Dr. Robinson closed his eyes and looked as if he was about to change his mind about sharing more information, but he continued. “The people out there—there’s something’s wrong with them.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“They’re sick. Not everyone out there—no, not everyone. Nobody knows why the gas didn’t affect everyone, but almost everyone out there is either sick or dead.”
“How bad is the sickness?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it with my own eyes, but I’ve heard some awful things.” He picked up a piece of paper that he had been using to take notes over the past few days. “They say the sickness affects people differently. Sometimes it gives you hallucinations. Sometimes it makes you kill yourself. Sometimes it turns you mad—it makes you vicious, angry, and aggressive. It makes you want to kill other people so you can eat them.”
“What?” Rowan was instantly alarmed. “That can’t be true, can it?”
“I don’t know if it’s true. But if the people I’ve been listening to on the radio aren’t wrong, then this sickness is the reason why you can’t leave this place. Even if it doesn’t compel you to kill and eat anyone, it’ll still kill you.”
“Fuck that. That isn’t true. You just want me to stay here.”
“I don’t know what else to tell you. You can stay here and listen in on the radio if you’d like. There are usually a few broadcasts every day, but I haven’t heard a single peep from anyone in the last few hours.”
Rowan knew in his heart that the doctor wasn’t lying, but he still couldn’t bring himself to accept the fact that the condition of the world was even worse than he could’ve imagined. What the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn’t possibly stay in this hospital even if there was a deadly disease out there that was practically killing everyone in the world. It would be the wrong choice. His family needed him.
“I’m still leaving,” said Rowan. “Fuck the radio. Fuck the disease. Fuck whatever the hell is going on out there. There’s no way I’m staying here when I know that Caitlyn and my family are in danger. I have to get back to them—no matter what.”
Dr. Robinson stared at the quivering crowbar in Rowan’s hand. “Are you sure?”
“More than sure.”
“You do understand that as a doctor and as a person, it would be completely irresponsible for me to just let you stroll on out of here, right?”
“I do. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t let me.”
“Follow me, then. I’ll let you go, but only on one condition.”
“What do you want?”
“If you somehow manage to avoid getting sick out there—and God forbid that you do get sick—then I want you to make the effort to be responsible for your mental health.” Dr. Robinson led Rowan to the room where the computer was. “You can’t ignore the fragile state of your mind, Rowan, because if you do, then you might as well have gotten affected by the bombs anyway.”
He pulled out his key ring. “As of today, I’m giving you the reins to your own healing. You’re going to be alone out there, which means that you’re going to have to make some difficult decisions that I—or anyone else—can’t help you make.”
Rowan slowly opened the now-unlocked door to the writing room. “Do you think that Caitlyn and my family are okay?”
“I can’t promise you anything. But if that’s a question you want answered, then you’re going to have to go find them, and I really hope you do.”
The boy looked at the door ahead of him, which led to the main lobby of the hospital. What if he was going back to a city that was decimated and destroyed? Would he even be able to find his parents in that mess? And, if he couldn’t, did that mean they were looking for him? What was Caitlyn doing? Was she, too, trying to find Rowan? Did she or his parents even care enough to want to find him? What if they never wanted to see him again because of how he lashed out? He was a failure in all of their eyes. They would hate him for coming back to them—they surely would.
“I’m leaving,” said Rowan. “Is everyone going to be all right in here?”
Dr. Robinson handed him a flashlight to help him navigate his way out of the hospital. “I’ll be doing my best to make sure that they will be.”
Rowan had no more words for the doctor. He pressed forward through the hospital, guided only by the shaking light that trembled in his hands. It was odd for him knowing that from this point forward, he was no longer going to be aware of anything that was going to happen here. Were the patients going to be okay? Was Dr. Robinson going to be successful? Or was Decker going to kill him? Time doesn’t stop when someone leaves a place—it just keeps going and going, just like it always does. The memories and events that were to happen here were no longer for Rowan, but rather for the people he left behind.
He broke into a sprint as soon as he breathed in the fresh, outside air. Free from the darkness yet governed by the unfamiliar, moonlit streets of Los Angeles, the boy remained shackled by fear. He was out here on his own, and he was afraid, lost, and alone. No longer was he protected by a guardian’s shelter; he was free.
5
After miles upon miles of desperate running, Rowan ended up in a dark neighborhood littered with broken glass, though the houses that lined the streets appeared to be remarkably untouched, save for a few boarded up doors. Cars with open hoods and cars with shattered windows blockaded much of the road, but this obviously posed no problem for Rowan, as he was traveling on foot.
The breeze that haunted the air cooled the sweat that dripped from his damp body. He was shivering now, and there was no way that his hospital gown was going to provide him with enough warmth, so he slowed down to a walk in order to search for signs of shelter. Were there even any people in these homes anymore? If there were, was that even a good thing? After all, Dr. Robinson said that people were getting sick—and these sick people were supposed to be extremely dangerous.
Rowan regretted leaving the hospital as hastily as he did. He only had a crowbar with him, but he supposed that it wouldn’t be too difficult to find some clothes and shoes anyway. It simply wasn’t worth walking all the way back to the hospital—especially at this time of night. Either way, he didn’t want to waste any time. It was going to take him forever to get back to San Jose, especially if he couldn’t get access to any working vehicles. Certainly there was something he could use, wasn’t there?
The boy’s prayers were half-answered. Just down the road, there was a bike frame leaning next to a stop sign, though it was missing both of its wheels. As Rowan made his way down a few more blocks, there was yet another bike frame, which, again, was missing both of its wheels. Somebody was likely hoarding these wheels as a resource, which made Rowan realize that perhaps this neighborhood was not quite as empty as he had originally thought. Still, anybody could have come through these streets, and it didn’t mean that there were people still here.
Rowan wasn’t sure about how long he had been walking. Even though he was looking for shelter, he didn’t feel right trying to break into any of these homes. He was a better person than that, wasn’t he? Nobody was around to really lay down the law, but that didn’t mean he could just start squatting in people’s old homes. There were probably dead corpses in there, anyway.
It took Rowan a moment to realize that everything he was seeing right now was likely what San Jose looked like. Did Caitlyn and his family even survive the initial attack? It seemed as if no one did. Rowan had passed by what he assumed were a couple of dead bodies, but he didn’t want to check them to confirm his suspicions. Their stench was a sign enough.
The distinct smell of rot on the street, however, did not distract Rowan from the sudden, low growl that was now stalking him. He shined his flashlight in every direction, but he couldn’t find anything on the now illuminated streets. Thinking again about what Dr. Robinson had told him back at the hospital, Rowan decided that he needed to be as cautious as possible, so he took off running.
It seemed imposs
ible, but no matter how long or how fast he was running, he could still hear the growling behind him. After a while, he was forced to take a brief moment to catch his breath. In a split second, however, the growling turned jagged and rough, and the boy found himself being chased by a woman rushing toward him.
Rowan’s feet were bleeding now. He continued sprinting down the same road, but he was slowing down with each consecutive step. The weight of his arms held him back and his legs began to ache and cramp, but he still tried—tried to run away from the woman who was ferociously gaining on him. Her growling turned into a fierce howl, resembling a bloodthirsty beast about to capture its prey.
The boy took a sharp turn down the closest street. At the corner was a quaint house, the door looking somewhat rickety but sturdy enough that nobody could just barge in without warning. The paint, which was originally blue, peeled away from the frame of the house, reminding Rowan of how the paint on the ivory walls of the psychiatric ward scraped away due to years of neglect and damage.
He banged on the front door and tried turning the knob. No luck. Then, he frantically checked underneath the welcome mat; but again, he failed to produce an easy way to enter the house. The fogged up window to the right of the door was his only option, though Rowan knew that it would most likely be locked as well, so he didn’t bother trying to budge it. He gripped his crowbar tight and swung.
Glass scattered amongst the dead plants underneath the window, giving life to the lacking decor of the house. The pieces were much too small to give off a beautiful reflection of the night sky, but there was a certain elegance to the dull shimmer they possessed underneath the hazy moonlight. Rowan quickly climbed in and just narrowly avoided the sharp pieces that lined the edges of the window.
The interior of the home was pitch black. Rowan had lurched into a rather neatly organized kitchen, as if the residents had been in no rush to flee. Moonlight filtered into the room, revealing a marble countertop that defied Rowan’s initial impression of the house. Whoever lived here must’ve left everything intact in order to rendezvous with family members and friends, and they must have been much more concerned about being with their loved ones than with gathering supplies.
Rowan could hear the pounding footsteps of the woman outside. He held his breath, but the footsteps came closer and closer. This woman had to be sick, right? Was she chasing him because she wanted to eat him alive, just like Dr. Robinson had described? Rowan didn’t get a good look at her face, but he imagined it being rabid and torn and pale—much like a zombie’s was. But unlike zombies from the movies, she was fast. She was quite smart, too, considering the fact that she was hunting him down. Although Rowan gave no signs that he was even in this home, it felt like she knew he was in here. He could even hear her laboring breaths.
The woman suddenly peered through the broken window. Rowan backed himself up into the counter and once again clutched onto his crowbar as tight as he could, though the woman was crawling into the window faster than he could prepare himself to swing. She shrieked and lunged forward, but before Rowan could attack her, a loud boom and a bright flash consumed the room.
Rowan stumbled back, stunned by the force; it was difficult to hear anything except for the ringing in his ears. He fell behind the kitchen counter and lied on the floor, unsure of what was going on. Did something explode? Rowan tried to cover his ears to stop the ringing, but the noise persisted.
He looked over at the woman. She, too, was slumped over on the floor, except she was no longer moving. Where there was her chest was now a sunken, bleeding cavity. It took a moment for Rowan to realize that what lay before him was a lifeless body, not a bewildered woman immobilized by the terror of a deafening noise.
A sour taste invaded Rowan’s mouth. He began to dry heave, as the sight of the grotesque woman was even more terrifying than he had imagined. Her eyes bulged out of their sockets, and she was missing large patches of hair all over her head. The skin on her cheeks had even peeled deep enough to show a thin layer of muscle tissue. Did all sick people look like this? Or were there people who looked even worse?
Another bright flash filled the room, forcing Rowan to shut his eyes. Was he, too, going to die here on a cold, dark kitchen floor surrounded by nothing but dread? He waited for a few seconds, expecting to never open his eyes again, but nothing happened. He looked around and noticed that the entire room was now filled with the dissipating light of a lantern.
A booming yet desperate voice of a man echoed from the end of the room. “Get out of my house, or I’m going to kill you too.”
Rowan kept his body close to the kitchen counter. His hands gripped his mouth tightly, yet he knew that he had to say something to the man, as there was no way he was leaving this house even if the man wanted him to—whatever was out there was going to kill him, and whatever was out there couldn’t be reasoned with. Hunger, cannibalism, infection—the safest place he could be was with a man who had just committed murder.
“If you wait any longer, you’re going to die.”
Rowan took in a deep breath of air, which rattled through his throat. “I can’t go back out there. I have no food and there are people out there that are—”
“That’s not my fucking problem,” growled the man, who sounded dangerously close. “You’re safer out there than in my house, because I’m about to kill you.”
Loud footsteps creaked upon the wooden floor of the living room. Rowan silently picked up the crowbar he had dropped and readied himself. If he came out at the right time, he could disarm the man. All he needed to do was aim at the gun or swing at the man’s hands, and he would surely have a chance at surviving.
The voice of a young girl emerged amongst the tension. “Dad, please stop!”
The killer had a daughter. Perhaps Rowan could use this to his own advantage. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by the same, intense voice that had greeted him with death. “He brought something dangerous here, and he’s likely to bring more back.”
“Sir,” said Rowan. “Just calm down, okay? I’m not here to cause any trouble.”
“Stand up with your hands behind your head. If you do otherwise, I’ll blow your head right off.”
Rowan stood up slowly to make sure he didn’t look like a threat. He squinted at the blinding light radiating from the lantern, which was grasped by a short, brown-haired girl whose youthful face flushed with worried innocence. Beside her was a thin, scowling man who traced Rowan’s head with the barrel of his shotgun.
The boy mustered up enough courage to speak. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Get moving.”
Rowan gently walked over to the broken window, making sure that each step was careful and non-threatening. He was afraid of the looming possibility of being blasted in the back, but perhaps it would be okay to get shot, so long as he died instantly. Maybe death was to be longed for in this world if he really did have nothing left.
As he set his hands upon the frame of the window, he could hear the faint rumblings of another fierce growl outside. He froze in place.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” shouted the man. “You have five seconds to get the hell out of my house.”
“I’m going to die if I leave! There’s something out there!”
The man placed his finger on the trigger of his shotgun. “Well, you’re going to die if you stay here.”
The girl spoke up again, her voice frantic and rushed. “Dad, you can’t let him die! He hasn’t done anything wrong!”
“We don’t know if he’s affected by the sickness. He could be capable of anything.”
“Listen,” stammered Rowan as he turned back around. “I’m not sick. I don’t feel sick. I don’t even know what the sickness is like. I was trapped in a psychiatric hospital for over a week since the bombings. Just take a look at my damn hospital gown.”
The barrel of the man’s weapon was now inches away from Rowan’s face. “And you expect me to trust you? To trust some strange
r from a mental hospital? How does that make anything better? You’re just as sick as the rest of the people out there.”
“I don’t expect you to trust me. But you don’t have to kill me. You could just watch over me and kill me if I do anything wrong or suspicious. Just… please, you don’t have to kill me.”
“Why should I waste my supplies and my energy on keeping a complete stranger alive? Don’t you know how hard it’s been?”
“Dad, it’s the right thing to do.” The girl approached her father, and as she drew close, the light she held in her hands exposed the frightened expression frozen upon Rowan’s face.
The three of them remained at a standstill. Rowan stared at the girl, as it was her words that were going determine whether or not he deserved to live. She had fixated her eyes on the tenseness of her father’s shoulders, and as she observed the strain in his posture, she prepared herself to say something more, but the man surprisingly put his weapon down and spoke.
“You can stay for one night,” he said. “But that’s all I’ll give you.”
“Thank you,” said Rowan. “I really, really appreciate it.”
He bent over to pick up his crowbar, but the man nudged him in the arm with his gun.
“Leave that fucking thing on the ground. I’m already being generous enough by letting you stay here.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that those people out there might come in here and try to kill us, and I need a way to defend myself—to defend us.”
“Nobody is getting into this house. They’ll be dead the moment they step foot in here. The same goes for you if you try anything stupid.”
“Just tell me what to do then. I’m not trying to do anything wrong. Just give me directions, and I swear I won’t be a problem to both you and your daughter.”
“Fine,” grunted the man. “Follow my daughter to the bedroom. Stay at least five steps behind her. If you get any closer, you’re dead. I’m going to be right behind you. Now go.”
Seasons After Fall Page 6