Chapter Two

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 read Population: 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 everyone died of 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.

Out of the shadows, a man comes barreling toward me at full sprint. He’s severely emaciated—almost skeletal. Purple veins bulge from his neck and forehead. Telltale signs of a man who fought off the disease but lost his mind in his battle to stay alive. A surge of adrenaline runs hot through my veins.

He’s closing too fast.

I’ll never get back to the bank in time. Squaring my shoulders, I face him, knowing standing my ground is my only chance for survival. I fight back every instinct telling me to run. His dead eyes stare at me, getting closer by the second.

Don’t fricking run.

As he lurches clumsily toward me, the reek of decay overwhelms me, and I nearly retch. But I hold my ground. Remembering the self-defense techniques my mom taught me, I grab his outstretched hand, narrowly avoiding his jagged nails. I pull him forward with everything I have, using his momentum against him. He’s so startled he loses balance and sprawls to the ground.

With him down, I race to the bank in a full sprint, but he gets up quickly and closes in fast. Just feet from the door, his footsteps are right behind me, the heat of his breath on the back of my neck.

The moment I’m through the bank entrance, I strike him hard with the door, knocking him in the head and pushing him backward. But this guy is relentless; he rushes forward again as I slam the door shut. His fingers get trapped in the doorjamb, and he lets out a howl that sounds more like a beast than a man.

He bangs his body against the outside of the door. I hold back the onslaught with all the strength I can muster, trying to get traction as my feet slip against the marble floor. He drives into the door again, pushing it inward the slightest bit. With that momentary slack, he wriggles his hand out farther, but I shove the door back hard. Now, only his fingertips poke through.

I reach up to the hinged beam to barricade the door, but it won’t quite slot into place. The fingers wedged in the door make the gap a hair too big.

Drawing from some inner strength, I slam my shoulder against the door hard enough to see spots. I do it again. The third time does the trick. The door slams shut, and the beam falls into place with a large thud. A terrible shriek comes from the other side. Blood trickles from the doorjamb where his fingers were stuck. The smell is horrendous, like something rotting.

I collapse to the floor, safe for the moment. I’m sweat-drenched and gasping for air.

That was too close.

I’ve never been caught that off guard. Never been out in the open like that. It’s been so long since I’ve encountered anyone sick that I’ve gotten complacent.

I quickly scan every inch of my exposed skin to check for any scrapes. As far as I can tell, I’m okay.

Risking a peek out of a porthole cut into the window, I slide the metal shutter aside and strain to see in front of the door. But the moment I look out, I get his attention, and he runs right over. I jump back just in time as he jams his fingers through. Luckily, the portholes are only a couple of inches wide.

I put my rifle up to his hand. But I can’t do it. A gunshot wound is a death sentence. These are people, after all—the few who were strong enough to survive that damn disease. Their humanity is gone, operating on pure instinct in a never-ending search for food and water. They’ll attack anything—human, animal, and even other sick ones. The weak die fast. That leaves the strongest, like the one outside at this very moment. Luckyfrickingme.

Maybe putting the poor soul out of his misery would be more merciful. But what if a person still exists behind all that rage? It shouldn’t be my call to decide if he lives or dies.

The shrieking continues as the man slams his body against the door repeatedly. With each blow, the beam shudders. But the wood is thick. It should hold.

I think it will hold.

It had better hold.