I run down the rows of cars with the Infected in pursuit. The last thing I want is to bring him back to Zach, but Zach opens the door and shouts at me to get in. I try to wave him off, but it’s useless. So I sprint over and jump in, me in the back seat and Zach in the front. The Infected is outside, pounding on the windows.
“Shit. I hope this doesn’t give us away,” I say.
Zach nods, his face wracked with worry.
The sound of engines gets louder as I take in the uncomfortably familiar sight of pickup trucks bearing the FLA flag. They’re driving east on the opposite side of the freeway. One comes to a stop across the median from us. A man sits outside on the edge of the passenger seat window. He has a rifle in his hand.
“Get down,” I hiss under my breath, and we both get low in the car.
Muffled shouts call out from across the freeway. “Look, Wayne. Target practice.”
A bullet strikes the rear window sending an explosion of glass shrapnel throughout the cargo area. I cover my mouth to keep from crying out.
“Wayne, you aim like my grandma. And she’s dead.”
The Infected heads toward the opening in the broken window.Fuck. FUCK.
“We may have to make a run for it,” I whisper to Zach.
The Infected peers in through the window. He puts his hands on either side of the frame and starts crawling in. I shift quickly to the other side of the car, about to open the door, when—BAM!
“Woohoo! Got ’em!”
The Infected slumps halfway inside the car, still alive, but probably not for long. Luckily, the shot was low. If it were a headshot, we’d be covered in blood.
We both sit motionless in stunned silence. The Infected lets out a blood-curdling cry as he writhes, the last bit of life leaving him. I chance a peek over the edge of the window at Wayne holding his gun up and cheering.
Then the truck accelerates with a throaty rumble as it speeds away down the freeway. We both let out a long breath. The good news is we’re alive, and they didn’t spot us. The bad news is this road is being watched.
When the sound of the trucks has long passed, we get out of the SUV. Zach runs into my arms, and we hug tightly. The more I let Zach into my heart, the more painful moments like this become. Up until now, my emotions were dulled and muted. It was much easier to cope. Now, when he’s in danger, I’m overwhelmed with fear.
“We better get going,” I finally whisper into his ear.
“Okay.”
This time, I scan the road east and west with the binoculars, looking for moving cars. Nothing to the west. To the east, the trucks are off in the distance, traveling farther away.
“Okay, I think we’re safe to go.” I wave for Zach to follow me.
“So the FLA is patrolling this road?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That probably means no cars, huh?” Zach looks visibly anxious.
“It would be risky.”
We return to the trail, out of sight of the freeway. Zach has slowed a bit, visibly limping, and I give us regular breaks. After several more hours, I’m more concerned about Zach’s leg. Without antibiotics, a person can die from a cut if it gets badly infected.
We’re heading to the good-sized town of Ellensburg. Under normal circumstances, I’d go entirely around it to avoid any chance of encounters, but it’s the last town we’ll pass for a long time. So, we need to risk it. We’ll watch for hospitals and drugstores and hope for the best. Assuming looters haven’t taken everything already. And assuming it isn’t crawling with Infected.
As we walk, the occasional building appears alongside the trail. First, it’s only light industrial buildings, like corrugated metal warehouses and junk yards. But soon, we see churches, stores, and homes. The trail leads us directly into the middle of town. I slow our pace, and we stop to listen more often. The rule for cities: avoid anything moving at all costs.
So far, the town is eerily quiet.
The trail ends unceremoniously, butting up to a city street. The map shows the trail picking back up again on the west side of town. We’re on our own, navigating the streets. Cars are everywhere, but most of them are obviously ruined—smashed up, with slashed tires, or burned to a crisp. The few intact ones don’t have any keys and are too modern to hot-wire.
Zach points to a blue sign up ahead with anHand an arrow pointing left. “Look, a hospital. Should we check that out?”
