Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Paths Cross

AIDEN

I’m woken by the sound of chirping birds and the sun streaming through the trees. I push away the moss and leaves that served as my blanket. My nightmares of Marcus are a fading memory. Almost gone.

The slightest movement sends a flash of pain radiating from my ribs. My arms look thrashed, covered with angry red scratches and streaks of dried blood. Stretching my legs is a mixture of pleasure and pain, the muscles sore from last night’s escape. A quick massage loosens them up.

I drink a few gulps of water to wet my parched throat, but it does little for my thirst. With no idea when I’ll find more, I use it sparingly. The granola bar is stale as hell, as are most prepackaged foods these days. All are well past the expiration date. But it’s calories, so that’s all that matters.

Okay. Lost in the forest, with no map and no compass. No use trying to get back to the car. It’s trashed, and I’m sure my pursuers already picked it clean. The best way to get unlost is to go in a straight line. So, I keep the morning sun to my right, which keeps me headed north.

After a while of trudging through the forest, I bump into a river that blocks my path. It’s swift and full of spring runoff. Churning and bubbling rapids cascade over large rocks and fallen trees. I know better than to drink from it. Puking up precious calories because of a stomach bug is a bad idea.

There’s no hope of crossing the river. The strong current would knock me over in a second, so I follow it downstream instead. As I navigate boulders and branches, it’s slow going along the jagged bank.

Frustration builds as I plod along. My legs ache, and my ankles keep rolling on the uneven rocks. I’m about to give up and return to the forest when my persistence pays off. A bridge appears ahead, around a bend in the river.

Whew.

You never know how long it’ll be when you’re lost in the woods. It could be hours or even days. Or never. Finding the bridge is a lifeline to civilization. But just because I’m no longer lost doesn’t mean I want to be found. With civilization comes danger. Ever since the Infected ravaged the world, everyone left wants to take something from you. Take your possessions. Take your freedom. Or take your life.

The road is quiet. No humans or vehicles. Only the chirping of birds and the roar of the river break the silence. The road heads through a dense forest of Ponderosa pines and maples. All roads have been getting worse since the Great Collapse a year ago when most of the world’s power grids and communication networks toppled like dominoes.

But this road is in good shape. Covered with branches and pine needles, it appears rarely traveled on. That’s good news in my book. Less chance of running into people.

I turn right onto the bridge and cross the river going north. At some point, this should get me to Interstate 90, which cuts across Montana. And I-90 leads to Seattle, my ultimate destination.

In a few minutes, I pass a sign.

Elk Springs–5

Never heard of Elk Springs.

Perfect.

Hopefully small enough that militia groups have overlooked it. And hopefully abandoned. It’s best to avoid running into anyone. Maybe I’ll find another car to scavenge. Then hit the road again and try to get this godforsaken box delivered.

*

ZACH

I wake with a start, lying on my bed behind the teller’s desk. Dust motes float through the beams of sunlight streaming through the portholes as the sun rises over the hills around Elk Springs.

Last night, the constant banging went on for over an hour. It was hard to believe, but the four-by-six beam barring the door showed some strain. Slight cracks formed right at the doorjamb. But the force and frequency of the banging slowed until it turned to nothing. When I worked up the courage to peek out of the porthole, the town was empty again.

Somehow, I managed a few hours of sleep last night, but it wasn’t particularly restful, broken up by nightmares of having my door beaten down by that sickened man.

That’s it. I’ve had it.I grab the backpack I keep fully packed with enough food and supplies to last a week in the wilderness, then shut the bank door and head north on the highway. After last night, I’ve got to get out of this town.

A forest of evergreens lines both sides of the road, dense enough that I can’t see more than twenty feet in either direction. Out here in the open, if I run into anyone, I’d be vulnerable, so I clutch my rifle like it’s a lifeline.

This isn’t the only time I’ve tried to leave. But each time I do, it dredges up memories of being lost in the woods when I was seven years old. I wandered in the forest for hours until I collapsed from exhaustion, spending the night shivering next to a tree. I woke the following day, my mouth parched and stomach aching from hunger, sure I was going to die. It was two days before a search and rescue ranger found me. I cried into his chest, never wanting to let go.

From that point forward, I would freak out if I ever got lost in a mall or lost sight of my mom in the grocery store. A therapist taught me to manage my anxiety, but being alone in the woods sends these memories flooding back.

The first time I tried to leave Elk Springs, I didn’t even make it out of town before my anxiety kicked in. A week later, I hiked out far enough to spend the night. The last time, I made it three days out. That’s when I ran into Ezra. He’s an old, grizzled guy holed up in his junkyard. My first contact with another person in months. When I met him, he was in awful shape, on the edge of starvation. I gave him some food, and in return, he gave me the sheet metal and showed me how to use a welding torch to fortify the bank. He brought the supplies in the car that he keeps in running shape.

He’d come by about once a month, and I’d trade him food for sheet metal and other building supplies. He told me if I ever wanted to make a run for it, he’d trade his car for all my supplies. He said he was too old to travel, and the junkyard was all he knew. That was back in November before winter made driving impossible. The last traces of snow melted over a month ago, and I keep expecting him to show up. But so far, no sign of him. So that’s where I’m headed. To take him up on his offer.

I only get a mile before my frazzled nerves from last night get the best of me. I jump at every sound in the forest. There’s no way I can make it any farther. Not today, anyway.

So I turn around and run the whole way back, only stopping when I’m within the town perimeter. I’m such a damn coward, slinking back to the bank with my head hanging low. I let out a deep sigh and stow my backpack, resigned to my fate as Elk Springs’ lone inhabitant.

After another failed attempt at fleeing the town, I’m wrapped in a deep malaise. With nothing else to do in this miserable town, I start my daily routine.

I smooth the cans disturbed last night, check the Wilsons, and head to the vegetable garden. It’s my favorite place in town, and it helps to calm me.

The moment I enter, my tension eases. My mom kept a garden at home, and it reminds me of her. Green shoots poke up from the tilled rows of soil. The damp earth between my fingers feels just right as I take in the moldering smell of compost. Soon, I’ll have fresh tomatoes, carrots, celery, and a handful of other produce. Before the Great Collapse, my parents had to force me to eat vegetables, but after months of canned food, my body demanded something fresh. Now, vegetables from the garden are a special treat.

Snare traps line the garden. Two of them hit their mark, with rabbit carcasses lying motionless, necks trapped. My heart aches for the little critters. Never saw myself as a hunter, but your perspective on things can change once you’re hungry. Speaking of which, rabbit stew sounds good tonight. With the traps reset, I grab the carcasses and head back to Big Sky Bank with my haul.

I set the rabbits on the cold marble of the teller’s desk, then head back to the vault where I keep all my food and supplies. The vault entrance dominates the back wall of the bank lobby. It has a circular door about eight feet in diameter with an old-school manual combination lock in the middle. Luckily, one teller was nice enough to write the combo on a Post-it. Or stupid enough, depending on how you look at it.

As I walk down the vault, I do a quick inventory. There’s a pile of cash left over from when people cared about things like paper money. I use it for kindling. Plus, it’s fun throwing a stack of twenties on the fire sometimes. Like I said, it’s the little things that keep me going.

Looking at my food supplies is always a little depressing. I looted everything from all the nearby homes, so there was a lot at first. But after a year, the supplies are dwindling. I’ve supplemented the food by canning the extra vegetables from last year’s crop and learning to hunt. But the inventory is still trending downward. For now, I have enough that I’m happy to live in denial. But it won’t last forever. Making it through another winter will be pushing it.

My camping supplies, survival gear, and a pile of weapons are at the end of the vault. I keep the weapons sorted by type—rifles, shotguns, pistols, crossbows, compound bows, knives, swords, and machetes. If you can kill with it, I’ve got it. I don’t even like guns, but better to have them locked up than looted by some stranger and used against me.

I grab a buck knife and head back to the lobby to work on the rabbits. I’ve got one rabbit skinned, and I’m starting on the second when a noise from outside makes me jump.

It’s those damn aluminum cans.

*

AIDEN

After a few hours of walking, I come to a faded wooden sign by the side of the road with lettering scrawled across it in peeling paint.

Welcome to Elk Springs, Montana

Sportsman’s Paradise

Population: 597

There’s a homespun drawing of a fly fisherman casting a rod in a stream.

A handful of sad-looking businesses line the road ahead, with a few blocks of modest homes behind them. A smattering of cars lines the streets. Most are burned out or smashed, but a few look mostly intact. There may be hope for me yet.

I’m so focused on the cars that I don’t notice the wide patch of aluminum cans until my feet clatter through them. The noise echoes throughout the quiet little town.

Well, shit. Now somebody knows I’m coming.