Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Uncle Max

ZACH

We wake up early the next day, pack up, and get going. Leaving the cabin makes me a little sad. A place like that is a rare find. I’d enjoy spending more time there, but we need to keep moving.

In the light of day, it’s more obvious how I steered us wrong last night. We would have found my original campsite if we had hiked another ten minutes on the main trail. But I’m glad that it worked out how it did.

When we first start out, Aiden seems to be in a bit of a daze. But as the day goes on, he’s more like his usual, confident self. I even catch him stealing glances over at me from time to time. I guess I’ll need to get used to him doing that. Honestly, getting the attention makes me smile each time. Even when I found out he liked guys, there was no assurance he’d find me attractive. I guess that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about.

I want to learn more about his life now. Obviously, I’ll stay away from topics like Marcus and Connor. But what about the group he comes from? Maybe I could join them. Help them out in my own way.

“Hey, Aiden.”

Being deep in thought seems to be Aiden’s typical mental state. His eyes focus, and he looks over at me. “Um—what’s up?”

“Tell me more about the couriers. How did you become one?”

“Oh. I guess I was just in the right place at the wrong time?” He cracks a slight smile, which is encouraging. I’m glad he’s willing to share some things.

He continues. “After the Great Collapse, Marcus and I were wandering around, trying to survive.”

“So you and Marcus knew each other before, huh?”

“Yeah. We’d been going out for nearly a year. I was scratched a few times by the Infected but never got sick. Marcus was just lucky. After about a month, one of the Collective’s couriers found us and took us in.”

“Is that when you got the blood test for the immunity?”

“Yeah. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the only reason they saved us, honestly. They needed people who could travel and not die from the Infection. So I was a valuable commodity. I think they only took in Marcus because of me.”

“And the group you joined? Are they still doing research on the Infection?”

“Yeah.”

I’m digging too deep when he starts with single-word answers. Okay. Direct approach.

“Since they let you join, do you think I could I join?”

Aiden’s face scrunches. “It’s a possibility, I guess. If you really are immune from the Infection, that’ll improve the odds. You said your uncle died of the Infection, right?”

“Yeah.” I hate this subject. I lower my head as sadness and guilt build in me.

“And you were with him?”

I nod but don’t say anything, worried my voice will reflect my guilt. I was with him, but it’s not the whole truth.

“If you were in close contact with him through the height of the Infection, that’s when it’s the most contagious. Even being near them can expose you. You must be immune.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, as if the issue is settled. But thinking about what truly happened to my uncle makes me ill. I’m not ready to talk about it. Not yet. Maybe, never.

It all happened over a year ago, but I still remember it like yesterday. My uncle and I were fly-fishing. The mayflies were everywhere, and the fish were really biting.

I’d been trying for over a week and couldn’t get the hang of it. But that day, something clicked, and I caught several fish. Satisfied with our catch, we packed up and hopped in his truck.

I remembered the conversation because Uncle Max brought up Felix. That was unusual. After some small talk, he broached the subject. “So I heard you broke up with Felix.”

Uncle Max had always been great about accepting Felix into our family. Felix even made a few trips out there to visit. I knew Uncle Max liked him.

“Yeah. It was time. Long distance is hard and…I don’t know.” But I did know. Felix and I had grown apart. But I wasn’t ready to go into details with my uncle.

“Gotta do what’s right for you,” he said. “Hopefully, you can still be friends.”

“I think we will be.”

That was all we said on the subject. Uncle Max was a man of few words. He lived all alone in Elk Springs. No wife. No boyfriend, as far as I knew. I often wondered about it. Some people simply didn’t need other people in their lives. We never talked about it.

When we returned to the cabin, I could tell something was off as soon as I walked through the door. It took a moment until it hit me. There was no noise whatsoever. The furnace wasn’t running, no hum of the fridge, no ultra-high pitch frequencies from electronic equipment. The power was out.

It wasn’t the most unusual thing in Elk Springs. My uncle had a generator for such an occasion, so while I gutted the fish, he headed out to the shed to fetch it. But, soon, he came back.

“Hey, Zach, looks like I’m low on fuel,” he said. “I think I’ll run to Bozeman and stop at the Costco. I’ll fill the gas tanks and buy us some supplies while I’m there.”

“Oh—uh—sure.” I wanted to go with him because I hated being alone. But my hands were all nasty, and I was halfway through gutting, so I tried to be chill and let it slide.

He could see I was nervous. “Don’t worry, Zach. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

I did my best to act normal. “I’ll be fine. Can you pick up some Dr Pepper?”

“Will do.” And with that, my uncle was gone.

Three hours had passed, and I’d finished the fish long ago. So I grabbed my phone to text my uncle. With no reception on the river, there’d been no need to bring my phone, so this was the first time I looked at it since we’d left for fishing at four a.m. When I unlocked the screen, my jaw dropped. Eight missed calls and forty-five text messages. Most were from my mom and dad and a couple from Felix. One incoming call was from 911, which was especially strange. But not a single one from my uncle. The texts were alarming.

Did you hear the news about the Great Collapse?

Are you OK?

Zach, call us!

I love you, Zach

What in the hell was going on? And what was “the Great Collapse”? I immediately called my mom, but the line wouldn’t connect. I couldn’t call anyone. Cell service must have been down as well. No voicemail, no Internet. Nothing.

I was totally cut off.

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.