Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure (26 page)

17

SARA PUSHES THE car hard into the darkness of the evening as they travel further away from Reno. Staring over at his pint-sized assassin from the passenger seat, Mac sits idly, not uttering a word, apparently still reeling from the effects of the alcohol that was laced with a sleep aid to knock him out. As his eyes stare off in the distance, the headlights grow brighter and brighter, until he passes out. Gripping the steering wheel tighter, Sara speeds up as she encounters the mountain pass on her way into California. Down the other side of the mountain, the car slides around the corners on its track to their destination. In the moonlight, Mount Shasta, one of the tallest mountain peaks in North America, comes into view on the horizon. Sara travels onward, off the secondary highway and out onto Interstate 5. Interstate Highway 5 was once considered one of the marvels of the twentieth century. Running south from the Canadian border, the highway was continuous, terminating at the Mexican border town of Tijuana.
 

Driving throughout the early morning hours, Sara’s stomach rumbles from lack of food, but she continues to push on to her destination and the unknown. Driving the car at speeds over 130 miles per hour, the route north through Oregon and into Washington takes half the time it would take before the apocalypse. Normally, the trip would take two to three fuel stops in a stock Mustang, but the previous owner was a highway thief and had outfitted the car with extra tanks that were installed in place of the backseat. Looking down at the fuel gauge while driving across the river bridge in Portland, Oregon, and into Washington, Sara sees the tank move close to the empty mark. She wonders how long the fuel will last, but puts it out of her mind, pushing the car as hard as possible to Brooklyn. Thirty minutes later, the car runs out of gas on the interstate highway, just south of a sign that reads Jackson Highway 1. Grabbing her backpack with gear and weaponry, Sara leaves Mac a note, deciding to finish the journey on her own. She does not know what lies ahead for her but is sure that she needs to finish this portion of the journey alone. With the car abandoned on the off-ramp, Sara walks off the interstate. Minutes turn to hours as she walks down the lonely two-lane highway to Brooklyn. Walking across a steel girder bridge, Sara peers over the edge at a small river below. Continuing beyond the river and further north, Sara notices a sign up ahead on the left side. Most of the letters are missing, except for the words Golf Course. Sara stares at the sign for a few minutes before walking into the town of Chehalis. Chehalis befell the same outcome, not unlike all the rest of small-town America, survivors preyed on by the infected before the last holdouts abandoned the city for the hills and valleys outside town. Just over an hour and a half later, Sara walks into the middle of Centralia. Walking across town as she pauses to look at the handwritten map, she eventually joins back up with the interstate on her way through the rest of the city.
 

Pulling the notebook back out of her coat pocket, Sara traces the handwritten road map out of Centralia, through the town of Galvin, and into Brooklyn. The solitude and deserted town surprise her after her run-in with the locals in Reno, and she is comforted by the quietness of the morning. Continuing her walk out of town to the west, Sara makes the five-mile walk into the town of Galvin in just over an hour, before stopping at a defunct gas station that has been turned into a museum. Old vehicles sit outside as well as multiple pieces of memorabilia of the early twentieth century. Sitting next to the tall, 1920s-era gas pump, Sara pulls her pack off to rest.
 

“Can I help you?”
 

A voice from behind her startles Sara, catching her off guard. Spinning around on her heels into a standing position, Sara grasps the handle of the pistol in her belt.
 

“Just resting. Don’t want any trouble.”
 

 
The gentleman steps closer, and apparently he is either a farmer or a hillbilly. His coveralls fall loosely over a large frame, complete with the early-period-style wool overcoat that has the iconic black and red checkered pattern typical of a northwestern farm boy.
 

“We were just sittin’ down for a bite. If you are hungry, you’re more than welcome.”

Too weary to suspect any wrongdoing from this larger-than-life character, Sara follows the man into the house. Seated inside, the family waits at the dinner table in silence. The two young girls are a few years younger than Sara and look to be worlds away in innocence. An elderly woman sits at the far end of the table, and clearly it is not the man’s wife. Pointing over at an empty seat, the gentleman motions for Sara to take a seat.
 

“Thank you.”
 

The family sits in silence as the man finishes off a prayer before serving up stew. Passing a bowl over to Sara, he remains quiet throughout the meal before speaking again.
 

“Don’t get too many people down here anymore, maybe one or two per month passing through. Where are you headed?”
 

Sara studies the man’s gentle face before answering him. “Brooklyn, it’s west of here, a few hours’ walk.”
 

“Ah, I see, well that is a long walk; take you most of a day to get there.” Looking over to the lady at the other end of the table, the man nods at her. The lady gets up from the table and exits the room, returning a few minutes later with a burlap bag in her hand.

Handing it to the man, she takes her seat again at the other end of the table.
 

“Here, you will need something to eat on your way over there. I’m sorry it’s not much, but it is getting harder and harder to find game around here, and most things don’t grow too well anymore.”
 

Scanning the young faces sitting across from her, Sara catches the nearly unnoticeable again. Staring directly at the face of the young girl, she watches her eyes dart back and forth, a twitch of an eyebrow gives her away. Sitting at the head of the table, the father seems unconcerned, not noticing the events unfolding before him. Standing up quickly, Sara knocks over her chair, startling the family, and draws her machete from its sheath.
 

“What’s going on? We don’t want any trouble, please, put the weapon away.”

“Your daughter is infected; it would be better to put her out of her misery sooner than later.”

The man stares at her, then at his daughter, then back at Sara; his disbelief shows in the startled look in his eyes. “Please, take the food and leave.”

Backing out of the house, Sara leaves the food behind, one hand on the machete, one hand on the pistol. The realization the virus has spread this far north depresses her. Standing outside the front door, she fights with her conscience, so much killing in such a short amount of time, wishing she could go back to a simpler time.

Inside the home, the young girl starts to shake violently as the virus takes over. Screaming permeates the walls and into Sara’s ears, sending her back inside. Swinging the blade of the machete, Sara lops off the young girl’s head, her father coming at her wielding a baseball bat. Sara aims the pistol and shoots him between the eyes. The rest of the family falls silent, the recipients of this assassin’s skill.

Walking back out of the house, Sara leaves the small town behind her and quickly travels out into the rural countryside. The evergreen trees tower above her far overhead. Besides traveling a few times into the mountains with her father, this is the first time she has really experienced the grandeur and beauty of the Pacific Northwest. Still, tired from the previous days of traveling and pursuit, Sara keeps her pace up and is steps away from the end of the journey within a few hours.
 

BROOKLYN
13

Across the hills, Sara walks around bend after bend in the road. She expects to encounter something or somebody bad but is relieved to find nothing in this remote forest. An early afternoon fog starts rolling across the hills as she crests the last hill on her descent into Brooklyn. Passing over a small stream, Sara finally sees the tavern and small schoolhouse just down the road. A few yards away from the schoolhouse sits an early 1900s two-story farmhouse, complete with white picket fence and storm shutters. The front of the tavern looks deserted as she approaches, the inside of the building dark. The dim lights inside conceal the true beauty of the building, and it takes a few minutes before her eyes adjust to the darkness. Walking up to the bar, Sara lays her pack on the floor before noticing a few patrons sitting around the other end in the shadows. The kitchen door swings open. A heavy woman in her mid fifties walks over to the bar just opposite Sara.
 

“What you having, young lady?”
 

“I’m here to see the doctor.”
 

The bartender leans in a few feet closer to read the patch on her coat. “Sara. Are you Sara Robinson?”
 

“Yes ma’am. I’ve traveled a long way to get here. Is the doctor here?”
 

“She’s across the street. That’s her home right over there.” The bartender points out the side window at the home Sara saw minutes earlier.

Collecting her things, Sara doesn’t waste any time leaving the tavern. Running the last few steps up to the front door of the farmhouse, a deep fear enters her thoughts as well as a deepening sense of anxiety. Reaching up to the knock on the door, Sara pauses before knocking, fighting the battle within. Should she keep traveling or go inside? The rap, rap, rap of her hand on the old wooden door echoes throughout the old house, followed by soft footsteps inside. The door latches click as the front door is unlocked from inside, followed by a loud squeak as it opens. Standing in front of Sara, a beautiful woman in her late forties extends a hand motioning for her to come inside.
 

“Come in, Sara. I’m glad to see you made it.” Jumping up into the arms of her aunt, Sara starts sobbing softly.

END

Christopher Westley resides in the Pacific Northwest with his wife Traci and their cat Angel; where he flies as a commercial helicopter pilot.

Growing up in a rural community, Chris enjoyed the freedom of the outdoors, having access to many rivers, streams, and lakes where his original adventures started. From this early time in his life, his adventurous spirit developed and continues to this day, forty-five years later. His most recent trip included driving the Alcan Highway to Alaska where he and the family lived for the summer in a small cabin on a lake near Kenai, Alaska. He has also traveled to all fifty states, Canada, Mexico, Belize, and a few other countries around the globe.
 

When he is not writing the next zombie adventure novel, you can find him enjoying a cup of Joe at the local coffee shop near you or sailing Puget Sound.
 

His childhood home of Centralia lies in Western Washington at the foothills of the Cascade Mountains.