Annihilation (The Seamus Chronicles Book 1) (11 page)

“Woohoo, they got girls for us!” shouts the man on my left. He’s not a farmer or a laborer of any kind. “Hillbilly” is the only description that comes to mind.

The one on the right must be the brains of the operation. He is standing a little more upright and appears to have one tooth more than his friend.

“Where you all goin’ in such a hurry?” The leader is speaking to me like I am somehow in charge. “We don’t take kindly to people driving on our highway without permission.” He gets it out just before a small coughing fit.

“We were headed to California.” I want to add “before you two idiots almost killed us,” but I hold my tongue. He has the “killer cold” and will be dead within 36 hours, but that shotgun of his can wreak havoc on us before he goes.

“Well, I guess some of you ain’t gonna make it,” he says with a demented chuckle. “The ladies can come over here with us,” is coughed out while he raises the shotgun to his shoulder and aims carefully at my head. His partner is equally trained on Liam.

I never thought about whether you would hear the gun that shot you. I guess you do, though, because I clearly heard the two shots ring out. They were separate and distinct. Perhaps my shooter had a coughing fit that delayed him. Or his friend didn’t know they were killing us and needed a second to catch up.

The pain hasn’t set in yet, but somehow the hillbillies are slumping to the ground and I am still standing. There is complete silence. The girls aren’t screaming; there are no orders coming from anywhere. We are just standing in the middle of the road, frozen in total shock. The bodies of our would-be killers are a pathetic lump of dirty clothes and stink.

In my head, I can remember the mist of blood that filled the air but I don’t remember actually seeing their heads explode. I once read about the physics involved with a head exploding due to a gunshot, but I can’t think of the formulas for describing the event I just witnessed. There is no question the men are dead and their bodies do not need to be inspected. There is no action for us to take. We stand like statues.

“Everyone okay?” the voice from behind us is Dad’s.

We’ve been walking for about an hour and the sun is climbing higher in the sky. Before we rolled out this morning, I estimated about twenty miles of visibility from the top of the tractor-trailer truck we spent the restless night on. In those twenty miles there was nothing, just vast emptiness.

In addition to the scenic expanse, there was a completely gruesome sight. In the center median was a pile. At first glance, it looked like a pile of old clothes. I thought maybe someone had the idea to burn clothes of infected people to stop the spread of the virus. Unfortunately, the pile was made up of corpses. Virtually all of them were in uniform. Dad guessed it was National Guard. The sickening logistics of it all came to me while I stared. The pile was directly opposite one of the bulldozers. They must have backed trucks into the box, unloaded the bodies and then bulldozed them to the median. Then the truck got added to the roadblock.

As Grace and Liam assembled breakfast, Dad and I inspected every vehicle in the roadblock. All of them had their batteries removed. The missing batteries were nowhere to be found. It seems like a very intelligent way to disable a car without causing permanent damage. In the last truck on the western side of the roadblock, we found some of our answers. A uniformed man with the clusters of a major sat in the cab of the truck with a laptop on the seat next to him. It had gone into sleep mode and still had 25 percent battery power. Knowing the military was here makes more sense than thinking those disgusting men put this together.

On the computer desktop was an .avi file. Dad told me to play it and I was expecting him to ask me to step away, but he didn’t. The major’s face filled the screen, and it was clear he was near death. Very little color in his face and a constant cough made the “killer cold” easy to diagnose.

The uniformed bodies were not from the National Guard; they were regular army, part of a medical detachment. The major noted with regret that they had started a massive fire just east of the Mississippi river in the hopes that they could destroy the contagion and protect the western half of the continent. After setting the fire, there had been some traffic on the freeway, so he and his team had decided to set up the roadblock to inspect people before letting them through. Sick people were turned away; some were denied passage with force. No healthy people had approached the roadblock.

His final comment was appropriately eerie. “I have not heard from central command in over a week. The few remaining members of my team have been sent west to rally in San Francisco. God help anyone who survives this.”

While we walk, my thoughts take me back to those men that Dad murdered. I know it’s not a fair assessment of his actions, but it is the term that keeps coming back to me. Yes, they had guns trained on his children. Yes, they were trying to take his daughter. Yes, they looked and sounded like they were under the influence of something. But where was the diplomacy? Where was the conversation? Is he just going to kill everyone we have a conflict with from now on?

My expectations of him are so high. It seems perfectly plausible to me that my Dad would have survived a 70 mile-per-hour head-on collision, silently exited the car and surveyed the area, then, upon seeing his children under the barrel of a gun, made his way around the assailants and disarmed them without a shot being fired. Once disarmed, he would have had a conversation with them about their actions, they would have apologized, and we would have two more people in our motley crew.

Perhaps my brain is more damaged than I realized.

I know that the average walking speed for a human is three miles per hour. If there is nothing for twenty miles, and we can maintain the average speed, we have a minimum of six hours of walking today, though we are likely in for a bigger chunk of the day than that. We are all sore from the crash, and between the fear that others would show up and the discomfort of sleeping outdoors on top of a tractor-trailer truck, it will be hard to average three miles per hour.

I find it odd that a medical team from the Army would carry the stop sticks that were laid across the highway, but again, I don’t know much about military tactics. Perhaps the sticks were improvised and came from a police vehicle. But there was no police vehicle on-site and no indication of other law enforcement resources. So how did they get there?

It is frighteningly possible that the next town we come to will have people in it. Maybe the local law enforcement or even a militia group thought that they could quarantine themselves. They might have added the stop sticks for good measure and retreated to their town. Any guards for a quarantined town likely have orders to shoot to kill. That means we would get the same amount of conversation Dad gave to the two men back there: none. We had better stay alert.

“You guys better get used to walking,” Dad says out of the blue. “I’m not sure how long it’ll be before we get back to civilization.”

“Can’t we ride a bike?” Liam asks.

“Sure Liam, you can ride a bike,” Dad says curtly.

I’m not sure why Dad’s mad at Liam. He has a really good point. Bikes are a great form of transportation. They go faster and require less energy than walking.

“Um, Dad? Liam’s got a really good point.” I’m sticking up for my brother in what is effectively a useless argument. There are no bikes around.

“Of course, he does Seamus. Why don’t you hop on the next bike you see and ride off?” comes frustrated reply.

Liam is referencing the future and thinking about who knows what. Dad is thinking about the present but referencing the future. They are having two different conversations.

It’s clear that Dad is on edge. I wonder if he is worried that there are guard posts with shoot-on-sight orders. Perhaps his tactical brain has come up with other, more likely scenarios that will result in our capture or death. Maybe he is injured more than any of us and is trying not to show it. Or maybe killing those two men last night is eating him up inside. I wish he would talk to us.

But this is how Dad works. He never brings things up himself. He always waits for us to bring it up. I wonder why he does this. Is it some sort of parenting trick? Like if he waits for us to bring something up, that’s how he knows we are ready to discuss it and will listen to what he has to say? I guess you develop this approach through experience, but I really wish he would initiate a conversation for once.

Maybe thinking about stuff like this means I’m growing up. If I’m growing up, I guess I have to start some conversations, too. If I sincerely believe that we would all benefit from talking about last night, I had better start talking.

“Dad, are those the first people you’ve killed?” That didn’t come out right.

Dead stop. Dad is staring at me in puzzlement. “Seriously, Seamus?”

“That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to.” I’m defensive, apologetic and a little scared.

“You’ve known me your whole life. Have I ever acted like someone who was comfortable with killing?” He’s more disappointed than angry.

“Can we walk while we talk?” Sofie is unsure of how much she can push, but she’s right, we need to keep moving.

“Do you somehow think that I enjoyed doing that last night? Do you think that I wanted to kill those men?” Dad is walking slightly ahead of the rest of us.

“No,” we all murmur. But it seemed so easy from where we were standing. Everything seemed to happen so fast that there couldn’t have been much deliberation or thought.

“Look, those men were both coughing. We all know that they would have died in the next day or two anyway. Why should I have let them put us all in danger of dying just so they could do drugs for another night?” Dad has a pretty clear justification for his actions.

“We know you’re right,” Grace chimes in. “It’s just weird. Two weeks ago we got upset when someone posted a mean comment online. Now we can kill someone for threatening us?”

“How did we get here!?” Sofie is looking at the sky and screaming. “This is insane. I want to wake up from this nightmare. I want it all to be over.”

“I want it to be over too Sofie. The truth is, I feel terrible. I know it was warranted. I know those men would have died soon anyway. But who gave me the right, the power to make the decision I made?” His voice is hoarse and deeply emotional. “I don’t know how we got here or the best way for us to move on. I just know that we have to keep moving. We have to get to California. I hope none of us has to make another life-or-death decision. If that time does come again, I hope whoever it is has the strength to do the right thing for our family. Even if it will eat you up inside for the rest of your life.”

We have each been given a license to kill. Family-first is the deciding factor in all future conflicts. It is unsettling, but not as much as the thought that it is necessary and likely to be in play more than once in the coming years.

After some more walking in silence, we come to a road sign. Cheyenne, Wyoming, is twelve miles away. The next exit is four miles. At this point we have been on the move for almost six hours. Two more hours, and we will be able to sit down and eat, get a drink and rest.

“When we get to California, I think I’m going to head out on my own.” Sofie is sharing her inner monologue. “I’d like to find a cottage on the beach where I can garden, and surf cast and live out my days reading classic novels.”

“That sounds really beautiful. Can I come visit?” Grace is happy to venture off into fantasyland.

“It does sound nice, but that might not be the safest approach to surviving the near future.” Dad wants us to make it through today.

“I know, but I don’t think I’m cut out for rebuilding humanity or whatever the big picture is after we settle down.” She seems comfortable with her decision and is not sharing so that we can change her mind.

“Well, after the mess we’ve made of this cross-country trip, I don’t think any of us would have been nominated to rebuild humanity.” Liam is dead serious, but his comment is hysterical.

After a good laugh that relaxes us all, Dad has the final word on the topic. “No one will force you to do anything, Sofie. I hope that for all of our sakes you will at least give us some time in California to figure out what the future might hold.”

After ten hours of walking, it is quite possible that we are having hallucinations. On the rickety old swing set behind the truck stop, there is a little kid swinging, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He is not alarmed by our presence and, in fact, doesn’t even seem to notice us.

Sadly, Dad has gripped his gun and made sure that there is a round in the chamber. Surely he can’t see this little person as a threat. Grace isn’t even aware of Dad’s actions; she wants to go help the child.

“Grace” is all Dad says to stop her. He then leads us over behind a storage container and puts his backpack down.

This is ridiculous. I’m about to speak my mind when Dad puts a finger to his lips.

“If this is a trap, I want you all to run. Sofie and Seamus, pair up and stay together; Grace and Liam, pair up and stay together.” He’s whispering but is crystal clear. “Pairs should spread out. If we have to escape, meet up at the next mile marker down the highway. If we are not all there by daybreak, head out and keep going west.”

Whoa, a trap. “Do you really think a four-year-old is going to set a trap for us?”

“No, but he is the perfect bait.” Dad is anxiously looking around. “This is the first civilization since the roadblock. We have to assume they could be involved with that setup out on the highway.”

This is what Sofie was talking about, fear of every human encounter. Even a four-year-old results in a drawn weapon and worst-case scenario plan. I don’t think I’m cut out for this either. I wonder if Sofie will let me share her cottage by the sea.

“Sofie and Seamus, you stay here. Grace and Liam, you make your way around the building and meet me at the swing set.” He’s planning more of an assault than a rescue.

Sofie and I watch silently as Dad cautiously walks across the parking lot towards the swing set. Liam is doing his best impersonation of a commando and Grace is just walking quickly while fishing for something in her pocket.

Sofie is fighting an urge to charge out and join them. She pushes against me as if relying on my body for restraint. I want to tell her that Dad is a good man; he is not the one injecting fear and hostility into the world. He has every right to be cautious and we need to appreciate the fact that he’s looking out for all of us.

When his feet touch the wood chips surrounding the swing set, Dad’s gun moves from his hand to the back waistband of his jeans. This is Sofie’s cue, and she sprints off across the parking lot. It is all I can do to keep up with her—stopping her is not an option. Liam and Grace also close in on the swing set. We will be there momentarily.

I’m the last one to arrive, but I get there in time to hear the boy speak. “I’m from Colorado.”

“Wow, Colorado. That’s a cool state.” Dad is getting down on a knee so he is at eye level with the little boy. “Is your Mom or Dad around?”

“I’m three,” is his response. It takes a few seconds but he manages to get three fingers in the air to show us his age.

“Three! I knew you were a big boy.” Dad has a way with little kids. “We would really like to meet your Mom or Dad and let them know how good you are behaving.”

“They’re sleepin’,” he says, while looking around as if he may point to where it is they are sleeping.

“Oh, did they lay down for a nap while you came to swing?” Dad is not afraid, but there is apprehension in his voice. Helping a three-year-old realize that his parents are dead may prove more emotional than what he had to do last night.

“I don’t know. They been sleepin’ a long time.” The boy is nodding his head as if to confirm his statement. “Can I have a snack?”

“Sure, I have one right here.” Grace has a granola bar at the ready. That must be what she had been fishing out of her pocket. She’s kneeling by the swing next to Dad and opening the snack for the little guy. Grace is a natural.

“What’s your name, buddy?” Liam can’t stay out of it. At least it’s a good question.

“I’m from Colorado,” is the reply between bites. Maybe that was the first thing Dad had asked him, and he doesn’t know or has chosen to forget his name.

So we have a nameless 3-year-old survivor from Colorado. A leftover. The only remaining artifact from an unknown family. A remnant. “Is it okay if we call you Remmie?” I ask him. “Everyone needs to have a name.”

Dad, Grace and Sofie look at me like I have two heads.

Grace stands up with her arms out. “Come on buddy, let’s go into this store and see if we can find a drink and a bigger snack.” Her glare lets me know that I should keep my mouth shut, but I’m not sure why.

He goes to her arms easily and they head off towards the store. You can see from the little boy’s face that it has been a while since he has eaten. Liam falls in close behind. We could all use a drink and something to eat, but Sofie and Dad are hanging back with me. I may be in for a lecture.

“You can’t just rename a 3-year-old.” Dad is acting like I just set the world back to the dark ages.

“Seriously, Seamus. Give the little kid a break. He’s malnourished, dehydrated and his parents just died. It’s okay if he needs some time before he can tell us his name.” Sofie is not impressed with me right now. Probably not a good time to ask about sharing her cottage on the beach.

“For now, why don’t we stick with calling him ‘buddy,’” Dad says as he heads back towards the storage trailer. “If he doesn’t tell us and we don’t find any clues about his name, we can decide what to call him then.”

Sofie is heading off towards the store and shaking her head. All I can do is sit down in the swing and wonder what I did so wrong. He’s not going to tell us his name. I don’t remember being three but I do remember when my cousins were that age. It was hit or miss getting their names out of them, a 50/50 chance at best. I’ll bet that if they didn’t hear them for two days they would have forgotten them completely.

I guess I have always tried to shortcut social norms. But we are in a new post-apocalyptic world; social norms need to go out the window. We need to be able to cut to the chase and move on. We can’t spend energy and resources culling names out of little kids.

Boy, do I sound like a hardass. Maybe this is another thing Sofie was talking about not wanting to be a part of.

“Seamus! Come in here and get something to eat and drink.” Liam is yelling from the side of the store. He is not struggling with the impact of rebuilding society.

Inside the store, there are hot dogs on rollers, popcorn and chips, coolers full of any beverage you could want. Grace and Remmie (I’m still calling him Remmie, no matter what they say) are sitting in a booth eating hot dogs and drinking chocolate milk. I can see that he has some goldfish crackers on his plate and she has a cup of peaches nearby that she’ll probably get him to eat against his will.

Liam is walking around eating from a bag of chips and searching after the open drink he put down but now cannot find. Sofie has her head tilted back with a bottle of water. On the counter in front of her is an unopened box of Pop tarts. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until now. There has to be something I can microwave and then stuff into my face. I grab a water as I look through the coolers for something edible.

Dad comes out of the bathroom and surveys the scene. He’s got a wry smile on his face and seems more than satisfied with where we’ve ended up for the day. He walks to the cooler and grabs a water before he starts to peruse the aisle for his meal.

“After I eat a little I’m going to go out and find a car.” Dad is not addressing anyone of us in particular. “Grace and Sofie, will you keep an eye on our little friend?” His question is met with nods of their heads. “Liam and Seamus, I want you to find some bedding. I think we should sleep here tonight, but I don’t want to wake up feeling the way I did this morning,” he says with his hand on his back.

We all just came through the same parking lot, so I know it is going to be a frustrating exercise for him. I remember seeing a few tractor-trailer rigs, a beat up old Mustang, and a pickup with no bed. None of these will get the six of us down the road together, and I know he won’t want us to split up even if we could travel in caravan formation.

Dad is out the door with his water and a bagel and Liam pats me on the back. He’s pointing to the sign on the wall that says “Showers and Suites” with an arrow pointing to the back of the building. I never thought about it, but it makes sense that truck stops have places for drivers to crash for a few hours and freshen up.

When we see the accommodations, “cell” seems a far more appropriate description. The “suite” is a six-foot by six-foot cube with a short bed and a tiny stall shower. An efficiency expert or designer who would never have to spend a night here was paid handsomely to lay out this space. I’m glad we won’t have to close ourselves into one of these for the night. There are eight units in total and Liam and I grab the bedding from four of them. A few extra pillows and blankets won’t hurt.

As we get back to the main part of the building, I can see a cargo van pull up to the pumps. Dad hops out and walks around to fill it up. I guess we are all being relegated to cargo status. This is a far cry from the two Cadillac Escalades we have enjoyed up to this point in our trip.