I recognize Ian by the scraps of his leather jacket. His remains are as defiled as Sarah’s. His limbs are chewed beyond recognition, save for one intact hand, groping for salvation. Or reaching for Sarah. Covering my mouth, I squelch through more gore. Near Ian are two backpacks. Sarah must’ve dropped hers in their final skirmish. Recovering both, I sling one over each shoulder, look through the carnage, and find the object for which I’d hunted.
The gun.
I reach down, pull it from the filth, and turn it over. It’s heavy in my grip. For all I know, Ian expended the last few shots. A sudden noise rips my attention to the mouth of the alley.
I startle, spin, and aim.
Two crows land on a dead creature, lifting off again when they spot me.
I’m about to leave when I see something shiny near Ian’s stripped bare leg bone. Stooping, I recover a keyring from the asphalt, containing a solitary key. It’s clean; it must have been flung away in the eating contest.
A sudden thought pulls me to my feet.
Ian and Sarah’s bus.
The bags weigh me down as I trek out of the alley and down the road, heading for the circular drop-off area, hoping that’s where the bus is parked.
Slowly, I get a better view of the schoolyard as I walk to the edge of the building. Aside from the crashed cars, I see two reading benches, more overgrown grass, and a large sign with the name of the school: Webster Hill Elementary. Ian’s patient voice comes back to me like a fever dream I can’t shake.
“You’re at Webster Hill School…in West Hartford.”
A few more steps reveal a short, white bus.
My mouth falls open as I survey the battered vehicle.
I’d expected yellow—I know it doesn’t belong to the school, but it’s what I pictured. For the first time since I’ve “woken up,” escape feels like more than a naïve hope. My heart slams against my ribcage; I hasten my pace, struggling through the lingering haze, weakness, and pain. The bus is too detailed to be a dream. I can already see its thick tires, the black leather seats, and four words painted on the side: Pine Grove Community Center.
It’s the first piece of luck I’ve had since opening my eyes into this hellish reality.
I head for the double doors on the side, readying my key.
Movement from the window freezes me.
A young man peers out from a bus window, his lips drawn back into a menacing snarl. He jabs a dark object at the window and yells, “Stay where you are! If you come any closer, I’ll kill you!”
6
Sudden Peril
I lock eyes with the person in the bus. He’s my age, maybe a year or two older. Shaggy brown hair frames his face; he holds an object I can’t see, but apparently thinks is a dangerous weapon. He repeats his threat.
“Stay back, or I’ll kill you!”
His voice trembles with fear; panic frames his eyes.
I slowly raise my free hand.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” I call out, trying to defuse the situation.
I keep my gun by my waist, ready to flee or fight, depending on what the moment calls for. The young man and I study one another through the thick glass. He looks from me, to the building, and back again, expectantly.
He’s waiting for someone; maybe two someones.
I clear my throat. “I was with Ian and Sarah.”
Recognition flickers through his face. He pauses for a moment, then calls out again.
“Where are they?”
“Those…things got them.”
His mouth falls open. Disbelief furrows his brow. “Don’t lie to me!”
“They helped me in the field behind the school,” I say convincingly. “And then a bunch of the infected showed up and they overwhelmed them. They…they didn’t make it.” I swallow past the lump in my throat.
The words are as strange to speak as to hear. The young man’s eyes pass over me. He clutches the object just out of view. He doesn’t trust me.
All at once, I realize how incriminating I must look. I’m carrying Ian’s gun and both of their bags. I’m covered in blood, dirt, and gore. If the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t believe me, either.
“There were a few dozen of them in the back,” I continue earnestly, gesturing to the school. “They came from in there. Sarah helped me to a car and told me to stay inside. And then…she died.”
Surely, he heard the gunshots and the groans. Or maybe he saw the stricken running past.
Feeling the need to prove myself, I search my arm for the place where Ian injected me. I can’t find the mark, but I remember the spot. Holding it up, I say, “Ian gave me a shot. He…he brought me back. I don’t understand all of what happened, but I’m telling the truth. You have to believe me.”
The young man bites his lip. For the first time, I see acceptance in his eyes, and tears. Reinforcing my story, I hold up the key fob.
“This belongs to the bus, right?”
He looks from my face to the key. He nods.
He pulls away from the window, dipping between the seats, going in and out of view. A fear becomes a certainty—the young man’s not going to open up. Or maybe he has another key, and he’s going to drive off and leave me here. I look around, desperately planning my next move.
Metal groans.
The doors swing open.
From the top of the steps, the young man watches me nervously. For the first time, I see what’s in his hand: a crowbar.
He stares at the gun in my hand. “Is that Ian’s?”
I nod and lower the weapon to reassure him. “I’ll tuck it away, okay? Relax.”
He watches me a moment, before agreeing. Slowly, I slough off one of the bags, finding a side pocket to temporarily stash it. Satisfied, he waves me up the steps. He backs up as I ascend, allowing me into the aisle, but still looking over my shoulder at the school.
“Going back there would be a bad idea,” I warn him. “We’ll end up dead, too.”
Instinctively, he looks to the far side of the building, where I see another playground.
“You saw those things run past here,” I surmise. “Is that where they went?”
“Yea. A few dozen of ‘em.”
He glances at the bag I’m still holding, before gripping a large, silver handle connected to the doors and pulling it. A creaking groan ends with a bang; the doors close. The bus secured, he walks a few rows back and takes a seat in the middle, turning sideways so his knees jut in the aisle, and puts his head in his hands.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help them.” I follow him to the seat, guilty. “I was weak. I still am. Sarah told me to stay put in the car.”
After a long while, the young man says, “You were smart to stay hidden.”
I nod, but I feel no better.
“Are you the only other one?” he asks.
“The only…?” I pause for a moment, before noticing the color of his eyes. They’re a pale yellow, just like mine. “They saved you, too.”
He nods vacantly. “Two days ago. They cleaned me up and explained what happened to me.”
For the first time, I pay attention to his outfit. He’s wearing an AC/DC shirt, faded jeans, and a pair of black Doc Martens. His clothes aren’t new, but they’re more intact than my tattered rags.
“They said they’d be back in a few minutes…” the young man’s voice trails. “I knew something was wrong when I heard the gunshots. And then I saw those things running out from where you came. I kept hoping the worst didn’t happen. But it did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t know them well,” he admits. “But they were cool, and they helped me. Now they’re gone.”
Stripped of a response, I stand awkwardly in the aisle.
“You can have a seat, if you want.” He gestures to the row across from him. I hesitate, shrug, and slough off the bags. I examine the bus. Foam hangs from the seats; stickers peel from the ceiling. It definitely looks old—as if it was repurposed long before the world�
��s collapse. On the rear seats are a few bulky duffel bags. I turn, studying the driver’s area. Sunglasses hang from the rearview mirror. A chipped, faded bobblehead wobbles gently on the dash. With a tinge of nostalgia, I recognize Dwight from the Office, nodding as if he knows something we don’t.
The young man sits up suddenly. “Sarah had a radio. Do you have it?”
“It’s broken.” I pull it out and show him.
He shakes his head grimly. “They told me we were going to head to a place called the Outpost. But we’ve had no reception for days, anyway.”
“They told me about the Outpost, too. Do you know where it is?”
Another shake of his head.
A sudden wave of tiredness hits me; I grab the top of the seats, steadying myself.
“Why don’t you sit down? I’ll keep an eye out for the stricken while you recuperate.”
Grateful for his offer, I settle into a seat across from him, studying him more closely. He’s cleaner than me, but his shaggy hair is uneven, as if he’s recently cut it, or someone cut it for him. A day’s worth of stubble sprouts from his rugged jawline. He looks like someone I might see on the senior patio back at Wheaton High School. I might’ve even found him cute, if I had time for such thoughts.
“I’m Cody, by the way. You’re probably going to ache for a day or so. Or at least, I did. Don’t worry. It should pass.”
Realizing I haven’t introduced myself, either, I say, “I’m Hannah.”
He raises his crowbar in greeting and manages a faint smile.
“Where’d they find you?” I ask.
“Bloomfield.” He waves vaguely out the window.
I nod, recognizing the name of the town, but I’ve never been there, not that I know of.
“What were you doing?”
“Wandering, I guess. They found me alone. That’s why they took the risk and grabbed me.”
“Ian said I bit him.”
He manages a despairing smile.
“Where are you from?”
“I don’t really have a home…” he trails off again. “My parents moved to North Carolina a year ago. Or was it two?” He furrows his brow, confused. “Anyway, I didn’t want to go with them, so they left me. I was sixteen at the time, so I filed for legal emancipation. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised when they didn’t argue. They’ve always loved partying more than caring for me.” He shakes his head. “For a while, I lived with some older friends in New Haven and transferred to Wilbur Cross High School, but they got tired of me sleeping on their couch. They kicked me out and I stayed in my car.”
I nod, feeling an unexpected sympathy for this person I’d just met.
His eyes wander to my disheveled clothing. “Ian and Sarah have spare clothes in back. That’s where I picked my outfit. Maybe you can find something there?”
I glance at the duffel bags in the rear of the bus. Until this moment, changing was hardly a thought.
“Thanks for the offer,” I tell him.
“Hopefully they identified you correctly.” Cody looks away suddenly.
I blink hard. “Excuse me?”
Cody keeps his eyes averted. “I don’t want to scare you, but they told me that they’ve made a few mistakes.”
“Mistakes?”
“They injected some people that weren’t ‘Keepers.’”
“What are you talking about?”
It sounds like Cody is sitting on a pile of answers I don’t have. Before I can ask a follow-up question, he jolts upright. Panic freezes his face.
“There they are.”
I swivel to where he’s pointing. A familiar mob of creatures rounds the far corner of the school, coming in our direction.
“Dammit…” I spring from my seat, looking down at the bus key. “We should probably get out of here.”
Cody reaches in his pocket and pulls out a nearly identical key.
“You’ve got a spare.”
“They left it for me in case,” he explains. “But that might not matter much now.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know how to drive a bus. Do you?”
7
Drive
“You don’t know how to drive this thing?” I repeat.
Cody shakes his head anxiously. “I’m not sure how different it is from a regular car. But I guess we’ll find out.”
Before I can ask another question, Cody races down the aisle and jumps in the driver’s seat, fumbling with the key. After a few tries, he gets it in the ignition. A cold splinter of fear courses through me as I survey the incoming infected. At least a dozen stricken are coming in our direction, covered in blood. I imagine them surrounding the bus, pounding on the doors the way they surrounded the beat-up coupe. I might’ve escaped detection then, but I can’t bank on such luck now.
Cody turns the key in the ignition and the engine shudders.
“Dammit!” he curses.
I scan the dashboard, looking from one strange dial to the next. I recognize the gas gauge and the speedometer, but nothing else. An extra row of buttons lines the side of the driver’s seat, labelled with abbreviations only a bus driver would know. Three pedals jut out beneath the dash. An oversized stick shift rises from the floor next to Cody.
Reacting to the stuttering engine, the infected increase their pace, homing in on us. Maybe we should’ve stayed put, after all. But it’s too late to second-guess our decision now. Fresh blood covers their bodies—remnants of Sarah and Ian, and anyone else they might’ve killed. A few naked ones run among them, showing no awareness of their exposed bodies.
Cody turns the ignition off and then on again.
The engine whines but won’t catch.
“It won’t start!” Panicking, Cody stamps one of the pedals, but the bus isn’t revving to life. Soon, the stricken will be right outside our doors. I look over at the silver lever connected to the entry doors, wondering how long it will take for vicious, prying hands to find their way inside.
Cody tromps another pedal while turning the key, to no avail.
A memory returns. All at once, I’m back in the high school parking lot with Peyton in the driver’s seat of her Nissan Rogue. She’d been the only one of my friends to drive standard; she’d shown me. I don’t know if the bus operates the same way, but it’s worth a try.
“Move over!” I say.
Doubt crosses Cody’s face.
“Hurry!” I insist.
Cody hesitates before relinquishing the driver’s seat. I pass my gun to him and take the wheel, hoping that muscle memory will replace a fuzzy, old lesson. I put one foot on the clutch and one on the brake, just like Peyton showed me. If I’m right, I need to keep those pressed, while turning the key. I do as I was instructed.
The engine turns over and growls to life.
“You got it!” Cody exclaims.
Our celebration is short-lived. The first pair of hands smacks the side of the bus; groans echo in our ears.
“Go! Go!” Cody yells.
I let off the pedals; the vehicle lurches. I quickly grab the wheel, getting the vehicle going and steering around the circle, shaking off one creature, then another, before switching to the gas pedal.
The engine stalls.
“Hannah!” Cody aims the gun at the double exit doors, where bodies slam against the bus’s exterior. Rabid faces press against the double doors; hands claw and pry. Frantically, I start the engine again, remembering more of what I’ve been taught. In a herky-jerky motion, the bus moves forward, rolling around the circle toward the road.
I grab the stick shift and switch to first gear. The bus moves faster; the creatures sidestep with it. A few lose their grip and fall, but the more persistent cling on, pounding harder. A loud bang draws my attention to the rearview mirror, where an infected throws itself at the rear of the bus, falling off and rolling. Another one clings to the mirror, feet dragging, taking an uninvited ride. I drive around the circle in fits and starts, learning the bus’s peculiarities, wh
ile the stricken continue smashing on the sides.
“Come on, Hannah!”
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
The vehicle jumps a curb, launching into the air, crashing back down. A few more creatures drop from view.
And then I’m on the main thoroughfare, picking up speed, steering around a few crashed cars. The creatures run alongside the bus; the one on the mirror hangs on, now trailing blood from ruined feet. I shake the steering wheel left and right, finally throwing the freeloader off.
The other stricken run after us, but they can’t catch up.
Soon we’re rolling down the street, leaving the ugly infected behind.
“You did it, Hannah! You did it!”
I revel in my victory, but only for a moment, knowing that in this new world, safety is short-lived.
“How’d you do that?” Cody asks, clearly surprised, as we drive several streets away from the school.
“One of my friends taught me.” I grip the wheel, keeping my eyes on the road.
Steering around some potholes, I avoid an abandoned car, and then another, studying the neighborhood in which we’ve found ourselves. Each property tells a story of violence. Shards of glass cling to the shattered window frames of houses; the doors are kicked in. An old, weathered skeleton sprawls on a front stoop. Elsewhere, a rusted bicycle lays half covered by weeds on a front lawn, the handlebars twisted, the tires warped. Garage doors are left open, exposing empty bays and rummaged trash. Right next to old dead bodies are a few that look more recently deceased—whether they were infected or not, I can’t tell. Birds hop between the rotting corpses, picking over the last tidbits of flesh.
“This is the way it looks everywhere.” Cody waves outside. “It doesn’t seem real.”
I shiver. “It feels like we’re living out some apocalyptic movie.” I look over at him. “Have you seen anyone else out here? Anyone uninfected?”
“You’re the first, besides Ian and Sarah.”
Alive Again | Book 1 Page 3