Together in a Broken World

Chapter One

A Broken World

AIDEN

It’s hard to get over how desolate the world is now. I haven’t seen another soul for over a week. And if I want to stay alive, I hope to keep it that way.

The road cuts a winding path through a dense forest, the cone of my headlights revealing just enough to see ahead. Everything else is stark blackness. Daft Punk and GRiZ blast through the car’s speakers—an EDM mix I made last year as a DJ for my high school. Back when DJs and high schools existed, that is. The bass rumbling through the seat makes me feel connected to the car.

With one eye on the road, I paw at the backpack resting on the passenger seat. It’s the third time this hour I’ve checked on the vials. The familiar shape of the protective aluminum case through the nylon fabric helps ease my anxiety. For the moment, anyway. It may be a little obsessive, but the vials are my critical cargo. They’re what I’m risking my life for. And I’m doing this for Marcus.

The slightest thought of him sends waves of grief flooding over me. I fight those feelings and bury them away. Letting emotions control me is the surest way of getting killed.

When I pull up to a rest area, the car cuts a path through an inch of pine needles spread over the parking lot. Weeds spring up through every possible crack, and vines are well on their way to swallowing the restrooms whole. The sheer relentlessness of Mother Nature is startling.

Since man-made light is a thing of the past, it’s impossible to see your hand six inches in front of your face, especially on a cloudy, moonless night in rural Montana. The headlights are my only guide through the darkness, so I leave them turned on.

As I open the door, I’m hit with a cold blast of air and the smell of sap. It must be low forties out. My breaths puff out in misty clouds.

Looters often overlook vending machines at rest stops, so I always check them out. I’m pleasantly surprised to find the machines undamaged and nearly full. With a few pries of a crowbar, the lock springs open. I load what I can into my backpack and stuff the rest in a black plastic bag.

After doing my business in the restroom, I return to my faded red ’97 Integra, crunching through the thick layer of decaying pine needles. I stop suddenly, staring at another pair of footprints that cross over mine, head up to my car door, and then into the woods. They were not here before. I’m sure of it.

Did I remember to lock the door?

In a flash, I run to the car and reach for the handle. Locked. Thank god. The second I’m in, I fire up the engine. Debris kicks up from the tires as I hit the gas and speed away.

For the next several minutes, I’m hypervigilant, keeping my eye on the mirrors and looking ahead for a potential ambush. Those footprints could have been from a member of a local militia. Their scouts are notorious for spotting lone cars and radioing for backup.

Or the footprints could have been from one of the people sick with that damn disease. The Infected. It’s unlikely since they went right up to the car door. Once the fever has done its damage, the Infected don’t really have that level of cognitive ability. The path would have been more random.

Either way, I’m glad to put the rest area behind me. As time passes, my nerves start to settle. Guess I got lucky. Maybe it was nothing, like a local survivor passing through.

As the minutes drift by, my eyes get heavy. It’s no use fighting sleep, so I scan the highway for a side road with enough cover to pull over and rest for the night.

That’s when headlights shine in my rearview mirror.

Goddamn it.

Carjackers.

Their standard MO is to drive up beside you and point guns at the car until you pull over. But I’m not planning on letting them get that close. The trick is to go slowly at first and make them overconfident. Let them think they’ve got easy prey. Then floor it. Take curves so fast, they’ll piss their pants. With any luck, their car will spin out, trying to follow. It’s half skill, half psychology.

And here comes a curve now. I find just the right speed to keep traction. The tires squeal but hold. Right at the apex of the turn, I punch the accelerator. It pushes me back into the seat as the tires grab the tarmac, and the car blasts down the road.

Those guys should be long gone, but somehow, the headlights shine in the rearview mirror again.

Shit.

These guys are good.

I floor the accelerator, but the engine groans in protest. A distinct smell of burning oil drifts into the cabin. That can’t be good.

Whizzing sounds fly past the car. Are those bullets? Are they shooting at me?

A bullet hits the rear window, shattering it into a million pieces, making my heart rate spike. These aren’t carjackers. They’re trying to kill me.

I turn off the music. Drawing in a deep breath, my training kicks in. One wrong move, and I’m dead. I sharpen my focus and clear my mind, each action deliberate and calculated.

I weave the car back and forth to evade the next round of bullets and take the next turn faster than the last. The subtle sliding out of the back end translates through the wheel. With the slightest shift of steering and a barely perceptible change of speed, the car holds to the curve.

Another round of bullets sprays the car, and the left rear tire explodes. The steering wheel lurches violently. Trying to steady it takes every ounce of strength, fingers clenched, my life on the line. The car veers off the road, and I slam on the brakes. Dirt kicks up everywhere but decelerates the vehicle gradually enough that the crash doesn’t kill me. The front bumper comes to rest against a tree.

Ninety to zero in five seconds. And somehow, I’m still alive.

I grab the backpack and my mixtape as headlights approach. With no time for anything else, I jump out and run for the cover of the forest. The sounds of screeching brakes and slamming car doors are right behind me.

I’m in total darkness.

Brambles rip against my face and arms as I stumble through the woods. The knobby end of a tree branch hits me hard in the ribs. The pain is blinding, but I grit my teeth and push forward. Bullets stream past, some hitting nearby trees, covering me in an explosion of splinters.

A voice yells out from behind. Aiden! I know you’re there. Hand over the vials, and you can walk away.

Who the hell knows my name? Worse, how do they know what I’m carrying? The only other person aware of my mission is the woman who sent me. She handpicked me because I was the only courier who could get the job done. Willing to do what most would call a suicide mission. And maybe that’s what this is.

Behind me, the gunshots and shouts are relentless. My lungs burn, and my ribs scream. Every part of my body is telling me to stop. To my left, the ground slopes slightly. I fumble in that direction, following it downward. As it gets steeper, the slope forces my pace to quicken. I’m barely able to keep my feet from sliding under me. A wet patch of leaves sends my legs flailing forward, and for the last thirty feet, I’m on my backside until my boots splash into a running stream.

My burning lungs force me to pause for a moment. Beyond the babbling of the stream are the sounds of gunshots and shouting, but they’re far off to my right. So, I head in the opposite direction with slow and deliberate footsteps, favoring silence over speed.

After several minutes of painfully slow going, the sound of the stream is gone, and the gunshots have fallen silent. But I don’t dare stop yet.

Time has lost all meaning in the darkness. It could be twenty minutes. Could be an hour. My aching feet and burning muscles are my only gauge, and they just hit empty. I sit down hard on the forest floor.

How did that get so bad so fast? My mind races, playing out all the scenarios that could have happened. If the car lurches the other way, or a bullet flies six inches to the right, then I’m dead.

Focus, Aiden.

I close my eyes and force out unwanted thoughts, clearing my mind.

Okay. Survival.

When I open my eyes, they’ve adjusted to the darkness. The moon has risen, providing the slightest bit of light. Vague details emerge. Scrapes run up and down my arms, but nothing is too deep. I’ll live. My ribs are tender at the spot where I hit the tree. The slightest touch makes me wince in pain. Yeah, that’s going to suck for a while.

Inside my backpack, the small aluminum box has a minor dent in one corner, but beyond that, it’s undamaged. This is what my pursuers were after.

But who in the hell were they? I know the territories of every militia group between Boston and Seattle. Standard training for couriers like me. This is the turf of the Freedom Liberation Army—the FLA. Grabbing every bit of territory after the Great Collapse, their influence runs from Montana to Central Washington. But how could they know anything about my mission?

There’ll be time to figure that out. Right now, my focus needs to be on staying alive. Besides the box, there’s not much in the backpack—a bottle of water and the granola bars and pretzels I looted. Of course, my flashlight, compass, and gun are all back in the car. I wasn’t expecting to have to ditch it like that. Sure glad I took the time to get my mixtape. Shit.

It’s not a lot, but it’ll last me until tomorrow. No sense in stumbling around in the dark, so finding shelter is the first order of business—something with cover and warmth. A small, protected hollow under a tree fits me perfectly. A layer of moss and leaves act as my blanket, and I soon fall into a restless sleep.

The same dream haunts me every night. Like some sick cosmic joke, my worst memory replays in my mind, a horror movie in excruciating detail.

I’m returning from an ill-fated mission. My fellow courier Connor has died, sacrificing his life to save mine. But things get even worse at home as I discover my boyfriend, Marcus, has fallen ill. He’s lying in bed, sick and dying, the Infection in its vicious final stage.

I stand by his bedside, a protective barrier separating us. The undulations in the plastic distort his face. A face that is pale and worn out, with deep creases marring what was once beautiful. He looks more eighty than eighteen.

Aiden, he utters weakly, putting a hand up to the barrier.

I press my hand against his, with tears streaming down my face. I’m here, Marcus.

His voice is only a whisper. Connor. I know— His words are cut off by a fit of coughing.

I pull back in shock. Marcus couldn’t know what happened on the mission. I only just returned, and Connor didn’t make it back alive.

What about Connor? I ask.

He’s too weak to speak. But the look in his eyes is sadness and hurt. I want to explain and tell him what happened—tell him I love him. But he’s used his last breath. He coughs up blood, and his body thrashes as the Infection claims its latest victim. The only small mercy is him not turning into one of those—things.

Consciousness tears a hole through my nightmare, and I wake up with a start, my eyes damp. No use in trying to bury this memory. My subconscious won’t allow it. It’s been six months since his death, but the dream keeps returning as vivid as if it were yesterday.

The box. In a panic, I reach for the backpack, but of course, it’s still there. That same familiar shape.

I’m under no illusion that the vials in the box will erase my torment or somehow bring Marcus back. But if they help find a cure and save a single person from the Infection, or spare a single loved one from feeling the misery I feel, maybe I’ll have done my penance. Maybe that will dampen the pain.

And if this really is a suicide mission? Well, that’ll dampen the pain too.

Chapter Two

Longing For Home

ZACH

Day 378. With the end of a flathead screwdriver, I scratch another notch into the ever-growing rows of hash marks on the wall of the abandoned bank lobby.

Taped next to them is a picture of Mom and Dad standing outside my childhood home on Vashon Island, west of Seattle. They are smiling and blissfully ignorant of what the next year will bring. I put two fingers up to my lips and kiss, then touch each of them.

Miss you guys. I’ll find some way to get home, I whisper to the empty room. A deep pit of loneliness wells up in my chest. I hate being alone.

The last bit of twilight shines through the door of the bank, casting a long ghostly rectangle across the lobby’s marble floors. Time to check the perimeter defenses before it gets too dark. It’s the first thing I do when I get up each morning and the last thing I do before bed. Every. Single. Day.

Big Sky Bank is the most defensible building in the little town of Elk Springs, Montana, so I’ve made it my home. The inside is all stone and marble, with drab furnishings suited for—well—a bank lobby, to be quite honest.

I run my fingers against the seams of the sheet metal I’ve welded to windows and the front door, looking for imperfections. All looks good—no sign of cracks. I’m pretty secure in my little cocoon.

With a flashlight in hand, I head out into the cool evening twilight, walking past the white granite blocks and Roman columns out front. Elk Springs is nestled between mountain peaks on either side and surrounded by a dense forest of evergreens. I rub my hands against my arms as goosebumps form on them. Even in June, with days in the seventies, it can get chilly at night at high altitude.

Boarded-up businesses pass on either side as I head to the edge of Main Street. That damn town sign always glares at me each time I pass it.

Welcome to Elk Springs, Montana

Sportsman’s Paradise

Population: 597

It’s taunting me. Should read Population: Zach.

I’m not even from this miserable town. School was out, and I was on summer break, learning to fly-fish with Uncle Max. Bonding time, he called it. Then the power and Internet went out and didn’t come back. Lots of people left town. The ones who stayed started getting sick from some mysterious disease. Most died within days. Watching my uncle die was the hardest part. I don’t like to think about it.

But not everyone died of the disease. The few who fought through the fever and lived—those are the ones who scare me. They’ve lost all reason and wander around looking for anything to eat to survive. A single scratch from their nails is a death sentence. But it’s been a while since I’ve seen one.

Past the town sign, a row of aluminum cans spread out across the entrance to Main Street. People can’t help but clatter through them as they enter town. My first line of defense. Cars block the street behind them, strategically placed to appear random, but they keep people from driving through.

Next, I head to Elk Springs General Store. Inside, barren shelves and empty refrigerators greet me. The rifle pointing out the window is rock solid on the stand I built. I duct-taped a volleyball on top, emblazoned with the name Wilson on it, complete with a handprint drawn with a red Sharpie.

Hey Wilson. I chuckle and wave to the volleyball. It’s the little things that keep me going. Wilson says nothing back. As long as it stays that way, I know I’m still good.

With three shells loaded, the rifle angles slightly upward so people will hear and feel the bullets flying by them without being hit. The idea is to scare people, not kill them. Wilson isn’t a monster.

The wire attached to the trigger is secure. It runs to a pulley, up through a hole in the ceiling, and across the street to Big Sky Bank, to a remote trigger. The tension feels right. No kinks or snags in the line.

After the general store checks out, there are two more Wilsons to inspect. One’s in Leo’s Garage next door. The other is in The Prospector, the dive bar across the street.

The Wilsons have saved my skin a few times. Bands of thugs come through town now and then. A single gunman holed up in a building is an easy target. But if they’re surrounded by Wilsons, well, that’s a different story. And the noise from the guns seems to scare off the sick ones too.

I’m headed across the street on my way back to the bank when a branch snaps someplace nearby. I stop in my tracks and stay totally quiet, shining my flashlight into the darkness and straining to hear. It’s dead quiet. The only noise is the beating pulse in my ears.

A moment later, the clattering of aluminum cans cuts through the silence. The sound I most dread.

Out of the shadows, a man comes barreling toward me at full sprint. He’s severely emaciated—almost skeletal. Purple veins bulge from his neck and forehead. Telltale signs of a man who fought off the disease but lost his mind in his battle to stay alive. A surge of adrenaline runs hot through my veins.

He’s closing too fast.

I’ll never get back to the bank in time. Squaring my shoulders, I face him, knowing standing my ground is my only chance for survival. I fight back every instinct telling me to run. His dead eyes stare at me, getting closer by the second.

Don’t fricking run.

As he lurches clumsily toward me, the reek of decay overwhelms me, and I nearly retch. But I hold my ground. Remembering the self-defense techniques my mom taught me, I grab his outstretched hand, narrowly avoiding his jagged nails. I pull him forward with everything I have, using his momentum against him. He’s so startled he loses balance and sprawls to the ground.

With him down, I race to the bank in a full sprint, but he gets up quickly and closes in fast. Just feet from the door, his footsteps are right behind me, the heat of his breath on the back of my neck.

The moment I’m through the bank entrance, I strike him hard with the door, knocking him in the head and pushing him backward. But this guy is relentless; he rushes forward again as I slam the door shut. His fingers get trapped in the doorjamb, and he lets out a howl that sounds more like a beast than a man.

He bangs his body against the outside of the door. I hold back the onslaught with all the strength I can muster, trying to get traction as my feet slip against the marble floor. He drives into the door again, pushing it inward the slightest bit. With that momentary slack, he wriggles his hand out farther, but I shove the door back hard. Now, only his fingertips poke through.

I reach up to the hinged beam to barricade the door, but it won’t quite slot into place. The fingers wedged in the door make the gap a hair too big.

Drawing from some inner strength, I slam my shoulder against the door hard enough to see spots. I do it again. The third time does the trick. The door slams shut, and the beam falls into place with a large thud. A terrible shriek comes from the other side. Blood trickles from the doorjamb where his fingers were stuck. The smell is horrendous, like something rotting.

I collapse to the floor, safe for the moment. I’m sweat-drenched and gasping for air.

That was too close.

I’ve never been caught that off guard. Never been out in the open like that. It’s been so long since I’ve encountered anyone sick that I’ve gotten complacent.

I quickly scan every inch of my exposed skin to check for any scrapes. As far as I can tell, I’m okay.

Risking a peek out of a porthole cut into the window, I slide the metal shutter aside and strain to see in front of the door. But the moment I look out, I get his attention, and he runs right over. I jump back just in time as he jams his fingers through. Luckily, the portholes are only a couple of inches wide.

I put my rifle up to his hand. But I can’t do it. A gunshot wound is a death sentence. These are people, after all—the few who were strong enough to survive that damn disease. Their humanity is gone, operating on pure instinct in a never-ending search for food and water. They’ll attack anything—human, animal, and even other sick ones. The weak die fast. That leaves the strongest, like the one outside at this very moment. Lucky fricking me.

Maybe putting the poor soul out of his misery would be more merciful. But what if a person still exists behind all that rage? It shouldn’t be my call to decide if he lives or dies.

The shrieking continues as the man slams his body against the door repeatedly. With each blow, the beam shudders. But the wood is thick. It should hold.

I think it will hold.

It had better hold.

Chapter Three

Paths Cross

AIDEN

I’m woken by the sound of chirping birds and the sun streaming through the trees. I push away the moss and leaves that served as my blanket. My nightmares of Marcus are a fading memory. Almost gone.

The slightest movement sends a flash of pain radiating from my ribs. My arms look thrashed, covered with angry red scratches and streaks of dried blood. Stretching my legs is a mixture of pleasure and pain, the muscles sore from last night’s escape. A quick massage loosens them up.

I drink a few gulps of water to wet my parched throat, but it does little for my thirst. With no idea when I’ll find more, I use it sparingly. The granola bar is stale as hell, as are most prepackaged foods these days. All are well past the expiration date. But it’s calories, so that’s all that matters.

Okay. Lost in the forest, with no map and no compass. No use trying to get back to the car. It’s trashed, and I’m sure my pursuers already picked it clean. The best way to get unlost is to go in a straight line. So, I keep the morning sun to my right, which keeps me headed north.

After a while of trudging through the forest, I bump into a river that blocks my path. It’s swift and full of spring runoff. Churning and bubbling rapids cascade over large rocks and fallen trees. I know better than to drink from it. Puking up precious calories because of a stomach bug is a bad idea.

There’s no hope of crossing the river. The strong current would knock me over in a second, so I follow it downstream instead. As I navigate boulders and branches, it’s slow going along the jagged bank.

Frustration builds as I plod along. My legs ache, and my ankles keep rolling on the uneven rocks. I’m about to give up and return to the forest when my persistence pays off. A bridge appears ahead, around a bend in the river.

Whew.

You never know how long it’ll be when you’re lost in the woods. It could be hours or even days. Or never. Finding the bridge is a lifeline to civilization. But just because I’m no longer lost doesn’t mean I want to be found. With civilization comes danger. Ever since the Infected ravaged the world, everyone left wants to take something from you. Take your possessions. Take your freedom. Or take your life.

The road is quiet. No humans or vehicles. Only the chirping of birds and the roar of the river break the silence. The road heads through a dense forest of Ponderosa pines and maples. All roads have been getting worse since the Great Collapse a year ago when most of the world’s power grids and communication networks toppled like dominoes.

But this road is in good shape. Covered with branches and pine needles, it appears rarely traveled on. That’s good news in my book. Less chance of running into people.

I turn right onto the bridge and cross the river going north. At some point, this should get me to Interstate 90, which cuts across Montana. And I-90 leads to Seattle, my ultimate destination.

In a few minutes, I pass a sign.

Elk Springs–5

Never heard of Elk Springs.

Perfect.

Hopefully small enough that militia groups have overlooked it. And hopefully abandoned. It’s best to avoid running into anyone. Maybe I’ll find another car to scavenge. Then hit the road again and try to get this godforsaken box delivered.

*

ZACH

I wake with a start, lying on my bed behind the teller’s desk. Dust motes float through the beams of sunlight streaming through the portholes as the sun rises over the hills around Elk Springs.

Last night, the constant banging went on for over an hour. It was hard to believe, but the four-by-six beam barring the door showed some strain. Slight cracks formed right at the doorjamb. But the force and frequency of the banging slowed until it turned to nothing. When I worked up the courage to peek out of the porthole, the town was empty again.

Somehow, I managed a few hours of sleep last night, but it wasn’t particularly restful, broken up by nightmares of having my door beaten down by that sickened man.

That’s it. I’ve had it. I grab the backpack I keep fully packed with enough food and supplies to last a week in the wilderness, then shut the bank door and head north on the highway. After last night, I’ve got to get out of this town.

A forest of evergreens lines both sides of the road, dense enough that I can’t see more than twenty feet in either direction. Out here in the open, if I run into anyone, I’d be vulnerable, so I clutch my rifle like it’s a lifeline.

This isn’t the only time I’ve tried to leave. But each time I do, it dredges up memories of being lost in the woods when I was seven