by Bryan Way
“You see any obstructions in the southbound lane? Over.”
“None of note…”
“Jeff…” Rich admonishes. “You’ve gotta pay attention to both lanes… if you don’t, what’s to say we don’t get stuck again? Over.”
“Did you pay attention? Over.”
“Yes, I just wanted to make sure you did. Over.”
I plop the receiver back onto the mounting bracket and consider turning off the CB.
“Thanks dad.”
“He is such a dick…” Mel echoes.
“He’s right…”
“Doesn’t make him any less of a dick.”
I involuntarily take a deep breath and exhale. Mel’s resulting attention leaves me vulnerable to her question.
“What is it?”
“There’s… something I wanted to ask you. And now that you’ve…”
“…is this about Christmas Eve?” She interrupts.
I can’t bring myself to confirm this. “…why?” She continues. The intervening moment feels like an eternity as I try to sort through how I felt doing what I did. “I killed someone…” I say finally. “That’s not something you get over. And I wanna…” I let out another hard sigh as I struggle to translate my feelings into thoughts before condensing them into words. “What was it like…” Mel starts suddenly. “Killing them?” Though I was unprepared for this question, I recognize it as the toll for her candor.
“Like I punched my mom.” I say firmly. “I was blind drunk with rage, and when it wore off, I saw with absolute clarity what I couldn’t take back. I see their… faces… try to… rationalize what they felt at the end… scared, empty, vulnerable… and I empathize, because I felt it too… I… touched that fear… got sucked into it… tainted by it. Nobody’s innocent… but that doesn’t reset the bar on guilt.”
“What I did…” Mel replies after a long silence. “…I’ve been used before… used people… and I wasn’t gonna get used. So I kept control. I made them think… ohhh… that I wanted them… made them believe it. I’ve been there before… and I couldn’t let that be Helen’s first time… so I kept them away until you came. And I knew you would…”
She pauses. I glance up at the black smoke as it takes up more and more of the horizon.
“No… I didn’t… I hoped you would. I didn’t want the chance to figure out what’d happen next…” Mel wipes a tear out of her eye, but I can tell by her voice that she isn’t even close to crying. “I don’t know how much longer it could’ve gone on… but fuck you if you judge me for that.” She folds her arms and looks out the window.
“I won’t. No one ever will.” I reply.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t give me that ‘you did what you had to do’ shit…” Mel seethes.
“No… you made a choice no one should have to make, and you did it to protect someone else.”
“Well… so did you.”
Can I tell Mel that it’s very possible our erstwhile intruders may have had benign intentions, or would that only make matters worse? The stray shot that arguably set off a war may have been a mistake, but it is only one piece of evidence; perhaps these guys would have presented themselves as fellow survivors seeking a symbiotic relationship, only to betray and kill us in our sleep. As Anderson correctly pointed out at our first encounter, the intruders had military clothes and uniforms, and they may well have been responsible for executing Jacoby at Check Point 1.
As we approach another overpass, it seems clear that the source of the fire is close, especially since the mountains are drawing near. The moment we pass out of the shadow, I see fire through the trees directly north. Once we clear the forest, I set eyes on a building composed largely of peach-colored brick awash with flame. A surrounding parking lot is completely loaded with cars, but I can’t see a soul, and there are no other buildings or visible roads nearby. Of the sign adorning the structure, I can only make out the words Health Campus; the windows beneath the first word are belching a fire dense enough to render it unreadable.
Health Campus? The fire here is so all-encompassing that I find it hard to believe it was an accident, but who could have a problem with a medical building? As we continue to rubberneck, it strikes me that I have no idea what happened here, filling my mind with images of the Mass set ablaze by unseen assailants while we roast inside. “Passing Allentown…” Rich says, startling me. A highway sign on the side of the road confirms this.
“…last exit until the tunnel, over.”
“How long is that? Over.”
“Fifteen minutes. Over…”
As soon as I pull the mic away from my face, I see something that doesn’t fully compute. Once it does, I gasp in terror as tears force out of my eyes. “STOP!” I manage to burp into the radio. “What?!” Mel asks, searching for what spooked me. It’s not difficult to find. The piercing blue frame of an otherwise unassuming overpass ahead has a message written in bright silver spray paint: STOP. GO BACK.
I’m having difficulty remembering the last time I’ve felt fear so thoroughly invade my body, and it’s all I can do to overanalyze my involuntary reaction the same way my friends and I treat jokes: hastily written and giving off absolutely no sense of purpose, the message appears after we’ve already passed a building on fire. It’s fresh enough that it must have been done since the crisis, and we’ve seen no other messages like it. “Alright, Jeff… what do you reckon, over?” My hand shakes as I reach for the CB mic that I apparently dropped. It takes me a moment to put my fear into words.
“You know that moment in Alien, when they realize the signal on the planet is coming from a crashed ship?”
“…yeah, over…”
“That’s how I feel. Over.”
“So what do we do? Over.”
“…I don’t know…”
“…what if it’s on both sides?” Mel asks.
“What?”
“If it’s the same thing on the other side, we don’t have anything to worry about… nothing bad happened on the way up, right?”
“Okay…” I pick up the CB. “Rich, we’re gonna see if it’s on the other side. Over.”
I slowly edge forward, my head rotating like a paranoid owl. I deploy the plow on the front of the Humvee, vaguely recalling a movie where a car runs over a patch of razor wire, stranding the occupants in dangerous territory. I expect a horde the size of a small country to appear at any second and anticipate a hail of automatic gunfire, but the silence is deafening. We complete our journey beneath the overpass and discover nothing written on the opposite side.
“There’s nothing… over.”
“Well, Jeff? Over.”
“I dunno…”
“…you can’t get away with that. This is the big league. Do we go back, or move forward? Over.”
“What do you think, over?”
“My mind’s made up, but I don’t want you to just agree with me ‘cause it’s easy, over.”
I scramble in my pocket for my cell phone, find it, and attempt to call Alan. No dice. From here, I can see the road continue toward a pinprick to infinity. There’s a steep hill to the right and a lightly graded one to the left, and I know for sure there’s a forest on either side up ahead. It’s a warning. I involuntarily take a deep breath and exhale as more tears slip out of my eyes. If I had the choice between seeing the message and not, I’d have taken the latter, so I have my answer.
“We go on. Over.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Be careful. Over and out.”
“Mel…” I start. “I want you to go with them.”
“What?! Fuck that, I’m not leaving you…”
“I appreciate that… but we don’t have a choice. The cover’s better on the bus, you can move and take aim. And if something happens… that’s what we need.”
“Jeff, I’m not…”
“Mel, seriously… I don’t want to be alone… but we don’t have a choice. Get the M-16s ready.”
>
“Jesus Christ…”
Instead of questioning me further, she gets out of the Humvee. “Wait, Mel…” I say over the din of the engine. She stops.
“Tell Rich… the radio might be tapped…”
“Tapped?” She asks.
“Someone might be listening … so no unnecessary chatter…”
“I’ll tell him… anything else?”
“Yeah…” I sigh. “Blanket the windows. And be careful.”
“You too.”
I watch in the rearview mirror as she heads toward the bus, imagining a gunshot ringing out, a puff of blood, and Mel hitting the ground. As much as that thought scares me, nothing is more terrifying than knowing I have no idea what I’d do next. A few seconds later, Rich opens the bus door and she steps aboard. I sigh and hesitate before continuing forth, my thoughts turning toward how not fun this is.
When we boarded our vehicles in the early morning, I felt enough excitement to bypass both fear and reason. With the excitement gone, the latent adrenaline is now feeding that fear. That message could’ve been for the fire. It could’ve been a chemical spill. We might cross paths with a group like that of DC cubed. There might be a hundred thousand Zombies. As the possibilities swirl in my head, I view every tree, hill, abandoned car, and highway divider with the same suspicion.
And the road drags on. The calmness of familiarity clouds around my perception, hinting that these roads are known to me and entreating me to relax. What if a bridge is out? What if there’s someone waiting to trick us? Could it be that bad if someone else had the time to stop and leave a message on an underpass that could only be reached by a ladder? I warm myself with the thought that I might never find out. Sure, it’s terrifying now, but if we manage to meet Alan’s group and make it back safely, will the message ultimately matter? On the other hand, the worst case scenario is well beyond my perception.
From a half mile away, I can see our potential gauntlet: the Lehigh Tunnel. At this distance I can only make out a few cars parked in the lot between the two tunnels; the circular southbound lane appears dark from here, but the rectangular northbound lane still has working lights. A massive, 50-foot tall concrete façade bearing the tunnel’s name juts out from the side of the mountain with an access ramp connecting the north and south lanes of the highway behind it, I assume so any vehicle that cannot pass through the tunnel has an opportunity to make a U-turn.
Something moves in the lot between the tunnels.
It’s hard to make out the motion at first, but I quickly identify a group of men walking from the southbound lane over to ours. It doesn’t look as though they were expecting us, but they certainly seem prepared for visitors. This alone is enough for me to sweat in spite of the cold. Behind them, the snowy ridge of the tree-coated mountain looms a daunting 800 feet above us.
The closer I draw, the slower I go. Rich has stopped entirely. One of the men steps out ahead of his heavily armed cronies, gesturing for me to stop. About a half mile behind us I saw an off-ramp leading to the road that travels over this mountain, but it disappeared as an option before we even set out when Rich and I crunched the numbers: the tunnel is just over ¾ of a mile long, and the trip over the ridge would require a 10 mile detour to reconnect with the highway on what could best be described as uncertain roads. And now, we’ve been spotted. Running is futile.
I stop the Humvee, removing the katana sheath from my belt and pushing my rifle into the passenger floor mat. The man who separated himself from the group is still walking toward me, clearly carrying some kind of rifle and wearing a puffy white snowsuit. I consider calling Rich on the CB, but I know it’s just as likely that one of their friends is listening. The fact that nothing comes in on my CB confirms that Rich believes this also. I can’t sit here forever, and I don’t want them to know what’s on the bus.
“I’ve got this.” I find myself saying into the CB. Startled that the words came out of my mouth, I put the Humvee in park, open the door, and leap out. My feet send out a plume of powder that the wind whips away as it yanks at my trench coat. I squint at the sun reflecting off the snow covered mountain as the man in white steps forward. I can now identify that he’s carrying an M-16.
While he approaches, I try to temper myself in advance; I have to avoid answering his questions quickly or nervously while also presenting a front of confidence to keep him on his toes. This will not be easy, but it’ll be better if I let him do the talking. He keeps his finger in the trigger guard as he stops thirty feet away, judging the distance between us as a considerable silence festers.
“Hi there…” He opens amicably. “What can I do you for?”
“… I was wondering the same thing.”
“I like that…” He chuckles. “Right to the point. You see… this here’s our tunnel. We ain’t unfriendly to outsiders… but there’s a price for our hospitality.”
He squints as well, tilting his head back to give me a better look at the garlands of red hair poking out the sides of his snow cap and the wrinkled lines that seem to contort every inch of his young face. “Do you take credit cards?” I ask. “Sense of humor too.” He turns back to the five men standing in front of the tunnel entrance. “I like this one!” He shouts back to them, their forced laughter echoing toward us. That sound always brings my blood to a boil, and in this moment, it tempers my fear. The man in white turns back to me as the smile melts through the tangerine goatee around his lips, and in ten steps, we’re nearly face to face.
“No credit cards.” He’s entirely serious, bordering on intimidating. “No checks, no cash, no gold bullion. No use. We deal in supplies and services.”
“…services?”
“Sure… we spotted your bus… got any fillies lookin’ to ply a trade?”
“Ah… services…” I repeat, swallowing hard. “Well… nothin’ like that. What’s it worth to you?”
“Whatever you got.”
“Hmm… see… that’s not gonna work for us…”
“Oh really?”
He puts both hands on his M-16. I don’t take my eyes off his. “Sure. We’d like to get through… but there’s not much point if we sacrifice everything.” A devious smile works its way across his face over the course of five seconds. “It’s not a sacrifice… it’s a tribute. We keep the tunnel clear and safe… listen.” He cocks his head back, lightly tilting it to the sides. I can only hear the Humvee idling. “Hear them undeads?” He asks. “I don’t… all the same…” I start, thinking of Rich. “…I can take Mountain Rd. to Ashfield or 248.” He smiles painfully, baring his teeth as his tongue rolls under his canines on the right side.
“You been on them roads?”
“Not recently.”
“You gonna hump that bus up that mountain?”
“If I have to…” I start. “But I’d prefer not to.”
“Alright Bartleby…” I have no idea what that means. “You’re a close trader… but it’s cold out here, and I don’t wanna be at this the better part of the day. You know what you’ve got, and I’m workin’ my way up to trustin’ you. But if you tell me you got something you don’t… you can forget about trust.”
“That’s only fair.”
“So… let’s begin.”
“One last thing…”
He takes a step back, but does nothing else. “I’m stating the obvious by saying it’s hard to trust someone in your position… all due respect…” I start, prompting him to nod politely. “What guarantees do I have?” He considers this a moment, then looks back. My heart pumps diesel as I glance at his hand, waiting for a signal to one of his buddies perched on the access ramp above the tunnels. Stop. Go back. Maybe we should have heeded the warning.
When he turns to face me, he nods his head back toward the tunnel. “Friend… you got no guarantees. But you think you’d be seein’ me if I was a dishonest man?” I look past him at the tunnel, searching for bodies, cars that have been shot up, anything. The entire area looks unused, but there’s a garage
door between the tunnels. They could be hiding anything in there, but he has a point. I take a deep breath, look back toward the bus, and exhale.
“How does a case of water sound?” I open.
“It’s a start.” He replies.
“Two cases of canned food.”
“What kind?”
“Meat and veggies.” I state.
“Gettin’ warmer.”
“Two M-16s.”
“Loaded? Working?” He’s getting excited now.
“Full magazines, just cleaned by a soldier.”
He stares at me, considering the offer.
“What kinda ammo?”
“5.56 NATO, FMJ.”
“Okay… so… you want passage for the lot?”
“Actually… I’m gonna go one further. I’m coming back… with friends. Today… hopefully… so I’m gonna want a round trip ticket. Everything I just said, paid in full right now… and when I come out the southbound tunnel… two more cases of water and canned food… and 90 rounds of 5.56.”
“120.”
“I can’t promise that. I can set 90 aside… but I don’t know how much I’m gonna need up north.”
“If you can afford 90… you can afford 120.”
He stares at me hard as he awaits my reply. My eyes narrow before I respond.
“90. More if we can spare it. And I’ll throw in a can opener.”
“What makes you think you can talk me into takin’ less?”
“Well… you strike me as a man who’d rather conserve ammo… so the way I see it… you can take it… or we can use it now.”