I weave the car back and forth to evade the next round of bullets and take the next turn faster than the last. The subtle sliding out of the back end translates through the wheel. With the slightest shift of steering and a barely perceptible change of speed, the car holds to the curve.
Another round of bullets sprays the car, and the left rear tire explodes. The steering wheel lurches violently. Trying to steady it takes every ounce of strength, fingers clenched, my life on the line. The car veers off the road, and I slam on the brakes. Dirt kicks up everywhere but decelerates the vehicle gradually enough that the crash doesn’t kill me. The front bumper comes to rest against a tree.
Ninety to zero in five seconds. And somehow, I’m still alive.
I grab the backpack and my mixtape as headlights approach. With no time for anything else, I jump out and run for the cover of the forest. The sounds of screeching brakes and slamming car doors are right behind me.
I’m in total darkness.
Brambles rip against my face and arms as I stumble through the woods. The knobby end of a tree branch hits me hard in the ribs. The pain is blinding, but I grit my teeth and push forward. Bullets stream past, some hitting nearby trees, covering me in an explosion of splinters.
A voice yells out from behind. “Aiden! I know you’re there. Hand over the vials, and you can walk away.”
Who the hell knows my name? Worse, how do they know what I’m carrying? The only other person aware of my mission is the woman who sent me. She handpicked me because I was the only courier who could get the job done. Willing to do what most would call a suicide mission. And maybe that’s what this is.
Behind me, the gunshots and shouts are relentless. My lungs burn, and my ribs scream. Every part of my body is telling me to stop. To my left, the ground slopes slightly. I fumble in that direction, following it downward. As it gets steeper, the slope forces my pace to quicken. I’m barely able to keep my feet from sliding under me. A wet patch of leaves sends my legs flailing forward, and for the last thirty feet, I’m on my backside until my boots splash into a running stream.
My burning lungs force me to pause for a moment. Beyond the babbling of the stream are the sounds of gunshots and shouting, but they’re far off to my right. So, I head in the opposite direction with slow and deliberate footsteps, favoring silence over speed.
After several minutes of painfully slow going, the sound of the stream is gone, and the gunshots have fallen silent. But I don’t dare stop yet.
Time has lost all meaning in the darkness. It could be twenty minutes. Could be an hour. My aching feet and burning muscles are my only gauge, and they just hit empty. I sit down hard on the forest floor.
How did that get so bad so fast? My mind races, playing out all the scenarios that could have happened. If the car lurches the other way, or a bullet flies six inches to the right, then I’m dead.
Focus, Aiden.
I close my eyes and force out unwanted thoughts, clearing my mind.
Okay. Survival.
When I open my eyes, they’ve adjusted to the darkness. The moon has risen, providing the slightest bit of light. Vague details emerge. Scrapes run up and down my arms, but nothing is too deep. I’ll live. My ribs are tender at the spot where I hit the tree. The slightest touch makes me wince in pain. Yeah, that’s going to suck for a while.
Inside my backpack, the small aluminum box has a minor dent in one corner, but beyond that, it’s undamaged. This is what my pursuers were after.
But who in the hell were they? I know the territories of every militia group between Boston and Seattle. Standard training for couriers like me. This is the turf of the Freedom Liberation Army—the FLA. Grabbing every bit of territory after the Great Collapse, their influence runs from Montana to Central Washington. But how could they know anything about my mission?
There’ll be time to figure that out. Right now, my focus needs to be on staying alive. Besides the box, there’s not much in the backpack—a bottle of water and the granola bars and pretzels I looted. Of course, my flashlight, compass, and gun are all back in the car. I wasn’t expecting to have to ditch it like that. Sure glad I took the time to get my mixtape.Shit.
It’s not a lot, but it’ll last me until tomorrow. No sense in stumbling around in the dark, so finding shelter is the first order of business—something with cover and warmth. A small, protected hollow under a tree fits me perfectly. A layer of moss and leaves act as my blanket, and I soon fall into a restless sleep.
The same dream haunts me every night. Like some sick cosmic joke, my worst memory replays in my mind, a horror movie in excruciating detail.
I’m returning from an ill-fated mission. My fellow courier Connor has died, sacrificing his life to save mine. But things get even worse at home as I discover my boyfriend, Marcus, has fallen ill. He’s lying in bed, sick and dying, the Infection in its vicious final stage.
I stand by his bedside, a protective barrier separating us. The undulations in the plastic distort his face. A face that is pale and worn out, with deep creases marring what was once beautiful. He looks more eighty than eighteen.
“Aiden,” he utters weakly, putting a hand up to the barrier.
I press my hand against his, with tears streaming down my face. “I’m here, Marcus.”
His voice is only a whisper. “Connor. I know—” His words are cut off by a fit of coughing.
I pull back in shock. Marcus couldn’t know what happened on the mission. I only just returned, and Connor didn’t make it back alive.
“What about Connor?” I ask.
He’s too weak to speak. But the look in his eyes is sadness and hurt. I want to explain and tell him what happened—tell him I love him. But he’s used his last breath. He coughs up blood, and his body thrashes as the Infection claims its latest victim. The only small mercy is him not turning into one of those—things.
