Uncle Max lived about a mile out of Elk Springs on five wooded acres, so heading to the town was an option to see if there was any news. I even put on my shoes and started heading out the door. But my legs froze. A full relapse of my crippling childhood anxiety literally shut down my ability to walk. I had to slide down the wall and sit on the ground to avoid falling over. I stayed there, unmoving, for hours until it started getting dark, and my stomach grumbled. The last thing I’d had to eat was cereal for breakfast. But my nerves wouldn’t allow me to eat much. So I nibbled on a protein bar, then headed to bed.
The following day, there was still no power or sign of my uncle. Even with little fuel, some power might keep the food in the fridge from spoiling, so I checked on the generator.
The shed was about a hundred feet from the house, down the driveway, and set off into the woods. As I approached it, dread crept over my entire body. Somebody had forced open the shed and ripped off the entire locking mechanism. I swung open the door to see my worst fears realized. The shed was empty. Someone had stolen everything.
I ran back to the house, locked all the doors, and grabbed my uncle’s rifle. I’d barely touched a gun in my life, but I figured out how to load it and turn on and off the safety. And then I waited.
Three days came and went with no power and no sign of my uncle. Each day, I would attempt the mile trek to Elk Springs to get news. Each day, I’d freak out from being alone in the forest and run back. On the fourth day, I was determined to make it, so I practiced the deep breathing and mindfulness I learned from my childhood therapy. I headed out with my rifle in hand, full of confidence, sure I could make it. I didn’t get far.
Past the driveway, I spotted a figure about a hundred feet down the road. It was Mrs. Miller who owned the general store in town. But she looked different. Purple veins bulged from her neck, and she stared blankly into the distance.
“Hey, Mrs. Miller!” I waved to her. “Know what’s up with the power?”
At the sound of my voice, she turned and sprinted my way. In total shock, I stood there, not knowing what was happening. Some instinct kicked in, and I turned to run. At that moment, a man came out of the woods and tackled her. Rolling on the ground, they fought like wild animals, scratching, biting, kicking, and ripping into each other. I nearly threw up.
I sprinted back to the house without looking back.What the hell had happened to them? Were they sick?After that, I locked myself in and didn’t leave. My mind was wracked with worry about my uncle as I wondered what was happening out in the world.
On the morning of the sixth day, I was at the kitchen table when a noise came from outside. Footsteps on the gravel driveway. But it wasn’t the typical rhythmic crunching you’d expect from somebody walking.
crunch cruuuuunch
crunch cruuuuunch
With my uncle’s rifle in hand, I peeked out the living room window. A man halfway down the driveway was headed toward the house. Half of his body slumped badly to one side. On each step, he lurched one foot forward, then dragged the other behind him. His clothes and face were bloodstained, his body contorted almost beyond recognition. Purple arteries bulged out of his neck, and a trail of dried blood dribbled from his mouth. He looked like Mrs. Miller had. My pulse shot up, and I tightened my grip on the rifle.
As the man moved closer, a sick feeling formed in the bottom of my gut.Those boots. They were familiar. The shape of the body. The pattern of the plaid shirt barely visible under the blood and grime.This man was my uncle.
He shouted some noise I could barely make out. With his energy spent, he collapsed in a heap on the ground. The rhythmic movement of his chest was the only sign of life. But his breaths were clearly labored.
I stood frozen. Unable to move. The image of Mrs. Miller and the man ripping each other to shreds flashed in my mind. I wanted to help him, but my anxiety would have nothing of it. I collapsed to the floor, body shaking, weeping, unable to function as a human being.
Footsteps clomped on the porch. I cowered to the wall so he couldn’t see me through the windows. Keys rattled outside. He was trying to unlock the door. If he got in here, I’d have to run, but I was frozen with fear. Small metallic clicks projected through the doorknob as he struggled to insert the key. Then the keys dropped and hit the porch. He let out a groan. There was a loud thud as my uncle fell over, followed by quiet sobs.
I didn’t know how long I lay there. It must have been hours, but time had lost its meaning. Eventually, I worked up the will to crawl up and peer out the window. My uncle’s body lay motionless, slumped across the front porch. No sign of breathing.
Waves of grief and guilt swept through me. How could I have done this to him? I let him die alone on the porch. But he clearly had some illness, and I had no idea what it was or if it was contagious.
It took me hours to work up the courage to go outside. Something had to be done to his remains before they attracted a wild animal. I put on latex gloves and my uncle’s woodworking respirator mask, then headed out.
His face was deformed and barely recognizable. But the mole under his left ear and the gold chain around his neck meant it was undeniably him.
I grabbed him by his legs and pulled with all my might, but as I did, a slight gurgling sound came from his mouth. Uncle Max’s chest heaved, and he started coughing violently. I dropped his feet and ran into the yard.Uncle Max was still alive.
Slowly, he got up. I stared in horror as he straightened his spine but still listed heavily to the left. He stared past me with a vacant expression. I called his name, but no recognition registered in his eyes.
In a flash, he ran right toward me, making an inhuman howl. He was faster than I could have ever expected but still limping badly on one side. I outran him to the back porch, but only barely, and slammed the door into him, shoving him away and setting the deadbolt just in time.
He bashed his body against the door, over and over, for nearly an hour, gradually slowing until it ended with the thud of him dropping to the ground. For the next two days, whatever shell of Uncle Max was left would get up every few hours and pound on the door. On the third day, he never got up. The monster Uncle Max had turned into had finally died.
With tears running down my cheeks, I dragged him to the shed and piled wood on top of his body. As I lit the match, memories flashed in my mind. He’d been a simple man living an isolated life in rural Montana. But he always loved and accepted me. I felt wretched for not helping him, and I’d never forgive myself.
Chapter Thirteen
Closing In
AIDEN
Zach and I hike for the better part of the day, only pausing a few times to hydrate and refuel. What am I going to do about Zach? His questions are getting more insistent and specific, and I’m finding it harder to resist answering them. Now he’s asking about joining my group. I hold Zach off by sticking to short and vague answers to most of his questions. Eventually, he tires of not getting real answers, and we continue in silence for most of the afternoon.
