“Maybe you won’t turn,” she offers. He doesn’t even respond because why bother? They both know it’s a death sentence. Instead of saying anything else, she sits on the bed next to him and draws him close, whispering the same words of comfort she’d use on her boys.
He curls into her and his body relaxes and with her cheek pressed to his head, her eyes closed, he could almost be one of her boys. His breathing steadies into the sound of sleep and she finds her own eyes sliding shut.
Then she remembers.
She can’t fall asleep, or it will be her last.
After a while, Will starts to cough and by the time he’s caught his breath, he’s awake and shivering next to her. When he can speak, he asks, “Will you do something for me?”
“Sure thing.”
He shifts, digging his wallet out of his back pocket. He hands it to her, then lets his arm drop as if that small motion has worn him out. “Tell my parents and my sister that I tried to get home. If you can get to them. If they’re …”
“Of course. I will. I’ll tell them how hard you worked to get back to them. They’ll know, Will. I promise.”
“The address, it’s on my driver’s license. Tell my mom I wish I could’ve hugged her one more time. Tell my dad how much I wanted to be like him. And Cordy? Tell her I’ll be there with her, okay? I’ll posses Mister Wiggles and be with her always. Okay?”
“I will.”
“Repeat it. Please? So I know you got it …” He coughed, sounding phlegmy. His skin is already warm and getting warmer. It won’t be long now.
“I’ll tell your mom you wished you could hug her once more. I’ll tell your dad how much you wanted to be like him and that you’ll posses Mister Wiggles to be with Cordy always.” It seems morbid but sounds like something Jackson and Tucker would say to each other.
Her heart aches.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Will.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just heats up next to her and coughs more and more, until he’s gasping for breath. When it’s time, she slides her knife into his eye socket. One firm push and he sags against her, no longer Will, no longer a living, breathing human being.
She covers him with the other bed’s comforter, then packs up the med kit and gathers their things, then shuts the door on his corpse.
She stays the night at the hotel, but at the opposite end of the place, away from Will, away from the tragedy that hangs like black smoke over the room. In the morning, bleary-eyed from waking several times throughout the night, she drops her things over the balcony and onto the SUV after making sure there aren’t any of them around. She eases herself down after, and puts their things into the passenger side, placing his wallet in the cup holder to remind her of her promise.
She vows not to pick anyone else up. It’s too hard watching them die.
Pulling back out onto the road, she starts her final stretch into Seattle, though she knows she won’t be able to drive right up to her house. If small towns were full, she can’t even imagine what Seattle looks like. She doesn’t know if she’s ready or if she can face the teeming dead.
She doesn’t want to die, but she’s increasingly terrified she will.
It’s rough going. The winter storms have torn through the road in places, making it nearly impossible to drive faster than a slow crawl. There are potholes, cracks and, in a few spots, whole sections of roadway just gone. She hopes she doesn’t find a bridge out but it’s looking more and more likely the higher in altitude she climbs. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if she can’t get through.
Go around, of course. She’ll go around.
She’ll find a way. She promised Lana. So she will.
But damn, she hopes she can make it straight through. She’s been away from them long enough.
She rounds a bend and there are cars blocking the roadway. Both lanes. The banks off either side are steep, and she thinks she can get the SUV down one side and up the other. Inside the cars, they sit and stare at her, their hungry eyes on her as she eases past them. She doesn’t want to know who they were, she doesn’t want to stop and ponder their lost humanity, she just wants to get home.
The SUV goes down onto the grassy median easy enough, but then she hits a patch of mud and the tires spin without propelling her forward. She eases off the gas and wills herself not to panic.
How many of them had been in the cars? How many cars? She hasn’t let herself look and now she regrets it. She curses herself but there’s nothing she can do about it now. She puts the SUV into reverse and twists the wheel in the other direction. When she pushes the gas, she moves a couple feet. She keeps going for a few more, hoping she can find dryer ground. When she gets stalled out again, she puts it back into drive and skirts the mud—at least she hopes she does.
She gets farther than before, then gets mired. She can backup fine once again, so she does. It’s as if fate is telling her she can’t go forward. She slaps the steering wheel as if it’s the SUV’s fault she’s stuck. She wants to scream but doesn’t, knowing she’s already caught their attention with the motor. Screaming would draw them to her, screams would make sure they knew she was food.
Fine then.
She backs up and up and tries for the other
