S. Davis - 900 Miles

No response from their end. I didn’t expect one.

We all looked around in silence. The writing was on the wall, in blood. At this pace, we weren’t going to make it. There was no stopping the fact that as hard as we tried, this existence would eventually end us all. We were simply holding our thumb on the slow motion button until we hit the inevitable.

Glancing up from the little girl, I looked over at Jarvis and asked, “Have we received any more communication from our friends on the West Coast?”

I must have looked desperate.

Jarvis shifted his shoulders toward mine, but didn’t make eye contact as he continued to look around the room “No, we haven’t heard from them in six weeks.”

“It’s looking more and more like we’re on our own out here,” Richard added in a low, solemn voice.

There was one distant star of hope out there just weeks after the world fell apart. Avalon’s communication array was fairly advanced, and we were able to connect with a group that called themselves the New America. According to the radio broadcasts, they were on the West Coast, living in the Rockies. Evidently, what was left of the government had set up shop there while they figured out what to do about Occupied America’s little infestation. Occupied America being everything to the east of the Mississippi River, according to the broadcasts.

“Never thought those guys were real anyway,” Rodgers finally spoke up from the background. “All seemed a bit too convenient… Safety in the mountain, new government. Blah blah blah.”

He said this as he kneeled over and smeared the blood splatter from his faceplate against the blood-soaked smock of the fallen chef. “You know, I liked this guy. He made the dried eggs seem almost passable. Shame really. I need to figure out how he did that.”

He was right. Earl did make good eggs.

“If you ask me, this so-called ‘New America’ is just a bunch of guys holed up in a bunker somewhere with nothing else to do but give people false hope,” he continued.

We sat there in silence. Who could argue? The thought had crossed all our minds. It was heavily debated in the first weeks after their broadcasts began. After all, we never saw them. It was all just a bunch of radio chatter. The so-called New America could have been one or two guys getting their kicks out of messing with anybody still keeping the ol’ radio dial on.

Our apocalyptic version of the greatest hits.

It gave us something to listen to at first. Always someone on there. Sounded like the same one or two guys, but you couldn’t really tell through the static.

They kept broadcasting that food and medical supply drops would be coming. Kept telling us that we needed to hunker down until they could get us out. Support would be coming to areas that were fortified and held people. They encouraged us to be their eyes and ears in the occupied zone and to report back anything that we saw. Our outbound radio broadcasts were met with static. We were always careful not to be specific about our location, but hoped we’d at least get some sort of response. Maybe we didn’t have the range. Or maybe it really all was just bullshit.

Most important… they asked everybody in the occupied zone for patience, something that was running in short supply.

Avalon had means. Hell, we had an armada of planes and helicopters sitting outside our walls. Gas was always an issue, but shortly after we learned about New America, we decided to use what we had to fuel up one of our long-distance planes. Kyle called it a Gulfstream. Three men had left on that plane setting out to head west. With no specific destination or address, they were simply heading toward where the sun set.

One of them was the Asian that had fought side by side with Kyle and me in the Arena. I’d still never heard the guy say a word. Not even when he looked back at us as he stepped into the cockpit. However, there was a determination in his eyes that made me feel like he’d make it.

Hope was high at that point. A good opportunity to escape the madness. We were assuming that there was a part of the world that still existed without these creatures running rampant. Hell, it was the only thing that could really keep us going. In the end, we were just hoping that the broadcasts were not full of shit.

Sometimes you need a little hope.

After three weeks without a response from the team, things started to feel a little darker. Hope had an easy way of drying up really quick.

Richard was pacing around the room inspecting the damage. Not a word slipped through his thick cracked lips, but I could see his mind working out all the options as his eyes darted from the charred cabinet to the bent sprinkler head resting sideways on the slick wet floor. He’d worked on the Hill in Washington prior to the outbreak, and showed up knocking at the doors of Avalon shortly after Kyle and I had returned.

The guy was smart, that much was clear. He always seemed to know which way the wind was blowing, quickly finding himself inside of Jarvis’s inner circle. In some ways, he was a natural leader. He had the kind of smile that made you trust every word he said. I’ve heard people call it charisma.

Over the course of history, it is generally believed that the leaders who have done the most damage, as well as the most good, in our world have possessed that magical gift. The rare trait of magnetic charm, often no more than a veneer used to persuade others. Humans are hard-wired to dislike uncertainty, so there’s a high tendency to gravitate toward someone who shows none. The right type of person, preaching the right thing, with the right kind of “I know what I’m talking about charm” can and have had a profound effect on the world. Martin Luther King Jr. and JFK were reportedly charismatic people. On the flip side of that coin, so were Hitler and Charles Manson.

Now I’m not saying Richards was any sort of monster, but I couldn’t quite place what I didn’t trust about him in the beginning. Maybe it’s because I didn’t like politics, and by default I didn’t like politicians. However, for some reason, my gut would turn ever so slightly anytime he was around. His demeanor reminded me of any number of charismatic blowhards flowing in and out of Corporate America, playing to executive interests more than solving any of the real problems.

I’ve often believed that sometimes organizations succeed despite their leadership… not because of it.

Breaking the silence, the sound of footsteps running down the hallway drew our attention. They were soft steps, even as they came closer. An unfamiliar woman, panic-stricken, flew through the doorway, her eyes falling directly on the child in my arms. Wearing jeans and a black jacket, her short blond hair bounced with every step she took toward me.

Teary-eyed, the woman burst out, “Is my baby OK?” As she leapt toward me with her arms drawn out to grab the child. She didn’t make eye contact with me at first, keeping her gaze glued to her daughter, as she rubbed one hand up her back and through her golden blond hair.

“She’s shaken up, but alive. I think she’ll be OK with rest,” I finally managed to get out as I finished delicately rolling the little girl into her mother’s arms.

“Oh baby, I don’t know what I would have done if you…” her words tapered off, while she squeezed her eyes shut.

Watching a tear roll down her soft, round cheek, I put my hand on the woman’s shoulder. “It’s going to be OK. She’s going to be OK.”

I’m not sure I believed my own words, but it must have come across genuinely enough because she pulled herself deep into my chest. Complete strangers to one another, I still inadvertently found myself wrapping both arms around her and the small child. I guess sometimes people just need to be held.