“Me neither.” I had the sudden urge to lighten the mood. “I swear, this is the worst fucking apocalypse I’ve ever gone through.”
Clare laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. Although I’d wanted to distract her from her melancholy thoughts, the short but genuine guffaw startled me—as much as it had alarmed her. Or perhaps it only seemed loud within a lifeless forest.
She cracked a smile, then sheepishly glanced toward the station wagon, where George and Casey had turned toward us.
Maybe it wasn’t the most appropriate time for a joke, but we desperately needed some levity. So much death and heartache had besieged the world. So many dangers still surrounded us, and our journey was far from over.
Roughly twelve hundred miles remained between our present location and my family’s house-turned-bug-out-compound in northern Michigan—but only if we managed to follow the most direct route. According to my GPS-enabled mapping programs, that many miles would take at least seventeen hours of uninterrupted driving to traverse. But if the first leg of our journey had been any indication, our cross-country pilgrimage would take a helluva lot longer than that.
If we could move at a slightly faster pace than I’d been able to upon leaving New Orleans, it might only require three days to cover that distance—especially if Clare and I (as well as George and Casey) took turns driving. I just hoped we could rely on the interstates at some point… not dinky back roads—and naturally, I prayed that no undead mobs, perilous roadblocks, or other major obstacles got in our way.
Unfortunately, we’d have to stop periodically for gas and other supplies. Although I’d tried to pack enough essentials for the entire journey—including extra fuel—I hadn’t counted on picking up an additional vehicle and two more travelers. Not that I was complaining.
To be fair, even without our new friends, I couldn’t possibly have stored enough gas for the whole trip. We’d need more than one hundred and sixty-five gallons to reach Michigan—and that was only if we avoided too many detours. Which was impossible in a zombie apocalypse.
At some point, I’d also have to try contacting the rest of my family. I still hoped I could rescue my two older brothers and their daughters from an untimely fate. I’d intended to save my parents as well, but they’d refused to leave their winter home in southern Florida. I could only trust that, when the undead shit had hit the fan, they’d finally believed my crazy rantings—and had enough time to flee up north.
“Joe,” Clare said, drawing my attention back to her, “we should probably get some sleep.”
I was utterly exhausted, and she could undoubtedly see evidence of that on my face, but thinking about my family had rearranged my priorities.
“You’re right, but first, I need to reach out to John and James. Maybe my folks, too, if they’re… listening.” Couldn’t admit my biggest fear—that none of them had made it out of their own cities alive. “Might not get another chance anytime soon.”
Clare creased her brow, likely worried about her in-laws, too—not to mention her father and stepmother—then she nodded once, her lips curved into a wan smile. “Of course. Lemme help.”
I beamed, grateful as always to have such a loving, supportive wife—but wishing she were also a shortwave-radio expert.
Cuz I sure as hell ain’t.
When I’d initially embarked on my two-week prepping phase, I had purchased five shortwave radios: one for me, one for my parents, one for each of my two older brothers, and one for Clare’s dad, Edward. Each radio was equipped with a transceiver and a portable battery unit, among other accessories. At the time of sending the handy communication devices to our loved ones, I’d had no clue how to operate the damn things—frankly, I still didn’t—but I’d learned enough from my limited research to select a less-utilized frequency for future family convos.
Not that it would matter much in a zombie apocalypse. Unless undead carnivores had figured out how to bombard our airwaves with the moaning-hissing dialect known only to them, I doubted there were many humans left alive to cause much signal interference.
Inside each package, I’d slipped a note instructing John, James, my folks, and my father-in-law to tune into 27656 kilohertz—a multiple of the street address of my favorite childhood home… and, hopefully, an easy number for most of us to remember.
Although I’d always possessed a decent recollection for cinema, music, and cuisine (as in, the movies I’d seen, the albums I’d heard, and the dishes I’d made or enjoyed), I’d never been great with names and figures, and my memory had only grown less reliable over the years. Not that it had ever been as sharp as my wife’s—which I’d often considered a fortunate extension of my own brain. A portable “hard drive” that I’d be lost without.
Hence, when it came to recalling a specific emergency channel, I needed all the help I could get. My older brothers and elderly parents likely did, too. Same with my father-in-law.
But before I could even attempt to reach them, I had to get my own radio working. So, while Clare informed George and Casey of our intentions, I scanned a few of my downloaded articles about shortwave-radio transmission.
When I felt ready to give it a shot, I opened the rear doors of the van and unpacked the radio as well as the shortwave reel antenna I’d bought in order to boost the signal in remote places… you know, in case we got stuck in a fucking forest far from civilization.
I glanced at a nearby pine tree, tracing its sturdy trunk to the darkened canopy far above our cozy clearing. Somehow, I needed to shimmy my fat ass up the rough bark and secure the antenna as high as possible. Of course, I hadn’t climbed a
