Jason Morrow - Anywhere but Here

“Want me to take your bag?” Gabe asks, noticing the backpack in my lap.

I shake my head no and tuck it under my legs, but safely away from the pedals. Although I trust Gabe, I’m not letting anyone take my bag with Paxton so near me.

I start to drive toward the front gate and the guards open it for us to pass through. Before I press the gas, I turn my head to Gabe. “Where are we going?”

He takes in a deep breath and says, “Just drive, I’ll tell you where to go.”

It feels like one of those old crime movies where the taxi driver is being told where to go while the passenger holds a gun to the back of his head. As if Paxton’s presence doesn’t already make me feel uncomfortable, the overwhelming notion that they might be taking me out to kill me, or worse, leave me somewhere, takes over my brain. Surely breaking into Headquarters isn’t enough to warrant a quiet execution is it? But it all seems so odd the way Paxton came up to us…the way Gabe avoided his stare. My fingers squeeze around the wheel tightly as I drive down the road, sweat beading at the top of my brow.

Not only am I nervous being with these four men, but this is the first time I’ve been out of Crestwood’s wall of safety since I arrived here three months ago. I’m not even sure I’m ready to face more greyskins, but I asked for this. I told Gabe I wanted be a soldier, now here I am driving an SUV full of them, charging into battle.

As we drive down the road, I can’t help but take note of all the abandoned cars. Dust has settled on each, and some of them are beginning to rust. No doubt gas was siphoned from them ages ago, and anything useful has probably been taken by Gabe and his soldiers. I’ve made plenty of car raids over the past three years. Most of the time when you come across an abandoned vehicle, it’s pointless to look. If you’ve happened to come by it, so has someone else. That thought never stopped me when I was desperate, however. When pangs of hunger are replaced by the need to vomit, though nothing will come up; when exhaustion hangs on your shoulders as though you’re carrying a backpack full of dumbbells; when all you want is reprieve, something to boost you…you’ll look.

We go by the cars as silently as if we just passed a cemetery. At some point Gabe tells me we’re going to a place called Sturgis and tells me how to get there. It’s about twenty miles west of Crestwood and he says that we’re going to try and clear the town. I think it sounds like a pretty big job for just four, no, five people, but he assures me that Sturgis is even smaller than Crestwood so it shouldn’t be a problem. I’m not so sure. I’ve been in places smaller than Crestwood that felt as dangerous as the greyskin-infested New York City. I shudder to think about being in such a giant metropolitan area then and now. Regardless, it doesn’t take much for greyskins to overwhelm a small group such as ours.

I try to keep my eyes straight ahead as we ride in an awkward silence. I would have thought that Paxton would be quite a conversationalist given that he was the leader of the town, but he is as silent as the rest of us, lost in his own thoughts. The quiet only adds to the feeling of betrayal that won’t let go of my mind. Betrayal is the word for it. If Paxton is here to get to me or punish me somehow; if he knows what I did, then the only way would be because Gabe told him. But if they were just going to kill me, why would Gabe have handed me my weapons back? I suppose they could be just dropping me off, but if that was the case, why would they have me drive? If neither of these scenarios are even true, then why would Paxton be tagging along acting as though Gabe should have been expecting him? I think about the moment when he asked Gabe for a weapon like it had been talked about beforehand.

I try not to shake my head as the thoughts race through my mind. I’m probably being paranoid. Come to think of it, with Crestwood being so small (only a few hundred people), would it be so odd for its leader to go out on a clearing mission with his people?

I’ve thought several times that breaking into Headquarters was a stupid thing to do. I risked everything to do it and now I live in fear when I should only fear what is outside the walls of Crestwood, not the people within. I had my reasons. I hated that they had taken my gun from me, and I can just see it now — me begging Gabe or Paxton to let me join the soldiers and one of them just smiling at me, telling me that I needed to stay behind and look after the children like so many of the other women do. So, I took a proactive approach and offered an exchange with Gabe. Now I’m living to regret it, dread washing over me every time I think about the gun in my backpack which is nestled safely behind my legs.

We finally reach the edge of Sturgis and it’s everything I can do to keep myself from shaking. I haven’t felt like this in months. I’m the last one out of the SUV. Gabe goes around back, handing out duffle bags to everyone in case they come across supplies. I pull on my backpack and tighten the straps so it hugs me closely. It’s a small relief to see Gabe divvying out the bags. It means they aren’t planning to kill me just yet.

It’s difficult for me to think that Gabe would be so willing to give me up to Paxton, especially since I had broken into Headquarters because of his curiosity. Gabe and I had become friends. It had been a slow transition from him being the guy that frisked me and stole my gun, to being the only person I felt comfortable talking to. Even though it wasn’t his job, he was the one that made sure I was comfortable. He was the one that made sure I understood how Crestwood worked — where to get food, who to talk to about work, the general rules of everything. I started to see him every day. Eventually, we started eating meals together. It felt like a truly blossoming friendship. But neither of us talked about each other’s past. These days, talking to someone about their past is touchy at best. You already know it’s going to be a sad conversation. You already know it will involve death, tears, and regret. A year after the outbreak, sure, people talked. Two years in, people talked less. Three years in, you don’t tend to ask unless you are that person’s best friend. Of course, it’s different with other people. There are some who still ask, but I only ignore their questions. I never ask anymore. I find that the more I know about somebody, the more I don’t want to lose them…the more it hurts when I do lose them. Shallow cuts hurt a lot less than deep ones. The more I learn about someone, the deeper the pain I feel when I lose them.

I never ask anymore.

My knife is securely fastened to my belt, and I hold my rifle with both hands, my right nearest the trigger. Gabe makes sure I have plenty of extra ammo and I stuff the bullets into an easy-access, side pocket of my backpack. He also hands me a duffel bag and I pull the strap over my head and let it hang across my back over the backpack.

“We splitting up this time?” Mendez asks as he checks his gun’s ammo.

Gabe shakes his head. “This time we’re staying close together. Skip and I have the longer blades, so we’ll walk in front.” He nods at me. “The rest of you can follow behind and be ready for my orders.” His eyes look sharply at Paxton. “If that’s all right with you,” he adds.

Paxton holds up a hand and shakes his head. “I’m following your orders out here,” he says with a grin.

I walk to the other side of the SUV and survey the town ahead of us. It is a tiny place with probably about five buildings. There is a Post Office on the other end of the street directly across from City Hall, which seems like a joke. The buildings are squat and empty-looking, though that’s how all greyskin-infested buildings look until they notice someone has come near.