Five Weeks Later

——

Day 65: June 12th, Saturday
Two Months since Ground Zero

Even in the early dawn, the heat was killing me.

June in the Atlantic Northeast was much different than June in the Pacific Northwest. The latter rarely went up to the eighties; half of the month had torrential rains or light showers, times for river rafting, fishing, and comfortable, humid camping. In the Northeastern seaboard, June was a brutal assault of sweltering dry heat choking down your throat that you can't even fucking breathe. Or perhaps I was just over-dramatic.

I stretched my aching muscles as I clamored out of bed. I shuffled over to the window to see if I had opened it last night, and sure enough, I did. The breeze was still warm and uncomfortable all night, and I reckoned the temperature would be in the high eighties again today. I was not looking forward to it.

"This sucks," I muttered under my breath. Technically, it wouldn't start in the twentieth, where it would be the longest day of the year (and one of the hottest days), the summer solstice.

In some ancient cultures, they would build massive bonfires and wear garlands of herbs and flowers in celebration of the coming solstice, thought to ward off evil spirits and bring good luck for their crops and harvests, and in some cases, lead the young women to their future husbands. Well, we certainly had large bonfires from the countless burning cities across the country, yet I doubted it'd ward off evil. After all, they're the ones doing the burning. I also doubted people were getting married left and right, but hey, it's the end of the world, so that they might have been going at it like rabbits already.

So yeah. Fuck summer.

The house was quiet, and I assumed the others might still be asleep. We had picked a lovely suburban home for shelter just east of Stamford, nestled in a quiet spot next to the neighborhood park and the woods, a good vantage point, and an escape route if we got surrounded. Previously we hopped from one town to another before we found it, scavenging for food and supplies, never staying long in one town for more than a couple of days. Occasionally, we would get stuck in one town due to a massive horde passing by, unable to move until they were a safe distance away.

We learned quickly that a massive horde combined developed a particular acuity on hearing. They couldn't see things for shit, but their hearing...man. It's the stuff of nightmares. We had to keep quiet and hunker down. We couldn't even cook our meals, eating them cold from the can.

But when we got to Stamford, it turned into three long weeks. Peter said we had to wait until my leg healed properly. It was entirely my fault. I fell off a ladder during a supply run I insisted on going, too confident that my leg had healed (only falling off from the last four rungs, not even that high, but Peter's been a drama queen lately), giving the others a scare. They watched me vigilantly as if my wound would get infected or become septic, though the only downside I saw was that I was bed-ridden again. Without a proper medic in the group, we had to be a lot more careful. They would go off and loot the town for supplies and medicine without me, but they never ventured further than necessary.

Stamford was safer than the previous ones we've explored. It was a small town of four thousand people, and most of them were gone, evacuated a long time ago, leaving the town an empty shell of its former self. The handful that remained, however, we avoided them like the plague itself. The vectors might be dangerous, but we learned quickly to watch out for the people that had lived this long, who had turned desperate and done some fucked-up shit. We had no idea how they would react to our presence, so we kept a low profile.

Logan and Miguel both swore they could hear dozens of growls congregated near downtown during their supply run (the furthest they'd ever gone), and I took their word for it. No doubt there were vectors there since that's where the local hospital was located—ground zero for the plague. We hadn't encountered infected individuals for the last few weeks since we got here, and we liked to keep it that way. As for the other survivors, we never contacted them unless it was for trade (and there were barely any friendlies left to do that).

I looked down at my leg. It had healed, but I still made that awkward gait without thinking, believing I needed to limp when I technically could use my legs as if nothing happened, even run a marathon if I wanted to. Haskell told me it's a ghost nerve, some muscle memory that would dissipate in time, but I didn't think that was a thing or medically accurate. He swore it would go away in a few weeks.

Now that the others thought I was ready to move on my own, we've been preparing for our next trip to Pittsburgh the past few days, but coupled with the sweltering heat, it was exhausting and a maddening chore. Pittsburgh was the nearest Safe Zone from Albany, and we thought Margot, Henry, and Tessa might have been brought there after the evacuation. We hoped Pittsburgh was still standing and secure.

Nevertheless, Peter insisted on exploring Binghampton; the nearest CRA satellite outpost shared between Albany and Pittsburgh. Though, only the latter controlled it now. We barely had enough bullets left to fight off another horde, and it was good to resupply there, maybe get some gas for our humvee, and stock up some high caliber for our machine gun propped up the turret, standing there idle for days without bullets.

I plopped back down on the bed. My own sweat had soaked the sheets. I already pulled back all the blankets off, so I barely had any on me last night. Hell, I'm practically naked in my room, and that didn't even help. I wondered how the others had faired, though I surmised they were suffering from the heat as I did. Staying in this house for three weeks, I was glad Peter relented to have our own rooms. It would be miserable to be huddled into one in this weather.

Feeling thirsty, I pulled the water bottle out of my backpack. It was half empty, and I felt guilty sacrificing a sip just to satisfy my thirst. I tried not to think about it as I opened the cap and took two sips. There. I felt better.

I lay down on my back, staring at the useless ceiling fan. "If only you'd work, I'd have some decent sleep."

Stop complaining, Luke would say, and I let out a smirk. Think about it. At least you have a roof and a fucking nice bed, probably expensive mattress and sheets, right?

I dropped my stupid smile and shut my eyes tight. I pinched the bridge of my nose, muttering, "Okay, okay, okay."

Get up. It's a brand new day. Lots of things to do...Luke's voice grew distant in my mind.

"Luke," I whispered his name, could feel something pulling within me, but every time I tried to find it, the warmth would dissipate, and suddenly, nothing mattered but the hollow pit in my stomach. I tried not to gaze through it, fearing that I would lose myself if I lingered there. It felt good to say his name, but like every other time I'd spoken it, I was greeted with silence. I sighed.

I snorted and felt the bedsheets with my fingers, so soft and velvety. "Hey, it is a nice bed. I'd enjoy it more with air conditioning, though."

It had been days since the entire electrical grid had stopped working, which meant all the commodities we had enjoyed and taken for granted had vanished within a blink of an eye. It meant no more hot showers, no more cooking in the microwave, no more storing perishables in the refrigerator, and definitely no more electricity to make every job easier.

That happened by Day Sixty.

Frankly, I was impressed that several brave people from the energy services kept the lights on for two whole months, giving everyone a chance to prepare and defend themselves against the pandemic. It certainly helped us. I reckoned that it took a lot of grit and sacrifice on their part, even if the government gave them little protection against the growing horde of vectors. I tip my hat and call them heroes for holding the line. I liked to think that their efforts saved countless lives, keeping millions from dying off from hunger and thirst in the first weeks of the outbreak when they couldn't access the necessities before the shit hit the fan. I liked to imagine everyone came prepared before they were gone.

Of course, that was only wishful thinking.

Now that the lights were out for good, I tried to ignore what would happen to the millions of people without access to it. I couldn't even comprehend what's going on around the globe.

"They call it a die-off," Peter had said the first night the lights went out. "It was a theory swirling around. There was a study after nine-eleven of what would happen if there's an electromagnetic attack in the US. They determined that we can't support to feed and shelter at least sixty percent of the population. That's only in the first year."

"General Donahue was hoarding thousands of pounds of rations and supplies," Haskell recalled and then dejectedly shook his head. "Fuck. It's all burned down now, all wasted."

I shook my head, still bitter that probably the hoard of supplies we had accumulated from West Point got burnt down as well. It had been five days without electricity. I wondered how many have died from that already, especially in the still working hospitals, patients who needed defibrillators, drugs, and other life-saving equipment to survive. I shuddered from the image.

I glanced at my half-empty bottle sitting on the nightstand. I made a mental note to go down the creek and grab a gallon of water to boil later. I speculated we might need it for our long trip to Binghampton and Pittsburgh. I made another mental note to volunteer for the task today. Anything with water sounded good right about now, maybe even dipped my toes in for a nice, cool bath.

I heard the floorboards creaked out in the hallway. Someone other than me was finally awake.

I got up from the bed again and sauntered over to the armchair propped at the corner of the room. I laid my clothes on top of it before I went to bed. I reached out for my black boxer briefs and put them on, catching a glance at my body on the mirror hanging by the closet door.

I frowned.

It was shocking what two months of running, hunting, scavenging, and fighting could do to the human body. Without electricity, we couldn't preserve most of our fresh meats and other perishables, so we either eat it out of a can or hunt for it (we were barely incompetent with the latter). We could shove some meats into our bellies twice a week.

Even with the limited resources, my body had become leaner and tighter; gone were the pudge on my sides, the plump of my cheeks, muscles clinging around my abdomen, toning my physique. I could even see a resemblance of abs and biceps, my shoulders and chest becoming more defined each day. In the past, I would have celebrated, but I'd rather be fat and have all the food I want than what I have now.

Call me lazy, but I do not like hunting for my own food.

I chuckled when I remembered what Logan said a week ago. "Instead of doing keto, paleo, gluten-free, or going vegan, we're doing the apocalypse diet," he said as he tried to swallow some bland beans out of a can (they were not good). Sad but true.

I continued putting on my clothes.

I cringed when I caught sight of my sweat-stained white shirt, if even you could still call it white. I ruffled through my bag and grabbed a clean one, a simple olive-colored v-neck t-shirt. I thought I couldn't see dirt on this one easily than the white one, so I put it on, put on the folded jeans on the armchair, and then my newly looted waterproof boots. Could I still even call it stealing? Money has no value anymore.

I froze. I caught sight of Luke's jacket rolled deep inside my bag, and I hastily packed down some of the stuff I had pulled out, hiding it from view. I had forgotten I packed it before we left the farmhouse.

Other than my memory, It was the only thing I have of Luke left.

——

I stepped out of my room, bringing my backpack with me, and went down the stairs. Yousef was already awake, carefully folding his prayer rug from the living room. He heard me go down the stairs, our eyes met, and I gave him a wave.

"You just got done praying?" I asked.

"Yes. I'm still getting used to waking up very early than the rest of you lot," Yousef said.

"You prayed for anything good?"

Yousef snorted. "Always, dude. Always. Like you even have to ask."

It took some time to get used to Yousef waking up early than the rest of us. I often grabbed Betty every time I'd hear a muffled creak on the floorboards, thinking it was a vector. I had learned quickly to be a light sleeper than most of everyone. Before the pandemic, I could sleep through my ringing alarm clock. Times's changed, and I adapted.

Yousef hadn't done it before, praying five times a day, claiming himself to be a non-practicing Muslim, even eating bacon the last time. But since Luke's death, everything had changed. Yousef thought it best for him to reconnect with his religion and all the things that his family had taught him before, something that he chose to shun so that he could conform under peer pressure and wouldn't be an outcast in high school. All of those predisposed notions were gone now.

I didn't want to intrude on what he thought was good for him, and I never voiced my opinions about higher divinities and their powers as I am not religious myself, but I left him alone to do as he pleased. Everyone dealt with the end of the world differently, and if it wasn't hurting anybody, who am I to judge? After all, mine came in a different package.

Haskell wasn't a fan of it, however. As I said, Yousef would pray five times a day, finding a spot in the house that faced Kabah, which was the living room, a custom he called Salah. He would do it even if it's in the middle of a supply run, though he usually had a knack for spotting the safest place to do it. But Haskell always gave him crap about it, a reason why I always insisted to Peter or Miguel not to put Yousef with Haskell if they went out for supply runs.

"Could you chill with all that Allah shit, man," Haskell said once, "Ain't no making a difference whatsoever. Your people might have caused this mess, to begin with."

Haskell saw things through the tinted glasses of an American soldier, feeling uncomfortable or somewhat creeped out, since Yousef sometimes had to recite some prayers aloud, all in Arabic (Haskell still believed that terrorists caused the plague). Though he tolerated it before (barely), that day was different. We could not find food for three whole days, waiting out a horde of about a hundred, our hunger, and our empty, grumbling stomachs fucking up our minds. Yousef had just prayed after midday, the heat getting the better of us, raising our tempers into new heights.

Still, there were no excuses for bigotry.

Some swings traded, some blood was drawn—mostly from Haskell and me—but after I punched him and Haskell earned that slit scar on his lip, he never talked to Yousef like that ever again or rather when I'm around. Peter forced Haskell to apologize to Yousef, but I wasn't there to hear it, so I couldn't judge if it were sincere or not. All I knew was that the two men seemed to be on good terms, albeit I could still feel some tension between them. I still kept an eye out for Yousef.

I shook the memory out of my mind.

"Breakfast?" Yousef asked me, pointing to the kitchen.

I blinked in surprise. "Uh...yeah. Sure. You, um, made it?" Yousef might be good at other things, but cooking ain't one of them.

Yousef raised his hands to yield. "Hey, I didn't make it, so it's perfectly safe."

I grinned and strode toward the kitchen. I heard humming from there and saw Miguel twirling around the island table in the middle of the room, soft music playing from a battery-powered radio over the counter.

"Morning," Miguel said.

"Good morning. Smells good."

"Of course. I cooked it." Miguel flashed me a smile. If anyone in the group I'd stick with for a long time, it would be Miguel. The dude could cook anything. After all, he was the only decent cook in our group.

On the large pot was a simple rice porridge mixed with canned peas & carrots, the smell of ginger and basil wafting out of it. Miguel made a swift flourish with his hands, putting crushed peanuts on top of them. "Extra protein," Miguel said cheekily.

I grabbed the ladle for my serving. We decided that everyone could only get two scoops each unless there's some left on the pot for second helpings (which rarely happened). We only had two bags of rice left, and Miguel, as our designated cook, would only use two cups each day.

I looked over the pot, and I realized he cooked too many. "How many cups did you use?" I asked.

Miguel's smile widened. "Six. You can grab a third scoop."

It was music to my ears, and I started to salivate. Though, this must be a trap. "But--"

"Binghampton today, remember? Gauthier said we had to get our stomachs filled before we left, said something about gearing our energy up for the trip. He says to make a meal out of it. I, of course, happily dunnit."

I turned to Yousef and handed the ladle to him.

"I already ate," Yousef said.

I wasn't much of a fan of porridge, but food is food, so I ate my breakfast within a couple of minutes. When the others woke up and came down, I was so hungry that I was still left with a third scoop to eat on the pot. I happily put it onto my bowl and devoured it. Starting the day with a warm meal made every task a little easier. Alfie passed around some black tea of pomegranate and citrus that he brewed and gave us a cup.

I looked around the room as everyone ate their meal in silence. We had a reason to be nervous about the trip to Binghamton, and most of that involved the potential of encountering another horde of vectors. Still, we needed the supplies, some food with more nutritional value, and weapons for our next stop to Pittsburgh, which probably would have more vectors outside the safe zone's walls. Everyone was already dressed up and ready, though I couldn't help but notice how drastic the changes in our body were from five weeks ago.

Without proper razors, most of the men in the group had grown stubbles, scruffs, and beards. I, however, was rather lucky (or unlucky depending on your opinion) on that front because I barely could grow facial hair, merely a sad thin fuzz to stare at. Logan had the most drastic change, a black beard that made him look seven years older, but he maintained it short using scissors. Logan's hair grew quicker than most, and he had given up to keep his face clean-shaven or his hair cropped short. I had offered to cut his hair, but he recoiled away from me as if I'd stab him instead.

Logan said to me once after his fifth attempt at shaving, "This is good,"—gesturing at his beard—"It makes me look older. More mature. Intimidating. If anyone's gonna mess with us, they'd think for a sec."

I snorted. "Yeah, you wish," I said. Though I agreed with him, I just didn't want to admit it, trying to hide my own jealousy.

"Are you jealous?" Logan raised an eyebrow at me, stifling a smirk.

"No!" I said right away. "Jealous? Me? For a beard? Like that ever happens. Ha."

I hated that I looked like the most green, the youngest, the most baby-face, and the inexperienced one in the group, which was contrary to reality, I believe. The only thing true of those statements was that I was the youngest, being seventeen and all. I was that lanky red-shirt rookie in countless war movies that could barely hold his gun, and had to be rescued by the main hero multiple times, or would die on the first mission. I looked helpless like I couldn't stand up for myself. It was pathetic.

"Ah, don't worry, Watts. If we get in trouble with the other survivors, they will take you out last," Logan said.

"Why?"

"Because you look weak. You can use that as a weapon, too, you know. You'd be deadly to your enemies, making them drop their guard down."

I was too offended to think what Logan had said, and I smacked his shoulder, storming out of the room in a huff. However, once my mind had calmed down, I realized he had a point.

Logan sat in front of me with his bowl of porridge, pulling me out of my memory. He was massaging the side of his temples.

"Something wrong?" I asked him.

"I couldn't sleep much last night," he grumbled.

I looked around the room again. I realized maybe we were eating in seething silence because we all did not get proper sleep, not because we were nervous. "Um, I think you're not alone."

Once breakfast was made, Peter gathered us around the dining room again to reiterate our routes and plans so that the others wouldn't be confused. I could practically recite everything he said already after hearing it so often: Don't do this, Bren. Do this, Bren. You can't have that, Bren. You have to use this, Bren...and blah, blah, blah.

Peter had planned the route for the past couple of weeks and how we're going to enter Binghampton. He had the entire regional map of New York. Then the map of Binghampton laid out on the dining table (the latter he printed out when electricity was still working), blue lines and arrows labeled around the city limits, heavily avoiding the interstates and highways, which meant we're going to drive through the back roads again, making our trip longer. Red x-marks were for the heavily infected zones where the last horde was spotted or announced on the radio, some areas with potentially hostile survivors, and checkmarks for places already looted and scavenged. A large blue circle was around downtown Binghampton, and Peter had labeled it in big letters: CRA.

I studied the city map more. Most of the bridges crossing the Susquehanna River were concentrated right around downtown, and Peter had labeled all of them with red x-marks, which meant no crossings because the military had bombed them. West of Binghampton was mostly suburban, many potential places to find refuge if the CRA outpost was a bust before heading out for Pittsburgh.

I withdrew from the table. Venturing downtown seemed like a high risk, considering there were reports of infection in the city before Albany fell. Then again, we did hear chatter over the radio that the CRA was still there, taking in survivors. But that was over three weeks ago.

A lot can happen in three weeks.

Peter put down the satellite GPS tracker he got from a hardware store on the table, possibly the most important device we had. Even though we no longer had access to the internet and our phones, the tracker could still use the orbiting satellites as they were mostly automated (and, in theory, could last for a decade in Earth's orbit without human interference).

"Listen, we're gonna do this quick and fast. No hiccups. Remember, there are reports of vectors in the city, and given that the news was weeks old, they might have grown into a substantial horde and could potentially pose a threat on the outpost. Let's hope they still stand. We saw what they did to Albany. Pray it's not the same," Peter said.

The humvee sat inside the garage. We rarely used it since we got into town since it's so conspicuous, plus it ate gas like it's in a fucking buffet. We had to do all the scavenging on foot to save resources. We put all our bags and supplies at the back.

"You sit at the front," Peter told me. He was driving.

I scowled. "What, so you can keep an eye on me?"

"Yes," he answered seriously without hesitation.

"My leg's fine now. You don't have to babysit me. I can handle myself, thank you very much," I said sarcastically.

Peter stared hard at me for a moment before walking away.

I rolled my eyes. "Such an asshole," I muttered.

"You got that right," Logan said beside me.

"Jesus! Stop sneaking up on me!"

"Er, sorry."

"You know what? Let's sit together," I said, glancing at Peter, who pulled Alfie away from the passenger seat and pointed the poor man to the back seat. Alfie heaved a sigh and stomped to the back, mumbling a curse.

Logan raised his eyebrows at me. "Oh?"

"Yes. I don't want to sit next to Peter."

"So childish, Watts. You sure you don't want to be an adult?" Logan said jokingly, grinning.

"Maybe I like your company. Have you thought of that?"

"You never liked my company."

"Now I do."

"Can I bore you with some sports talk?"

"You know I hate sports. Are you trying to keep me away?"

"Peter has his eyes on you. I'm trying to get on his good side. The dude keeps giving me the worst jobs."

That was true, now that I thought about it. Logan would always get the crappiest night watch duties, interrupting him in the middle of his sleep. Sometimes, he would go further into town during a scavenging mission, coming dangerously close to the hospital where most vectors were located. I gave Peter some crap about it, but I didn't think he listened. Since I couldn't go anywhere, Peter had taken it upon himself to lead the group.

"Sorry," I said to Logan.

"Now that your leg's healed up, maybe you'd take the reins."

I looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You can be our leader again."

"I wasn't a leader, to begin with."

"Yes, you are."

I scoffed. "You remember things differently than I do. That wasn't leading."

Logan frowned at me. He put his hand on my shoulder. "Bren..."

I shrugged him away. "I don't want to talk about it."

Peter had swept the group into a routine with an iron fist. There were schedules we need to keep up with, things that we had to do so that we didn't run out of supplies, and we calculate our calorie intake so that we didn't go malnourished. At most, they were hard to follow, and Peter never allowed any of us to be lenient if we fucked up. But those days were a haze to me after Luke's death, waking up screaming from countless bouts of nightmares, unable to eat, and sometimes staring out of the window in a stupor. But it was a routine, and I clung to it dearly, giving me something to keep my mind off things.

Peter had looked out for me, though he wouldn't give it up now that I'm feeling fine.

Or at least I believed I am.

Logan wouldn't let it go, however. "But you are. You led us out of New York. You led us to Albany—"

"Logan. Please. Don't mention that ever again to me."

Logan ran his fingers through his hair. "I—I'm sorry. Okay. I won't bring it up again." A brief silence enveloped us, and I thought about just walking away when Logan spoke first. "So...you still want my company?"

I looked at Logan, then to Peter, and then back to Logan again. I let out a small smile. "Yes."

Miguel and Haskell opened the garage doors. It was still eerie not hearing cars on the road or any signs of civilization. There was just the wind rustling the leaves, the birds flying past, and our own noise. No trains, airplanes, the hum of home appliances, or other people's voices walking around the neighborhood. I walked over to the back hatch and climbed through, ignoring the looks that Peter gave me. Logan followed right after.

We said a quiet goodbye to the house we made a home in for almost a month. Honestly, I didn't miss it much because I hated the fucking thing, being bed-ridden for most of it. To me, it was more like a prison than a safe refuge. At least the others were allowed to go outside and scavenge, unlike me.

Today was a new day, and I was happy to smell fresh air again.