I just needed to be patient and cautious. Come morning, I would move quickly and carefully, and I wouldn't take any chances. Nothing would stop me from getting to the cabin. That's when I realized I was having a conversation with myself, murmuring out loud. And it wasn't the first time either. I'd been talking to myself more and more as the weeks had passed by, albeit quietly.
I felt antsy and wanted to get going. I thought about leaving right away, getting out of the house and as close to the underpass as possible, but I knew it was a bad idea. This late in the afternoon the temperature would likely still be in the upper 90s. I wouldn't make it far in the heat. And besides, I could make much better time in the morning when it was cool. I decided I'd leave earlier than usual and give myself a chance to get all the way to the underpass.
I felt a sudden surge of nervous energy, and I rolled off the couch and began doing pushups. I'd come a long way with the pushups. In the early days, I couldn't muster more than fifteen or eighteen and it was a struggle to get to eighteen. But now I could ease my way through the first fifty or sixty before I began to feel the strain in my shoulders. And these days whenever I would look in the mirror, I could actually see a subtle definition in my pecs and upper arms that weren't there before. A strange but welcome sight.
The carpet felt soft and spongy under the palms of my hands and I could feel my muscles working. Pecs, deltoids, triceps. I synchronized my breathing, breathing in as my chest touched the carpet and exhaling as I pushed myself back up. My pushups record was eighty-five and I had no doubt I would shatter that record. I had a lot of pent up energy. My mind wandered a bit and then I wondered if the house was actually secure. I'd been so out of it the first day after my encounter with the Swimmer, I wondered if I'd missed something. I stopped my pushups at seventy and grabbed the bat.
I double checked all the windows in the basement first. They were all locked except for the escape window I'd chosen. It was above one of the arm chairs in the game room. I usually left the basement escape window unlocked to allow for a fast exit, but locking it suddenly seemed like a good idea. It would only take a few seconds to unlock it if the need arose.
I headed upstairs to the main floor and made sure all the windows and doors were locked and secure. And then I went into the garage and checked to see where the switch was to open the garage doors just in case I had to use the car. There were two switches right next to the door. I figured one of them had to be the garage door switch. The Josephsons had an oversized two-car garage with lots of storage space and shelves. The shelves were filled with all kinds of food storage, maybe six months worth, along with a half-dozen five-gallon bottles of water. A clean drinking water bonanza. A big freezer stood between two sections of shelves. And while I didn't open the freezer, I took for granted it was stocked with meat.
The car they'd left behind was an immaculate black Cadillac ATS. And even in the dust-filled garage, the car still glistened under a light sheath of dust. I'd found the key fob to the Cadillac in a valet tray in Mr. Josephsons' chest of drawers that first day. I assumed the Cadillac was his, and judging from its spotless condition, he no doubt took great pride in maintaining it. When I found the key fob that morning, I placed it on the roof of the car as I always did.
I leaned my forehead against the driver side window and peeked through. I could see a clip on the visor which I assumed belonged to the garage door opener. That was a plus. Much better than having to use the switch at the door. And I felt confident the battery would start the car if needed. Even without being driven anywhere, a battery to a late model car should last at least a couple months.
I headed downstairs feeling much better. I felt certain the house was as secure as it could be. I was just being thorough. I made sure to pack everything in my backpack except for my sunglasses and cap, the bat, the Glock, and my iPad. I wanted to be ready to leave at a moment's notice.
I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the Josephsons. For once, the house didn't offer up any real clues as to what might have happened to them. Not a hint. They hadn't taken any food with them when they'd left, and the house appeared completely undisturbed. There was no sign of any cold medicine or Ibuprofen on a nightstand or coffee table. The house was every bit as immaculate as the car. Not a dust mote out of place. It was the kind of home that could make people feel uncomfortable because it was too perfect. There was a flawless, spatial symmetry to everything—the furniture, the rugs, the knickknacks, books, pictures. Everything fit perfectly. Everything was precisely in its place. There was a meticulousness about the Josephsons' home that felt cold and emotionally antiseptic despite all the smiling faces in the photos upstairs. I sensed there would be no room here for any kind of imperfection. And I couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like to have grown up in a home like this. At first glance, it seemed like a slice of paradise. Beautiful home, nice things, spectacular views, lots of smiling faces. But a part of me wasn't buying it.
As far as the Josephsons' departure was concerned, the only thing I could be certain of was that they had left in her car. Maybe someone in the family had gotten sick and the elderly Josephsons had gone to help. Who knows? What kept coming back to me was how well prepared they were for an apocalyptic event, yet they somehow seemed to have been swallowed up by it. They could have easily held on for six months with the stores of food and water in the garage, but they'd left it all behind and disappeared without leaving a trace.
I wondered what kind of apocalypse the Josephsons were preparing themselves for. Maybe they expected a global financial meltdown or a government shutdown. Both seemed plausible. Or perhaps like so many others, the Josephsons had envisioned some kind of biblical apocalypse. Religious apocalypses certainly had their share of dedicated followers. I'd never really given much thought to apocalyptic myth. The rationale for religious apocalypses always seemed to be entangled with a belief in God's retribution for humanity's sinful nature. I just didn't grasp the logic of the concept, nor did I want to. I had enough difficulty navigating my way through this life without worrying about an ever-impending apocalypse. I had always viewed it as a kind of mass hysteria brought on by religious fervor. But what did I know? Because here it was, a vicious apocalypse unleashed upon a flawed humanity. But God's retribution? I didn't buy that for a minute. Human beings were responsible for this fratricidal insanity, as they always were.
The basement felt pleasantly cool and the paranoia I'd experienced over the Swimmer had all but evaporated. I felt relieved and confident. I had memorized the route and familiarized myself with the surrounding neighborhoods. I'd even picked an alternate route in case I ran into any problems. I would leave nothing to chance. I would get up early and give myself an extra hour to travel the ten blocks to the underpass. I believed I could make it to the area of the underpass in three hours or so. It would depend on how often and how long I had to wait for any streets to be clear of the infected before I could cross. Normally, I didn't like spending more than about two hours traveling on a given day. I liked to remain fresh and save my energy, just in case. Tomorrow I would leave at first light, long before the morning sun crested the mountains. Whenever I planned things out with precision and detail, I always felt better. I had been a planner for as long as I could remember. And I knew the genesis of my obsession—my childhood.
My mother reveled in unbridled spontaneity and as a result Alex and I had precious little stability in our lives. Our mother drifted through relationships and jobs and she could never be relied upon to get us anywhere on time. We'd be late for school, miss dental appointments, and Alex would be late for football practice. It didn't matter what it was, we'd always be late or we'd miss it altogether. And I would always fret about it. But all that came to an end when I purchased my first car, a well-traveled 1992 Toyota Corolla. It was essentially an antique but very reliable. And it allowed me to take control. I would drive Alex and myself everywhere we needed to go, and I made sure we were always on time. Our mother was fine with me
doing the driving because it meant she didn't have to drive. I loved getting us places on time and it wasn't long before I became addicted to punctuality. Over the years, I became a skilled planner and organizer. It all seemed so natural. And even though I was perfectly aware that my obsessive need for fastidiousness in my life was a result of my relationship with my mother, I never blamed her. I was grateful more than anything. Being a fanatic planner had worked out quite well for me. It had made my life easier.
It was evening and I was already feeling tired. I had led myself on an emotional roller coaster ride throughout the afternoon and it had worn me out. I could have easily drifted off to sleep, but I didn't want to go to sleep too early. At least that's what I told myself, and it made perfect sense. Staying awake another hour or so would be best. But even as I thought about staying awake a while longer, I could feel my resolve waning. I set the iPad down on the floor and let gravity have its way with my eyelids. They fluttered dreamily for a few seconds before drifting all the way down. And then I let the velvety darkness sweep over me.
Chapter 7 – The Call
I woke with a start but not all the way, my mind and body still hibernating in a state of slumber, pleasantly numb as if I were just coming out of anesthesia. I had been sleeping deeply, drifting peacefully in a nebulous haze and feeling pretty wonderful. And while I was aware of a vague memory of a shrill sound, the sound had faded so quickly, it was as if it had never existed. And a compliant part of my mind reasoned that the sound wasn't real and never had been—nothing more than an illusory dream fragment. Relieved, I let myself sink back into the soothing darkness. But then the shrill sound returned, unrelentingly insistent upon being heard.
This time I woke in a panic. I looked across the room in the general direction of where I believed the sound had come from. The room was immersed in long shadows cast from the glowing nightlight plugged into an outlet across the room. I realized the importance of finding the source of the sound, and I pestered my groggy mind with its importance. I scanned the room, trying to be as thorough as possible despite the dense fog lingering in my head. And then I located the source of the sound. A landline phone sitting on an end table across the room between two armchairs. I couldn't believe it was there. I had seen it before but never gave it a second thought. And then I remembered that there was another one just like it upstairs in the living room. I stumbled off the couch and lumbered across the room, going as fast as I could while trying to maintain my balance. The phone began to ring again but I picked it up, cutting off the irritating sound as it trailed off into a faint echo.
I stared uncomprehending at the handset cradled in my hand. How could I have been so stupid? I noticed the phones the first day I was here but never grasped the danger associated with them. This was the first time I had heard a phone ring since the first weekend after the attack. I had never expected there to be any more phone calls.
I wondered how long it would be before the infected arrived. They had to have heard the high-pitched ringing.
I could hear a faint whisper coming from the handset. I raised it up to my ear and heard a woman's voice, "...is that you, grandfather?"
It was a bit strange to hear the voice of another human being. I found it exciting and annoying at the same time. I was tempted to say hello, but I was too embarrassed. How could I possibly explain what I was doing at her grandparents' home? A part of me knew I wouldn't have to explain if I just hung the phone up and disconnected the line.
"Are you there, grandfather? Grandma?" she whispered quietly. "It's Sarah. We could... um... we could really use your help." There was a note of forced supplication in her voice. She was struggling to ask for help.
And then I heard a young girl's excited voice in the background. "Are they there, mom? Are they there?"
I assumed they were in trouble. One thing was clear—the woman hadn't wanted to make the call. And I couldn't help but wonder why she would be so hesitant to ask for help from her own grandparents. And before I knew what I was doing, before I could stop myself, I heard a familiar voice saying, "They're not here."
The other end of the line fell silent for several seconds. Then I heard her voice again, no more than a soft whisper. "Who are you? What are you doing there? Where are my grandparents?"
I certainly didn't want to explain who I was or what I was doing in her grandparent's home, but I had to say something. "I needed a place to stay for the night..." I told her, as if it adequately explained my presence in her grandparents' home. But I knew it wasn't enough. And then I said the only thing I could think of to finish off the sentence, "...and I could tell no one was home."
"Where are my grandparents?" she asked.
"I don't know," I whispered. And then I tried to reassure her. "The house looks fine. Everything's in its place. Nothing's been disturbed. It doesn't look like anything happened here." I was nervous and rambling incoherently, not making a lot of sense.
She didn't say anything, and then I went on, unable to stop myself. "There's just one car in the garage. It's a Cadillac. If they had two cars, they must have left in the other car." Then I tried to make her feel better. "They might still be okay," I said.
I knew I needed to stop talking.
The line was silent. I didn't have any idea what she was thinking. Then she suddenly asked, "Is there still food storage in the garage?"
"Yes. There's plenty of food and water."
"We need food," she said, matter-of-factly. And she said it as if I were somehow responsible for providing them with food. And while I was sure she was trying her best to mask it, I sensed an underlying desperation in her voice.
"If you're not too far away," I told her. "Maybe you could find your way here. You could travel through backyards. That's how I travel. I'm going to leave in the morning. I could leave the back door unlocked for you."
She paused for several more seconds, and then she said, "We live too far away."
I wasn't sure what she thought I could do for her, and I was starting to get concerned. The infected had to have heard the phone ringing. I imagined them somewhere nearby searching for the source of the sound. It was only a matter of time before they showed up. I knew I had to get upstairs to see if they were coming. I might have to leave at any moment.
"We're out of food," she whispered urgently. "We really need some food. Can you help us?"
I wasn't sure what she had in mind or how she thought I could help them. It wasn't as if they lived next door and I could take food to them. Sure, I wanted to help her, help them, but I was ever so close to getting out of the valley—two days away at most. I realized I should have been feeling some kind of moral imperative to help them, but I was hesitant and felt conflicted, and I vacillated between feelings of compassion and a nagging visceral fear.
I felt compelled to say something, anything. "Where do you live?" I asked her.
"We live at 2885 East Craig Drive," she said, sounding hopeful. "It's around two miles or so from my grandparents' home."
"Craig Drive?"
"It's about 3600 South," she said.
I did some mental calculations and determined they were about nineteen blocks from the Josephsons'. Not that far away. But it would still take at least two days, most likely three to reach them.
I shared my calculations with her, hoping she would see the need for a better option. "I don't know," I said, a hint of doubt in my voice. "Could take me three days to get there."
"We can't wait that long," she said, no longer whispering or trying to hide the desperation in her voice. "We haven't eaten in two days. You could be here in ten minutes if you drove. You could put some food in the Cadillac. All you'd have to do is find the key fob. We need your help. Could you please help us?"
She was determined and insistent, and I felt pressured. A part of me wanted to hang up, but for whatever reason, I couldn't. And then I wondered if my hesitancy had to do with Alex.
But even if I helped them, driving around the valley was an insane idea. A
nd if it were so easy to drive around the valley, she could have driven here herself anytime. Then I came up with what I thought was a reasonable alternative. "Maybe you could find a neighbor to help you," I suggested.
"What? A neighbor?" she asked, incredulously. "You expect me to go around the neighborhood knocking on doors? Even if I could, what makes you think they'd have extra food?"
She was right of course. It wasn't a realistic solution. Just a feeble attempt on my part to find a way to help her that didn't involve me. I gave up on the idea. She wasn't going for it anyway. And then it occurred to me that Alex wouldn't have hesitated for a moment. He likely would have driven straight to their home to bring them food, infected be damned. And he would have done it without blinking an eye. But I wasn't Alex.
A wave of exhaustion swept over me, hitting me like a rogue tidal wave. Its heaviness overwhelmed me and I felt incredibly fatigued. I had a sudden, desperate need to get off the phone and end the conversation. I found talking to her to be exhausting. And that's when I told her what she wanted to hear, or at least as close as I could come to telling her what she wanted to hear. "I'll come tomorrow," I told her. "Late afternoon. I'll find you some food then. But I can't drive. If I tried driving, I'd never make it. There's too many infected out there."
I didn't know to what extent I was being honest with her. I'd essentially told her what she wanted to hear so I could get her off the phone. And while I did want to help them, getting there tomorrow afternoon was a pipe dream. And I couldn't figure out why I'd told her I could be there tomorrow.
She didn't answer right away as if she were mulling over her options. But she didn't really have any. Then she said, "Thank you. Thank you so much."
Jacob's Odyssey (The Berne Project Book 1) Page 11