The car is pitch-black, it's cold, and I'm alone.
I can't tell if my eyes are open or not at first. I sit up slowly, also unable to tell if I'm still alive. How am I supposed to check? I place two fingers to my neck and find a soft, yet steady pulse. I rub the fabric of the blanket that lays over me with my other hand and feel the soft cotton. I take in deep breaths, shake out my hair.
"I think I'm alive," I whisper to no one, my voice quivering. Confusion, relief, and stress flood through me all at once. Confusion, because I shouldn't be alive. Relief, because I am. Stress, because Danny is not in the car with me.
I shift in my seat, checking the car. Two of the three bags we brought are gone. I look into the front seat. The keys are in the ignition, my dad's hammer in the driver's seat, and the axe is nowhere to be found.
I sit down in the backseat, wondering what time it is. It's pitch-black out and there's no way I'm leaving the safety of the car when the undead could be lurking around. I lower my head back down and pull the blanket up around my shoulders.
I must have been exhausted, because before I even have time to worry if I'll wake up again, I'm reawakening, sunlight piercing through my closed eyelids. I first sigh thankfully, but dread again weighs heavily on my shoulders.
Danny is gone, and I have no idea whether she's still alive or not, nor do I have any clue where she might head to if she is alive. I think about calling her, but I quickly remember that she had forgotten her phone at her parents' house. I wonder how long it was after I passed out before Danny left me here, how far she had to go to get to another car, if she made it, if she's safe. She must have left while the sun was still up; doing otherwise would be downright unintelligent, and Danny was not unintelligent.
My stomach growls, and I take inventory of the things Danny left behind. There's only some food and a little water left, besides the blanket that Danny laid on me while I was sleeping. I find a can of ravioli—figures; Danny doesn't like ravioli—when I try to recall if I was smart enough to bring a can opener. If I was, Danny took that as well before she left.
I stare down at the unopened can longingly, and then tuck it away. Finding a box of granola bars, I eat two and drink half a bottle of water. I'm still hungry, but I want to save my resources. Who knows when the next time I'll come across food will be.
After folding up the blanket and shoving it back in the bag with the food and water, I grab the hammer from the driver's seat and open the car door.
I thought I'd never feel sunlight again. I spread my arms wide and soak up the sun, when I catch a glimpse of the bloody bandage around my wrist. "Should change that," I mutter. But the first aid kit is also gone.
Sitting on the passenger side, I open up the glove compartment to look for something helpful. "Score!" I cry, finding that the previous owner of the car was smart enough—or cautious enough—to store a first aid kit there. Glad Danny didn't see it and snatch it for herself, I find another roll of gauze and begin to undo my bandages.
I pause in between wrappings to examine the bite marks: a semi-circle at the curve of my wrist, and a matching imprint on the underside. Each dent is perfectly etched into my skin, dried blood lining the toothprints. I use some disinfectant from the kit on the wound, taking in a sharp breath when it stings. Then I carefully wrap it with clean gauze and tie it off neatly when I'm finished.
"Now, where to?" I ask aloud. Looking up through the windshield, the empty highway stretches out before me.
I try weighing my options.
I can go...anywhere.
"So much for that," I mutter. Do I want to keep the car, or should I try to find something sturdier? Or maybe another gas-smart vehicle? A car has protection, but a motorcycle has a distinct advantage when it comes to distance.
I hop over into the driver's side and find the keys hanging in the ignition. I turn them, the engine roaring to life. I list my priorities. One, stay alive. Two, find Danny. Three, find others.
If I were Danny, where would I go? I mull over the options. She most likely won't head back west, because she would be going headfirst into the direction of the virus, and she definitely won't be returning home. I find myself searching my memories, trying to decipher unspoken thoughts.
She used to go down to the southern part of the state, to a town called Lake Geneva. She had family there; I think an aunt and uncle. It sits on a lake—naturally—and she whiled the hours away at the shore with her sister in the summer.
Her sister. Her younger sister was there. Surely Danny would go there to see if she was all right? Plus, staying out of big cities would be the smartest thing to do; there would be too many undead in denser areas. Not to mention city streets are hard enough to navigate when there isn't a nation-wide plague, but streets in cities will probably be filled with abandoned cars, so it wouldn't be optimal for travel.
I go back into the glove compartment and pull out a map to find the quickest course to Lake Geneva.
On the way, I come across a man in his forties, driving a pale blue pickup truck. He must have seen me in his rearview mirror, because he pulls over shortly after I catch up to him. I follow suit. At first, I'm thrilled that there's another survivor—I got so excited that as I waited I hastily tried to decide what we should talk about first.
But the moment he steps out of his car, something doesn't feel right. My stomach twists and I decide that instead of getting out of my car to greet him, I roll down my window only an inch and leave the engine running. I check to make sure my doors are all locked.
"Well, look'a'choo, yer a purdy thang, that you are." He speaks in a heavy country drawl, a toothpick hanging limply from his lips. "Why don'cha come on into my truck, keep each other comp'ny?"
The whiskey on his breath quickly makes my decision for me. My eyes narrow as I ask, "Where're you headed?"
"To wherever has the most pleasurable comp'ny, o'course," he barks a laugh; the smell of alcohol chokes me. He reaches for my door handle and tries to pry my door open.
I don't bother giving him a response. I put the car in drive and step on the gas. Not long later, I see his truck following me in my rearview mirror, but his sluggish pickup truck falls completely out of view about seven miles later.
The next people I meet are a young couple in a Honda, probably in their mid-twenties. "We heard there was a growing resistance held up in a hospital on the outskirts of Chicago," the girl tells me, her bright blue eyes wide.
I heard that radio broadcast, too. "I'd stay away from hospitals, if I were you," I warn. "All of the sick were told to go there; the place is probably crawling with the undead."
The girl appears wounded; the boy appears annoyed. "You should come with us," the boy tells me despite his apparent displeasure. "We should stick together."
I think of priority number three—find others. But it's simply not as important as priority number one: stay alive. "I would, but I'm looking for someone," I tell them.
A handful of miles later, I come across a bright red Dodge Ram. Inside were two college-aged guys along with an older woman who was probably in her sixties.
"Nice ride," I admire. It's a giant compared to my Chevy.
"It handles the monsters well," one of the college boys respond. "Where're you headed?"
"Lake Geneva."
The other boy raises his eyebrow. "Why?"
"I think my friend is headed there."
The boys exchange looks and shrug. "We don't know where we're going yet. Away from here. We heard about a small town in lockdown in Missouri that only take in people who haven't been in contact with the monsters."
"I heard about a hospital at the edge of Chicago..."
"Don't head there, man," the young driver tells me. "Worst thing you could do. The infection definitely spread to everyone there by now. Plus, bad vibes."
"Bad vibes?"
"Everyone that went to a hospital after they got bit were killed on the spot," the driver explains. "Definitely not good mojo."
"Killed?" I echo quietly.
"On the spot," the driver repeats.
"Meanwhile anyone of any kind of political importance are hiding underground or on some space station in the sky," the old woman says from the back seat. "Frankly, I can't say I'm too surprised. They were cowards in office, and now they're cowards out of office."
"The joke's on them," says the guy behind the wheel. "At the rate people are dropping, they're not going to have much of a world to come back to."
"What do you think the chances are of them letting anyone else in?" I muse.
"Slim to none." Both boys nod in agreement. "Definitely none."
"Well, then, take care of yourselves."
"Maybe we'll bump into each other again," the driver says.
I smile. Suddenly, inspiration hits. "Hey, you got a cell phone? And a charger?"
"Sure do. Car charger."
"Good planner. Let's exchange numbers, okay? You can let me know if Missouri is all you heard it to be." I pause. "By the way, have you come across a girl named Danny?"
"Danny? No, can't say we have."
After exchanging numbers, we say our goodbyes and the truck pulls off ahead.
The last people I encounter on the highway are two young women who look to be in their early thirties. Prayer beads hang from the rearview mirror; holy water sits in the cup holder between them.
They tell me they're searching for the best place to, "Relinquish our souls to our Almighty God, for the plague marks the sin of man and this apocalypse marks the second coming of Jesus Christ our Savior..."
I cut the visit short.
Back on the road, my mind wanders. What sort of world will this next world become? Filled with a random assortment of survivors. Will the disease ever stop spreading? The thought isn't as thrilling as I might have once thought. The world starting anew should be exciting and fresh.
Mostly it's just horrifying.
My eyes land on my bandaged wrist and I wonder something else. Are there more people like me, who aren't affected by the virus? Surely I can't be so atypical to be the only one in the world who was bit but didn't change. Didn't change at all, in fact—I feel exactly the same as before the bite, but maybe a little tired from sleeping so long.
And if there are more people, will we be able to survive longer than the undead? Surely they'll starve to death after a given time, won't they? Just like any other living creature...
But are they more alive than dead? I mull this over. It'd be hard to determine anything without observing them with my own eyes. I wonder, do they retain any sort of memory at all? Does any part of their brains recognize loved ones?
Kylie's face flashes across my mind. Her living face, not the deadened one from yesterday. Surely it can't have only been yesterday?
Her living face, glowing radiantly in the summer sunlight, laughing with me about something stupid that day. This is the face I remember.
And for a moment, I wonder if there is anything I can do for the girl I remember. I wonder if there's anything the survivors can do for any of them.
I wonder if there's any way to save these lost souls.