essentials. Nothing of consequence.
The bikes purred. Rolling over pot holes along empty streets, these machines found it all too easy. Alex parked at one end of the main street, Timmy rode to the other. It took all of two minutes, even at a leisurely pace. No face poked through a door, no windows cracked open. They were alone.
A week ago, this would have been a small community. Just last Sunday, Alex could see in his mind’s eye, people might be walking up to the ramshackle chapel that stood at the north end of the street. Wearing their best. He’d seen folks in Virginia do exactly that. Might be rags all week, but there were no creases come Sunday.
The entire town was too similar to Virginia. Every main street in small town America was the same and each one was different in its own unhappy way. Smiles and suits for Sunday and when there were other folks around. But behind the closed doors? There was always something else.
It happened in circles. The smallest circle, the family units, had their own little secrets. But they made sure that those on the outside saw nothing but niceties. Then there was the next circle, perhaps a community or a workplace. Bickering on the inside, but showing a good face.
Then it went up to the town itself. People inside were happy in their misery but there was no way they’d let people from the outside know. Whether they were arguing over property lines or someone’s drunk son had got himself into an acci
dent and was up in the courts, they’d be telling everyone from outside the same old stories.
We’re all happy here. Picture perfect, pretty lives.
This was the same town as every other and Alex was a stranger. The engine cut out at the turn of a key. It was good enough.
A ghost town haunted by other people’s pasts.
Together, Alex and Timmy inspected the buildings. Every door was open along the main street. The bar was there, the stools knocked to the floor. The local store had its shelves cleared out and the ‘open’ sign still twisted in the window. Only the drug store, with its thick frosted windows and heavy lock, was sealed shut. But there was no one around to stop them entering anywhere else. People had left in a hurry. At least, it seemed that way.
No one actually lived on the main street, Alex knew that. If people lived in this town, they’d have bigger plots, anything up to a few miles away. Names would hang around the area for a hundred years, passed about like a trade. People would apprentice in their families’ reputation, learning how they fitted into the community as a whole. But most would live in the middle of fields and along secluded streets. Everything in the center of town was a bit loud. A bit too obvious. Better to have some privacy. Behind the main street, a twisted tumble of alleys, shortcuts, and dirt roads connected everything together.
There was no need to check every building. It was clear that there was no one around. Besides, Alex was feeling his back and Timmy still had a tremble about his fingers when he had to do anything with a delicate touch. It was better to get some rest.
In the bar, they’d found an unopened crate of beers. These people really must have left in a hurry. Packing the crate onto one of the racks, they pushed the bikes out along the street at the opposite end of the chapel. There was nothing at this end. Just a slow river, ambling around an oxbow island.