After scanning the sticky notes, the answer became clear. In order, they read:
“Fort Knox, safe zone.”
“Stick to back roads, avoid heavily populated areas.”
“Distance approximately three hundred miles.”
“Five and a half hours drive if all goes well.”
Next to the map lay a paper with a long list of supplies written on it, a mixture of food, water, medical items, and so forth. Dylan nodded to herself, leaning against the table. “She was heading for safety, and what better place than Fort Knox?”
During the early days of the outbreak, the government had set up several quarantine zones. Some, like Fort Knox, were large and meant to protect both citizens and essential installations. Others were small, set up in community centers and such. A lot of people viewed these sites as their salvation, but just as many elected to stay home and ride it out on their own, Dylan among them. Apparently, Frankie had decided to head to Fort Knox.
On the one hand, Dylan was glad Frankie had headed to a secure facility. It meant she’d survived the initial outbreak, and hopefully, the trip as well. “But what about me? I can’t go. No one in their right mind would accept a sick person into their midst.”
Dylan stared at the wound on her arm. Already, it showed signs of infection. The area was red, swollen, and hot to the touch. In a sudden fit of rage, she swept the map of the table, sending papers flying all over the room. “Why me? Wasn’t my life shitty enough before all this happened?”
Hot tears burned her eyelids, a mixture of rage and despair. After everything she’d been through, after all the years of fighting to survive a system that tried to crush the life out of her, it came down to this. Dying a horrible death because of one stupid mistake. “Fuck!”
Dylan turned away from the table and headed toward the front door. There was nothing for her here now. No hope, no safety, no friend. Nothing but a slow death in a house that didn’t belong to her. “I’m leaving.”
Her boot came down on a piece of paper and slid out from underneath her. Teetering for balance, she lost the fight and crashed to the ground, falling hard. Dylan groaned and sat upright, rubbing her bruised lower back with one hand. “Ow. That hurt.”
While she waited for the pain to pass, her eyes fell on the offending bit of paper that had caused her fall. It was yet another sticky note covered in Frankie’s looping handwriting. None of that mattered, though. All that mattered was the single word that stood out from among the rest. Cure.
Grabbing the paper, she read and reread the thing until it was burned into her brain with utter clarity: Fort Knox has a cure. Enough time to get Peter there? Day three.
Dylan frowned. “Peter? Who’s Peter? And what does she mean by day three?”
Suddenly, she remembered her and Frankie’s last conversation, a hasty call made about two months before. Frankie had told her about a new boyfriend, a guy named Peter. Dylan hadn’t paid much attention, but Frankie had sounded pretty serious about him. “Was that why she’d planned the trip to Fort Knox? To save him? But if he was on day three already, she was taking a serious risk.”
Dylan scrambled to her feet and gathered up all the scattered papers she’d strewn about. She smoothed out the map and looked at the various sticky notes. It was apparent Frankie had planned to take Peter to Fort Knox, hoping to get him there in time for the cure to work. If they encountered no problems along the way, it was possible. Even so, it was dangerous. Day three was marked by psychotic episodes, and a worm of worry for her friend entered Dylan’s mind.
At the same time, hope blossomed amidst her fear for Frankie’s life. A cure! Not only that, she was only on day one. She had plenty of time to make it. “I can be fixed! I don’t have to die!”
Dylan glanced at the watch on her wrist, struck with a newfound sense of urgency. She had just over sixty-nine hours left. “I can do this. I can make it.”
She folded up the map and stuck it into her pocket, preparing to leave. As she turned, she bumped into the dining room chair. It toppled over with a loud crash, and she winced at the sound. Moments later, a thump sounded from upstairs.
Dylan froze, wondering if she’d heard right, but the first noise was followed by a second, louder thump. With careful movements, she drew the gun from her holster and walked toward the base of the stairs. Gazing upwards, she jumped when yet another thump followed the second. There was something on the upper floor, and if her instincts proved correct, it was nothing good.
Chapter 7 - Dylan
Turn around.
Just turn around and get out of the house.
Don’t look. Never look. It’s too dangerous.
It was futile. She knew she’d go. Just like every dumbass in every horror movie she’d ever watched. Only now, she was in their shoes, and the need to know what was making the noises burned in her chest. It could be Frankie. A zombie. Or sick. Maybe trapped. Stuck with her boyfriend, Peter. Another zombie. Either way, she had to know, no matter what the cost.
Dylan stared at the upper landing, her gun held in both hands. Her arms were trembling. Heck, her whole body was shaking. Whatever waited up those stairs scared the hell out of her. Every fiber of her being yelled at her to run. To take the map and get out of there.
But…she couldn’t.
Step by slow step, she went up the stairs. Three generations of the family stared back at her along the way, each face framed in a moment that would last forever. The youngest was Frankie. Her blue eyes shining through a mess of blonde curls.
