Keary Taylor: The Ashes

They don’t seem to know what they’re doing. They look confused almost. Like they know they’re supposed to be going somewhere or doing something, but they can’t think clearly to figure out what it is. Their movements are jerky, unorganized. But they’re still powerful looking.

Off in the distance I can see more of them stirring.

I turn the SUV around and start back toward the mountain pass.

I’m not going to make it very far up that mountain before I run out of gas. But there’s no way I’m going to survive going back into that town for fuel.

Maybe I should have taken Uncle Rich’s sports car. It probably would have gotten better gas and gotten me further up the mountain. But then again, it probably wouldn’t have survived the attack by the zombie robots.

I drive up the mountain for just over an hour before the gas light comes on and the car beeps at me. Thirty minutes later it shuts off and slowly rolls to a stop. I park it in the middle of the road and just sit there for a minute.

One week ago I thought I knew exactly how I was going to spend the rest of my life: looking at the gray walls of a prison cell. Figuring out how to survive the apocalypse wasn’t something I’d planned for.

Yet here I was, getting the second chance to fight for my life at the end of the world.

It takes me a while to pick a place but I need some kind of destination or I’m just going to wander aimless and get myself killed. I stare at the map and try to recall old geography lessons from high school.

Where is going to be secluded? What place is going to have the most natural resources? Where do I stand a chance of not freezing to death when winter comes?

Unfortunately the last two considerations war with each other.

I finally pick a green place on the map and started plotting my route.

I’ll travel parallel to the main highways that would lead to it, but stay away from the busy freeways that would cut too close to the cities, and therefore the zombiebots.

Packing takes careful consideration. I can’t fit everything in my pack. The thing would weigh well over one hundred fifty pounds. And I have a long way to walk.

In the end I pack enough food to last me a week and enough water to last me five days. I’ll have to rely on the land after that, or dare raiding a house or whatever place I might find. I pack two handguns and the better shotgun, and as much of the ammunition I can carry. And then I tuck in the atlas.

Patting the hood of the SUV once, I start down the road.

I walk.

And I walk.

And I hide and sleep during the day.

Then I keep walking when it’s dark.

I walk for a very long time.

I have too much time to think.

But I can’t make sense of what’s happened to our world.

Whatever this company is, NovaTor Biotics, I can only assume they did something that caused all of this. Aunt Stella was getting a new heart or something. An upgrade. The letter said something about TorBane. And then she turned into one of those things. It must have spread, taken over her body.

And they’re aggressive. But not so much like they’re trying to kill me. More like they’re trying to just get a hold of me.

That must be how it spreads.

It must be deadly effective if it spread this fast.

And something about the city must draw them. There are thousands of them there.

But none of them out here on the back roads.

There’s mud caked on my boots, two inches thick on the tops of my toe. My clothes are soaked through but I feel like I’m burning on the inside. And the water just keeps coming down.

I survived the mountain. I’ve started across the level ground. I’ve kept out of sight of the zombiebots for weeks now.

And it’s the rain that threatens to kill me.

You never think you’ll forget what it feels like to be dry. But after being in the rain for four days straight, I have forgotten.

My feet falter. I stumble and let myself fall to my hands and knees on the pavement. My insides feel stiff and hot. My arms shake, not wanting to support my weight any longer. Suddenly my stomach is touching the ground and my left cheek hurts from the rough surface of the road.

I don’t think I can get up. But I’m afraid I may drown if I don’t.

But I don’t think I can get up.

I hear something in the distance. Thunder? A lawn mower? A helicopter? A plane?

I open my eyes just slightly, blinking drops of rain from my eyelashes. I push myself up from the ground just a bit. As I turn my head, I feel a stream of water run from my ear. I really did nearly drown. It was also the reason I couldn’t really hear.

Shifting my weight back, I now know the sound is a car. Or more like a truck. It sounds big. And it is coming my way.

My insides don’t feel so hot and I don’t ache as badly. My fever must have broken. But my body still protests as I climb to my feet and look down the road. I then realize that it has finally stopped raining.

There is a truck driving toward me, about half a mile away.

I consider darting back off the road, but there is no way they wouldn’t have seen me and there is nothing to hide behind out here in flat-country USA. So I move to the side of the road, watching as they drive toward me.

The truck slows as it approaches. Like the SUV I had to leave behind, most of its windows are busted out. Its sides are dented and beaten. I can actually see the form of a handprint in the driver’s side door.

The vehicle has barely stopped moving when two men jump out. They’ve got shotguns leveled on my chest. There’s a wild look in their eyes. One of them has a long scar running down the left side of his face. It cuts across his eye. The eye doesn’t look quite right, like it was damaged pretty bad. The other walks with a serious limp.

“Just hand over the pack and we’ll let you live,” Scarface says. He takes quick, jerky steps toward me. Gimpy takes one step forward. He’s hurt pretty bad is my guess.

“How do you know I’ve got anything you want?” I say, raising my hands at my sides. I wouldn’t have done that if not for the handgun I can feel weighing my left side pocket down.

Scarface laughs in a crazy way that matches his eyes. “I ain’t playing games with you. Just hand it over and we’ll let you walk away.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. I take a step toward him.

“Hold it right there!” Scarface shouts. “Don’t take another step. You just toss that pack over.”

Never losing his eyes, I take another step forward, moving to his left, bad side, just a bit.

“I said stop movin’!” he yells, spit flying from his mouth.

“You hungry?” I ask as I take another step toward them. We’re only five yards apart now.

“Course we’re hungry,” he growls. “There’s no food left anywhere. Not after the territory wars.”

I’ve never heard anything about the territory wars but I can guess what it means. Guys like this will fight over anything.

“I can spare one can of beans but I can’t let you take anything else,” I say, taking another step.

He does that crazy laugh again, but I see something flash across his eyes.

I’m close enough to confirm what I speculated.

His safety isn’t pulled back. The gun isn’t loaded.

My eyes flick over to Gimpy. His is though.

“I’m not giving you my pack,” I say, keeping my voice calm. I come to a stop. “Like I said, I’ll give you one can.”