What Survives of Us (Colorado Chapters Book 1) (8 page)

“Holy shit holy shit holy shit!”  Grace’s teeth were chattering in reaction, her stomach quivering, a fine shaking sending tremors through her arms and legs.  By contrast, Quinn was absolutely rigid, knuckles bone-white on the steering wheel, his face locked in an expression of horror.

“What do we do?  Should we go home?  What if they’re all like her?”  Grace’s mind was spinning – she couldn’t get a lock on this possible new reality – it was too awful.  It had never occurred to her that other survivors might be a threat.  What if she and Quinn were the only sane ones left?

“I don’t know, Gracie, I don’t know.”  He drove in silence for a few minutes, aimlessly turning up and down the streets they’d both known all their lives, scanning for another potential threat.  Finally, he shook himself.  “Let’s head for my aunt’s house.  See what’s happening there.  We’ll just take this one step at a time.”

Quinn’s aunt lived by the elementary school.  Quinn pulled up in front of the house and put the truck in park, but didn’t shut it off.  “Slide over behind the wheel.  I’ll go in and check.  If there’s any trouble, just lay on the horn or get out of here.  If we get separated, I’ll meet you back home.”

“I’m not leaving you, Quinn.”  She really didn’t know what pushed the words out of her with such vehemence.  She felt responsible for him, that was part of it.  William would have wanted her to watch out for him.  And he carried his own load – he certainly hadn’t been a burden.  She could have wished he had William’s brains, but he was who he was.  And there was no way in hell she was leaving him.  “You have five minutes.  If you don’t come out or signal to me, I’m driving this truck through the front window.”

Quinn ducked his head at her words, but didn’t say anything.  After a moment, he slid out from behind the wheel, then waited while Grace took his place and adjusted the seat for her shorter legs.  He shut the door, then pointed at the door lock thru the window.  Grace obeyed, then watched him walk slowly towards the back door and let himself in.

Grace checked the clock on the dashboard and settled in to wait.  Just over four minutes had passed when Quinn reappeared.  He was carrying a grocery bag, and his cheeks were shiny with tears.  Grace unlocked the doors, and he slid into the passenger seat.

“All of them?”  Grace asked, even though she already knew the answer.  Even though all she really wanted to know was what he had in the bag. 

Quinn nodded. 

“I’m sorry.”  She didn’t feel sorry, not really, but she knew she was supposed to say the words.  What was wrong with her?  She counted to 30, hoped that was enough of a respectful silence, then asked, “What did you find?”

Quinn wiped his face on his sleeve, and blew his nose on a napkin he found in the glove box.  “Some beans.  A little bit of rice.  There was a lot of food in the freezer, but most of it was warm, and I don’t know how long their power has been out.”

“Good call, leaving it behind.  Food poisoning would suck.”  She paused again.  “Are you ready to go?  Is there anything else you need to…do here?”

Quinn shook his head.  “No, they’re too far gone to bury.  They’re all together in Aunt Sue and Uncle Brad’s room.  I just shut the door.”  He paused, then opened the grocery sack between his feet and pulled out a framed picture.  “I took this – thought I’d put it on my family’s grave, so they’re all together.”

Grace looked at the smiling family, recognized Quinn’s aunt as the woman who had helped her set up a checking account at the bank, recognized his young cousin as a friend of Benji’s, and shut her eyes.  These people were gone, consciousness fled, everything that had made them unique – personalities, likes, talents – dissolved into nothing, while the bodies that had harbored them rotted in this house.  How could this be
happening?  Where was all the energy, all the spirit and humanness and
life
going?

“Quinn?” Grace whispered, “Do you believe in…Heaven?”

Quinn was quiet so long, she thought he wasn’t going to answer.  She watched his face as he stared straight ahead, tears once more tracking silently down his cheeks.  Finally, he heaved a deep, shuddering breath.

“I guess not ‘Heaven,’ like Christians believe.  It never made much sense to me that you had to believe a certain way so you could go hang out on a cloud and play the harp forever – either that, or burn in hell.”  He glanced at her sideways, embarrassed.  “That sounds like a little kid.  I don’t say what I’m thinking very well.  It’s why I don’t talk much.”

“It’s okay.  You said it just fine.”  Grace hesitated.  “So you think when we die, we’re just gone?  Just like we were never here, unless we build a bridge or write a piece of music or something?”

“No, not at all.”  Again, he slid his shy glance sideways at her.  “I think we go on forever.  That the best part of us – our souls, I guess – returns to God.  And then you talk it over with God and decide what you’ll do next.  Like maybe you want to be a horse, or a flower, or the wind.  Or maybe you want to be a man instead of a woman, so you can be a father instead of a mother – I don’t know.  Maybe whatever you need to learn.  Maybe you talk it over with God, and decide, and then you go live that life.”

Fascinating.  She never would have guessed.  “So you believe in reincarnation.”

“I guess.  If that’s what it’s called.”  He looked embarrassed again.  “My mom would freak – she made us do the whole Sunday School thing, so don’t say anything to her
-” He broke off, and his face went white as bone.  He stared at her, and she could see his loss, alive and fresh, in his eyes.  She looked away so she wouldn’t have to feel it, too.

“Let’s get going.  I think I have a plan.”  She watched him out of the corner of her eye, waited until he had wiped his face again, then went on brusquely.  “One of us should drive along the street, and the other one should go in the houses one by one, to see if there’s any food.  That way we can get away quick if we have to.  Do
you want to drive or go in?”

He wouldn’t meet her gaze.  “Isn’t that stealing or something?”

Grace blinked.  It hadn’t even occurred to her that what she was proposing was technically illegal.  She, who had never cheated on a test or snuck out after curfew or gotten a speeding ticket in her life.  “I guess it is.  Should we just try Bella’s Market, or the gas stations?”

“No.  They’ll be cleaned out for sure – my dad tried Bella’s not too long after the plague hit, and he said there wasn’t one thing left on the shelves.”

Grace wrestled down a spurt of frustration with him.  The least he could do was come up with an idea, instead of shooting all hers down.  “What, then?  Just go back home?”

“No.”  Quinn looked up and down the street, and resignation settled on his face, in lines worn by care and grief.  She could see the old man he would become, there in his 16 year-old face.  “You’re right.  If all these people are dead, they don’t need their stuff anymore.  Maybe they’d even want to give it to us, to help us stay alive.”

“Whatever keeps you keepin’ on,” Grace muttered, then grimaced.  Just because his moral code was still intact and hers seemed to have deserted her was no reason to get frustrated with him.  “Do you want to drive or run in?”

“I’ll run.  You drive.”

They worked their way down both sides of the street, zig-zagging back and forth.  After the third house, Quinn’s face was set in rigid lines, but he didn’t voice a complaint or ask to trade jobs, so they kept on the way they were.  He wasn’t finding much – a little flour here, some macaroni there, but he rarely came out completely empty-handed.  At one house, he was gone so long, Grace was about to go in after him.  Finally, he came around the side of the house with a rusty-red chicken tucked under one arm, his shirt bulging with what could only be eggs.  Grace hopped out and ran around to open the truck door for him.

“Backyard henhouse,” he said, as he set the chicken on the passenger seat.  She rustled her feathers and hopped into the back seat at Quinn’s urging, making low, anxious cooing sounds.  Grace helped transfer the eggs he had found to the various containers, nestling them in flour, rice and beans so they wouldn’t jostle together and break.  “She was the only hen left, but there were a bunch of eggs.  If there wasn’t a rooster around, they should still be good to eat.”

“Protein,” Grace breathed, mouth suddenly filled with saliva.  “Is this enough for now?  Should we head home?”

“I guess we could.”  Quinn looked up and down the street again.  “We just saw that one lady.  There have to be some other people alive.”

“Probably.”  Grace thought for a moment.  “They might be hiding.  Or they may have gathered somewhere.”

“Maybe they left,” Quinn said.  “I-70 is right on the other side of town.”

“Where would they go?  The plague was everywhere, last I heard.  All over the world.”

“To find family, like you want to do.”

They stood there, in the middle of the deserted street, with the truck purring beside them and the chicken still rustling and softly clucking its concern in the back seat.  Grace could feel the oncoming wave of all the decisions waiting to be made, and struggled not to let them swamp her.  For now, they just needed to take the next step.

“Let’s finish this street, then try some of the stores and restaurants in town.  We should take as much as we can while we’re here – more trips into town will waste gas.”

Quinn nodded his agreement, and they continued.  In addition to food, Quinn started to come back with other useful items – toilet paper, a first aid kit, over-the-counter medicines.  Grace scanned the area endlessly, her muscles tight and ready to react in an instant, so much so that a throbbing headache had started at the base of her skull by the time they finished the long residential street.  Quinn, too, looked exhausted, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes , his face taut and gray with strain.

“Let’s just drive through town,” Grace suggested.  “If the stores look cleaned out, we’ll just forget it and go home.”

Quinn nodded without opening his eyes, and Grace kept glancing at him as she drove.  Finally, she asked.  “Was it really bad?”

“Yeah.”  Still, with closed eyes.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”  She drove on, part of her mind focused on scanning the streets and the store fronts – most of them sporting broken windows – part of her mind occupied with plans and contingencies.  She was so distracted, she didn’t see the men standing in the middle of the road, both of them holding shotguns, until it was almost too late to stop.

             
“Holy shit!  Quinn!  Look!”

             
Quinn’s eyes shot open and he lurched forward, hands on the dashboard, scanning quickly.  “It’s Mr. Weaver.  He owns the True Value.  And I think that’s his son – he coached William’s little league team one year.”

             
In unison, both men raised their shotguns.  The elder Mr. Weaver called out.

             
“Aren’t you one of the Harris boys?”

             
“Be ready to stomp on it,” Quinn hissed low.  “This feels bad.  Look at their eyes.”  He raised his voice, nodding.  “Yes, sir.  I’m Quinn Harris.”

             
The younger man stepped forward, shotgun still raised.  “We’re going to ask you to turn over all the goods you’ve stolen.  Looting is a crime.”

             
Quinn’s face twitched; in it, Grace could see a lifetime of obeying his elders warring with the need to adapt to a new world.  “Yes sir, it is, but we took only from those who no longer needed it.  And only what we need to survive.  Food and such.  We didn’t touch any valuables or money.”

             
The two men exchanged a long look.  Quinn reached out and gripped Grace’s leg.  “Be ready,” he whispered through stiff lips.  “If they squint when they look back at us, they’re going to shoot.  Floor it and swerve to your left around them.”

             
No sooner had he finished speaking than the two men returned their attention to the truck, and Grace saw exactly what Quinn had warned her about, as if the world had dropped into slow motion.  Their bodies tightened in preparation for the recoil, both men’s cheeks tucked in tight to site down their weapons, and without another thought, Grace jammed the gas pedal to the floor and jerked the wheel to the left. 

In an instant, the world became a deafening boom, flying glass, and a freaked-out chicken squawking and flapping in terror.  Quinn had dropped down to the floorboards, the windshield in front of him shattered, the glass in front of Grace webbed with fine lines. 

In the chaos, Grace’s mind was an island of cool logic, cataloging facts:  by telling her to go to the left, Quinn had directed the gunfire to his side of the truck; her tires were spinning ineffectually, so she lifted her foot slightly off the gas pedal, until she felt them catch and the truck lurched forward; the men had been caught by surprise, and for the moment at least, had lowered their weapons; Quinn had ducked, but he was twisted around, looking up at her, and he didn’t appear to be hurt; the chicken was going berserk and would probably die of a heart attack in the next few minutes.

That last fact made her snort with wild laughter, and she added another fact to her collection:  she might be a tiny bit hysterical.

“Stay down!” she barked, when Quinn would have lifted his head.  She flew past the two men, then watched them in the rearview mirror until they raised their guns again.  She held the truck steady, and ducked when she heard the double-boom.  The rear window exploded, the chicken let out what sounded like a scream and launched itself out the back window, flapping and fluttering wildly as it hit the back of the truck, then tumbled to the tarmac.