Wait.
Did something move in the window?
No. He was imagining things. The hunger was playing tricks on his mind.
But still … he couldn’t afford to be wrong.
He paused to listen. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Squirrels chattered away in the trees above them, and in the distance he could see a thin V in the sky as a flock of Canadian geese chased the sun. The ranch house remained silent in front of them, a sentinel abandoned, just waiting to protect hungry strays. The back door was within their vision, closed and probably locked. They might find a key in the mailbox or hidden under a mat; if not they would break a window.
The yard was unkempt; the grass was growing wild and didn’t look like it had recently been disturbed.
Everything appeared normal.
So why was his body temperature dropping at an alarming rate?
“I got a bad feeling about this,” he said.
“You say that every time.” Billy snorted and spat on a charcoaled evergreen.
“This is different.”
“There’s nothing here. You said so yourself. We’ve been watching the building for hours. I’m hungry, man. There’s food inside that there house. I can smell it. Maybe they’ll have canned ham. I could really go for some of that. Maybe some relish that hasn’t gone bad and some potata chips to go with it.”
Billy, deep into food fantasy, continued to discuss his dreams openly as he passed Michael and moved toward the ranch house.
“Hey!” Michael jogged a few steps to get back in the lead. Keeping his eye on the upstairs window, he led the group up to the backdoor. Nothing moved.
It was easy to exaggerate things when your body was fueled by adrenaline.
Michael and Billy climbed the porch steps while the others waited at the bottom. The mother held her boy in her arms, her fingers tangled in the child’s white-blond hair. Her legs were obviously unstable, and even from a distance Michael could see them shaking under the extra weight. Evans stood close to her side, watching her carefully in case she might stumble.
The porch was empty except for a few folding chairs leaning against the side of the house. Brass window chimes hung from the corner, unmoving and silent. Piles of dead and burned leaves had collected in the corners. Off to the side were an old-fashioned push lawn mower and a slightly rusted barbecue grill. Nothing looked disturbed or out of place. The chimes were covered in cobwebs. No recent footprints in the dust either.
The door was shut, and when Michael tried the handle, it didn’t budge. Locked. A good sign. There was always the chance that survivors might be inside, barricaded and waiting for help. Even better if they had weapons. Finding healthy people en masse would be proof enough that the Baggers hadn’t reached this far north and they could let their guard down, even if only for a little while. It would be nice to sleep without keeping both eyes open.
No key in the mailbox. He ran his fingers along the top edge of the door. Then, bending down, Michael stepped off the welcome mat and turned it over. Nothing but a bit of dirt and a few pebbles.
Billy joined him, turning over the flower pots in the window. Dirt spilled onto the wooden floorboards.
“No key,” Michael said.
“Let’s break a window, then,” Billy said. “No pain, no gain.”
“No noise.”
“Less is best.”
Billy took off his jacket and wrapped it around his arm. Leaning against the door, he pressed hard and quickly, shattering the pane. The sound of glass breaking and hitting the floor caused them all to inhale deeply.
They waited.
The wind shook the dead evergreen branches, and the brass wind chimes crashed together. The icy-cold sensation was back again, and the hair on Michael’s neck pulled away from his scalp.
Picking bits of glass from the frame, Billy cleared enough of a hole to reach his arm through and turn the lock. Metal scraped behind the wood, and the door creaked open a few inches.
“In,” Billy said. “We’ll be eating like royalty soon enough.”
“Quickly,” Michael said. “In and out. We’re too open here.”
“You’re doing that paranoid thing again. You’ve got to chills out, bro. There ain’t no Baggers here. We’re safe.”
They were never safe.
Michael knew this. But a lecture at this point wasn’t going to work when Billy’s mind was set solely on the purpose of fueling his belly.
The back door led into a small mudroom. Jackets for all seasons hung on wooden pegs, and shelves were filled with shoes and boots. One of the coats closest to the door was bright pink with a fake-fur hood. Mittens with strings hung on the peg beside it. On the floor was a school bag, unzipped, loose-leaf pages of children’s handwriting poking through the opening.
Michael immediately glanced back at Evans to try and gauge his reaction. The older man stared at the pink jacket, a stony expression on his face. It would be hardest on Evans; he would never fully know what happened to his family. And there would always be reminders around to guarantee he never stopped thinking about it.
Evans reached out and touched the jacket gently. Michael stopped himself from asking if he was all right. No one else noticed the gesture, and it was too private to bring to everyone’s attention. Michael found the light switch on the wall and flicked it a few times. Nothing happened, but he’d been expecting that. The last of the power went out weeks ago. He did it out of routine, and not because habits were hard to break but because it gave him hope. Maybe one day they’d have the luxury of pressing buttons again and getting everything they wanted. But right now there were more important issues at hand than dreaming—namely Billy, who’d pushed ahead of the group and entered the kitchen without double-checking for danger.
Michael chased after him and into one of the nicest kitchens he’d ever seen. It was enormous, bigger than the whole of the one-bedroom apartment he used to share with his father.
Billy was throwing open cupboards at an alarming speed. So far he’d found nothing but row upon row of dishes, coffee mugs, and Tupperware. The counters were filled with all sorts of fancy appliances. Toaster oven, espresso maker, blender, mixer—everything strategically placed, as if Martha Stewart did the decorating. A gigantic kitchen island had rows of copper pots hanging above it and a large silver fruit basket with moldy apples and pears. The rotten fruit was the only proof that someone had actually once used the kitchen.
“We should check out the rest of the house first,” Evans said. He’d approached Michael and was standing beside him, watching Billy search. One of the other group members opened the stainless-steel fridge, and the smell of sour milk and rotten vegetables wafted through the room. Michael covered his nose. It was enough to make his stomach stop grumbling.
Evans moved across the room to help the mother, still clinging tightly to her son, sit down at the table. Michael went over to the fridge, suppressing the urge to gag from the smell, and sifted through the shelves until he found a small can of fruit cocktail. He pulled a spoon from the drawer and brought it over to the mother.
“Here,” he said as he opened the top, sugar syrup dripping on his fingers. “See if he’ll eat this.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Jackpot!” Billy shouted from across the kitchen. Too loud. What the hell was he thinking? He knew better.
But Billy had found the pantry. All he could think about was the row upon row of groceries facing him. There was so much there. It really was a bonanza. Dozens of cans of food: soups, corn, peas, chili, tuna, salmon, pears and other assorted fruits. There were even some tiny cans of ham, just the thing Billy was dreaming about. Bags of chips and pretzels, boxes of cereal, granola bars, all sorts of things that didn’t go bad—they would have enough food to last them a few weeks once they sorted through everything.
Billy tore open a package of granola bars and threw one at Michael. He fumbled the catch and picked it up from underneath a chair.
“I’m g
onna go take a look around,” he said to no one in particular. “Don’t get too comfortable. We still don’t know if we’re alone.”
The mother looked slightly alarmed at the thought. She perked up in her chair, spilling fruit cocktail all over her child’s shirt.
“I’ll come with you,” Evans said. At least two of them still had their priorities straight. Michael understood that they were hungry and all that food clouded their judgments, but this was exactly the sort of thing the Baggers would expect. However, the group was spread out across the kitchen, many sitting on the floor, stuffing their mouths with anything they could grab. Going on about safety at this point would only make Michael appear whiny. That was one of the downfalls of being young.
Michael and Evans moved through the doors and into the living room. A leather couch, covered in a thin layer of dust, dominated the area. On the wall was a fifty-inch flat screen, complete with a bookcase filled with hundreds of movies, many of which were Disney cartoons. On the floor in front of the entertainment system was a doll, half undressed.
They found suitcases by the front door. Michael lifted one. It was heavy. “Looks like someone left in a hurry,” he said.
“Let’s hope so,” Evans said. They still hadn’t checked out the upstairs.
Back in the kitchen they heard Billy whoop.
“That idiot’s gonna get us killed,” Evans said.
They walked up the stairs together and checked out all the rooms. There were five bedrooms and two bathrooms, all of which were empty, to Michael’s relief.
“Water’s still running here,” Evans said as he came out from one of the bathrooms. “There’s a barbecue out back with some working propane too. I can boil us up some heat. We’re looking at showers tonight as long as we’re quiet.”
“Can’t remember what clean feels like,” Michael replied. When was the last time he showered? He reached up and scratched at his scalp. His long hair was greasy and the ends were beginning to dread.
“I’m looking forward to it. After living with you for three weeks, I can honestly say you need it.”
“This coming from a guy who farts and snores.”
“You’ve got to stop using that hair gel, kid. It’s starting to rot your brain.”
They grinned at each other.
Back in the kitchen, the group was looking slightly bloated from stuffing their faces. Only the mother didn’t seem to have eaten, mostly because her son hadn’t been able to swallow the fruit cocktail.
“Come on,” Evans said to her. “There’s a room upstairs. Let’s get the boy rested for a little bit. I think it’s safe for us to spend the night. But only one. We need to move on by sunrise. The rest of you better not get too comfortable. I’ll be expecting us to work for our dinner. I want lookouts at both doors and even outside.”
Michael nodded. He couldn’t have said it better himself. He helped the mother to her feet. She refused his offer to take the boy but allowed him to lead her upstairs to one of the empty bedrooms.
They were safe. Miracles still did happen.
MASON
In the middle of downtown Calgary, his car finally gave out. There was a loud noise like a gunshot, and he instinctively ducked and hit the brakes at the same time. The steering wheel jerked in his hands as he ground to a halt. The engine sputtered, then stalled completely. The blacked-out traffic light swayed in the wind above his head. The only movement on an otherwise empty street.
Cursing, he pulled the keys from the ignition and flung them against the dashboard. What was left of the city seemed to be taking the destruction and death seriously and barricading themselves in their homes. How many people were still alive? How many of them weren’t insane? Or infected? Or whatever the hell this was? Several weeks later and Mason (and probably everyone else in the world) had no clue what was happening. Communication was still down, anyway. If anyone out there did know what was going on, they couldn’t share.
All he knew was that people were dead. Lots. If the televisions were still broadcasting they would call this an epic pandemic.
He was parked in the middle of the intersection. The traffic lights above his head stayed dark. The city was a graveyard of electric wires and appliances. He’d driven most of the night and hadn’t seen a single light, because most of the rural communities were blacked out too, with the exception of the occasional farmhouse that was probably using a generator. Mason wasn’t about to pop his head in the door to ask. The last thing he wanted or even deserved was company.
He would never feel anything again. Somehow he wasn’t the same Mason he’d once been. His mother died so he could live. As far as Mason was concerned, she’d left him with a curse.
Several buildings off Deerfoot Trail were on fire. He could see the black smoke in his rearview mirror. Half an hour ago, he’d been right in the middle of it, holding his shirt over his nose with the windows rolled up tightly. It was slow moving, too many cars in the street, doors open and abandoned. There were dead bodies alongside the road. Burned. Mouths open in silent agony. The crazy monsters roaming the city must have chased them into the fire. Which was worse? Dying at the hands of insane people or burning alive? He wasn’t sure.
When he’d driven past, he’d kept his eyes focused in front of him, pretending the bodies didn’t exist, trying to convince himself that the smell in the air wasn’t that of roasting flesh.
He decided he’d never drive through smoke again. The next time he found fire, he’d bypass the city entirely. It wasn’t worth the memories. Or the smell. He’d have to ditch his clothing the first chance he got.
You forget the good and remember the bad. His mom used to say that. Bits of her still wormed their way into his memory when he least expected. The smell of her perfume. The way she smiled. He was trying so hard to forget. He’d traveled many miles over the past few weeks, but she continued to give chase. When he fell asleep she was there. When he stopped to take a break or let down his guard she was the only thing he thought of. Eyes closed, hooked up to machines, taking her last breath before giving up the fight. She never even got to say good-bye.
No. He wasn’t going to remember this.
Leaving the keys in the ignition, he climbed out cautiously and wandered around to the front of the car to take a look.
Both front tires were blown.
Glancing back at the road behind him, he could see bits of glass reflecting the morning sun. How on earth had he missed that? Cursing again, he slammed his fist down on the hood.
Now he’d have to find another car. That shouldn’t be too hard. There were probably a dozen dealerships within walking distance. He could have the pick of the lot. No Hummer or Porsche was beyond his reach. But he’d never cared about flashy cars in the past. He didn’t know the difference between six cylinders and sixty, so now wasn’t really any different. Besides, a fancy car would burn gas faster, and that meant stopping more. He didn’t trust the gas stations. They were out in the open, and who knew what might be lurking around. No, the only car he wanted was one that worked—tires and all.
It wasn’t safe being in the middle of the intersection.
How long till he was discovered?
“Need some help?”
Mason turned quickly, hands up in defense, but one look at the man behind him and he instantly relaxed. The guy had to be at least seventy. His white hair was neatly combed and slicked back. He was wearing one of those suits that hadn’t been in style since the fifties, along with a tie and a red polka-dot handkerchief in the pocket. And he was missing a leg. Under his arms, his weight rested on a pair of crutches.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” the old man said. “But I don’t think there’s any non-terrifying way to greet someone these days.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Mason said.
“I’m sure you can deduce I’m harmless,” the man said, tapping his crutches on the ground to prove it. “I’m hoping the same of you. Never heard one of ’em making a fuss over such a little thing before. Not w
hen there are thousands of available cars sitting about. So I think that makes you pretty human.”
“I’m normal,” Mason said. He wanted to do something too, so he turned around in a slow circle to show there was nothing behind his back or up his sleeves.
“Normal, huh?” The man laughed. “Is there such a thing as normal anymore?”
“Probably not.”
The old man twisted around on his crutches and scanned the road. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not overly fond of staying in the open for too long. I live just down the street. Why don’t you come back to my place and I’ll fix us up some tea and breakfast while we try and figure out how to get you on the road again. What do you say?”
Mason glanced back at the blown tires attached to the car he’d found just outside of Drumheller. His own car was abandoned at the side of the road outside of Rosetown. He’d had a terrible time leaving it behind. It seemed silly now, loving a car. It was just a piece of metal with some fancy bits that moved when he used a key. He couldn’t remember why he’d been so attached to it. That seemed like a million dreams ago. Reaching through the window, he grabbed the bag he’d packed the morning he’d burned down his house. From the sun visor he grabbed the picture he’d carried in his pocket. Mom and Mason—enjoying the sun. Happy, cheerful Mason—when did he grow up?
“Let’s go,” he said.