Of course, many people had predicted it, with some going as far as preparing for it. She wondered if one could truly prepare. Was it possible to imagine all scenarios or have the requisite mindset to do what is necessary? Of course, when one was sitting in the comfort of the modern world, they could, but to truly experience it was something else. She remembered her father, who was a veteran; he didn’t talk much about his time while in service, but she did overhear him now and then talk with friends he’d served with. How they’d joke about armchair tough guys sitting behind the glow of their computer screens, ranting and raving about how they’d do this or that, when they never could cut it, really. They’d talk about how those armchair warriors were always ready to declare war or fight, yet when they were young, they had an excuse for not joining. His father always called them the ‘almosts’. They’d meet him, and as soon as it came to his serving in the war, they’d say I almost joined, blah, blah, blah.
Her father, though, had been affected by his time overseas fighting. She recalled how her mother would joke about his inability to sleep or how he’d wake cursing. Living on the razor’s edge between life and death took a toll on someone’s mental well-being, so how could someone really prepare? she thought. Yeah, they could get all the fun stuff and so forth, but how could one prepare to see chaos, death, brutality? The truth is you can’t. Even the toughest soldiers eventually tap out or get what’s called combat fatigue.
It did make sense to prepare, to have the amenities or sustenance to make it in the weeks or even years after a calamity, but the true survivors had a mindset, a hardness to them that no one could prepare for—you know when you know. She often wondered if she’d eventually crack, and quickly came to the conclusion that if she had to deal with the likes of Emile frequently, she probably would. In all her travels she had killed but had only done so to protect herself, and found that justification satisfactory to her mental state, but to murder—she didn’t think she could do that and still remain human.
A hummingbird flew past her face and hovered just in front of the desert broom. It darted up, down, left and right before veering away just as fast as it had arrived.
She marveled that life still kept going without regard for what humans had done. It was nice to just sit and feel. Too often her days were spent living on the edge, her senses heightened, but for this brief reprieve she was taking in the moment, living in this small space and time. She watched the hummingbird dart from bush to shrub before it disappeared out of sight. Her thoughts then shifted to her life before and how she rarely had much reflection or appreciation for nature. She had been given a beautiful world, yet her time had often been spent immersed in the devices and things that man had created. Regret quickly consumed her. She wished she could go back and take the time to watch a hummingbird or show her son the beauty of life, but like most people then, she had been consumed by the trappings of modern human existence. She’d given that too much significance to take notice of a colorful bird or a cloud or anything.
In the years that followed, she had questioned how it all came to be. How could a world already struggling with fighting a deadly disease think it prudent to go to war with itself? Not even then could the nations of the world think past their own special interests. It was as if humans were doomed from the start. We had given in to our primal instincts, and even now she found people unwilling to work with each other, with some even consuming the flesh of their fellow humans.
Weary from the preceding days and distraught over again witnessing humans doing what humans do best—kill—she cleared her thoughts and relaxed further into the pack. Her eyes grew heavy. Sleep sounded perfect; sleeping during the day also made more sense. Best to travel at night.
She closed her eyes and fell asleep.
FORTY MILES SOUTHWEST OF DALHART, TEXAS
When the headlight of the 1970 Honda CB350 motorcycle hit the back of the Chevy Traverse, Emily spotted the Texas license plate and knew it was the vehicle Brienne had been driving. She coasted the bike and came to a stop. “Well, well,” she said, looking at the vehicle. She hopped off the bike and walked up to the open driver’s door. With the light from the motorcycle giving her ample light, she glanced in. Seeing the car was empty, she looked around the area. Ahead of her was the Camry, and by its condition she knew Brienne had scavenged it.
Like Brienne before, she walked to the Camry and gave it a once-over but came up short of anything of value except a map of the United States.
She had managed to leave the compound relatively easily. But, of course, it required that she think outside the box. Knowing that the entrance would be guarded like before, she planned a distraction to pull everyone away, and the best way to get people looking another way was to set fire to something, and the bigger the fire, the better.
Even though some of the old gasoline wasn’t potent enough for modern vehicles, it still was flammable enough to light on fire. She took a few gallons of old fuel, dumped it all over the motor pool area, and lit it. In no time the flames were licking the top of the twenty-five-foot-tall barn where they held their small fleet of motorcycles. This was all she needed. With everyone focused on addressing the fire, she stole one of the bikes with a sidecar loaded with fuel cans and headed out the now unguarded entrance.
The drive was easy, she took the route she’d gone earlier, but she never expected to find the Traverse. If that vehicle was abandoned, it only meant that Brienne was on foot.
After fueling up her motorcycle, she opened the map and searched on it until she found approximately where she was. Her finger then guided over the roads or highways that would take her to Loreto, stopping when she saw the name Yuma. “Hmm, interesting.”
Her thoughts shifted to Brienne and what she’d done to her. She removed the diary she’d taken from her and flipped it open to a page she had dog-eared. She traced down the page until she came to Brienne’s address in Yuma. “So this is where you’re going. Well, maybe I’ll pay you a visit on my way to Loreto. She closed the diary, shoved it back in the backpack, and placed it in the sidecar.
Never in her life had she ever felt a sense of purpose. Life in the compound was a daily routine, one that required not much from her. Emile kept her safe and gave her almost no responsibilities. She hated it. She did despise the fact that they had turned to cannibalism to survive, but after so many years of doing it, it had become second nature. When she’d hear about the rumors of secret bases or cures or safe zones, she’d become intrigued and hungered to go find them. Not until she’d heard about Brienne’s abilities and after reading her diary did she believe she’d found the one person who could help her realize her dream of getting to one of these safe zones.
She was free of the compound and her brother, and the world lay before her. She could do anything now, go anywhere, but all she could focus on was Brienne and paying her back for the way she’d treated her. She didn’t want to kill anymore, she reckoned herself a changed person since leaving the compound, but when she thought of Brienne, she saw red, and if she had to give herself one excuse to kill, it would be to kill Brienne and her family if they were still alive.
She kick-started the motorcycle and throttled the engine. A smile stretched across her tender face; it was a smile of a woman with a purpose and a destination. That destination was Yuma, and her purpose was finding Brienne.
CHAPTER FOUR
FIVE MILES WEST OF LOGAN, NEW MEXICO
Michael entered the hallway from his room and paused. He listened for any sound that would tell him if his mother was awake. He heard nothing. He moved to her bedroom door and pressed his ear against the door and could hear her breathing heavily, a sign that she was deeply sleeping. Quickly he rushed towards the kitchen, stopped at a coat closet, and opened it. He found what he was looking for, a jacket, and pulled it out. He slipped it on, ensuring to be as quiet as possible. He scurried into the kitchen and jumped when he saw Nana sitting there.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
; She gave him a curious look and replied, “I could ask the same of you. It’s five in the morning and you’re awake and wearing a jacket. Just where are you going?”
“I, um, I’m going outside to do some work on those trenches Dad and Chase were working on.”
“Come and sit,” she said and motioned to a chair next to her at the table.
He sat down. “I need to get to work.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Nana asked.
“You and Mom asked me to change, so I am. I’m going out and continuing the work Dad was doing.”
“Is that all?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t be headed into town, would you?”
“Ah, no, of course not,” he replied. He cut his gaze from hers and stared down at his fidgeting thumbs.
Nana reached across the table and took his hands into hers. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that.”
He swallowed and did as she asked. He stared into her hazel eyes and said, “I’m going outside to work on those pits Dad didn’t finish.”
“And nothing more?”
“And nothing more. Now can I go, please?”
“It’s still dark out. Why would you go out to work on the pits?” Nana asked.
“The sun will be up soon. I’m getting all the stuff together in the barn, then going,” Michael said.
“And you’re not lying to me?”
He grunted and said, “No, Nana, now can I go?”
She cocked her head, let go of his hands, and said, “Go ahead.”
He stood up promptly and headed for the door.
“Michael.”
He turned and asked, “Yes?”
“In life people can only ask; no one can make you do anything. It’s up to you whether you do. Those are called choices and you should make them weighing all the available information and calculating as best you can the risks, and if those risks bring something greater than what you could possibly lose.”
“Okay,” he replied, his tone indicating he wasn’t quite sure what she was saying.
“But if you do have something planned that’s risky, don’t do it because you think you need to prove something, do it because you believe that, one, you can do it, and two, that if you can’t, the damage done isn’t irreparable.”
“Nana, I’d like to get working.”
“Go ahead and, Michael, don’t ever forget that you’re my favorite.”
“How would Chase feel if he heard you say that?”
“How do you know I don’t say it to him too?” She smiled.
He shook his head and exited the house.
TWO MILES EAST OF SANTA ROSA, NEW MEXICO
“They’re burning,” Hannah cried as bloody tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Don’t rub them, whatever you do,” Reid pleaded with her.
Hannah’s eyes had gotten worse. A searing pain and uncontrollable itchiness were now plaguing her. The entire whites of her eyes were now gone, replaced by a blood red.
Reid had pulled the car over so he could attend to her and stop her from rubbing them. The timing of his stop was fortuitous due to the road ahead being blocked by debris. He saw a path around it, but he wanted to scout it out before driving forward.
“Do something!” she moaned.
His stomach turned and his heart melted when he looked at her sitting there, blood covering her cheeks and her beautiful eyes now tortured by the disease. “Let me get the drops,” he said. He reached in the back and pulled out the bag of medicines that Thomas had given him. He recalled there was a bottle of eye drops. He dug through until he found it. “Here,” he said as he screwed off the top.
“What is it?” she asked.
“They’re eye drops. They’ll help soothe your eyes.”
She didn’t hesitate; she scooted close to him and lifted her head so that her head faced up.
He hovered the dropper over her eye and squeezed the bottle. A series of drops fell into her eye
She yelped in pain. “It stings!” She lifted her head and went to rub her eyes with her palm.
“No,” he said, grabbing her hand. “You can’t do that; it makes it worse. I know that sounds strange, but soon the pain will go away.”
“When?”
“Soon, a day or so,” he answered.
She sobbed, bringing more bloody tears down her cheeks. The tears dropped from her cheeks and chin and dotted her tan shirt, coloring it red.
“Let me do the other eye. This will help,” he said.
“No, it stings. Leave me alone.”
“Hannah, this will help them. Thomas wouldn’t have given it to me otherwise.”
She pulled away from him. “No.”
“Hannah, stop. This will help soothe them. I know it stings at first, but it will help.”
“NO.”
“Hannah Marie, stop.”
“Daddy, it hurts,” she cried.
“I know it does, sweetheart, but these drops will help even though you might think it won’t,” he said as he softened his tone.
She sobbed.
“Help!” a scream came from outside the car.
Reid looked up, startled. He scanned all around but saw no one.
“Help!” the scream came again. This time Reid identified it as a woman’s voice and pinpointed that it came from down the road in front of him. He looked out the front but saw nothing except a large billboard sign, advertising a Flying J truck stop miles ahead, with thick shrubs all around the base of it.
Hannah slowed her crying and listened. “Is that someone yelling?”
“Yeah,” Reid said softly.
“Help me!” the woman yelled.
Hannah wiped her cheeks and said, “Are you going to help her?”
“I don’t know.”
“But she needs help.”
“Please help me!” the woman shouted.
Reid kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, looking for any movement, but saw nothing. Fear began to grip him. He started the car and put his fingers on the gear shift when Hannah stopped him. “You’re not going to help her?”
“Something doesn’t feel right,” Reid replied.
“But she’s in trouble and we’re here. Shouldn’t we help?”
Various scenarios ran through Reid’s thoughts. All of them resulted in something bad happening.
“Daddy, aren’t we supposed to help those in need?” she asked, referring to a saying she’d learned in school.
“Yes, we’re supposed to help people, but…”
“But what?”
He looked at her and said, “This is different. We’re not in Deliverance anymore. Those rules don’t apply out here.” He couldn’t help but think that the road being blocked and the scream had something to do with each other.
“Why not?”
“Please help me, hurry, please!” the woman shrieked. Her voice sounded desperate.
Reid sat frozen. He kept scanning everything out in front of him but saw nothing, no woman, no one. He couldn’t explain where the woman was except to think she was behind the thick shrubs.
Hannah opened her door and stepped out.
Startled, Reid gasped, “What are you doing?”
“She needs help,” Hannah replied bluntly.
He reached out and grabbed her arm. “No, stay in here.”
“Help me, please God, help me!” the woman cried out.
“Daddy, she needs our help. We must help her,” Hannah said, her tone showing a strength and conviction rarely seen in her.
“Fine, I’ll go, but you stay here, okay?” Reid said. He was hesitant but also felt a tinge of sympathy for the woman. He realized he could be risking them, but just leaving her could literally be signing her death warrant.
“You’ll go?”
“Yes, now get back in the car,” Reid ordered.
“Promise.”
“I promise, now get back in the car.”
Hannah did as
he said. “Well?”
He removed the pistol from a holster he had tucked next to the console and opened his door. “You know how to drive this, so hop behind the wheel. If something happens to me, drive, just get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“Just do as I say,” Reid said. He exited the car and closed the door. “Get behind the wheel.”
She climbed over the console and adjusted the seat. She motioned with her hand for him to go.
“I’m going,” he said.
“Yes, please come help me,” the woman said. By her comment it was apparent she could see him.
“Where are you?”
“Underneath the billboard, I’m tied to a post,” she cried out.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, but hurry, please.”
“I’m armed, so this had better not be a trick,” Reid said.
“Please hurry,” she hollered.
Reid cautiously advanced, his head slowly scanning left then right and back again, looking for anything out of place or anyone else. He cleared the distance between the car and the billboard sign and found an older woman. She was in her late fifties and tied to the far right post, which was covered by bushes. “Who did this to you?”
“Some men, they’ll come back for me,” she answered, her thin gray hair blew across her gaunt and wrinkled face with each passing breeze.
Again Reid was struck by a deep sense of dread. This didn’t make sense, he thought.
“Sir, please help untie me,” she begged.
“Why are you tied up here?” he asked and looked around. “There’s nothing around here. This is the middle of nowhere.” Reid was right, they were surrounded by nothing but flat desert. The only thing around was the billboard sign.
“Are you going to untie me or not?” the woman asked. She struggled with the bindings.
Hannah screamed.
Reid spun around to find a man standing next to the car, a rifle in his hands, with the muzzle pointed at Hannah. Reid raised his pistol and aimed at the man.
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