Chapter 7

Elias

The traffic has only eased a little. I have been stuck in this car since yesterday morning when everything fell apart. I have one half-empty bottle of water and a couple of granola bars I found in the glove box. The day is getting hotter and the car is turning into an oven. I do not want to start the engine unless I have to. The road is barely moving.

Every now and then I can inch forward a bit. I have pushed farther up the parkway trying to reach the next town, but nothing has moved for three hours. I am starting to think I will have to leave the car and take my chances on foot. I check what is left inside. Not much. I pull off my suit jacket. The tie came off last night. I shove the water bottle and the granola bars into my pockets, sling the AR over my shoulder, and step out. It is a shame I cannot take the gas with me. Maybe it will help someone else. I cross the parkway and head into the trees.

I look back at the car. Other people are climbing out too. A loud plane noise makes me look up. A fighter jet streaks toward the building where I used to work. Something drops from it. Everyone on the road stares. An explosion rolls across the sky. My chest goes tight. Good people were still inside that building. Friends. Co-workers. Tears push at my eyes. That could have been me. If I had stayed, I would be gone.

People on the parkway start to lose it. Some jump in their cars and try to force their way forward even though nothing can move. Others run. One of the infected sinks its teeth into a woman’s shoulder as she flees. Screams fill the air. I raise the AR and keep my back against a tree, half hidden in the woods. Sweat runs down my forehead. I try to shut out the noise around me.

Something grabs my shoulder. Not someone. Something. I wrestle with the big male figure, using the gun to keep its teeth away from me. It used to be a man. Now it is just a monster. I shout and shove it to the ground. I aim and fire. The kick hits my collarbone hard. The shot is louder than I remember. A few people nearby turn and stare at me with sharp, suspicious eyes. I keep the barrel pointed down and raise my free hand.

“It is not what it looks like. It was—look out!” I yell, pointing behind them. They all spin at once. One of them starts to scream. The scream cuts off when teeth sink into his neck. “Move! Move!” I shout. The other two take off deeper into the trees. I fire at the infected and at the newly bitten man until both drop. I turn. The two survivors are still staring at me with wide eyes.

“If you want to stay alive, stick with me.” They nod fast, fear and confusion all over their faces. Whether they follow because they are scared or because they believe me, they come. We stay along the treeline, keeping the parkway in sight but out of view of the cars. After a short walk we reach a neighborhood. Part of me hoped it would be empty, but most people are still inside their houses, not yet fully aware of what is happening. Panic has only just started to hit here. I hope I can still reach the Walmart without too much trouble. I sling the AR back over my shoulder.

“Stay beside me and a little behind so the gun is clear. I do not want anyone crazy trying to take it.” I need this weapon if I am going to make it home.

“Like you?” one of them mutters. I clench my teeth but let it go. I cannot be alone right now, not with the world this broken.

“If you had any sense you would not insult the man with the gun,” I say, giving him a hard look. “Idiot.”

We step into the Walmart careful and slow. A few people are still shopping like nothing is wrong, but most of the store is pure chaos. Shelves lie on their sides. Food and supplies are scattered everywhere. My eyes search for the canned meat section. Nothing is easy to find.

“Come on,” I say, moving forward. I keep scanning for anyone or anything dangerous. A couple of people race past toward the electronics. I duck into the work-supplies aisle and pull a backpack off a hanger. I spot the grocery section and we move that way. I sweep cans of beans and vegetables into the bag without even checking the labels. A loud boom shakes the store. Screams follow. I lean out of the aisle with the gun pointed at the floor. A stray bullet flies past my head. I drop just in time. The round hits someone a few aisles over. A heavy thud sounds as the person falls.

“We have to go. This is about to get worse,” I say, voice low. The man who was just shot starts to move again. His eyes are bloodshot. The guy who insulted me earlier walks toward him. “Don’t,” I warn, shaking my head.

“Are you okay, sir?” The two of them meet. The bloodshot one growls and lunges, biting deep into the man’s upper arm. He screams in pain.

“Anthony, no!” a woman yells, trying to pull the attacker off. She screams next as the thing turns on her. My guy stumbles back to me, clutching the wound. Sweat pours down his face. We push out of the store together. I take one last look. The place is a bloodbath. More of the creatures are already rising. We race across the parking lot toward the nearest cars. I aim at a window, then notice the handicap tag hanging inside. I curse under my breath and move to a dirty old truck instead. I climb onto the roof and check for a sunroof. Nothing. I drop into the bed and shoot out the back windows, then finish the job with my elbow. The alarm starts blaring. Glass digs into my forearm and stays there.

“God,” I mutter. “Is there a crowbar in the toolbox?” My voice sounds rough. The uninjured woman digs around and hands one over. I jam it under the steering column and try to pry the cover off. Sharp pain shoots up my arm.

“Hey! That’s my truck!” a rough-looking man yells, walking toward us with a hunting rifle already half raised.

“Damn it, we do not have time for this! Give me a flathead,” I say, holding out my hand. I say a quick prayer, jam the screwdriver into the ignition, and turn it. The old truck rumbles to life. Thank God it is an older model. I reverse out of the two spaces he was taking up. More shots crack through the air. “Get down!” I yell. Bullets slam into the side of the truck. The truck owner is still roaring in anger when one of the infected comes up behind him. He fights it off, but not fast enough. His screams cut through the parking lot.

I flinch at the sound. I am not the kind of man who leaves someone to die, even if they just pointed a gun at me. The world may be ending, but that does not mean I throw away every rule I live by. I slow the truck and ease into the town. The streets here are not nearly as jammed as the parkway. The small woman climbs into the passenger seat.

“Where are we going?” she asks, resting a hand on my shoulder. Her eyes flick back toward the bed of the truck. I look at the injured man and do not know what to do with him yet. I sigh and keep my eyes on the road.

“Virginia.”