Survival (9 page)

“Get him in the face!”

“This is our town! Do you hear me?”

“Stay the fuck down!”

It wasn’t until Noah had lain still that the beating had subsided. He’d waited several seconds, then uncovered his head and tried to crawl. To his surprise, the men had let him, laughing as he inched his way across the road and into the nearby forest.

It was sheer luck that he’d escaped.

Noah shuddered at the memory.

He glanced in the rearview mirror now, expecting to see the running lights and grill of the F150 behind him, but the road was clear.

The asphalt hummed beneath the tires. He shifted in his seat, anxious to get his mission over with. He only hoped that it wouldn’t be in vain, that there’d be something for him to find. The alternative would be far more risky. Without safe food, the three of them would have to subsist on whatever they could find, trusting in his theory that they were immune.

It was a risk Noah would rather not take.

The road curved. He took the turn with one hand, the other clutching the rifle on his lap. He could see his pickup in the distance now—a spectral shape on the horizon. The sight of it made him pale.

He slowed the car as he approached. When he was twenty feet away, he stopped. Noah surveyed the forest around the vehicle, as if the trees themselves would come alive and grab him, but the limbs were still. The day was windless and calm. For a second, Noah imagined he was the last man on earth, that the vehicle on the road was nothing more than an artifact.

Although he’d been in the pickup only yesterday, the vehicle seemed foreign and strange. Seeing nothing in the area, he let his foot off the gas and rolled closer.

The quiet prevailed.

He pulled along the driver’s side door of the pickup and put the car in park. After one last look around the area, he opened the door. He did his best to remain silent, exiting the vehicle with rifle in hand.

The pickup was in worse shape than he’d imagined. The hood had been dented and battered; the tires were flattened to the pavement. The driver’s door was open a crack, revealing an interior that had been shredded. The men hadn’t left anything to chance.

If Noah had circled back, he would’ve been out of luck.

He sighed as he opened the door. With the truck in this condition, the prospect of finding food was slim. More than likely, the men had raided his provisions and taken his weapons. The truck door groaned as he opened it. He slipped inside.

The seats were ripped and torn, foam spilling from the insides. His atlas had been ruined; pages had been pulled from the binding and scattered. He sifted through the remnants, trying to find the map of Oregon. If it was there, it was lost in the debris. Tears stung his eyes.

In the past week he’d suffered far greater losses, but something about the ruined truck hit him with a wave of emotion. It signified the depths of how far mankind had sunk, how uncaring and violent and
cruel
these men truly were.

It hadn’t been enough to beat him down and hunt him through the forest; they’d had to make sure his all his belongings were destroyed as well.

Their goal hadn’t been just to kill him; it had been to defile his existence.

Noah wiped his face with the back of his hand. He peered into the backseat. As expected, the weapons he’d carried before were gone. The food was gone as well, though he could see traces of crumbs that had been left behind. A few errant wrappers lay on the seat.

He bent down and reached underneath the passenger seat, clearing a few loose pages of his atlas. A small, wrapped package caught his eye. It’d been wedged between the bolts and the side of the car; perhaps it had been kicked there by accident. He reached in and pulled it out.

A single package of dried fruit lay in his hand: the last remnant of his safe food.

He stared at it for a second, mind teetering between anger and hope. The package wouldn’t last more than a sitting. When split among the three of them, it was little more than a handful—just enough for a small meal, but not enough to make a difference.

He gritted his teeth. If he hadn’t been so desperate, he might’ve flung the food against the console. Instead, he slipped it into his shorts and fled the vehicle.

Noah swiveled from left to right. There was still no one else in view, but he knew not to push his luck. If someone were to approach, he’d be an immediate target. The hybrid purred beside him, beckoning him to get inside.

To get to Caddy’s, he’d have to turn and head in the opposite direction. But straight ahead was the road to Portland. For a brief second, he contemplated continuing his journey. He had a bit of food, a reliable car, and a rifle—hardly enough to ensure his safety, but enough to give him a head start.

Caddy had saved his life, but he’d already repaid the favor. Did he owe her any more? He couldn’t stay in Chester forever. By her own admission, Caddy wasn’t planning on leaving any time soon.

He wrestled with the decision while staring at the road.

It would be so easy to throw the car into drive, hit the gas, and never look back. But if he did that, he’d be no better than the animals that had hunted him down.

What if Caddy came looking for him? What if she were to die in the process?

He couldn’t live with that on his conscience. As much as he wanted to return to his family, he’d need to wait a little longer.

He sighed and put the car in reverse, heading back in the direction of his new companions.

C
harles Osbourne watched the young man through the trees, his blood roiling. Not only had the kid survived, but he’d also had the nerve to return to his truck, thinking they’d be stupid enough to leave something behind.

“Dumb son of a bitch,” he muttered to the two men next to him.

Charles had parked their pickup behind a cluster of oaks, just off a dirt trail that led off the road. It was a spot that most people didn’t know about, and one that most passersby would’ve overlooked. Having grown up in the town next to Chester, Charles knew the ins and outs of the roadway, and that put him at an advantage.

They weren’t going to lose Chester. Not like they’d lost Wardstown.

Charles had chosen the town because there’d been no evidence of survivors. It was time for a fresh start.

Just a week prior, he’d been in a prison transport van on the way to the Sterling Correctional Facility. This would’ve been his third time in prison, and according to the judge, it would’ve been his last. After his latest assault conviction, Charles was told he’d never see the light of day again.

What the judge hadn’t predicted was the world ending.

On his way to prison, the roads had caved to violence. In the blink of an eye, the population seemed to have succumbed to infection. There’d been two drivers in the transport van. One minute they’d been talking, the next they’d been tearing each other limb from limb. If Charles hadn’t been separated from them by a metal partition, he’d have been dead already.

For almost a day, he’d remained in the back of the van, shackled and unable to get out. He’d watched as the world conceded to chaos: cars crashing into one another, survivors being torn to bits, and the infected running rampant.

None of it had bothered Charles. Not one bit.

The only thing on his mind had been escape.

After screaming for help for hours, Charles had finally been rescued by several frantic pedestrians. He’d coaxed them into getting the keys from the dead driver, then convinced them to set him free.

He’d repaid them by killing them. If and when the world went back to normal, the last things he needed were witnesses.

Charles wouldn’t let anyone ruin his chance at a new life. Just like he wouldn’t let any outsiders compromise his town. He watched the young man search through the pickup, his rage building.

He looked over at the man in the passenger seat.

“We should come up on him,” Gary said, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Cut him off from leaving.”

Charles studied the road, thinking it through. Although their F150 had a V6 engine in it, it looked like the kid had picked up a new car. If they were to come out of hiding now, there was a chance he’d get away.

Besides, he’d much rather follow him.

Where there was one survivor, there might be others. He’d rather take care of all of them at once. It would save him the trouble later.

The fact that the young man was alive infuriated Charles. It’d been Jose’s decision to let the kid run, thinking it’d be more fun that way.

But that hadn’t happened.

Instead, the piece of shit had killed Ronnie and Jose. Had somehow gotten a leg up on them. And then he’d given them all the slip. For that, the kid was going to get it worse than he had before. The little fucker would pay for what he’d done.

Charles was going to see to it.

He turned to the boy in the backseat. William was rocking back and forth in his seat, his teeth clenched. In his hands was a paring knife. William was only fourteen years old. Ronnie had been his father.

“I want to be the one to do it,” William hissed.

The boy stared at Charles with a mixture of fear and rage in his eyes, his hands shaking.

“Relax,” Charles said. “You’ll get your chance. I promise.”

He turned back around. A hundred feet ahead, the taillights of the car had flickered. The vehicle started in reverse. In just a few seconds, it’d pass by them.

Charles hunkered down in his seat and beckoned for his companions to do the same. Once the vehicle had gone by, he’d pull out from behind the trees and navigate back onto the roadway. He watched as the car soared past.

Then he pulled out and hit the gas.

N
oah wasn’t expecting much when he flipped on the car radio, but he did it anyway. Ever since leaving the salvage yard, it had become a ritual. Periodically, he’d check each station, hoping to hear a voice, even though he’d never heard one before.

It was hard to believe that almost everyone was dead. It didn’t seem possible.

As usual, the stations carried nothing but static. The banter of disc jockeys was long gone, replaced by a wall of white noise. Not a single song graced the airwaves. He’d gotten the same effect in his pickup truck. Even in a brand-new car, presumably with better reception, nothing had changed.

Discouraged, he turned down the volume and focused on the road. The drive back to Caddy’s was only a few minutes long. He wondered how Caddy and her mother were faring in his absence. He could only hope that no other creatures had shown up in the meantime. His biggest fear was to find the house broken into and disordered, his two companions missing. He doubted that would be the case, but he steeled himself for the possibility.

He’d already learned to expect the worst. In this new world, there was no room for certainty.

The only certainties were living and dying, and even those had room for interpretation. What happened to the minds and bodies of the infected? Did they continue to feel pain?

These questions had plagued him from the beginning, and as yet he’d received no answers. For the past week, he’d lived on suppositions and guesses, navigating his way through a world that was no longer familiar.

Noah didn’t know if he’d ever learn the truth.

He gazed into the forest on the side of the road, wondering how many creatures were roaming through the trees. Would they ever stop moving? For all he knew, they’d wander forever.

He could identify with the sentiment.

For the past week, he’d essentially been homeless, with no home base or safe haven. But somewhere out there was the house he’d grown up in, and hopefully, the house that still contained his parents.

When he got back to Caddy’s, he’d figure out a plan to get there, even if it took weeks—months—to do it.

He was pondering these questions when he saw movement in the rearview mirror. He jumped to attention, heart pounding. He’d just rounded a corner, and somewhere behind him, he thought he’d seen a vehicle. He stared into the mirror, but there was nothing there.

Had he been imagining things?

He kept his focus on the road behind him, but all he could see was pavement and foliage. If someone had been there, they’d either turned off or were lagging behind.

Maybe they’d never been there at all. He reminded himself of the military vehicles and shook his head. Perhaps his mind was starting to fabricate danger, as well.

No matter what he’d seen, Noah couldn’t be certain of his safety until he’d gotten off the road. He stepped on the gas, trying to gain as much ground as he could. The speedometer climbed to sixty. With no one else in view, he concentrated on getting back to Caddy’s.

Before long, he was turning into her neighborhood. Noah decreased speed, not wanting to lure the attention of any creatures in the area, and navigated around the abandoned cars. His eyes darted to Caddy’s house. From what he could tell, the exterior was the same as he’d left it; the windows were boarded up, and there was no sign of additional debris. He sighed with relief.

Even so, he wouldn’t count his blessings yet. Not until he’d ascertained that the people inside were safe.

Rather than returning the car to the McDonalds’ garage, he drove it up Caddy’s driveway and put it in park. Then he glanced at the back of the house. Everything seemed in order. If there had been intruders while he was gone, there was no evidence of them.

He was about to remove the key from the ignition when he heard a faint crackle from the speakers.

Was someone transmitting something?

He turned up the volume and flipped the dial, tuning in to a broadcast. The voice belonged to man, and his timbre was low and muffled, as if he were speaking in an enclosed space.

“…
Please get to us and we will bring you to safety. I repeat. There is a military checkpoint at the border of Utah and Colorado on Interstate 70. Any survivors in the area should report to this location. We have food and shelter. Do not eat or drink anything. Repeat: do not eat or drink anything. The food and water in the area have been contaminated, and the virus is spread through ingestion
.
If you can hear this message, please get to us and we will bring you to safety.”