“Yeah.”
“I’ll be in the hallway.”
Ecco made himself comfortable, rinsed his face in the washbasin, and swallowed the cup of lukewarm strong tea with extra sugar and powdered milk he’d left out for himself. He slung up his pack and slipped into the dark hallway.
They took the northwest road out of town; after a couple of miles they turned onto an abandoned farm road, following it to a creek that flowed into the Little Wabash.
They made no sound. The dirty old moon, rising later, smaller, and dimmer every night, almost gone now, seemed only to deepen the shadows. Ecco’s attention constricted to the dim, shadowy path beside the creek.
At last they stood beside an old highway truss bridge. “Cross this bridge,” Freddie Pranger said, “and follow the river road east.” He stuck his hand out, and they shook. “Stay scared so you come back.”
“No problem staying scared,” Ecco managed. “Thanks for everything.” He looked back after he had crossed the bridge; Pranger, of course, had evaporated. At the turn onto the road, Ecco began a slow jog, one he could easily maintain for the scant few hours until the treacherous dawn came crawling into his face over the eastern horizon.
THE NEXT DAY. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 6:15 PM MST. TUESDAY, AUGUST 5, 2025.
Beth had been waiting since she’d gone to see MaryBeth Abrams at lunchtime, and had told herself that she needed to be patient and nobody should be hit with really surprising news first thing when he came in the door. And I don’t suppose we should call it surprising, either, should we? I mean, it’s actually kind of natural.
In the interim, she tidied things up, and since there was a fresh cabbage, and some nice jerked grouse, she invented a kind of nice little soup and made up some soda bread to serve with it. Hunh, that smells good if I do say so myself. I’ll have to remember that.
She hoped this wouldn’t be one of the days when Jason stopped for a beer at Dell’s Brew with his workmates.
He was actually a few minutes early, but by that time their little place was tidier than it had ever been, the soup had been reseasoned to perfection, and she’d thought of four clever ways and two gentle ways to break the news to him. Nonetheless, the moment he closed the door, she blurted, “I’m gonna have a baby.”
8 DAYS LATER. ON THE WABASH, ABOUT A MILE AND A HALF NORTHEAST OF THE FORMER DARWIN, ILLINOIS. 11:42 PM CST. WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 13, 2025.
Ecco constantly told himself that the five days he’d spent so far on the Illinois side of the Wabash wasn’t cowardice or procrastination. Arnie Yang had worked out pathways around the known areas where others had died or been lost, away from the farms and little towns that had been attacked, which Ecco had memorized; the map was as clear in his head now as it had been back in Pueblo.
He’d made it to the Wabash in two days, and started by observing the big bridge at Mount Carmel from a safe vantage point in the ruins. Three hours of steady, patient watching had revealed at least four watchers on the other side, all focused on the bridge. They’d all been relieved at regular intervals. Whatever was over there, it was organized.
Between sunset and moonrise he’d departed the charred wreckage of Mount Carmel and headed north. The next morning, from the east-facing upper window of an apartment over an old carriage house in Patton, his binoculars had revealed two different five-person patrols, one in the early morning and one in the afternoon, on the far side of the river. They were dressed like thrift store barbarians or Conan the Hippie, with spears, hatchets, and clubs. He’d slept through most of the day and departed, again, in the dark.
He’d moved farther north and east, staying close to the river except for a long trip around the burned-out area opposite Vincennes. Moving only when it seemed safe, watching the east bank constantly, he’d found every standing bridge watched, every dock and landing burned and blocked, and patrols no more than a few miles apart. He had to hope Heather was right that this was a tight barrier but not a thick one, so that a few miles on the other side of the river the land would be mostly empty, because if it was like this for any distance inland, he didn’t think he had a prayer.
Under the trees in a wooded bend of the river, just upstream from the ruins of Darwin, Illinois, he’d spent the day establishing the key facts with binoculars. The landing directly opposite him, a little cut-out docking pool, had been blocked with logs and the dock itself burned, but seemed unguarded. No bridges spanned the swift current for several miles downstream, so if need be he could float for miles while he looked for a safe, inconspicuous place to come inshore. Cover was abundant, with at least a few hundred feet of trees on each side of the river. About a half mile downstream a narrow, slow side channel, well-wooded on both sides, sliced the other side. If he missed that side channel in the dark, he had miles more distance and hours more time to land among trees.
Tonight the moon would rise almost two hours after the end of twilight, more than time enough to float to the other side, with extra time to try to move far enough east to be beyond the Daybreaker patrols. He’d crept down in the dusk and verified that there was a hole maybe twenty feet across by a dozen feet deep where he’d be able to slip in quietly.
Faint stars glowed above the trees on the opposite bank. Time. He descended to the hole. Too bad there’s no way to take a boat over; I hope the jars keep my powder dry and I don’t need the gun too quick. He made sure that his gear was roped to his waist, and then swiftly whipped five old pillowcases, one at a time, through the air, over his head, and into the water, and tied them off. He pushed off, floating on his back, head held up by his pillowcase float, and his bag of supplies resting on his belly.
I look just like floating debris, he thought. Please, God, I look like old junk that washed into the river. Anyone who sees me will see I’m just a pile of floating crap. He’d lined up three stars and two trees with distinctive shapes downstream; if he could manage to kick his way into the current between them, he’d be in the side channel he was aiming for.
The warmth of the water was pleasant; he’d grown up in the Rockies where running water is freezing cold all year. In the humid night, low fogs, some only a foot deep, drifted along the surface, cloaking him.
He kicked hard but kept his legs well under the water. Fogs rolled across him, darkening the river to a void except for the stars directly overhead; then a clear patch would roll by and he’d catch sight of his stars and his target trees.
When trees were on both sides of him, he turned over. His feet found the muck at the bottom of the shallow channel. His foot caught in something and pulled his head under for an instant, but he shook loose, waded a few more steps, and found a pebbly, rapidly rising surface. Trying not to splash, he waded with his pack held above his head until he was waist deep. At last he stepped from a patch of sloppy muck between the tangled roots of a cottonwood, and put both feet on a muddy bank. Checking the stars, he walked due east.
Something slammed the back of his head. As he stumbled, his head was pushed down and a rope wrapped in three quick turns around his neck.
There were so many of them.
He tried to lie down and make them kill him, but they just shoved a spar between his elbows and back, and pulled him to his feet.
“Stephen Ecco,” a voice said, behind him. “We were wondering if you’d ever find the courage to come over the river.”