Chapter One

Chapter One

A Broken World

AIDEN

It’s hard to get over how desolate the world is now. I haven’t seen another soul for over a week. And if I want to stay alive, I hope to keep it that way.

The road cuts a winding path through a dense forest, the cone of my headlights revealing just enough to see ahead. Everything else is stark blackness. Daft Punk and GRiZ blast through the car’s speakers—an EDM mix I made last year as a DJ for my high school. Back when DJs and high schools existed, that is. The bass rumbling through the seat makes me feel connected to the car.

With one eye on the road, I paw at the backpack resting on the passenger seat. It’s the third time this hour I’ve checked on the vials. The familiar shape of the protective aluminum case through the nylon fabric helps ease my anxiety. For the moment, anyway. It may be a little obsessive, but the vials are my critical cargo. They’re what I’m risking my life for. And I’m doing this for Marcus.

The slightest thought of him sends waves of grief flooding over me. I fight those feelings and bury them away. Letting emotions control me is the surest way of getting killed.

When I pull up to a rest area, the car cuts a path through an inch of pine needles spread over the parking lot. Weeds spring up through every possible crack, and vines are well on their way to swallowing the restrooms whole. The sheer relentlessness of Mother Nature is startling.

Since man-made light is a thing of the past, it’s impossible to see your hand six inches in front of your face, especially on a cloudy, moonless night in rural Montana. The headlights are my only guide through the darkness, so I leave them turned on.

As I open the door, I’m hit with a cold blast of air and the smell of sap. It must be low forties out. My breaths puff out in misty clouds.

Looters often overlook vending machines at rest stops, so I always check them out. I’m pleasantly surprised to find the machines undamaged and nearly full. With a few pries of a crowbar, the lock springs open. I load what I can into my backpack and stuff the rest in a black plastic bag.

After doing my business in the restroom, I return to my faded red ’97 Integra, crunching through the thick layer of decaying pine needles. I stop suddenly, staring at another pair of footprints that cross over mine, head up to my car door, and then into the woods. They were not here before. I’m sure of it.

Did I remember to lock the door?

In a flash, I run to the car and reach for the handle. Locked. Thank god. The second I’m in, I fire up the engine. Debris kicks up from the tires as I hit the gas and speed away.

For the next several minutes, I’m hypervigilant, keeping my eye on the mirrors and looking ahead for a potential ambush. Those footprints could have been from a member of a local militia. Their scouts are notorious for spotting lone cars and radioing for backup.

Or the footprints could have been from one of the people sick with that damn disease. The Infected. It’s unlikely since they went right up to the car door. Once the fever has done its damage, the Infected don’t really have that level of cognitive ability. The path would have been more random.

Either way, I’m glad to put the rest area behind me. As time passes, my nerves start to settle. Guess I got lucky. Maybe it was nothing, like a local survivor passing through.

As the minutes drift by, my eyes get heavy. It’s no use fighting sleep, so I scan the highway for a side road with enough cover to pull over and rest for the night.

That’s when headlights shine in my rearview mirror.

Goddamn it.

Carjackers.

Their standard MO is to drive up beside you and point guns at the car until you pull over. But I’m not planning on letting them get that close. The trick is to go slowly at first and make them overconfident. Let them think they’ve got easy prey. Then floor it. Take curves so fast, they’ll piss their pants. With any luck, their car will spin out, trying to follow. It’s half skill, half psychology.

And here comes a curve now. I find just the right speed to keep traction. The tires squeal but hold. Right at the apex of the turn, I punch the accelerator. It pushes me back into the seat as the tires grab the tarmac, and the car blasts down the road.

Those guys should be long gone, but somehow, the headlights shine in the rearview mirror again.

Shit.

These guys are good.

I floor the accelerator, but the engine groans in protest. A distinct smell of burning oil drifts into the cabin. That can’t be good.

Whizzing sounds fly past the car. Are those bullets? Are they shooting at me?

A bullet hits the rear window, shattering it into a million pieces, making my heart rate spike. These aren’t carjackers. They’re trying to kill me.

I turn off the music. Drawing in a deep breath, my training kicks in. One wrong move, and I’m dead. I sharpen my focus and clear my mind, each action deliberate and calculated.

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.

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. Maybe that will dampen the pain.

And if this really is a suicide mission? Well, that’ll dampen the pain too.