Wormwood

bank. He noticed, with discomfort, a pale clutch of human limbs there as well. Bodies blanched and undressed by the strong currents. Another floated past under the concrete span of the bridge, turning and struggling in the water like a spider being washed down the sinkhole.

“I would imagine,” Larry continued, his voice softening as he watched the man float away, “that ammunition and alcohol were two of the first things to disappear from a place like Fred Meyer. Still…” he offered Shane a more hopeful smile, “that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about the beer I’ll have once we get there; and how’s this for pathetic: it’s even a cold one.” He bit off a hunk of beef jerky, chewing thoughtfully. “Right about now, it’s the only thing I’ve got to look forward to.”

“There’s always home,” Shane suggested, the words out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying.

The last vestiges of Larry’s smile faded. He studied Shane before turning back to the river.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said in a fragile whisper, his eyes gazing down at his hands, which seemed restless, agitated.

Larry nodded. “Believe it or not,” he confessed, “there have been times today when I’ve forgotten about them myself.”

Shane looked at Larry, at the bodies in the river, then back to his hands again, comfortable with their silent neutrality. “Me too,” he admitted, frowning. “Sometimes I forget about Mom and Dad.”

Larry sighed. “Selfish of us, isn’t it? But I suppose that’s what makes us human.”

Shane said nothing, his hands pecking at some long grass between his shoes.

“It’s been an interesting day,” Larry remarked, looking at the sky and the position of the sun above the bluff behind them. Already the afternoon was lengthening, pulling shadows toward the east. “Offhand, I’d say we’re not going to make it home before it’s over, and I don’t care much for the prospect of traveling at night.” He glanced at Shane. “Got any ideas where we might hole up until morning?”

Shane shook his head. “I hadn’t thought about it.” A silence passed between them. “The manager’s office, maybe?”

Larry nodded. “It’s worth a look, though the manager might be using it himself.”

“We could try to make it home,” Shane suggested, “then look for an empty house if we don’t make it. Or lock ourselves inside a car.

Larry agreed that they could, though the idea of sleeping inside a car — protected by nothing but glass — did not appeal to him. “I guess it’ll depend on what we find down the road,” he said, rising to his feet, his ration of food consumed. “Or what we don’t find.”

Shane threw his small harvest of grass to the wind and rose also, anxious to cover the last few miles.

The two of them stood gazing downriver.

“I’ll tell you one thing though,” Larry said, frowning, his eyes following another body as it drifted past. “I’m through drinking out of faucets and taps as of right now.”

27

Autumn Creek Road took them without trouble or complaint to within a stone’s throw of their destination. Here, the river swayed back toward the highway and some enterprising young developer had come up with the brilliant idea of laying out a trailer park with the somewhat grandiose name of “Riverview Court”. It wasn’t especially large — no more than 25 or 30 units, dropped down like jackstraws, without regard for aesthetics or privacy, on a wedge of land not much bigger than Quail Street — but it was active. Like a hill of ants after their mound has been doused with gasoline.

Studying it from the cover of an apple orchard in brilliant bloom, Larry and Shane heard a volley of gunshots and then a man stumbled out between the decorative pillars of the entrance; a man who’d suddenly found himself very much on fire. An infected mob came charging out of Riverview Court, knocking the flaming man down and tearing him to pieces.

“This might be a little tricky,” Larry decided. He and Shane turned away, huddling down in the grass to plan their strategy.

“We can get by them on the bike, no problem,” Larry said, “but how do we keep them from following us into the parking lot?”

Shane surveyed the curved stretch of road. There was a small vacant lot, deep and overgrown, between the orchard and the trailer park, but other than that, they had very little room to negotiate — the base of the hillside, eroded by past floods, cut sharply against the south shoulder of the road.

“There’s a wall all the way around the trailer park,” Shane noticed. “Maybe we could go around the backside while they’re busy here in front?”

Larry nodded. “Aside from crossing back over the highway, I think that’s our only option.” He followed the cinderblock wall with his eyes until it ended at a right angle. “I wonder what’s back there…”

“It used to be an orchard,” Shane reminded him. “Before they could start building they had to pull out all the trees. I remember driving by with my mom and dad and the orchard was suddenly gone, and there was this huge pile of dead limbs and stumps right in the middle.”

“That’s right,” Larry murmured. In fact, the whole area had been orchard just a few years ago, before they’d put in the Columbia Avenue exit; that was why there were so few people around. There were a few old warehouses, and some light industrial parks east of Columbia, but the trailer park and the commercial properties (including Fred Meyer) were all very recent additions.

Larry studied the small mob in front of the gate and decided they’d better make their move sooner instead of later. He glanced at Shane. “Maybe we should walk the bike through with the engine at a low idle, so we can keep the noise at a minimum, but still hop back on if we get into trouble?”

Shane thought about this and suggested another approach.

“We’re close enough now that we could just walk in, couldn’t we?”

The Yamaha was leaning against a tree a few rows back. Larry had cut the engine and coasted into the apple orchard when they’d seen all the activity around the trailer park. Now he glanced back at it, frowning. “You mean just leave the bike here?”

“Why not? It won’t do us much good between here and the parking lot, and it seems to me there’s a chain- link fence or something around the back anyway.” He shrugged. “Even if there isn’t, if we leave it here we won’t have to worry about anyone stealing it once we’re inside.”

Larry gazed across the vacant field, rubbing the color from his lips. It was plain from his expression that he didn’t want to part with the cycle, but in the end he allowed it might be more of a hindrance than a help to them. And it would be safer in the orchard; he hadn’t thought of that.

“All right, we’ll do it your way.” He pulled his revolver from its holster. “Got your guns ready?”

Shane smiled, showing him the 9mm and the shotgun, both fully loaded from their stop at the bridge.

Larry glanced at their makeshift saddlebags. “We’ll have to untie the backpacks.”

“Maybe we should leave one of them with the bike,” Shane suggested, “with some food and ammo… just in case?”

“All right,” Larry nodded wearily. He turned toward the distant beige wall, the top of Fred Meyer rising over the trailer park, at least 150 yards away. He sighed. “What if the place is overrun, like Summertides?”

“I don’t know,” Shane replied. “I guess we turn back and try to think of something else.”

Larry uttered a bitter chuckle. “There is nothing else. This is the last stop on our list.”

“There’s the medical offices further up Columbia,” Shane reminded him.

Larry shook his head. “Kid, I wish I had your optimism.”

“It’s not optimism,” Shane told him. “It’s desperation.”

“Fair enough,” Larry shrugged. “I wish I had your desperation.”