The next two hours were spent filling gas cans and loading up her car. She’d started the Land Rover’s engine once every week during the time she’d been sequestered in her lab to make sure the battery remained charged and the gasoline was still viable. It would be a snug fit with the cans, some of her equipment, and the dozen or so binders which contained her research from the past year. It was indulgent and frivolous to waste precious cargo space on them, but she couldn’t bear to just walk away from all that hard work.
Yep, the binders were coming with her.
She emptied the last of the water from the bathroom toilet tanks and put it in the used water bottles she’d been saving for the task. It didn’t look like much, but it was better than nothing, and she had more at her house if it hadn’t been looted. She knew she shouldn’t count on the remainder of her supplies still being there, but it sure would save a lot of time and stress if she could just put the pedal to the metal and not have to stop for food and water along the way.
She expected the trip to take less than a week. Steven had worked out all the logistics for her, of course. Not that she couldn’t have done it herself, but she knew he’d worry less if she agreed to follow his plan. Her goal was to make two hundred miles per day, which might be optimistic considering how clogged some of the roads were likely to be. Once out of the cities, she’d be able to make up for the time spent detouring around traffic jams of dead cars and dead people.
That was the part she dreaded most. All those bodies that would be out there. The physical effects of Chicxulub came on suddenly and people had been in panic overdrive at the end, so she knew a mass exodus had occurred in the larger metropolitan areas. She planned to drive on the wrong side of the freeway when she left Palo Alto, which might be less congested if she and Steven were correct in their assumptions. She hoped the stench of human decomposition had diminished by now, as it should have. She was no biology major, but she understood the cycle of death. Seventy-two hours post mortem, rigor mortis subsides and bacteria within the body starts to consume the dying cells. Next, enzymes in the pancreas cause the organ to begin digesting itself. That’s when the smell kicks in. As tissue decomposes, it emits a greenish substance along with methane and hydrogen sulfide gasses. Then the lungs expel fluid through the openings in the face, specifically, the nose and mouth. It’s about this time when beetles get interested — the blow flies had arrived at the party long before now, sometimes just minutes after death. A deceased body is a smorgasbord for the insect world, and nature utilizes these multi-legged critters to cleanse the planet of rotting dead things. If there are carrion eaters in the vicinity, such as crows or buzzards, the process goes even faster. Everything up to this point happens rather quickly; within a couple of weeks in most cases. After that, it’s a matter of waiting out the drying phase. Approximately twelve months later, all that should remain of Uncle Bob is dried skin and bones, without much smell. Of course all corpses, and the conditions under which they became such, are different.
Your results may vary!
Still, almost a year after most people who were going to die had done so, the worst of the stench should be gone.
It was her fervent hope.
By late afternoon the vehicle was gassed up and ready. She put a clean towel in the bottom of the stainless steel rabbit cage she’d found in the biology lab next door. It would be converted to a kitty prison if Brains got cantankerous on the long drive. She knew he would not take well to being confined after his near-feral lifestyle, but she had no intention of leaving him behind. His company was better than being alone, and she’d grown accustomed to his silly cat behavior. It was funny to think there’d been a time when she didn’t even like cats.
An apocalypse makes strange bed partners.
The Land Rover was loaded. She headed back inside the building for a final night of comfort and relative safety before venturing into ‘Here There Be Dragons’ territory in the morning. She stopped suddenly, then turned back to the Rover, having just decided the Macallan 25 wedged into the glove box would not arrive at Steven’s house with its seal intact.
Chapter 16
San Mateo, California
Logan figured he’d walked about fifteen miles overnight, and as the sky in the east began to lighten, he knew he should set up camp for the day. He’d been traveling south on Highway 82 since the 101 was just too treacherous for easy walking at night. All the dead bodies didn’t bother him, but the traffic jam went on forever, and the debris from the wrecks was just begging to be stumbled over. He wondered if the people had placed all that metal junk in his way before they died just to be mean. He wouldn’t put it past them.
He hadn’t seen any living people since the little girl with carrot-colored hair. The thought of her made him smile. He’d gotten so wrapped up in skinning the cat that he’d forgotten about her until just now. It might have been fun to see what she looked like under her skin.
There was a sign on Highway 82 that said ‘Peninsula Golf Course and Country Club, next exit.’ On a whim, having never been to an actual golf course before, Logan decided to explore it. He trudged down the J. Arthur Younger Freeway for a mile or so before another sign indicated he should turn right on Alameda.
His first glimpse of it was not promising. He imagined it would be green and lush like the ones he’d seen on television, but this one was all brown and dead-looking. Still, the landscaping was neater here than most other places; it wasn’t overgrown and full of weeds yet. He suspected he would find squirrels and perhaps other wildlife near all those trees, so it could still be fun. He’d shot lots of squirrels these past months, and it always delighted him how they flew right off their little feet and up into the air from the force of the .22 bullets. Cats were heavier, so they weren’t quite as funny, and dogs just fell over, so they were his least favorite.
He’d never eaten any of the things he’d killed. The cat-skinning was more about curiosity (what’s under the fur?) than about preparing it for cooking. But his backpack was light at the moment, and the stores he’d passed during the night had been cleaned out. He might have to eat squirrel or cat if he didn’t find regular food soon.
Ahead, lay a two story building with a tall metal pole out front. The ragged American flag blew in the warm October breeze, making him feel a little anxious. It made him think about laws and policemen and such, and Logan liked how in this new world he only had to worry about his own rules. He would never want to go back to the way things used to be.
He continued to walk toward the building, averting his eyes from the flag. The extra-large wooden doors were locked tight, so he skirted around the corner. There was almost always a window he could break into in the back or on the side.
After about ten yards he found one, with the panes broken out. He slid his Ruger out of its holster and kept it in his hand as he climbed over the sill, which was free of glass shards. Somebody was a tidy burglar, he thought. He felt a twinge of anxiety wondering if the person might still be inside, but when he thought about how good he was with the pistol, he decided he shouldn’t be worried. He walked as quietly as he could, his sneakers making no sound at all on the plush carpet of the room he had entered.
At one time, he supposed it must have been quite a fancy place. The medium-sized room he’d come into looked like a parlor — a word his mom used — because there were several sofas placed here and there. The fireplace at the other end of the room still had some remnants of charred logs on the grate. He thought he could start a fire there later and cook whatever he was able to kill that day. Maybe he could rig up some kind of spit, like cannibals did when they were roasting people in those old movies. The idea appealed to him and he decided he’d like to try it, even if he did find some packaged food somewhere in the building.
It would be fun.
He stepped into the next room, which was large and open. He saw the big doors off to the right, so he knew this was the grand entryway, another term his mom liked to use when she talked about r
ich folks and their houses. It truly was grand because there was even a dusty piano sitting under one of those rich-people chandeliers.
Logan wondered about the people who had come to this place in the Before Times. They must have had tons of money and probably drove Cadillacs; that was the kind of car his mom had wanted but would never be able to buy. They were just too pricey. He felt sad then, thinking about her. She would have liked this place, even though it smelled like rat piss.
He was lost in thought and had let his guard down a bit when he heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet being chambered. It sounded like a Glock and when he spun around, he saw he was right.
Standing there with the gun pointed at his chest was a beautiful woman. His mouth dropped in surprise. She looked like one of those actresses on TV...the Rachel person on that funny show his mom liked. She’d loved that program so much that she watched all the reruns long after they stopped making new episodes.
The woman was dirtier than Rachel but she sure was pretty, and the way she held the Glock, he knew she must be good with guns too.
Not as good as he was though. The thought made him smile.
###
The woman kept her weapon trained on the young man’s chest. His sandy blond hair was shoulder length and filthy — she doubted it had been washed even once since The End. His shirt was caked with dirt and what looked like blood. In contrast, his jeans looked brand new. He was standing twenty feet away and she could smell his body odor across the distance.
She sniffed in distaste. There was something off about the golden eyes and the creepy smile, despite the handsomeness of the face. She was getting a very bad feeling about the dude, which was saying a lot since she’d dealt with a lot of bad dudes the past year.
“Don’t make even one tiny move or I will plant two bullets center mass before you know what hit you,” she said.
The man’s smile broadened.
Holy crap. That smile is fucking freaky.
She toyed with the idea of killing him right then, but her sense of honor wouldn’t allow it. He would have to make an aggressive move before she would shoot him; her moral code required such.
###
“You look like Rachel,” Logan said. “From that Friends show. You know the one?”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Her voice was low and sweet-sounding. He decided he would like to see her voice box from the inside. He knew it was located somewhere in the throat. He imagined a tiny music box with a twirling ballerina on top. He’d seen one in a toy store once.
“Obviously, you’re here looking for food, but everything in this place belongs to me.”
He noticed she spoke slowly now, like she was talking to a child. The thought irritated him, but he wasn’t sure why.
“This is my home. You aren’t welcome here. If you want to live, you’ll turn around and go right back out that window you came in. Then you’ll keep walking back down the driveway and on up the road. I want to see your backside on Alameda in five minutes. Do you understand?”
Logan nodded, but even as he did, his hand holding the pistol swiveled up with lightning speed.
He was fast, but she was faster.
Pain exploded in his shoulder.
“Why did you do that?” he screamed. He was so angry. His shoulder was killing him, but all he could think about was that somebody — a girl even — was better with a gun than him.
“I warned you. Plus you were about to shoot me, asshole. You’re lucky I didn’t aim for your fucking heart. Now get the hell out of here before I kill you. Leave the Ruger on the floor.”
“No, please don’t take it. I need it to protect myself and to hunt for food.”
“What about that Sig strapped to your back?”
“It’s a .22 and I’m out of bullets for it,” he lied.
The woman sighed.
“Back up against that wall and keep both hands where I can see them.”
He did as she instructed. She crossed the twenty feet to where the Ruger was lying. She released the clip, letting it fall to the floor, then tossed the empty gun to him. He caught it in his left hand.
“Now get the hell out.”
Logan was seething, but he knew he’d been bested. The woman kept her Glock leveled at him as he clambered back through the window casing. The back of his neck tingled as he walked away; he could feel her eyes on him the entire way to the street.
Once he reached Highway 82 again, he stopped. He slid out of the backpack, unstrapped the rifle, and unbuttoned his shirt to study the wound. He could see the small hole in the front and could feel one also in the back. The bullet had gone straight through.
That was good. It really hurt, but he could lift his arm a little, so the muscles must not have been injured. He would be able to shoot with that hand, and even though he was almost as good with his left hand, he preferred to use the right. He would need to get something to clean it or it would get infected. His mother had been clear on the subject of infection — it was bad and could kill him. He’d have to find some medicine soon, and that meant traveling in the daytime.
He headed south on 82. Chaotic thoughts swirled in his mind. How had that Rachel girl been faster than him? Nobody was faster than him. All the guys at the shooting range had told him so. It didn’t make sense.
Maybe she had magic.
He knew his invisibility didn’t work on all creatures, but it seemed to on most humans. Maybe her magic kept it from working on her. That could explain it. He had a sudden thought that clarified everything: people who couldn’t see him must not have magic of their own, but those who could see him, did have magic.
If they did have magic, he would need to be very, very careful with them.
The concept made perfect sense and he felt better, despite his shoulder, which hurt with every step he took. A sign said ‘Redwood City, 8 miles.’ Soon after, another sign said ‘Palo Alto, 15 miles.’ He sure hoped he could find a CVS or Walgreens sooner than Palo Alto.
Chapter 17
Liberty, Kansas
“Dad, I think Brittany’s mom liked you.”
Jeffrey’s back was toward his father as they weeded the garden. Steven didn’t have to see his son’s face to know there was a shit-eating grin spread all over it.
“You may be right. Not sure how I feel about it. What are your thoughts? Do you like the Evans girls?”
Jeffrey straightened, contemplating the question.
“Brittany is pretty and sweet. I like Mrs. Evans too, but I don’t think I like the way she treats her daughter. She seems sort of rude to her.”
“Yeah, I noticed that too. I’m not sure what kind of relationship they have.”
The day was cool and overcast. After a hot summer and balmy September, their first hint of winter had arrived today in the form of a mild cold front. It made him feel anxious, despite knowing they were probably better prepared than anyone else in the area. Hell, maybe even the entire state. He didn’t indulge in this line of thought often; his focus needed to remain on the welfare of his son and himself, not strangers. He knew there were fellow doomsday preppers long before Chicxulub, but what were the odds any of them had survived the disease? He’d been avoiding all other survivors, except Natalie and her daughter. He and Jeffrey had been sharing their water with them for months. Steven wondered if that might be expanding soon to include food, and at some point, their house. Between the semi-rural location, the electrified fence which ran on windmill-generated power, the garden, the near-full root cellar, and the buried propane tank, he knew they were safer, more comfortable, and certainly better prepared for the winter than the Evans girls.
Natalie hadn’t said how they’d fared last winter. The plague had just happened, people were still dying off, and the world was in chaos. Somehow though, they had managed to survive those harsh months. He knew she was intelligent, and he did remember that she’d mentioned some stockpiling. Was he underestimating her?
After seeing how much fo
od they’d eaten last night and noticing they were both on the thin side, he had a feeling their situation might be tenuous. Should he suggest some kind of joint venture, or wait and let her approach him first? Any new people they took on must carry their own weight.
What skills could the females bring to the table? A literature major and a musical prodigy probably didn’t have much survival expertise, unless they had seen the end coming and self-educated while they could. He decided he would just ask the next time they came to dinner. Before leaving last night, Natalie had been hinting around about a ‘next time,’ but Steven didn’t take the bait. He needed some time to process everything; not only in terms of taking on the responsibility of more mouths to feed, but also the personal implications.
Then there was Julia.
If his sister were still alive, she would be heading this way from California. She had insisted on continuing her work, ignoring Steven’s pleas to get in her vehicle and get the hell to his house where she would be safe. She’d flat-out refused, and there’d been no amount of arguing that would change her mind. The disease had all but ended humanity and she would discover why, even at the expense of her own life.
Her supplies would be running low by now, and they’d agreed that by the first of October, she would leave Stanford no matter where she was with her research. One year — that’s what they’d agreed to.
He hadn’t heard her voice in a couple of months now. He assumed the tower at the campus had been damaged in the storm that had been raging during their last static-filled conversation. Their nightly attempts to communicate via low-frequency radio had been rewarded only sporadically, when the weather was perfect and the ionosphere cooperated. Sixteen hundred miles was a long way for the signal to travel, plus his amateur Kenwood system wasn’t the best nor the most powerful. At the end, there’d been too many other critical items on which to spend the last of his credit.
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