It’s dark now, the gloomy day turning into an even gloomier night, making her task all the more difficult. But she keeps going.
At one point there is movement off to the side of the road, but she’s already past it by the time it registers and she can’t take a chance looking back. One wrong move and the bike could slip out from under her, which could mean a death sentence not only for her, but for Ash, too.
For half a second, she thinks she hears something, but it, too, is gone, and soon she forgets about both the noise and the movement as she continues racing down the highway.
Kusum is the one who ends up having to give everyone the shots. Because of his injuries, Sanjay is in no condition to do it himself. Besides, his only experience stems from the one shot he gave Kusum.
Still, he is part of the process. Each time a bottle of the vaccine runs dry, he removes a new one from his bag. This way, he is the only one who knows how few containers are left. Right from the start, he has Kusum give each person an amount that’s less than what he’d given her, hoping that will be enough to make the vaccine last.
Even then, the supply is dwindling faster than he would like. He knows if his mind were clearer, he would be able to figure out if there is going to be enough for everyone. But math is beyond him at the moment.
Kusum’s father is the last in line. When his turn finally comes, Sanjay breathes a sigh of relief. There are still two precious bottles left.
These, he shows Kusum. Her eyes widen at how close they have come to running out, but then she smiles and says, “Good. Then we still have some if others need it.”
Her words make him feel better until one of the children she has collected asks, “So now what do we do?”
Everyone looks at Sanjay. Even Kusum’s father seems anxious to hear his response.
He stares back at them, then says the only thing that comes to his mind. “We stay together, and we survive.”
It’s not a plan, or a course of action. It is merely words, no different than an advertising slogan meant to evoke an emotion in consumers.
But it seems to work. There are several scattered smiles, and a few nodding heads. And, at least for the moment, no one asks, “How do we do that?”
The day is growing short. Brandon can’t see the sun because of the clouds, but dimming light is enough to tell him that the sun is low on the horizon.
About two hours earlier, it had started to snow. He had walked in it for a while, but was getting too wet, so he moved into the trees just off the side of the road, and gathered enough branches to build a lean-to against a large trunk. It’s not perfect, but it is keeping most of the snow out.
Should he have stayed at the woman’s house? At least he had shelter there.
No. I did the right thing.
To warm up, he unravels his sleeping bag and crawls inside, but he remains sitting, his back against the tree.
Tomorrow he needs to find a house, or some kind of building, hopefully someplace with a phone that he can try to call the only number he knows — his father’s cell phone. He’s not sure if his father even has a signal where he is, but Brandon doesn’t know what else to do.
He doesn’t even realize he nodded off until the noise wakes him. It’s the sound of a high-pitched engine. Given the weather — it’s still snowing — he wonders if it might be a snowmobile, not knowing that the thin cover that has fallen so far is not enough for one of the machines to operate on.
It seems to be coming from somewhere down the road. After another few seconds, he realizes it’s heading in his direction. He unzips his bag and tries to pull himself out, but his foot gets tangled in the bottom. He twists it around until it finally comes free, then shoves his feet into his shoes and stumbles through the darkness toward the highway.
After a whole day of not seeing anyone, he is no longer worried about who he might run into. He needs help. He needs to find someone, anyone.
The delay at the sleeping bag causes him to arrive at the road just seconds before the snowmobile passes. He sees the single headlight and starts waving. As it goes by, he realizes it’s not a snowmobile at all, but a motorcycle.
“Hey!” he yells, already knowing his voice will be drowned out. “Hey!”
But the red taillight recedes at the same speed the headlight came toward him.
Brandon rushes to the center of the road and jumps up and down. “Hey! Hey! Come back!”
The motorcycle continues on, and soon the light and the sound of the engine fade to nothing.
In his dream Ash is playing catch again. The air is springtime warm, and on its breeze the smell of barbecue.
Brandon arcs the ball into the air, and Ash takes a few steps back so that it’ll land right in his mitt, but he stumbles as he catches it, and falls onto the grass.
His son breaks out into hysterics, doubling over in laughter.
On the porch in front of the house — a house that kind of looks like the one they had in Barstow — Josie, book in hand, is also laughing.
He always loves it when she laughs. It reminds him of Ellen, his wife.
Just as he thinks this, Ellen walks outside carrying a plate of brownies. Never mind that she’s been dead nearly nine months. She’s here now.
“They’re still hot. Who wants one?” she calls out.
“I do!” Brandon said.
Josie looks up. “Me, too.”
“How about you, sweetheart?” Ellen says, looking directly at Ash. “I know they’re your favorite.”
They are indeed. No one can make a brownie like Ellen can.
“Get up,” Josie says to him. “Come on, Dad. Wake up.”
The room is many rooms. The locations, too numerous to count.
Lit or dark, it doesn’t matter.
The only thing important is the sound of the cough.
About the Author
Brett Battles is the Barry Award-winning author of over a dozen novels, including the Jonathan Quinn series, the Logan Harper series, and the Project Eden series. You can learn more at his website: brettbattles.com