“I see it,” Julie says, her eyes narrowing.
“Haven’t seen a train in years,” Tomsen says. “No commerce, no travel, no one coming or going. Rare enough to see cars.”
“It’s got to be Axiom,” Julie mutters. “Another load of beige jackets to dump on Post.”
“Or…” Tomsen says, shooting Julie an uneasy glance. “Could be specimens.”
Julie’s eyes widen slowly, filling with hope and fear. “Follow it.”
Tomsen hits the gas and Barbara lurches forward, sending the kids’ water cups tumbling off the table. The cabinets rattle and clang, the tires roar and the whole vehicle begins to wobble dangerously, but the train continues to pull ahead of us. Then we’re surrounded by alien crops again. The splotchy gray jungle obscures our view for several miles, and when we finally emerge into daylight, the train is gone.
“No, no, no,” Julie growls, eyes darting. “Tomsen, can’t this thing go any—”
“Do you hear that tinkly chattering?” Tomsen shouts over the cacophony. “Those are dishes. This is a house. Don’t ask if a house can go faster.”
Julie grits her teeth and waits, diverting her anxiety into her white-knuckled grip on her armrests. And then she springs forward. “There!”
She’s pointing at a small cluster of buildings on the rippling horizon. A plume of smoke drifts up from behind them.
“They must be making a stop in that town. Pull off!”
Tomsen takes the next offramp and we bounce and sway into the sad little rest stop of a town. But the smoke is already moving again, and we reach the tracks just in time to see the train dwindling into the distance.
Tomsen slams the RV into park with an air of finality. “We can’t catch them,” she announces.
Julie digs her fingers into the dashboard, but she doesn’t argue. We are silent, watching the black cloud disperse into the atmosphere. Then Julie jumps to her feet. “Is that…?”
She shoves the door open and runs to the railroad crossing. M and I follow her.
Nora’s scooter is parked next to the tracks. The dust shows two sets of footprints walking away: boots and bare feet. They reach the rails and disappear.
“She got on the train,” Julie says, mystified.
M is examining the scooter, putting his face near the ground and scanning the dust for signs of struggle, sniffing for blood, perhaps dragging whatever’s left of his Dead senses back into service. But Julie stops him with a tap on the shoulder.
“Marcus,” she says, and presses the scooter’s gas cap into his palm. “I think she went willingly.”
M stares at the cap, then the empty tank. “So it wasn’t Axiom, then.”
Julie shakes her head. “Even if she had a full nervous breakdown, I can’t see her doing that.”
“Then who?”
I run my eyes down the tracks to where they disappear in the distant mountains. I feel a brand-new anxiety begin to knot my guts.
“Tomsen,” Julie says while our driver loads the scooter back onto its rack. “Do you know where these tracks go?”
“East-west. Maybe a few squiggles.”
“So if we keep following them, we’ll end up somewhere near Post?”
“Close enough. Assuming we pass through the Midwaste undigested.”
No one questions this last comment, so I assume it’s just another colorful Tomsenism and let it go.
“Fire up the fryer,” M grunts, hopping back into the RV. “Let’s move.”
With a roar and a rattle we cruise back to the highway and follow the tracks west. The train’s smoke lingers like a bad memory, staining the horizon black.
TWO
the attic
“There is no help! Great God, who talks of help? All the world has the plague!”
“Then to avoid it, we must quit the world.”
WE
“DAD!” Abram screams. “Perry!”
His voice is so hoarse it barely resonates at all, just air rattling through a numb throat. He has been doing this for a long time, and eventually, no matter how much terror remains inside, the screams have to go silent.
He has been running for a long time too, and he is tired. He sags against a fir tree and breathes for a minute, but the breaths tighten into curses. Why wasn’t he fast enough? He runs track at school every day; he should be faster. How did he let a shuffling mob of corpses get between him and his family?
They were eating breakfast. A nostalgic last meal before they left their home forever. Then the windows were breaking and his mother was screaming and something was dragging him outside, and he was surrounded by them, clawing and clutching, and all he could do was run.
But didn’t he do everything right? Didn’t he follow the plan?
Run around the block until you’ve got some distance on them, then circle back to the truck. The truck is always the meeting point.
But his family wasn’t at the truck, and the house and the yard were crowded with the Dead.
If you can’t get to the truck, run to the hills. Stay in an open area with a clear line of sight, and wait for us. We’ll find you.
But they didn’t find him. He paced around the bristly yellow slopes for hours, watching the Dead swarm over the town below. And then the explosions. The gunshots. The hooting raiders charging in on war-painted quads, a pack of hyenas eager to share the kill.
He did everything right. How did this happen?
He feels his breath beginning to hitch and his eyes beginning to burn and he straightens up furiously. No. Absolutely not. He lunges into a fast, stiff march just to rid himself of that quivering softness. The sun falls behind the hills and the valley sinks into shadow, a new darkness on top of the haze of smoke, and a cold whisper of logic hisses in his head. If his family stayed down there, they must be dead. If they escaped, they must think he’s dead. Either way, he’s on a new path now.
They say it’s better on the coast, his father said with a cheery shrug, trying to lighten the weight. I figure we’ll just hit highway 12 and head west until it feels right. Sound good, boys?
Abram descends the hill toward Highway 12. If he walks fast, he’ll reach Elliston by morning. Maybe they’ll still be there. Maybe he’ll burst into their motel room and they’ll wrap their arms around him and he can toss away the grim future he’s now writing in his head. Maybe.
The air is already cooling. Sage scrapes his calves and thistles stick in his socks. But shorts seemed like the right choice when he woke up today. It was a thrill day, an adventure day, and the muggy dawn stillness promised a summer scorcher. Perry was wearing sweatpants and he told him to go change. The kid emerged looking like Abram’s little twin, jean shorts and a white shirt and a big silly grin. Looking good, buddy, Abram said with a wry thumbs-up. He knew it was going to be a hard day, but he felt ready for it. A long drive. A search for a new home. It was the four of them against the world, but as long as they stuck together, they were going to be okay.
Abram is dreaming with his eyes open. It plays out faintly on his face, the fear, the anger, then a bittersweet smile, a glimmer of wetness in his eyes—he blinks and shakes his head and slaps himself so hard his ears ring. Reality roars back in.