Dating After the End of the World - 5

The loud bang of a trash can toppling over a block or two away cuts my outburst short. New plan. Think, Casey, think. My truck. I search my backpack and pull out the spare key that I thankfully had the foresight to throw in there. The truck was a gift from my dad when I got my license, but I rarely drive it now, only moving it around at the city’s request for winter snow parking restrictions and street sweeping. It’s actually been a nuisance to keep, and I don’t know why I never got rid of it. Maybe deep down, I knew I’d need it one day.

I take off toward where I’m pretty sure I last left it parked, praying it’s still there. It should have been in Nate’s two-car garage, but he was not open to that idea. His excuse for that arrangement being, “It’s a Porsche, babe. It needs room to breathe.” I roll my eyes at the thought of his selfishness. He may have been charming and useful when things were normal, but clearly, he’s not a good fiancé to have in the end of times, especially since he ditched me at the first sight of danger.

The street is full of abandoned vehicles, debris, and decaying bodies. I’m careful as I move, crouching and hiding behind anything I can so as not to draw attention. Sticking close to buildings, I keep my back safe from exposure to the unknown. As I round another corner, I spot my truck parked three blocks down, still sitting untouched. I know I left a full tank of gas in it, and no one can start that old hunk of rust except for me—so the only worry I have is that someone could have siphoned my fuel.

Crossing the first street, I look both ways to make sure the coast is clear. There’s nothing except abandoned vehicles and shattered storefronts. It looks like a bomb was dropped right in the middle of Chicago. I pause to listen for any potential sounds of danger, like snarls and groans from a biter or just another human’s voice. You can’t trust anyone these days. The wind whips through the city, curving its way through hollowed-out buildings, emitting an eerie whistle unlike anything I’ve ever heard before.

I pass by the next two streets without a hitch, and I’m now within a hundred feet of my truck. A sense of relief washes over me—but it passes quickly at the sound of a raspy growl. A biter slinks out of the alley, cutting off the clear path to my truck. Despite the fact that its nose is mostly rotted off, it sniffs the air as it shuffles. I could wait it out, see if it wanders in the other direction, but I can’t take the risk of it spotting me because it’ll attract others.

Sliding my trusty knife from its sheath, I crouch as low to the ground as I can, slowly making my way toward it. The biter stops in its tracks and twists its head around wildly, smelling the air. There’s clearly something it likes. I glance down at my bloodstained shirt, realizing it’s me. Shit. I have no choice. I’ve gotta act now.

With my knife held out in front of me, I charge at the biter. The sound of my shoes pounding against the pavement catches its attention, and it turns to face me. The creature emits a scream just as I thrust the knife at a forty-five-degree angle up under its chin, ensuring it pierces through the cerebellum and into the brain stem. Its scream is instantly extinguished. I don’t know much about these creatures, but what I do know is how to kill them, thanks to watching burners take them out on the street these past six weeks. I jerk the blade down with force, dislodging it from its skull. Black, putrid sludge oozes from the wound, remnants of blood that has long since rotted into something . . . inhuman. The creature collapses to the pavement like a sack of potatoes.

I quickly scan my surroundings, making sure its brief scream didn’t attract more of them. All clear, or so it seems. I reach my truck, manually unlock it, and pull open the door. Tossing my backpack into the passenger’s seat, I crawl inside, gently closing the driver-side door behind me. I haven’t driven this old heap in months, and I worry it won’t start.

“Come on, girl,” I whisper as I stick the key in the ignition and turn it.

Rgghh. Rggghh. Rgghhh.

The sound of grinding metal screeches from beneath the hood, but the engine doesn’t turn over.

“Come on!”

Again. Rgghh. Rgghh. Rgghh .

“Shit!” I twist the key again and again, but it’s nothing but noise.

Screams roar in the distance. Through the grimy windshield, a blur of motion about fifty yards north draws my attention. I can’t quite make it out, but I know it’s nothing good.

I pump the gas pedal several times and punch the dashboard with a closed fist. “Come on, you piece of shit!”

I turn the key once again, and the engine sputters and then finally comes to life.

“ Yes !”

I flick on the windshield wipers and let loose what remaining wiper fluid I have, washing away leaves and grime. The world before me becomes clear, and I wish it hadn’t. A dozen biters zigzag down the street, all in different stages of decay. They scream as they move toward me at varying speeds, from nearly running to a slow, stumbling stagger.

I put the truck in drive and pull out onto the street, lining up the front hood ornament with the center of the hungry horde. I smash my foot down on the gas pedal, and the speedometer climbs to forty before I collide with the first biter. My truck bounces as it drives over the corpse-shaped speed bump. The bowling ball that is my vehicle continues to knock down the fleshy pins as it speeds ahead. Bodies get caught up underneath the tires and axles, reducing my momentum far more than I want them to.

“Come on. Don’t give up on me now,” I say as I tightly grip the steering wheel and press down even harder on the gas pedal.

One biter, instead of being run over, is kicked up onto the hood. Half of its jaw is torn off, so its tongue flaps wildly in the wind. The creature punches the windshield, but it does far more damage to its own hand than the truck. Blood and decayed flesh smear across the glass as its rotting skin gives out instantly, a bloody sack bursting over the windshield. I break free of the final group of biters and begin to accelerate again while the biter continues its attack. I need to get the damn thing off, and I need to do it now.

I slam on my brake pedal. The tires screech, and the truck comes to an abrupt halt, sending the biter flying through the air. It smashes against the pavement twenty yards ahead, a mangled splat of bone, flesh, and black sludge.

With the chaos briefly subsided, I get my bearings and plan my exit route out of the city. Major highways like 94 and 41 are going to be parking lots full of abandoned vehicles by the thousands, making passage nearly impossible. From what I can see thus far, the city streets are manageable; if I take it slow and use the sidewalks when needed, I can get out of here. Outside Chicago, I’ll have to stick to back roads and small county highways to stay undetected and ensure I don’t get stuck in a gridlock of abandoned vehicles. It’ll add hours to the trip, but it will be much safer. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll make it.

I start driving, passing through a city I don’t recognize anymore. It’s sad what it’s become, what the world’s become, and I don’t know how we got here. I don’t think anyone does. Whatever this is, it’s clearly some sort of a virus, but unlike anything we’ve seen before. It sickens the brain, more so than the body. But the real question is, Where did it come from? Was it made in a lab, or has God had enough of us? Was it an accident, or was it released on purpose? And if it was the latter, by who? I’m not sure we’ll ever have those answers. And even if we did, it wouldn’t change anything. This is our world now.

Turning right onto a cross street, I spot a group of burners up ahead standing outside a ransacked convenience store. They yell and animatedly flail their arms in an attempt to flag me down. But I’m not stopping for anyone. One of them points his gun at me, and several others take off, trying to run in front of my truck, but I push down on the gas pedal and blow past them, flipping them off. I knew there was no way they were going to shoot at me. Bullets are too valuable, and the noise is too dangerous. They become just a blip in my rearview mirror.

As I exit the city limits, the streets become clearer, and biter and burner sightings less frequent. But if I thought the city looked bizarre, I wasn’t ready for what the suburbs had in store. With more open space, more large homes to loot and explore, more wood to set on fire, the chaos is no better than in the city. Massive four-thousand-plus-square-foot homes ablaze like signal torches dotted across subdivisions. Blackened trees look like onyx scarecrows. Bodies lie in the streets, women and children fleeing as a last resort. Traffic lights are strewn across intersections, their signals all now the same black.

I’m grateful when I pass through the suburbs and the city is just a speck in the rearview mirror. I used to hate driving long distances, with only cornfields and flatlands serving as my surroundings. It was boring, but now boring is a luxury, and I love every minute of it. A field of gold is a beautiful sight compared to the mayhem I’ve left behind. Occasionally, I pass a few cars on the side of the road, people having crashed, run out of gas, or broken down. And there’re still bodies, but they’re few and far between out in the country, with land so flat, I can see all the way to the horizon. It’s calming, and it’s the first time I’ve felt calm in a very long time, even before the world ended.

After another hour on the road, my high beams light up the Welcome to Wisconsin road sign, signaling that there’s only another hour or so before I reach my childhood home, a place I vowed never to return to. The compound my father created was mired in the past, a place to trap things in, only allowing them to grow within the confines of the world he created. His isolationism kept him safe and alive, but it also kept him from living. I knew if I ever allowed myself to get dragged back into his world, I would only become a product of what he wanted. Rather than a life of love, helping others, excitement, and new experiences, it would be one of fear, distrust, discipline. But with the world over and no new experiences to be had—not good ones, anyway—and no one to love or help who I can’t assume will try to kill me or eat me, home is exactly where I’m headed. Turns out it only took an apocalypse to bring me back.