It had already been four hours into our trip, and the heat became more uncomfortable by noon.

Soft music played on the radio, and we all sang Hotel California right to the very end. DJ Swayze's voice reverberated across the interior with a Matthew McConaughey swagger, telling his avid listeners to have a lovely and safe morning.

Swayze recalled all the CDC and WHO guidelines, the CRA rules, and curfews. He reiterated what he had accumulated from across the globe, injecting his grotesque sense of humor. He often recounted (in great detail) how he dispatched of them, how to kill them, or any stories that involved vectors dying. Rather than fearing it, it seemed DJ Swayze wasn't afraid of anything much.

DJ Swayze was the only radio host still alive on the airwaves. I guessed he wanted to spend his time bringing music to other folks rather than finding a safe refuge. We talked about finding him, but we didn't know where he operated or even if he was in the right state of mind. I mean, who wanted to continue doing their old job when there's a deadly pandemic? Still, it comforted me that there's still someone alive out there. Swayze had become our radio Bob Ross. His voice soothing even when he's engrossed himself in a story of blood, guts, and gore.

We liked DJ Swayze, even if we didn't know who the guy was (he might be a creep). I pictured him as a cowboy-wearing, tucked plaid shirt, leather-skin belt buckled, straw-biting, a country-next-door fellow straight out of a Clint Eastwood film.

Believe me when I tell you that my image of him was by far the tamest description of Swayze. He's one of the best vector killers across the continent. He beats my record by a mile... and I ain't mad. The guy has mad skills.

And he's the scariest teacher I ever had.

Although that's a story for another day.

——

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Haskell asked. He gestured to the massive uprooted tree lying across the road, blown off by a massive wind storm that had gone through the area two weeks ago. Now that the country no longer had maintenance workers, leaving the tree rotting in the middle of the road.

"It's the quickest route," Peter said. He's hunched over the front hood, studying the maps spread over the surface.

Haskell rolled his eyes. "Back roads aren't quick. Why can't we take the interstate?"

"For the hundredth time, Hoss, it's filled with dozens of abandoned vehicles, plus the motherfucking vectors. You want to risk our asses going through that?"

"No..."

"So, shut up."

"Hey. Why're you mad at me?"

"I'm not. Jesus. Look, keep an eye out. I'm thinking here."

Haskell grumbled as he went back up to the turret, focusing on being our lookout.

"We should get out of here first. I don't like these woods much," I said, and Miguel grunted in agreement.

Peter peered his eyes off the maps and surveyed around. "Why don't you help me search for the route so we can do that quicker." Peter passed the other map to Miguel and me.

"I've been saying we take route ten and follow along the Delaware river," I argued.

"We're going to go through three major towns before we get to Binghamton. It'll take time to navigate around them."

"What other choice do we have?"

"I see dozens of back roads scattered around the Appalachian mountains."

"You want to go up and over the mountains? What happens if we run out of gas? There's nothing up there but trees."

"Or cannibalistic hillbillies," Haskell shouted from the turret. "Don't forget about that!"

I gestured to Haskell. "Yeah. What he said." Peter wasn't buying it. Frustrated, I threw my hands up and strode back to the humvee. "You know what, why don't you figure it out." I crawled through the back hatch where Logan was waiting.

Logan bumped his shoulder on mine. "Lover's quarrel?"

I wrinkled my nose. "Ew. Nope."

"No. I mean, them."

He meant Peter and Haskell earlier. "Um, I don't think so."

"What? Jealous of your ex-boyfriend?"

"Nah," I replied, shaking my head. "He's not an ex when there's no thing, to begin with."

Logan smirked. "What thing?"

"Are you toying with me, Logan?" I huffed.

"I'm only asking," he said, never dropping his smile.

"A relationship, idiot."

"Ah. The infamous 'R' word."

"I'm hungry," I said, trying to change the subject. I searched for some food to eat.

Logan pointed to his bag, resting next to me. "I have a granola bar in the main compartment. You can have it."

"You sure?"

"It's the only thing that has raisins. I hate them."

I grabbed his gear and opened the main top pocket. "Suit yourself."

Logan was a messy packer. He didn't roll his clothes properly, nor were some folded right. I had to pull out his winter jacket and two of his plaid shirts to find the granola bar, rolling my eyes as I did so. As my hands went past one of the open pencil pockets, I saw a rainbow pin inside, which was my thumb's size, shaped like a pride flag. My mouth dropped.

"Where d'you get this?" I asked him.

"Oh!" Logan yanked the pin from my hand. "That's supposed to be a surprise."

I raised my eyebrow. "Is that for me?"

"It's June."

"Uh, what does that have to do with anything—" I paused, my brain pieced everything together. "Oh. Pride month."

"Yeah. And I know you're all about that shit."

"You mean the pride parade."

"Yep. Don't you and your family go to that every year?"

I bit my lip. I didn't want to say I don't, but if you browsed through my Instagram feed during June, it's all the pictures I posted in there. "Not every year," I said, which was a lie.

"Well, I found it in one house, pinned on a refrigerator. I thought that might cheer you up."

"It did."

"I was going to give this to you by the end of the month."

"That's sweet of you, Logan." And I meant what I stated. Pride celebration in Portland happened around the last week of June. I felt a little sad that we wouldn't have that anymore.

Logan handed the pin to me, chuckling. "You kind of ruined the surprise now."

I grabbed the pin from his hand and put it on my shirt. "There. I'm wearing it. How does it look?"

Logan gave me a thumbs up. "Gay." And he quickly added, "in a good way."

"Cool."

I was about to close his backpack when I caught something tucked right in the back compartment on the folder of which a laptop should be. A magazine (two of them), and I realized that it wasn't for home decor or celebrity gossip because there's a red-head woman on the front cover with her tits hanging out in the open.

Idiot that I am (and out of curiosity), I grabbed it, pulling it out of the compartment. The pages were sticky, and I gathered real quick why. I shoved it back, wiping my hands over my shirt. "Ew. What the fuck?"

I shifted, staring at Logan, who flushed beet red beside me. Logan grabbed his backpack by the shoulder straps and pulled out the granola bar. He threw it at me, hitting me on the forehead. He wouldn't meet me in the eye.

"Ow," I mumbled. His throw actually hurt.

I picked up the granola bar, though I no longer had the appetite for it. We sat there in silence as we listened to Peter and Miguel talked about the quickest route out of the county, while Alfie and Yousef had no idea what happened at the back seat. Left with nothing to do, I forced myself to eat the granola bar. But it was at that moment when Logan spoke up.

"I didn't find it," he said. I said nothing. I'm sure that if it's in his backpack, he's the one that found it. He continued, "It's not mine, just so you know."

"I don't care," I responded, only to make him feel better, seeing as he's already so embarrassed.

"No, I mean, shit. Miguel is the one who discovered it. So, technically, it's his. Not mine. No way." He let out a nervous chuckle.

"Logan. I really don't care."

"I'm only borrowing it for the night. I mean, it's my turn—"

"Turn? You two are taking turns?"

Logan's eyes widened more when I involuntarily made a sour face. "No. Shit. I don't mean that. Um. Shit." Logan, who realized that Alfie got the gist of the conversation, tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, help me out here."

Alfie blanched and turned away to open the door. "Nah, dude. You're on your own." From the passenger seat, Yousef also scrambled out of the humvee.

Defeated, Logan heaved a sigh. "We found it during one of the supply runs. Miguel thought it was funny. So you know, one night, we all decided to share it." He caught himself, "Alone! Alone."

I wanted to cover my ears and get the fuck out of this conversation, but I didn't want to make Logan feel worse. "Seriously. You don't have to explain."

But Logan prattled on, becoming more flustered. "And tonight was going to be my night to read, um, the ladies..."

"Logan. I don't give a fuck if you beat it off. Every guy does it."

"Should I stop talking?"

"Yep. That'd be a good idea."

"Er, I'm going to shut up now."

Logan drummed his fingers on his knees, mumbling some song that I couldn't make out. The car's interior was suffocating me with how fucking awkward the entire thing was.

I kept on eating the granola bar until I finished it all.

Logan shifted first, and it quickly dawned on me he was crawling over to the front seat to reach the door, intending to get out. But Alfie opened it first, giving him a pitiful look as he climbed back inside.

"Hey, can we switch spots?" Logan asked Alfie.

Alfie turned to study my reaction. "Uh..."

"Alright! We found a route!" Peter declared as he clamored behind the wheel. "Let's saddle up, people!"

Alfie frowned and mouthed, "Sorry."

Logan shrunk back.

"Where are we going?" I hollered.

Peter looked at me through the rearview mirror. "Elk mountain road," he said without a beat.

Well, I can't say I didn't try.

——

Elk mountain road was another bust. Instead of dealing with one tree, we had four to deal with, idle branches and debris as thick as Peter's arms, sharp points sticking out in the air, and hiding the pavement with the number of leaves dispersed on the path. It looked like a hurricane swept through, but two weeks ago, it didn't sound like it. Perhaps I was too cooked up inside that house that I couldn't even tell what was going on outside.

"I mean, we can squeeze through the gap over there," Peter thought out loud, pointing at the road's left shoulder. I looked over, nodding. He was right. We could fit through there.

"It's going to fuck up our engine." Miguel gestured to the branches scattered across the road. "We can roll them off to the ditch."

"Alright. Let's get it done." Peter hopped out of the vehicle. "Yousef! You're our lookout. Holler if you see anything."

"Got it," Yousef said.

We all climbed out of the humvee. It felt ten degrees cooler here than on the open road, sunlight blocked by a thick canopy, bathing us under its shadow. I pulled out Luke's jacket and put it on. If we're going to be hauling many branches, twigs, and other stuff, I didn't want them poking or scraping against my arms or skin. It's a good thing that I already put jeans on.

I took Betty with me. Safety first. I also brought one of the two hatchets we had, one of those dual-utility brands where hidden inside the handle was a thin, razor-blade that, once pulled out, would attach to each end as a makeshift saw.

Yousef climbed up on the turret, carrying a rifle and a binocular with him. "All clear," he said, cocking his head to the other side of the barricade. "Nothing beyond it."

"Good. Let's get to work," Peter said.

Logan helped me roll off some logs and branches off to the nearest ditch. At first, they looked like they didn't weigh much, but I was wrong. It took almost all the strength I mustered, plus Logan's help, pushing them off the road. I determined it'll take us an hour to clear a path to the other side.

I sauntered over to a fallen birch tree, facing the first of many problems. Despite Peter's insistence on taking this route because of its safer path (away from the major towns) and putting us further and further from essential resources, there's no way we could move the tree by ourselves. We needed a truck for that or a saw to cut it down.

I pulled out my hatchet, thought about using the makeshift saw, but it was too small for the job. I calculated that it'd take me hours of constant hacking and sawing to cut it into half. I doubt I had the strength to do that for many hours straight. I was about to walk over to Peter and give him the bad news (and trying hard not to say I told you so) when I caught something in the corner of my eye.

Curious, I hopped over the ditch and walked closer to the tree line. Behind a sugar maple was a stump of a birch tree, the same tree that had fallen over the road, covered by leaves and debris. I walked closer and crouched over the stump, brushing off the leaves. I saw drag marks of something heavy, pulled along the loose soil, some of which had turned into hardened mud, heading straight over the road.

It's not the wind that blew and fell the trees.

Someone sawed them off, possibly with a chainsaw.

I looked around, taking me a minute to find where the other tree on the road came from, which was also the same. Whoever did it made it looked like a storm did it.

I turned back to warn the others, but a scream penetrated the silence.

It was Yousef.

Racing back to the tree line, a dozen men appeared on the right side of the road, stepping out of the bushes and behind the trees, brandishing rifles and crossbows. Peter, Miguel, and Haskell hunkered down behind the vehicle's left side while Yousef thrashed on the ground beside them, bleeding. An arrow stuck out of his left shoulder. Sheltering by the ditch were Logan and Alfie. I dropped and crawled behind a tree, pulling out Betty from my holster.

"You all can come out now," a man bellowed, rattling the standoff silence between us.

Fuck that. No one would intentionally cut off a road unless for other horrible reasons, like a motherfucking ambush. They were thieves, and I reckoned the tree that fell on the previous route was also their doing. It was only two miles away from here. Their base must be nearby.

"We have no intention of hurting you," the same man said. "Give us the car, and we'll let you all live. For now."

"No way in God's green earth am I going to fucking do that!" Peter roared.

"Yeah! Fuck off, hillbilly!" Haskell chimed in. "We're armed!"

Guttural growls from the other side. It didn't come from the men, nor did it come from vectors. This one came from an animal. Two distinct barks resounded across the road; Our ambushers had dogs with them.

"Fuck," I grumbled.

"I know that, son. However, you are outgunned and outmatched. There's seven of you, and there's a lot of us. We've watched you enter the valley since three hours ago. We have lookouts everywhere! There's no way out of here! Come with us peacefully and surrender. That's the only option where the lot of you can survive intact. I reckon you, as a soldier, trained in these kinds of situations. What do you determine are the odds of your entire squad coming out alive?"

"You shot one of my men, asshole," Peter said, pausing so that everyone gathered Yousef's muffled groans of pain. He didn't dare pull out the arrow.

"Sorry about that. One of us got a happy trigger."

"Let's fucking kill them, Carl! We have them by the balls!"

A second man huffed, sounding much younger than the first one. There was some grumbling from the men, and a couple voiced out their approval.

"No one's dying today! Give us your car and everything you have."

"That's the same as killing us. Only slower."

I peeked out from behind the tree. I locked eyes with Logan, hiding from the ditch. He couldn't make a run for the tree line, which was twelve feet behind him, giving the other men plenty of space to take a great shot at his back. Logan's a big target, and no one would miss. Logan waved his hands, gesturing at me to make a run for the woods.

I shook my head. There's no way I'm going to leave them all behind.

I looked over to the other side of the road. A man in his late thirties stood on a protruding rock, clear from view for the perfect shot, but this man exuded confidence that we wouldn't dare make such a move. And he was right. If one of us shot him, his friends would shred through us within seconds. We'd be dead, and I had no intention of dying today. He wore a simple army-green sleeveless flannel hoodie, arms covered in tattoos, his slick black hair combed back, and he carried with him a 12-gauge, tactical shotgun. He wasn't even pointing the gun at us, hanging loosely by his side as he watched us from above. The biggest Doberman I had ever seen sat next to him. I didn't see the other one.

Movement within the scattered debris on the road, and I realized some of them were trying to flank us.

"Peter! On your left!" I screamed.

Too late.

One man gave out a warning shot, shattering the humvee's left headlight right next to where Peter hid. The splintered glass flung across his face, and Peter hunched over, letting out a loud yelp. That was when Carl and the others rushed in.

Before Peter got back up to his knees, Carl was already before him, bringing down the butt of his shotgun over his head, and knocked him out cold. Carl's Doberman jumped on top of Haskell, pinning him down on the ground. Miguel tried to fight back, but a woman strode and hit him on the knees, shoving the barrel of the gun on the back of his skull, screaming at him to drop the weapon. Over to my right, three men pointed rifles at Logan and Alfie. They couldn't do anything but drop their guns. I realized I am the only one hidden from everyone's view. They didn't know where I was behind the tree line.

Logan knelt on the ground and put his hands at the back of his head. Without looking at me, he let out a shout, "Bren! Run!"

I ran, breaking through the foliage and the bushes to my right. A shot rang out overhead, hitting a branch six feet above me. Someone was trying to shoot me! But I noticed that they aimed far higher up the tree to scare me to a standstill, thinking they'd make me stop in my tracks.

Not a chance!

I kept on running.

"Don't shoot him, you idiot! We want them all alive!" Carl screamed.

Half a dozen men hollered after one another, barking up orders as they ran into the woods, followed by the angry growls of Carl's Doberman and another large dog.

I didn't know how many were chasing me, but I must have been running for five minutes until my lungs desperately heaved for oxygen, and I leaned behind a tree, panting, my legs burning. Faint barking from the dogs wasn't very far, but they were closing in. I clutched Betty in my other hand, but I realized that the others would converge on my location if they picked up my shot. I switched weapons and took the hatchet out.

What did I know about dogs? I thought. Dobermans are excellent tracking dogs, and they can literally find anything. But all dogs are poor long-distance runners, and the Dobermans are no exception. So, at that moment, I thought if I ran fast enough, get as much distance between them and me, they'd soon tire out, and the men couldn't chase me further. The only problem was that I had to maintain that distance, and I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to.

Fuck it.

I dashed out from my hiding space and never dared to look back.

What else? Dogs can pick up your scent via dead skin cells, not so much with body odor, so lathering my body up in a bunch of mud and dirt would be a waste of time like what they do in the movies—Those characters should be dead.

I ducked underneath a log and jumped over a fell tree. I headed downhill.

What about crossing the river or a creek? But I remembered an episode of Mythbusters did the same thing. I wouldn't stand a chance. First, water carries your scent really well. All it will do is make your scent stick into the soil when it drips off of you, making it easier for the dogs to track you once the men realized I'm on the other side.

A fast river? I could lose the dogs and the men that way. But then again, would I survive the current?

For a split second, I thought about the others, hoping that all of them were still alive. I knew we had no shot of taking them all down, but if one of us got away, we stood a better chance. I had to get back to the others once I shook off the people chasing after me. They weren't bluffing when they wanted us alive, and none of the reasons bubbling up my head came up good. They were adamant about capturing us.

I had to take another rest behind a tree and catch my breath.

"We found the scent!" A man yelled from afar. "Go get him, boy! Get him!"

A dog was now loose, sent after me.

I pushed my legs to the limit, staggering between ferns when my foot got caught by something in the underbrush, and I tipped over. I scrambled, grasping in the air, but there was no stopping my fall. I tumbled down the hill, felt something smacked my shoulder, and then right below my left kidney. I thought I wouldn't stop rolling until I did, the universe spinning around me for a few seconds.

I touched the tender spot on my side and then at my shoulder. They weren't bleeding. The men clambered just beyond the foliage, heard the cracks and snaps of twigs and branches under their weight. They were moving in a hurry, and I gathered that they found where I am.

Shit.

I ended up in a small clearing, too exposed in the open. I scrambled off the ground, found the hatchet lying right next to me, thinking I lost it for a minute there. But as soon as I stood up, something big tackled me to the ground. Slobbery drool spat right on my face, and I looked up, face-to-face with a snarling Doberman.

The dog snapped, trying to take a bite out of my nose, but I already had my hand around his collar, yanking him to the side, letting out a low yelp. I kicked my heels, rolling to the opposite side until I reached the hatchet and grabbed it off the ground. I got up to my knees when I caught sight of the dog's movement charging toward me for a second time.

I raised my arms to defend myself, swiping in the air twice before the last one hit the dog right in the face. My hatchet drew blood, and the Doberman screeched and whined, running away from me.

"I got him!" The same guy hollered. "Up ahead!"

I didn't even get three steps out when I heard ruffling from the underbrush, heading my way. It'll be on top of me in a second. Without thinking, I grabbed hold of a branch on the ground, whirling it around like a baseball bat. Blood splattered my face, heard a horrible yap as the branch's jagged edge skewered the side of a German Shepard. The dog's body fell on my feet with a loud thud; the dog wasn't moving any longer.

I heard the men rushing closer, one of them calling, "Bean! Bean!"

I scrambled out of the clearing, my heart beating against my ears as another round of gunshots rang out. This time, it hit a tree a foot away from my head. They were aiming for the kill now. I ducked, trying not to lose my balance as I edged out to the right, continuing downhill.

"He killed my fucking dog! He killed Bean!" The man cried out. "Kill him!"

They were getting close, and I didn't think I could keep going. I was fucking tired.

I smelled running water. I didn't realize until now how thirsty I was until I could literally smell water. As I darted through the bushes, I could hear it, faint at first, but the longer I followed the noise of the rushing water, I found it. But it wasn't the river I was hearing.

It was a waterfall.

I stumbled toward the edge, looking over the long drop to the white, bubbling waters sixty feet below. Beyond the plunge pool, perhaps less than a quarter of a mile away from it, I saw tall, round buildings surrounded by the woods. Albeit small from where I am, I made out the net barriers and lounge chairs by the riverbank, two footbridges, swim platforms, and a diving board.

"He's by Ebbing!" A woman called out behind me. "Don't let him get away!"

I gritted my teeth. There's no way I'd turn back. "Fucking don't die on me, Bren," I told myself. I glanced down and almost chickened out. "No! Fucking don't quit and get these motherfuckers."

I secured the hatchet inside the sheath around my belt. Without glancing back, I stood up, took a deep breath, and jumped over the ledge.