Last Light, Page 2

  I’m sure it’s been reduced a lot more by now.

  Some people hid themselves away in bunkers, hoarding as much food and supplies as they could.

  Some people gave up completely.

  Some people joined up with others in roving mobs that became known as droves. Sometimes a thousand strong, they move over what’s left of our roadways with trucks and tanks and take everything they want, killing anyone who gets in their way.

  My little town had a population of three thousand when I was sixteen.

  By the time I turned seventeen, we were down to fifteen hundred because so many had moved away in fear of being too close to the coast or had joined survivalist and militia groups.

  The people in Meadows who were left did everything they could. In the second year, when reports of droves laying waste to every community they encountered started becoming more common, the town leaders blew up the bridge over the river that was the main route into Meadows. The two other ways into town were winding mountain roads that were easily defended.

  Most of the men in town and a good number of the women knew how to hunt, fish, and shoot. We partnered with some of the neighboring towns to maintain and guard the power plant, so we had electricity for months after most of the rest of the country went dark. Food was shared and rationed. Everyone tried to do their part. It still wasn’t enough.

  A month ago, with animal populations decimated in the woods from changes to the environment and the river emptying of fish, most of the four hundred survivors in Meadows packed up and left for Fort Knox after hearing rumors that the Army base in Kentucky is guarded by what’s left of the military and is accepting refugees. The same was said about Fort Bragg down in South Carolina, but people were worried it was too close to the coast, so they chose to go to Fort Knox instead. The only ones who didn’t go were the people unwilling to leave loved ones who were too sick to travel.

  That was me. I lost my grandfather when the power plant fell, and I wasn’t going to leave my grandmother. She begged me to go, but I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Even though I knew the risks, I stayed with a couple dozen others, and we eked out a barren existence for a few weeks.

  My grandmother died two days ago, which is why I’m on my way to Fort Knox.

  Maybe I can find the rest of my town.

  There’s nowhere else I can go.

  THE GAS IN MY MOTORCYCLE takes me almost fifty miles. I stick to small country roads where there’s less chance of running into other people since people invariably mean danger. I do pretty well and only encounter a few small groups hiking on the side of the road.

  When I see my gas starting to get low, I pull over and look at the pages of the road map I tore out of an old atlas back home. I have more than three hundred miles left to go. I need to get more gas, and the only way to do that anymore is to find an abandoned vehicle with fuel that hasn’t been already siphoned.

  It’s not an easy prospect. It usually involves finding an abandoned town and searching empty houses until you find a vehicle with gas in the tank. So I’m surprised and suspicious when I see an intact pickup truck with a camper shell on the side of the road a few miles later.

  Abandoned cars get stripped within an hour, so this one must have just stopped.

  I slow down and don’t see anyone sitting in the truck.

  It probably ran out of gas. That’s usually why vehicles are left on the side of the road. But it’s also possible that it had mechanical problems and there’s still gas in that tank.

  I have to check. No matter how unlikely, any chance of finding gas is too important to pass up.

  After pulling my motorcycle off the road in front of the car, I get off and walk to the driver’s side door.

  I gasp and jump back when I realize there’s a man across the bench seat.

  He’s slumped over, which is why I couldn’t see him from the road.

  His shirt is soaked in blood.

  My first instinct is to back off quickly. This man clearly met a violent end—something I want to stay as far away from as possible. But this car might be working, and it might have gas. There could be supplies in the back. I’d be a fool to not check it out just because of some blood and a dead body.

  So I steel my nerve and approach again.

  I open the door and push the man’s limp body back from the steering wheel so I can reach the ignition.

  The body is still warm. And not as limp as I expected.

  Then it groans.

  I jerk back as the man opens his eyes.

  His gaze meets mine, and his mouth opens. He’s trying to say something, but it comes out as a wordless rasp.

  I check his shirt for the source of the blood and see an ugly wound in his abdomen. It looks like a gunshot. In the days of EMTs and working hospitals, it might have been a survivable wound, but there’s no way he’s going to make it today. He’s on his last breaths as it is.

  I feel kind of sick, but not sad. The death of a stranger can’t touch me anymore.

  And if this truck has gas, I need it.

  No matter how much I’ve changed in the past four years, I don’t have it in me to drag his body out of the vehicle. Not while he’s still alive.

  “I’m sorry,” I say at last. “I wish I could help, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do for you.”

  “F-Fort Knox.” His soft moans have finally formed complete words.

  “What about Fort Knox?”

  “Take... take this... Marshall. Watch for... wolf.” His right hand fumbles in his pocket until he’s pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

  I don’t want to get involved in whatever he’s trying to tell me. It probably got this man killed.

  Noble impulses are dangerous. If anything has been proven true since the asteroid hit, that has.

  Surviving is the most we can hope for anymore.

  But this man is trying with the last of his strength to hand the paper to me, so I take it.

  There’s blood smeared on part of it, and I try to wipe it off with my fingers. Eventually the writing on the page is legible.

  It looks like some kind of brief note with a drawing beneath it.

  “What about Fort Knox?” I ask, looking back up at the man.

  The question is futile. He’s dead now. I can see it clearly even before I check his pulse.

  It’s almost a relief. I’ve seen far too many people die in my life, but I’m still not comfortable with watching someone suffer.

  Now that he’s dead, I can take the truck without feeling guilty about it.

  I reach across to try the ignition. It sputters but doesn’t start.

  Out of gas.

  I mutter a few curses and walk around to pop the hatch on the camper shell.

  At least I have some luck there. A few cans—peaches, beans, and corn—and a few boxes of mac and cheese. Also quite a few bottles of water.

  I haven’t eaten since yesterday, so I grab one can, open it with my knife, and then eat the peaches with my fingers, standing on the side of the road. I put all the food and as many bottles of water as I can carry into my pack and walk around to check the back seat to make sure there’re no other supplies I can use in the truck.

  Nothing.

  If I’ve been estimating the passing days correctly, it should be August now. The temperature isn’t nearly as hot as summers I remember from my childhood, but the air is thick and dirty, and the damage to the ozone layer has made the sun’s rays far more destructive than they used to be.

  I’m sweating so much it’s dripping into my eyes, and it’s dangerous to be lingering here on the side of the road.

  I’m about to walk back to the motorcycle—my one and only priority right now is finding gas so I can keep going—but I’m drawn back toward the bloodied letter I’m holding in my hand.

  I should just drop it and move on. That’s what a real survivor would do.

  Curiosity is like sympathy. It will kill you in the end.

  I read the letter anyway.r />
  Fort Bragg fallen. Drove (3000) on way to Fort Knox. Evacuate. Look for sign of wolf.

  Beneath the words is a stylized drawing of a wolf.

  I stare down at the piece of paper, anxiety roiling in my gut.

  I don’t understand the wolf reference, but the rest of the note is perfectly clear.

  Fort Knox is in danger of being overrun by a three-thousand-member drove.

  If that happens, everyone still in the world who matters to me will be killed or taken.

  The dead man was sent to give the warning, and now it would never get there.

  I can try to deliver it myself, but it’s a long shot I’ll survive all the way to Fort Knox.

  My stomach churns again. I ate those peaches too fast.

  “Shit.” My exclamation is too loud, echoing out over the pasture of dead grass to my right and the half-denuded woodlands to my left.

  If Travis were here, he could help me get to Fort Knox alive and deliver this message.

  That’s my first thought.

  I haven’t yet summoned the will to get moving when I hear an engine down the road. It’s getting louder, which means it’s approaching me.

  I freeze.

  I should move into the woods and hide there.

  A car means a person, and a person means danger.

  But I’ve seen no other vehicle on the road all day.

  And a little nagging voice in my head keeps reminding me that Travis is heading to the same place I am. He might even take the same route.

  Maybe he found a car.

  Maybe he’ll stop and ask again if I want to join him.

  I might give him a different answer this time.

  I haven’t yet made up my mind when I see an old pickup approach, and I realize too late that it’s not Travis.

  The vehicle is weaving strangely as it gets closer. There are four people inside, and they holler at me out the open windows as they pull to a stop beside me.

  I’m only slightly relieved when I see one of the four is a woman.

  That’s not a sign that these men are safe.

  I’ve got my pistol leveled.

  “Hey, li’l lady,” one of them slurs, leaning out the back window. “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ out here by ’erself?”

  The others laugh uproariously.

  I stare at the broad, unshaven face and realize what’s going on here.

  They’re drunk. All of them.

  “Whoa!” the driver says, grinning at me out the window. “Put the gun down, honey. We’re all nice guys here. Found this truck. Keys and everything. Found a fridge full of beer and all kinds of food. Just taking a little joyride. You can come with us if you want.”

  “No, thank you.” I’m pointing my gun at the driver now.

  “Shouldn’t be out here on your own,” the first speaker says. “We got room for you in here.”

  “No. Thank you.”

  I’m breathing easier now. These aren’t the kind of nasty men I fear the most. They’re not the kind that join the droves and muscle their way through the world, raping and pillaging and killing at will. I can see it on their faces.

  But they’re drunk. And drunk men, particularly in groups, will do things sober men wouldn’t.

  I don’t lower my gun even though my arm is shaking with exhaustion.

  I’m about to tell them to keep driving when I hear another car approaching. My heart sinks. I can’t control men in two cars the way I can one. I might be in trouble here.

  Real trouble.

  The other vehicle is on us before I can figure out what to do. It’s an older-model Jeep Wrangler. I stare blankly as it pulls to a stop and a man steps out onto the road with a shotgun.

  Travis. With his unkempt hair and his unsmiling face and the sleeves torn off his shirt.

  And his shotgun.

  I’m ashamed to say I almost whimper in relief.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” he demands, positioning the gun against his shoulder and aiming it toward the pickup.

  “Thought the pretty lady might need help,” the driver says with a ridiculous grin.

  Travis makes a rough sound in his throat and walks over to yank open the driver’s side door. “Get out.”

  The occupants stare at him blankly.

  He gestures with his gun. “Get out!”

  “Don’t hurt them.” I stumble closer to where he’s standing. “They’re just drunk. They weren’t going to hurt me.”

  Despite my relief at his unexpected appearance, I’m scared of the hardness in his face and his voice. My instincts are still screaming at me that Travis is a decent man, but I’ve seen decent men do terrible things. A couple of years ago I was helping guard the perimeter of town, and a man I knew and liked shot and killed a ragged wanderer who kept approaching even though the poor man clearly wasn’t right in the head and didn’t have a weapon.

  Things I’ve always taken for granted—like normal people acting in normal ways—can’t be relied on anymore.

  Travis ignores me. “Get out!”

  His voice is commanding enough this time for the occupants of the vehicle to obey him. All four of them fall out of the pickup and huddle in a group on the side of the road.

  Travis reaches in, turns off the ignition, and pulls out the keys. Then he throws the keys far into the pasture across the road.

  The drunk people stare at him dazedly.

  “The keys are over there,” he says like he might talk to naughty children. “Go find them.”

  Three of them go running off after the keys, but the driver spits out, “That’s ours. Bastard.” He takes a clumsy swing.

  Travis swats him with the butt of the shotgun in a move that’s almost casual.

  The man goes down and blubbers on the pavement.

  My hands are sweating so much that my pistol is slipping from my grip, so I holster it. I’m hit by a sudden wave of nausea. I jerk and bend over as my stomach heaves. I vomit onto the side of the road. The peaches I ate earlier.

  Travis just watches me. When I straighten up, his eyes run up and down my body, maybe checking for damage. “You hurt?”

  I shake my head. “They were just really drunk.”

  They’re not any sort of threat now. I can see the three still on their feet milling around in the pasture, looking for the keys.

  By the time they find them, they’ll probably be sober.

  Tossing the keys was a really good idea.

  I wish I’d thought of it myself.

  Travis gestures with his head toward the Jeep he was driving. I know what he’s saying. He’s telling me to get in. He doesn’t even say the words. Just makes the slight sideways motion of his head.

  I hesitate for only a few seconds.

  I made a mistake earlier today when I rejected Travis’s offer to travel together. I’m not going to make the same mistake again. Even if he later pressures me to give him sex in exchange for the protection—a reality of being a woman in this world—I can deal with it.

  I get into the passenger seat of his Jeep. It’s got two seats and a roof but no doors. It’s a lot more comfortable than the motorcycle.

  “Were you following me?” I ask him as he slides into the driver’s seat.

  “Told you. We’re headin’ to the same place. This is the shortest route that avoids highways and cities.”

  “Where did you find this Jeep?”

  “Town back there. Someone’s garage. I was drivin’ an old clunker, but this’ll do better and it’ll work for off-road.”

  “The motorcycle’s out of gas, so I needed a new vehicle anyway. I found some canned food and water in the back of that truck. I’ve got some here, and there’s more that I couldn’t carry.

  “Show me.” He puts the vehicle into gear and drives up to the truck.

  I lead him over to the water bottles in the back, and he grunts with what I assume is approval. I still haven’t seen the man smile.

  I empty my backpack of food and water, and
Travis grabs the other water bottles from the truck. He’s got packaged protein bars and homemade venison jerky in the back of the Jeep. More bottles of water. Camping gear. A couple more guns.

  The man knows what he’s doing.

  I hesitate briefly before pulling the packs of wet wipes from my bag. I put them plus some sunblock and bandages I found in a house a couple of days ago in with the other supplies.

  “Did you check the dead guy?” Travis asks.

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know, but did you check him for anythin’ we could use?”

  “Oh. No.” I feel sick again, thinking about that man’s final moments. I’m still holding the note in one hand.

  Travis takes a minute to check the man’s body and comes away with a small pistol he adds to the other weapons in the back of the Jeep.

  “What’s that?” He nods toward my hand.

  The note.

  I stare down at it and then slowly hand it to Travis. “The man had it on him. Before he died, he told me he needs to get it to Fort Knox.”

  Travis reads the note, and then he must be reading it again and again because it’s a long time before he raises his head.

  “My ex-wife is at Fort Knox right now.” I can hear in his voice that he’s afraid for her.

  “Everyone I care about in the world who’s still left is in Fort Knox.”

  He licks his lips. “Okay. We’ll take this. Droves move real slow. They have to with so many people, and they stop in every town on the way to pillage. We can probably beat ’em there.”

  “You think so?”

  “We have to. Cheryl’s there. Everyone’s there.”

  “Okay. If we can find enough gas, we’ll get there pretty fast in this Jeep, even if we have to go off road.”

  “We’ll definitely have to go off road eventually. But we’ll go as fast as we can.”

  “I don’t understand the wolf part.”

  Travis shook his head. “Not sure. But droves sometimes mark themselves. Maybe this is their mark—to let us know which drove is headin’ there.”

  “Oh. Maybe so. Well, let’s get going. How much gas do you have?”

  “’Bout a quarter tank. Won’t take us far.”

  “Then we’ll try to find more. There’s got to be some abandoned towns along the way.”