Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Four

Secrets Can Kill

ZACH

The world flies by in a blur as I race down Interstate 90 through the foothills of the Cascade Mountains, weaving the bike around stopped cars and the occasional multivehicle pileup. A glance at the speedometer shows 110 miles per hour. It’s reckless, but I don’t care.

There’s an aching in my chest. None of the heartache I felt with Felix has been anything like this. I love Aiden so fiercely, and I feel betrayed. An actual pain aches right under my skin.

How could Aiden have done that after everything we just went through? He promised me we’d stay together. He didn’t trust me enough to tell me about the vials, make my own decisions, or take my own risks.

This is probably for the best. Aiden will never change. Better to end things now than fall further in love with him and have to dig out of a deeper hole later. He’s doing me a favor.

I only wish I could believe that.

Maybe I should have told him about my uncle and that I didn’t think I was immune. It might have prevented this mess. But I kept quiet. I feared he’d think less of me and might even leave me. Given how he reacted, that’s probably the truth.

But I should have heard him out. I ran off so upset. He was only trying to protect me, as always. Maybe if I turned around now, I could still catch him. Maybe we could work things out.

I slam on the brakes, making black streaks on the pavement, and turn the bike around. On the entire trip back, my mind is a mess. What will I say? What will he say? Can we repair the damage done? But all those thoughts are for naught. When I roll up to the tunnel exit, the scene of all that carnage, my hopes are crushed. The second dirt bike is gone.

And Aiden is gone.

I’m too late. And I have no way of finding him. I’m all alone.

Helplessness spreads over me. How could I have acted so rashly? I was blinded by anger and hurt. With my head hanging low, I speed away. There’s only one thing left to do. I’m heading home. To Vashon Island to track down Mom, Dad, and Felix.

Before the Great Collapse, a ferry ran between Seattle and Vashon. But that’s not an option now for obvious reasons. Instead, I’m headed to the family sailboat, which I can use to sail home. It’s moored in a marina just south of Seattle.

As I race down the interstate on the bike, small towns nestled into the foothills fly by me. I take the occasional peek to either side as I enter the sprawl of the Seattle area. Vines have taken over many structures, and several buildings have burned to the ground, but for the most part, things don’t seem too apocalyptic. Just deserted and run down.

But the farther I go, the more the destruction wrought by the Great Collapse rears its ugly head. A large section of South Seattle, once dominated by shipyards and warehouses, is now below several feet of water and an extension of Elliott Bay.

To the north, the skyline of downtown Seattle is like a scene from a disaster movie. Half the skyscrapers are gone. Collapsed, likely from saltwater entering their foundations. The remaining ones are in ruins, some charred black from fires long ago, all with broken windows and toppled facades.

I shudder at the thought of what I might find at my parent’s house. Suddenly, Aiden’s absence is harder to bear. He was going to help me through this. He’d be here to comfort me and would know what to do if I encountered problems. But what’s done is done. I don’t know where he is, and I’ll likely never find him. I can’t undo that choice now, as much as I’d like to.

I continue heading west, cutting through the southern part of Seattle, changing course several times, navigating water-covered streets, collapsed bridges, and fallen trees. After countless detours and backtracking, I get to the South Seattle Marina. The briny scent of Puget Sound assaults my nose.

But I’m met with a scene of devastation. Where row upon row of boats used to be moored in floating docks lining the shore, now, twisted hunks of metal and fiberglass lie, half submerged in water. Masts, ripped sails, boat hulls, and pieces of dock tangle together, stretching a hundred feet in both directions along the shoreline. The only intact boats sit lopsided in lawns and parking lots, deposited by a storm surge that receded months ago.

The few remaining marina buildings are submerged up to their roofs. The new shoreline is two hundred feet inland from where it once lay.

“Well, crap,” I say to no one. There goes my plan to sail home.

Just to my west, the emerald-green island of Vashon rises from the waters of Puget Sound, dotted with trees. It’s a mere two miles away, across a long channel of icy water. So close, but no way to get there.

I get off the bike and search around, getting a sense of the damage, trying to see if anything resembles a seaworthy vessel. And that’s when I spot it—a large metal structure a few hundred feet down the coastline—a dry dock for boats needing repairs out of the water. My family used one when we damaged the keel of our sailboat.

Before the sea-level rise, the dry dock would have been at the shore, but now several feet of water surround it. And to my delight, a thirty-foot Catalina sailboat is suspended by several large straps attached to large chains.

I wade into waist-deep water to check it out. The water chills me to the core, but I press on. After a quick inspection, the boat seems to be in decent sailing shape. It was about two-thirds of the way through having its underside repainted. But other than that, there aren’t any apparent problems. Protective blue canopies cover the sails and the cockpit, keeping out the harmful effects of salt water and inclement weather. I couldn’t be luckier.

It doesn’t take long to figure out the winching system to lower the sailboat. Fortunately, it’s an all-manual affair. A large handle attaches to multiple gears, which raise and lower the boat.

In a short while, I’ve got the sailboat into the water, the harnesses removed, and the mainsail unfurled. A quick inspection of the rigging all checks out. It looks like a pretty simple boat to sail. Easily handled by one person who knows what they’re doing. It’s been well over a year since I did any sailing, but it should come back to me quickly.

A short while later, I’m in the cockpit, using the power of the wind to head to my home on Vashon Island.

*

AIDEN

The trail has gone steadily downward for miles, with a few exceptions where I had to kick along the ground for a while. But my luck doesn’t last forever. After two hours of coasting, the trail levels out completely. It continues, totally flat, as far as the eye can see. So, I hop off the bike and walk, pushing it by the handlebars, hoping there’s more downhill to come. As best I can tell, I’ve made it about halfway from Snoqualmie Pass to the outskirts of Seattle.

I can’t get my mind off Zach. That look he gave me when I told him we should split up was of someone deeply betrayed. I’ll never unsee that expression.

I’m such an idiot. Every time I get the least bit scared for his safety, I push him away. I should have trusted him. Let him make his own decisions and take his own risks. With all the facts. And my actions always make it worse for both of us—at Elk Springs, the Columbia River, and now the Snoqualmie Tunnel.

I can only imagine how he felt being left alone on the side of the Columbia River, waking up to find me gone. I didn’t even have the courage to tell him myself. He had to read about it in the note I left for him. The thing is, I always intended for us to get back together. Our separations were never supposed to be permanent.

The note. I just remembered.

I gave him instructions for reuniting if we got separated. There’s a chance to find Zach.We’d meet at noon at the Black Sun statue in Volunteer Park every Sunday.

Lightness fills my whole body—assuming he remembers what I wrote on the note. And assuming he forgives me and even wants to find me. Or, if he started showing symptoms and realizes he’s sick. That thought makes me feel sick. It’s a long shot, but at least it’s something. A glance at my watch shows it’s 1:45 p.m., Saturday. I have under twenty-three hours to get there.

I pass by a sign by the side of the trail.

Welcome to North Bend

Easy to Reach… Hard to Leave

I make a sad laugh. That’s some bitter irony. But the good news is, going through a town increases my chances of finding a car. And increases my danger.Gradually, homes and abandoned cars show up along a street running parallel to the trail.

A new model Honda Civic slants haphazardly across the road, with a dead body in the driver’s seat still decomposing. A grizzly metric for sure, but one that gives me hope this car’s battery may be more recently used than many of the others I’ve found.

The keys are in the ignition.

I reach across the dead body and turn the key. The instrument panel lights up, but the lights are dim. Not totally dead, so that’s far better than anything I’ve seen recently.

That’s promising, but I may only get one chance at it. I tug at the passenger. Despite the decomposition, the person in the seat is quite large and hard to budge. I dig deep with all my strength until I drag the body outside the car and onto the ground.

In the driver’s seat, I do my best to ignore the sickeningly sweet scent of decay as I put my hand on the keys.

Come on. Please.

As I turn the key, the engine turns over, sounding weak but close to catching. The next time, I give the slightest bit of gas to the engine. The noise gains in tempo but still won’t quite start.

Deep sigh. Try again.

This time, the engine sounds weaker. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” I slam my hand on the steering wheel. My palm is throbbing and red from the impact. One more try confirms my worry. I’ve depleted the precious bit of juice remaining in the battery.

Back to fucking square one.

I head out on the trail again, leaving the bike behind. At this point, it’s only slowing me down. I don’t find any more working cars, and soon, I leave the town behind and enter a dense forest. A thick grove of evergreens lines the trail on both sides.

Then, a glint of something gets my attention in the distance, deep in the trees, almost impossible to see in the light of day. A house nestled in the forest. But there’s something unique about it—a barely perceptible splash of light. As I cut through the trees, approaching the property, the forest opens up into a large, neglected lawn. Then what attracted my attention becomes clear.

“The lights.” I say out loud to myself, smiling. Sure enough, outdoor sconces line the garage and front door, glowing a subtle shade of amber. Maybe something in there can help me charge the battery of the car I left behind.

Approaching any house has an element of danger. But one that has power is especially likely to be occupied and defended. I carry my rifle at the ready as I walk around, keeping my guard up.

The sprawling house is built in the modern craftsman style, with gabled roofs, wood and stone accents, and a massive attached four-car garage. As I circle it, the mystery of the electricity is answered. A bank of whole-home batteries lines the edge of the garage next to the power meter. The back side of the roof is nothing but solid solar panels.

This house has been creating and using electricity for over a year, as seen on the spinning dial of the meter. The house, deep and remote enough in the woods, hasn’t attracted attention. Or so I hope. I’ll need to keep alert and proceed with caution.

But, if anybody lives here, they haven’t mowed the grass in a long while. It extends halfway up my thigh. Nothing else provides any hint that the place is occupied. The lawn furniture in the back has a thick layer of dirt on it, and the cushions are moldy. I walk up to the back door and try the knob. Locked.

Thinking about Zach picking this lock makes me smile but fills me with melancholy. It wouldn’t take long for him to make short work of it. The thought of him hunched over the lock, a look of concentration on his face, gives me a pang. But he’s not here. So, like a wrecking ball, I kick the door with all my might. It flies open, taking half the frame with it in a flurry of wooden shrapnel.

“Well, that’s another way to do it.” I laugh to myself. Zach would have thought that was funny. I miss his laugh.

I walk through the door, gun in hand, eyes darting back and forth. “Hello? Anybody here?”

I carefully search the house. The air is stale, and dust covers every horizontal surface. All signs indicate the house is empty.

But as I head from the family room to the kitchen, a flash of movement stops me. I square up and cock my gun. “Who’s there!”

Barreling around the corner, someone knocks me to the ground, and my gun clatters to the floor. A man is on top of me in a flash, frantically trying to scratch me with his jagged nails. Purple veins bulge from his neck. Infected. I grab his wrists before he’s able to tear into my flesh.

I’m stronger, but what this guy lacks in strength, he makes up for in intense, manic energy. He’s snarling at me like a wild animal, trying to wrench out of my grip.

He snaps his jaws at my face. I have seconds to act with his mouth inches away, so I butt my head against his as hard as possible. It startles him enough for me to shake him off.

On my hands and knees, I scurry to the rifle on the floor beside us. The moment I snatch it, his hand grabs my ankle. His open jaws reach to bite my Achilles. As his teeth start to clench, I swing the butt of the rifle around and whack him on top of the head, and his body crumples.

I lie on the ground momentarily. Goddamn Infected. Rare enough that they always manage to take me by surprise. Even with my guard up, I barely escaped unscathed.

After a moment to capture my breath and regain my composure, I get up off the floor. Judging by the man’s beard length, I’d guess he only recently got sick. Maybe a month or two ago. He must have been holed up here for a long time, defending this house.

His chest moves, so he’s still alive. I leave him behind and search the rest of the house. I plan to be long gone before this guy wakes up.

As I wander farther, I come upon a grizzly sight, but one I’m familiar with. Several other bodies lie in a heap in the hallway. His family, I can only assume. I avert my eyes, not wanting to see what state they are in. I turn the other way and focus on the task at hand.

I hope something in this house might help jump-start that car. Maybe a jumping kit like the one Jo gave us. The house is so large it takes some time to find the garage. I accidentally stumble into the wine cellar, the study, and finally, the home theater with multiple rows of black leather recliners.

Doesn’t compare to the bank lobby theater. I smile, thinking of Zach and how excited he was to show me a movie. But then the thought of him getting sick enters my mind. Somehow, the images of seeing Marcus dying have morphed with my memories of Zach, and I nearly break down from the thought. After a moment of concerted effort, I collect myself and continue.

I finally find the garage door, open it, and have a reason to smile again. There before me is a navy-blue Audi e-tron electric SUV. The plug sticking out pulses green.

“Holy shit,” I say with a wide grin.

To my left, a row of pegs poke out of the wall. One set of keys hangs from them, with a key fob emblazoned with the Audi logo.

I run to the car with keys in hand.