Those Who Remain (Book 2) (10 page)

Tigh explains to me that after the first cases of the disease broke, the Army placed checkpoints on high traffic roads, trying to contain the spread in each state. After a mere few days there were too many people suffering from the disease to be controlled. By the time the bombs fell, the checkpoints were overrun by people desperate to get to the Canadian border. There were too many for the thinly spread Army to contain. While all of that happened, I was still in St. Jude’s, racing between those injured by the riots while trying to juggle the regular patients left abandoned by my missing colleagues.

We park our car away from the fences. As Tigh thinks of a plan, I look over the chaos. Cars clog the road, parked and abandoned in front of closed metal gates. There’s no other sound besides the metallic rattling of the fence against the wind.

“It’s going to take days to move all these cars out of the way,” I note aloud, my elbow resting against the Humvee’s door.

“Wasn’t planning on doing that,” Tigh says, opening his side of the car. “Follow me. Time to see how you manage in the real world.”

Outside, he gives me the same handgun I used during training, this time loaded with real ammo. “Remember, stay by my left, check the surroundings while you walk. Elbows relaxed, gun down, finger off the trigger. Don’t shoot nothing until I order you. I stop, you stop. I tell you to move, you move. Got it?”

“Right. Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises an eyebrow.

I stare back, unsure what the problem is.

“Maintaining a chain of command is important to establish professionalism and a sense of responsibility. So let’s try it again. Did you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” I half-sigh, half-chuckle. Even understanding his point, it still feels weird to say it.

He adjusts his rifle and other weapons, then divides our supplies between us. I end up carrying a bag of food, while he takes two heavier ones over his shoulder. Seems we’re going to abandon our car.

“What’s the plan?” I ask after clearing my throat. “Sir.”

“Cross the checkpoint, find another vehicle.”

“Isn’t that risky? There must be other roads that can take us to the border.”

“Not as quickly. Smaller roads might be blocked by snow and have less cars to siphon gas from. There’s also the fact that what food we have won’t last all the way, we’re going to need to do supply runs. The highway has plenty of gas stations and convenience stores. Of course, more resources means more danger of finding infected and other looters.” He points at the gates. “But unless you know how to hunt, which I’m guessing is not the case, our best chance is crossing the checkpoint by foot.”

He did think of everything, so I just nod. We move between the cars, and I follow Tigh’s pattern. My eyes race from point to point, in search of movement. I hear only the wind and our own feet.

Tigh signals me to keep watch while he opens the metal gate. He discards a broken lock on the floor and spreads the doors to make way for the two of us. I wince at the creak of the metal as it scrapes against the pavement. If anything is lurking about, it now knows our position.

The open gate reveals a maze of fences and blocks of concrete, placed in order to herd people like cows inside of a slaughterhouse. At the end of the makeshift corridors there’s another gate, ajar and almost falling off its hinges. As I breathe, the acrid smell of charred fabric, burnt metal and decomposing bodies stings my nostrils. Scorch and skid marks are scattered between the medical tents and military equipment further down the path. I try to avoid the puddles of muddy water on the ground, an after effect of yesterday’s snow.

A number of bodies litter the checkpoint. Some of them are of infected people, dead for a long time. Others are more recent. Tigh moves closer to a woman, lying belly up, her wide eyes still open. No signs of bites, lumps, scarred skin, or loss of hair. Only a bullet hole between her eyes and another in her chest, with a pool of dried blood around her dead form.

Tigh and I look at each other, no words necessary. This was an execution, made by someone who knew what they were doing.

Our steps are quicker after that, and my grip on the gun couldn’t be tighter. We move crouched between white tents, stained brown and red by the weather, mud and blood. An inspection of their insides reveals only ransacked bags and lockers. Whatever medical supplies the Army was using to test and contain patients is gone.

We reach the other end of the checkpoint, where another broken gate was left open. Outside, Tigh checks if any of the abandoned cars still works. I keep watch.

He gets inside one of the better looking cars and turns the engine on. It works. Briefly, I wonder how he knows how to start a car without its keys, but I suppose military training covers all sorts of abilities. Or maybe he had a career doing grand theft auto. The idea makes me chuckle.

While getting in, I throw the bag I was carrying onto the backseat. We leave the checkpoint behind and I finally can let out a sigh of relief.

The trip on the highway isn’t any faster. The weather conditions worsen, and once we are forced to stop the car and wait until snow stops falling. The car heater makes us comfortable, but I begin to worry we won’t survive long enough to reach the base. We might get stuck in the middle of a snowstorm with no way out. Our luck will run out some day. Probably someday soon.

To shake it off these dark thoughts, I try to fill the silence between us. Even small talk seems better than wondering about our probable demise.

“I can’t believe is almost New Year’s already,” I say, rubbing my gloved hands under my arms to warm myself. “I even forgot about Christmas.”

Only because the subject seems unrelated to anything in our shared past, I risked speaking about it.

“Weird how easy is to lose track of time, right?” I insist, watching Tigh from the corner of my eye.

He tinkers with the heater controls. “Priorities change.”

At least that’s two words out of him. Funny and sad how easy it was to argue with him, but talking seems like an impossible task.

“Guess they do. Did you…?” I stop before asking him if he celebrated Christmas with his family. “Maybe we should’ve have waited for spring before risking traveling.”

“Our food wouldn’t last that long. We have better chances of finding supplies outside.”

“Oh. Makes sense.” Silence falls again.

The snow subsides, and Tigh decides there’s enough visibility for us to keep going. It’s noon when one of our tires hits fallen debris from another car accident and goes flat. With the already slippery road, Tigh parks the car next to the highway guardrails. There’s no spare tire. We load our supply bags, dividing the weight between us, and move on foot.

A few hours later, cold, but sweaty, we find a gas station with a convenience store. The place was ransacked earlier, with three bodies inside. A store clerk and two infected are dead and rotting on the floor. With a hand over my nose I grab some first aid kits, bags of candy and anything else that doesn’t smell horrible.

We are both too tired to leave the cover of the station. Instead, Tigh and I sit on the floor, with our backs against the wall of the store. Even the tips of my toes hurt.

“I found a Caramel Galaxy, want some?” I take a chocolate bar out of my pocket and offer it to him. I used to love Caramel Galaxy’s when I was a kid; the mix of caramel, chocolate and cookie dough was too irresistible even to a dentist’s daughter.

After looking at me with a frown, he accepts it. I smile, considering this a small victory. Nobody can resist a bar of Caramel Galaxy.

“Shouldn’t a doctor tell me to avoid sweets and crap like this?” He comments with half a smile. “This can’t be good for my health. Or my teeth.”

“Funny thing about the end of civilization… Priorities change.” I wink at him. “Besides, most of the healthy food has rotted by now. We should really consider starting a farm after all of this is over.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You want to be a farmer.”

“Well, no. You can be the farmer. I’ll take care of the animals. I did almost go to veterinary school after all. How about it? Should we shake on it?” I offer my hand. “Just imagine: me, milking the cows, and you plucking tomatoes out of trees.”

He frowns at me. “Do tomatoes really grow on trees?”

We stare at each other. Neither of us knows the right answer.

I smile at our big city ignorance. “Okay, so maybe we start with something easier instead. I’m pretty sure apples grow on trees, because that’s in a book somewhere I read once. It had a talking snake and a nudist couple… But it’s pretty popular so, it can’t be wrong, right?”

He laughs, shaking his head at me. I end up laughing too. Afterwards, we share our chocolate in silence, but this time I don’t feel the need to fill it with small talk. Our pasts may be painful and full of guilt, but there’s still a part of us that’s able to laugh at silly things. It’s a nice surprise.

The Hunter's Daughter VII

December 19th, Saturday, 8 pm

The whole town shows up for Mrs. Terrence’s memorial. The basketball court is filled with the scent of roses and decorated with photos of the town’s favorite Principal. People hug each other and share stories of her good deeds. There isn’t anyone here who didn’t receive help and a few words of wisdom from Mrs. Terrence at some point at their lives; myself included.

I can’t count the number of times she dragged me to her office. Sometimes she would promptly tell me beating up poor Maddie Walters was horrible behavior not fit for her school no matter what that girl said about my father. Other times she just wanted to talk, to ask me how my day was and what I planned to do once I graduated from high school. She brought me pamphlets from all kinds of professions, from engineering to landscaping, in an effort to get me interested in anything besides guns and morning drills.

Now I regret always brushing her off and answering her questions with no more than two words. She died without knowing how grateful I was for her patience with me. How grateful I was that she saved my life.

When the bleachers are full, the mourners go to the front one at a time to talk about Mrs. Terrence. They give speeches about her achievements and positive influence; always focusing on how she managed to help them solve a personal problem and offered comfort when a solution wasn't in her grasp. It's only when Roger stands to read his crumpled letter that I realize nobody has talked about her as a person.

“Mrs. Terrence practically raised me. And like all of you, I owed her more than I'll ever be able to repay. But she was more than the principal of this school, more than the sum of her good deeds. She appreciated a good joke when she heard one. Also had a few good ones of her own, surprisingly, a lot of dirty ones.” The audience chuckles, Roger smiles. “I know, hard to believe. She liked tea, and her casserole was heaven-sent. She enjoyed old Westerns and had a crush on Clint Eastwood. But only when he didn't speak. She used to say that his blabber ruined his good looks.”

I place a hand on my mouth to hide my laugh.

Roger sighs, folding the paper and placing it inside his pocket. “The truth is, I could talk all day about how great Lorraine was. She raised her son's best friend like I was her own, and she touched all of our lives at some point. She was great with people; she was wonderful with kids. She feared nothing, but one thing. I watched as she took care of her husband with no complaints, no sadness, only pure determination to give him everything and enjoy every second she could with him. She knew the future is not ours to know, but that didn't stop her from living and trying to be happy. And that's what I think she would want us to continue doing: enjoy the moment, embrace the present, and always try to do our best. With no regrets. With no tears. Only with a smile and the braveness to keep on living, even without her.”

Danny needed to hear those words, and part of me thinks Roger wrote it for him, more than anyone else in here. It's unfair of me, but I'm mad that Danny didn't come and decided to lock himself up from the rest of us, from Roger. My presence isn’t welcome here, but even I came to her memorial.

After the speech, people scatter around. Linda Fords whispers with a group of like-minded people, pointing in my direction, not even caring to pretend she’s talking about someone else. I doubt Mrs. Terrence would like me punching the lawyer's face in the middle of the basketball court, so, in her memory, I stay next to the bleachers, hidden from view.