Consciousness tears a hole through my nightmare, and I wake up with a start, my eyes damp. No use in trying to bury this memory. My subconscious won’t allow it. It’s been six months since his death, but the dream keeps returning as vivid as if it were yesterday.
The box. In a panic, I reach for the backpack, but of course, it’s still there. That same familiar shape.
I’m under no illusion that the vials in the box will erase my torment or somehow bring Marcus back. But if they help find a cure and save a single person from the Infection, or spare a single loved one from feeling the misery I feel, maybe I’ll have done my penance. Maybethatwill dampen the pain.
And if this really is a suicide mission? Well, that’ll dampen the pain too.
Chapter Two
Longing For Home
ZACH
Day 378. With the end of a flathead screwdriver, I scratch another notch into the ever-growing rows of hash marks on the wall of the abandoned bank lobby.
Taped next to them is a picture of Mom and Dad standing outside my childhood home on Vashon Island, west of Seattle. They are smiling and blissfully ignorant of what the next year will bring. I put two fingers up to my lips and kiss, then touch each of them.
“Miss you guys. I’ll find some way to get home,” I whisper to the empty room. A deep pit of loneliness wells up in my chest. I hate being alone.
The last bit of twilight shines through the door of the bank, casting a long ghostly rectangle across the lobby’s marble floors. Time to check the perimeter defenses before it gets too dark. It’s the first thing I do when I get up each morning and the last thing I do before bed. Every. Single. Day.
Big Sky Bank is the most defensible building in the little town of Elk Springs, Montana, so I’ve made it my home. The inside is all stone and marble, with drab furnishings suited for—well—a bank lobby, to be quite honest.
I run my fingers against the seams of the sheet metal I’ve welded to windows and the front door, looking for imperfections. All looks good—no sign of cracks. I’m pretty secure in my little cocoon.
With a flashlight in hand, I head out into the cool evening twilight, walking past the white granite blocks and Roman columns out front. Elk Springs is nestled between mountain peaks on either side and surrounded by a dense forest of evergreens. I rub my hands against my arms as goosebumps form on them. Even in June, with days in the seventies, it can get chilly at night at high altitude.
Boarded-up businesses pass on either side as I head to the edge of Main Street. That damn town sign always glares at me each time I pass it.
Welcome to Elk Springs, Montana
Sportsman’s Paradise
Population: 597
It’s taunting me. Should readPopulation: Zach.
I’m not even from this miserable town. School was out, and I was on summer break, learning to fly-fish with Uncle Max. Bonding time, he called it. Then the power and Internet went out and didn’t come back. Lots of people left town. The ones who stayed started getting sick from some mysterious disease. Most died within days. Watching my uncle die was the hardest part. I don’t like to think about it.
But not everyonediedof the disease. The few who fought through the fever and lived—those are the ones who scare me. They’ve lost all reason and wander around looking for anything to eat to survive. A single scratch from their nails is a death sentence. But it’s been a while since I’ve seen one.
Past the town sign, a row of aluminum cans spread out across the entrance to Main Street. People can’t help but clatter through them as they enter town. My first line of defense. Cars block the street behind them, strategically placed to appear random, but they keep people from driving through.
Next, I head to Elk Springs General Store. Inside, barren shelves and empty refrigerators greet me. The rifle pointing out the window is rock solid on the stand I built. I duct-taped a volleyball on top, emblazoned with the name Wilson on it, complete with a handprint drawn with a red Sharpie.
“Hey Wilson.” I chuckle and wave to the volleyball. It’s the little things that keep me going. Wilson says nothing back. As long as it stays that way, I know I’m still good.
With three shells loaded, the rifle angles slightly upward so people will hear and feel the bullets flying by them without being hit. The idea is to scare people, not kill them. Wilson isn’t a monster.
The wire attached to the trigger is secure. It runs to a pulley, up through a hole in the ceiling, and across the street to Big Sky Bank, to a remote trigger. The tension feels right. No kinks or snags in the line.
After the general store checks out, there are two more Wilsons to inspect. One’s in Leo’s Garage next door. The other is in The Prospector, the dive bar across the street.
The Wilsons have saved my skin a few times. Bands of thugs come through town now and then. A single gunman holed up in a building is an easy target. But if they’re surrounded by Wilsons, well, that’s a different story. And the noise from the guns seems to scare off the sick ones too.
I’m headed across the street on my way back to the bank when a branch snaps someplace nearby. I stop in my tracks and stay totally quiet, shining my flashlight into the darkness and straining to hear. It’s dead quiet. The only noise is the beating pulse in my ears.
A moment later, the clattering of aluminum cans cuts through the silence. The sound I most dread.
