Him & I

IT ONLY TOOK FOUR YEARSfor the world to fall apart. Now the last member of my family has died, and I'm forced to travel across what's left of three states to find the only people I know left alive. To survive, I'll have to salvage food and supplies and try to avoid violent men who've learned they can take what they want by force. The only way I'm going to make it is by trusting Travis. Travis used to fix my car, and now he's all I have left in the world. He's gruff and stoic and unfriendly, and I don't really know or like him. But he's all I have left. He'll keep me safe. We'll take care of each other. Until we reach what's left of our town and can finally let go of one another. Chapter-1 I RECOGNIZE THE MANimmediately. I don’t remember his name, but he used to fix my car. He was our local mechanic, and when I was sixteen I took my car to his garage for repairs and maintenance. He always smelled like oil and cigarettes, and he invariably needed to shave. He never smiled at me, but he was patient as he explained the work that needed doing, and my grandfather swore he was honest and would never cheat us. But right now he’s standing over the motorcycle I just found—one that miraculously still has gas. He’s got a shotgun in one hand, and he’s rifling through my bag with the other. I stumbled across this abandoned gas station an hour ago. All the gasoline, food, and most of the supplies were scavenged long ago, but in the mess I found two intact packs of wet wipes and a large bottle of water that had rolled under an overturned shelf. Out back, behind the smashed gas pumps and the old building, I hit pay dirt. An inexpensive motorcycle just on the edge of the woods behind the station. I pulled off the weeds that had grown up over it, hauled it upright, and held my breath as I fiddled with the wiring. (Everyone who’s survived this long knows how to hot-wire a vehicle, just like we all know how to load and fire a gun.) I almost laughed when the engine turned over. It’s been more than a year since I’ve gotten my hands on a working vehicle. I left my bag on the seat and took three steps into the woods so I could pee behind a tree. In spite of everything, a semblance of privacy is a habit I still can’t kick. It’s a mistake. There was no one around when I pulled down my pants and squatted, but there is now as I straighten, yank up my jeans, and turn around. A man. Laying claim to my stuff. I pull out the pistol I keep in a holster on my right hip, and I level it at him as I step out from behind a tree. I surprise him. That’s something. He jerks visibly at my appearance and starts to raise his shotgun. “Don’t.” I’ve walked to the opposite side of the motorcycle from him. “Back up.” His expression changes as his eyes rest on my face. He’s on guard. That much is clear. His body is tense, and his hand is in a ready position on the gun. He hasn’t raised it yet, however. He’s holding in his other hand a book he took from my bag. “Back up,” I say again, making my voice as hard as I can. I’m not nearly as intimidating as I’d like to be. My face looks young, and my body is small. My hair is long, brown, and braided, and my eyes are brown too. I have a dimple in my chin, which is about as unintimidating as you can get. But my gun is loaded, and I know how to use it. I hope he can see that. He takes a step back, and the hand holding the book goes up in a gesture of surrender. “Didn’t know you was here,” he says, his voice soft and gravelly and twanging with a mountain accent in the way I remember from four years ago in his garage. “Just saw the bike and thought I’d take a look. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” “You sure as hell aren’t going to hurt me. Back the f**k up.” I’m poised over the motorcycle now, and I brace my free hand on the seat. He’s got to be over thirty—based on his appearance and what I know of his history—and he’s not a particularly handsome man. His features are strong and rough, and his light brown hair is unkempt. His face is dirty and so are his jeans and the shirt he’s wearing—a gray T-shirt with the sleeves torn off. But he’s got a lean, straight body with broad shoulders and good definition in his arms—the kind that comes from use rather than weight lifting. He takes another step backward, and he speaks the way he might to a spooked animal. “You know me. I’m Travis Farrell. I’m from Meadows too. I fixed your car. I’m not lookin’ to steal from you or hurt you. I was passing through.” Travis. That’s his name. I want to believe him about everything else. I’d love to believe him. My grandpa always said he was an honest man. But the world I knew four years ago has cracked at its core, and even men who once seemed decent can’t be trusted anymore. I don’t say anything, and I don’t lower my pistol. “You’re Layne, right? Layne Patterson?” Travis’s eyes look dark gray in the dim sunlight and across the distance between us. They search my face and then take a quick detour down my body. They don’t linger on my chest even though my plaid overshirt is hanging open and my faded tank top is plastered to my breasts from perspiration. And they don’t rest too long on my lower body even though my old jeans are worn paper thin and riding very low on my hips. His gaze returns to my face and stays there. It’s something, but it’s not enough for me to lower my guard. I don’t respond to his question, but he must take my silence for an affirmation. He continues, “You had the blue Focus with the ornery transmission. I’m Travis. You remember me?” My head inclines slightly. His expression relaxes even more. “You wanna lower the gun?” “No.” “Okay. I’m gonna put mine down. Nice and slow.” He bends over as he speaks and sets his shotgun on the gravel with intentional care. I feel better when he straightens up, but I’m not stupid enough to believe this man is now safe. He’s got a hunting rifle strapped to his back and a knife twice the size of mine sheathed on his belt. He doesn’t smell like oil and cigarettes anymore. He smells like dirt and sweat. So do I. It’s not something that bothers me now. “You on your own?” I don’t answer. “You headin’ to Fort Knox?” I don’t think I nodded, but he acts like I did. “Me too,” he says. “You can stick with me if you want.” My shoulders stiffen. “I’m not looking for company.” His eyes widen slightly. “Not like that. I wouldn’t expect nothin’. Pretty little thing like you—you’re not safe on your own.” He’s right. I know he’s right. But everyone I’ve ever trusted is dead or long gone. “How do I know I’d be safe with you?” “I knew your grandparents. Your grandma taught me in Sunday school. I stuck with the town till the end. Wasn’t militia. Didn’t join a drove. You remember me there after we blew the bridge? I was with the hunters.” I do remember him from a year or so ago when what was left of Meadows was hunkered down behind a guarded perimeter. I have images of him returning with deer or wild turkey more than once, even after the animals in the woods became scarce, sharing what he’d killed with everyone else, supplementing our rations. He must see something on my face. His jaw softens. “I’m a decent guy, Layne. I’m not gonna hurt you or ask for anythin’ you don’t wanna give.” I want to trust him so much that my hand trembles. It takes a conscious effort to hold the gun still. “Why didn’t you leave town with everyone else?” His face twists so briefly I almost miss it. “I had a sick little girl. Wasn’t even five. Couldn’t leave her.” I hear the loss in his voice—faint, aching, matching the weight in my chest. Everyone who’s still alive has lost someone. A lot of us have lost everyone. “What about you?” he asks. “You stuck around for someone?” “My grandma.” “Her lungs?” I nod. The ash in the atmosphere for the past few years—only now starting to clear from the air—has killed as many people and animals as the droves, tsunamis, earthquakes, and hurricanes. The ash just kills them slower. “My little Grace too. She died a couple of weeks ago. I’m headed to Fort Knox now, so you can come with me if you want.” I’m tempted. This isn’t a nice man or a friendly one, but he’s strong and well armed and knows how to hunt. He also comes across as decent, just like he says. My instincts are better now than they used to be when I was a sixteen-year-old girl living a comfortable life. My parents died in a car accident when I was twelve, and that was the hardest thing that ever happened to me. I had to leave Charlotte and move to Meadows, a small mountain town in southwest Virginia. My grandparents were loving and well-off, and they did everything they could for me. Despite my grief, I made good grades in school. I had a lot of friends. I was getting interested in boys. I didn’t feel like I fully belonged in Meadows, but I was basically happy there. Like all the other girls I knew, I approached strange men with reasonable precautions but still assumed that most of them would act civilized. That was before. Afterward, in the first year when we still had cable and internet, I’d watch the news reports from the big cities, which one by one fell into violence and chaos, and I’d rock back and forth in nauseated shock at hearing about what men were doing to women and children. I stupidly thought my little town—far away from the main population centers and most of the violence, protected by mountains and a river and guarded by men who’d been taught to hunt and shoot from birth—would keep me safe. My instincts are better now. They have to be, living in this world. I know not all men act like animals. I had a father who loved me. I had a boyfriend at seventeen who was sweet and gentle as we made out, as we kissed and touched each other, as he hesitantly slipped his hands under my shirt in the back of an abandoned Oldsmobile. I had a grandfather who gave his life trying to protect those under his care. I know some men are still good, but all the ones I knew are dead now. And now that there are no consequences to men taking whatever they want, there are just as many bad ones as good ones, and some of the bad ones talk a good game. I’m not going to risk it. Not even for the protection a traveling companion like Travis would give me. “What d’you say, Layne? Put down the gun. We can go to Fort Knox together.” I swallow and shake my head so hard the two long braids that hang down my back bounce slightly. “No. I’ll stay on my own.” He lets out a breath, but that’s his only reaction. “Okay. Be careful.” “I’m always careful. Now come forward slowly and put that book back in my bag.” He glances down at the book he’s still holding like he’s forgotten about it. “Poems?” Maybe it’s foolish to take a book with me when every inch of my pack needs to hold necessities, but I couldn’t leave it behind. It’s a slim paperback volume called Best-Loved Poems, and I read it over and over to my grandmother as she died. “Yes. Return it and then back all the way up to the building.” “Okay.” He takes a few steps forward and drops the book into my opened bag, and then he starts moving back again. “You’re makin’ a mistake, girl. You’re not gonna last out there.” “We’ll see.” I notice him glance down at his shotgun still lying on the gravel, which is spread thinly over hard dirt. I momentarily think about taking it. Weapons are nearly as valuable as food or working vehicles. But I decide against it. Like everyone else, I stick to the rule that anything I find that isn’t already claimed by someone else is fair game to be salvaged. I’ll take it without a qualm. But that shotgun is Travis’s, and he’s standing right there. Besides, it’s really big, and I’m not entirely confident I’m capable of using it. I glance back up at him and see he’s eyeing me. He knows exactly what I’m thinking as I look at his gun. “I’ll leave that for you,” I tell him. “But don’t come get it until I’m gone.” “Deal.” “All the way back to the building.” He does as I say, no longer trying to change my mind. As soon as he’s far enough away, I pick up my bag, swing my leg over the seat of the motorcycle, and holster my gun. I rev the engine. It’s still running just fine. Some of the dirt and gravel flies up in a cloud of dust as I take off toward the road, leaving Travis and his shotgun and the last remnant of my town behind. *** image IT ONLY TOOK FOUR YEARSfor the whole world to fall apart. I was sixteen when an asteroid slammed into Germany, the shock waves and blast debris decimating most of Western Europe. Astronomers saw it coming, but it wasn’t supposed to hit us. They talked about it, imagined scenarios of what would happen if it did. But it was all theoretical, and no one paid much attention. Because it was supposed to pass us by, close but not close enough. But scientists—everyone—learned a hard lesson about the universe’s unpredictability. The trajectory of the asteroid changed course just slightly. They realized it a couple of months before impact, but there was absolutely nothing we could do to stop a chunk of rock so large and moving so fast from doing exactly what it wanted. It hit. The asteroid wasn’t big enough for an extinction-level event. That’s what all the scientists said. But it was worse than anyone could imagine. The mass exodus from Europe in the two months before it hit disrupted the worldwide economy and stability as every developed country took in as many immigrants as they possibly could. The dust and debris that was thrown up from the impact caused global temperatures to cool and a haze to block much of the sunlight for almost a year. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, the planet tried to fight back against the assault, throwing up devastating tsunamis, hurricanes, and earthquakes on every continent. In the US, we didn’t feel the immediate impact, but we sure as hell felt the aftermath. People fled from the coasts, moving in waves toward the middle of the country to escape the battering of one hurricane after another on the East Coast and the constant earthquakes on the West Coast. Then the supervolcano under Yellowstone started to rumble. There was never a major eruption, but for two years it spit out cloud after cloud of ash. The vast stretches of farmland in the middle of North America that might have barely survived the cooling temperatures and haze of dust were finished off by the ash. There went our food. Power, communication, and government went next. People died. And kept dying. In the last radio transmission I heard, they were estimating that the world population had been reduced by half. I’m sure it’s been reduced a lot more by now. Some people hid themselves away in bunkers, hoarding as much food and supplies as they could. Some people gave up completely. Some people joined up with others in roving mobs that became known as droves. Sometimes a thousand strong, they move over what’s left of our roadways with trucks and tanks and take everything they want, killing anyone who gets in their way. My little town had a population of three thousand when I was sixteen. By the time I turned seventeen, we were down to fifteen hundred because so many had moved away in fear of being too close to the coast or had joined survivalist and militia groups. The people in Meadows who were left did everything they could. In the second year, when reports of droves laying waste to every community they encountered started becoming more common, the town leaders blew up the bridge over the river that was the main route into Meadows. The two other ways into town were winding mountain roads that were easily defended. Most of the men in town and a good number of the women knew how to hunt, fish, and shoot. We partnered with some of the neighboring towns to maintain and guard the power plant, so we had electricity for months after most of the rest of the country went dark. Food was shared and rationed. Everyone tried to do their part. It still wasn’t enough. A month ago, with animal populations decimated in the woods from changes to the environment and the river emptying of fish, most of the four hundred survivors in Meadows packed up and left for Fort Knox after hearing rumors that the Army base in Kentucky is guarded by what’s left of the military and is accepting refugees. The same was said about Fort Bragg down in South Carolina, but people were worried it was too close to the coast, so they chose to go to Fort Knox instead. The only ones who didn’t go were the people unwilling to leave loved ones who were too sick to travel. That was me. I lost my grandfather when the power plant fell, and I wasn’t going to leave my grandmother. She begged me to go, but I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Even though I knew the risks, I stayed with a couple dozen others, and we eked out a barren existence for a few weeks. My grandmother died two days ago, which is why I’m on my way to Fort Knox. Maybe I can find the rest of my town. There’s nowhere else I can go. *** image THE GAS IN MY MOTORCYCLEtakes me almost fifty miles. I stick to small country roads where there’s less chance of running into other people since people invariably mean danger. I do pretty well and only encounter a few small groups hiking on the side of the road. When I see my gas starting to get low, I pull over and look at the pages of the road map I tore out of an old atlas back home. I have more than three hundred miles left to go. I need to get more gas, and the only way to do that anymore is to find an abandoned vehicle with fuel that hasn’t been already siphoned. It’s not an easy prospect. It usually involves finding an abandoned town and searching empty houses until you find a vehicle with gas in the tank. So I’m surprised and suspicious when I see an intact pickup truck with a camper shell on the side of the road a few miles later. Abandoned cars get stripped within an hour, so this one must have just stopped. I slow down and don’t see anyone sitting in the truck. It probably ran out of gas. That’s usually why vehicles are left on the side of the road. But it’s also possible that it had mechanical problems and there’s still gas in that tank. I have to check. No matter how unlikely, any chance of finding gas is too important to pass up. After pulling my motorcycle off the road in front of the car, I get off and walk to the driver’s side door. I gasp and jump back when I realize there’s a man across the bench seat. He’s slumped over, which is why I couldn’t see him from the road. His shirt is soaked in blood. My first instinct is to back off quickly. This man clearly met a violent end—something I want to stay as far away from as possible. But this car might be working, and it might have gas. There could be supplies in the back. I’d be a fool to not check it out just because of some blood and a dead body. So I steel my nerve and approach again. I open the door and push the man’s limp body back from the steering wheel so I can reach the ignition. The body is still warm. And not as limp as I expected. Then it groans. I jerk back as the man opens his eyes. His gaze meets mine, and his mouth opens. He’s trying to say something, but it comes out as a wordless rasp. I check his shirt for the source of the blood and see an ugly wound in his abdomen. It looks like a gunshot. In the days of EMTs and working hospitals, it might have been a survivable wound, but there’s no way he’s going to make it today. He’s on his last breaths as it is. I feel kind of sick, but not sad. The death of a stranger can’t touch me anymore. And if this truck has gas, I need it. No matter how much I’ve changed in the past four years, I don’t have it in me to drag his body out of the vehicle. Not while he’s still alive. “I’m sorry,” I say at last. “I wish I could help, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do for you.” “F-Fort Knox.” His soft moans have finally formed complete words. “What about Fort Knox?” “Take... take this... Marshall. Watch for... wolf.” His right hand fumbles in his pocket until he’s pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. I don’t want to get involved in whatever he’s trying to tell me. It probably got this man killed. Noble impulses are dangerous. If anything has been proven true since the asteroid hit, that has. Surviving is the most we can hope for anymore. But this man is trying with the last of his strength to hand the paper to me, so I take it. There’s blood smeared on part of it, and I try to wipe it off with my fingers. Eventually the writing on the page is legible. It looks like some kind of brief note with a drawing beneath it. “What about Fort Knox?” I ask, looking back up at the man. The question is futile. He’s dead now. I can see it clearly even before I check his pulse. It’s almost a relief. I’ve seen far too many people die in my life, but I’m still not comfortable with watching someone suffer. Now that he’s dead, I can take the truck without feeling guilty about it. I reach across to try the ignition. It sputters but doesn’t start. Out of gas. I mutter a few curses and walk around to pop the hatch on the camper shell. At least I have some luck there. A few cans—peaches, beans, and corn—and a few boxes of mac and cheese. Also quite a few bottles of water. I haven’t eaten since yesterday, so I grab one can, open it with my knife, and then eat the peaches with my fingers, standing on the side of the road. I put all the food and as many bottles of water as I can carry into my pack and walk around to check the back seat to make sure there’re no other supplies I can use in the truck. Nothing. If I’ve been estimating the passing days correctly, it should be August now. The temperature isn’t nearly as hot as summers I remember from my childhood, but the air is thick and dirty, and the damage to the ozone layer has made the sun’s rays far more destructive than they used to be. I’m sweating so much it’s dripping into my eyes, and it’s dangerous to be lingering here on the side of the road. I’m about to walk back to the motorcycle—my one and only priority right now is finding gas so I can keep going—but I’m drawn back toward the bloodied letter I’m holding in my hand. I should just drop it and move on. That’s what a real survivor would do. Curiosity is like sympathy. It will kill you in the end. I read the letter anyway. Fort Bragg fallen. Drove (3000) on way to Fort Knox. Evacuate. Look for sign of wolf. Beneath the words is a stylized drawing of a wolf. I stare down at the piece of paper, anxiety roiling in my gut. I don’t understand the wolf reference, but the rest of the note is perfectly clear. Fort Knox is in danger of being overrun by a three-thousand-member drove. If that happens, everyone still in the world who matters to me will be killed or taken. The dead man was sent to give the warning, and now it would never get there. I can try to deliver it myself, but it’s a long shot I’ll survive all the way to Fort Knox. My stomach churns again. I ate those peaches too fast. “Shit.” My exclamation is too loud, echoing out over the pasture of dead grass to my right and the half-denuded woodlands to my left. If Travis were here, he could help me get to Fort Knox alive and deliver this message. That’s my first thought. I haven’t yet summoned the will to get moving when I hear an engine down the road. It’s getting louder, which means it’s approaching me. I freeze. I should move into the woods and hide there. A car means a person, and a person means danger. But I’ve seen no other vehicle on the road all day. And a little nagging voice in my head keeps reminding me that Travis is heading to the same place I am. He might even take the same route. Maybe he found a car. Maybe he’ll stop and ask again if I want to join him. I might give him a different answer this time. I haven’t yet made up my mind when I see an old pickup approach, and I realize too late that it’s not Travis. The vehicle is weaving strangely as it gets closer. There are four people inside, and they holler at me out the open windows as they pull to a stop beside me. I’m only slightly relieved when I see one of the four is a woman. That’s not a sign that these men are safe. I’ve got my pistol leveled. “Hey, li’l lady,” one of them slurs, leaning out the back window. “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ out here by ’erself?” The others laugh uproariously. I stare at the broad, unshaven face and realize what’s going on here. They’re drunk. All of them. “Whoa!” the driver says, grinning at me out the window. “Put the gun down, honey. We’re all nice guys here. Found this truck. Keys and everything. Found a fridge full of beer and all kinds of food. Just taking a little joyride. You can come with us if you want.” “No, thank you.” I’m pointing my gun at the driver now. “Shouldn’t be out here on your own,” the first speaker says. “We got room for you in here.” “No. Thank you.” I’m breathing easier now. These aren’t the kind of nasty men I fear the most. They’re not the kind that join the droves and muscle their way through the world, r****g and pillaging and killing at will. I can see it on their faces. But they’re drunk. And drunk men, particularly in groups, will do things sober men wouldn’t. I don’t lower my gun even though my arm is shaking with exhaustion. I’m about to tell them to keep driving when I hear another car approaching. My heart sinks. I can’t control men in two cars the way I can one. I might be in trouble here. Real trouble. The other vehicle is on us before I can figure out what to do. It’s an older-model Jeep Wrangler. I stare blankly as it pulls to a stop and a man steps.