She must have seen something of it in my eyes, because she gave me a strange look. Or maybe she noticed the swelling in my pants. Either way, I cast my eyes to the ground, ashamed, willing the feeling to go away. It has happened a few times since, and for a while, I thought there was something wrong with me. But later, I learned most of the other soldiers I served with had experienced the same thing at one point or another, and it was not unique to men. Why it happens, I do not know. I am sure there is a psychologist out there somewhere who can give me a rational explanation, but I have not crossed paths with them yet.
So with Sophia at my side, and Mike the Stalwart an ever-present reassurance, the pain and anguish slowly began to fade. But I never let Boise City out of my mind for more than a few hours. The shadows behind the windows, the indistinguishable faces behind muzzle flashes, the glimpses of what I could have sworn were Army issue combat fatigues. A single word kept rattling around my mind, whispering to me, visiting me in the dark hours when I drifted off to sleep next to Sophia’s warmth.
Deserters.
During those weeks, I did not spend all my time eating roasted meat and indulging carnal pleasures. I drew up a few ideas about how we might head back and recon Boise City, see what we were up against, what we could do to make them pay for what they did to us. When I thought I had worked out all the angles, or at least as many as I could see, I asked Mike to join me for a sit-down on a nearby hill.
He listened patiently, chewing on a toothpick. When I was finished, he tossed the toothpick into the brush and said, “Caleb, you have to let it go.”
“It’s not that simple, Mike. They killed Blake. They killed my father.”
“We all knew we were taking a risk going into Boise City, son. There could have been infected, or hostile locals, or deserters holed up, or any host of dangers. We went in there with our eyes wide open—Joe and Blake included. We rolled the dice, and we came up snake-eyes. Joe and Blake were two of the best friends I’ve ever had. I loved them both like brothers. But they’re gone now, and we ain’t gonna accomplish a goddamn thing getting ourselves killed trying to avenge them. It’s not what they would want us to do. I know that because if I had died and they had lived, I wouldn’t want them to risk their lives the same way. There’s been enough bloodshed here, Caleb. No measure of revenge is ever going to bring them back. We need to move on.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Mike interrupted. “And what about Sophia, Caleb? What if something happens to us, and she’s on her own? What do you think will happen to her?”
To my shame, the thought had never occurred to me. I had been too caught up in my own anger and plotting and pain. The idea of Sophia alone in these wastelands, unprotected, sent an invisible spear through my gut. I looked down and crossed my hands in my lap. “I’m sorry, Mike. I never thought of that.”
The big man reached out and put a massive hand on my shoulder. “Listen, kid. For all I know, you and Sophia are all I have left. I have no way of knowing if my wife is still in Oregon, or if she’s even still alive. I think it’s pretty safe to assume the Outbreak made it that far. The only way for me to find out is to get you two someplace safe and then try to find her. Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. I don’t know. But I can’t start trying until the two of you are out of harm’s way. And every day that goes by, my chances of finding her alive get slimmer and slimmer. So do me a favor, Caleb. I know you’re hurting. We’re all hurting. But I need you to start thinking about someone other than yourself for a while. Okay?”
I sat quietly and watched him walk down the hillside back to the house. Inwardly, I cursed myself for a fool. Mike was right. I had been a selfish idiot. I had forgotten about protecting Sophia. I had forgotten about Mike’s wife, Sophia’s mother, stranded in Oregon. All I had thought about was myself, and my pain, and how much I wanted, needed to lash out, to make someone else hurt as much as I did.
I looked down at my hands, the calloused palms, the new scars, the dark brown skin from too much time in the sun. They were not the hands of a child. They were the hands of a grown man.
It was about time I started acting like one.
FORTY-THREE
“We need to find a place to hole up,” Mike said, stating the obvious.
Sunrise crested the horizon on the outskirts of Springfield Colorado, brightening the ink-black night with the iridescent colors of dawn. Through the windows, the shapes of tall grass and solitary trees moved slowly past, lonely shadows against the charcoal gray of early morning.
“Just keep following these trails,” I said. “There’s bound to be a house around here somewhere.”
“I hope so,” Sophia said from the back seat, stifling a yawn. “I’m exhausted.”
I glanced over my shoulder, seeing only a dim outline of her face in the Humvee’s gloomy cab. “Worst case scenario,” I said, “we’ll park in a hollow and hide out until nightfall.”
“I’d rather sleep in a bed.”
Mike said, “We’ll take what we can get, Sophia.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.
I turned back around and stared through the front windshield, the hazy outlines of wrecked and abandoned vehicles drifting by like ships passing in a thick fog. Mike drove slowly, navigating via the Humvee’s blackout lights and a pair of NVGs, maneuvering deftly around the increasingly frequent obstacles on Highway 287. We had left the farmhouse just before midnight, Mike and I having decided it would be best to travel under cover of darkness. We knew by then the infected were more active at night, and figured anyone we might encounter who had survived thus far would be aware of that fact as well. Ergo, it made sense that if we wanted to avoid other people as much as possible, we should use the danger posed by the infected to our advantage.
Sophia had not been crazy about the idea, but after I explained that traveling during the day would make us an easy target for marauders, deserters, or just plain desperate people, she saw the wisdom of our plan.
The route we chose was roughly 265 miles, a distance we hoped to cross before daybreak. But the slow speeds we’d had to maintain to ensure safe travel on the increasingly choked highway, not to mention all the times we had to drive off road to make any progress at all, had seen us cover barely more than fifty miles.
For the last two hours, we had skirted the edges of Springfield, sticking to back roads and dirt trails across empty farmland and keeping our distance from the small town. Boise City had taught us a harsh lesson—wilderness good, towns bad—and instilled within us a healthy dose of paranoia. But despite our caution, I kept expecting to hear the thwap of bullets striking the Humvee, or the popping of tires over hidden booby traps, or vehicles to surround us with glaring headlights and bristling weapons. Thankfully, none of that happened.
The dirt trail we followed curved eastward across the highway and led us to a narrow strip of woodland running north to south. We went off-road and turned northward, keeping the thin treeline between us and the road. After a mile or so, the trees disappeared revealing a collection of squat buildings, a few livestock trailers, and acres of empty barbed-wire corral. Mike removed his NVGs, the day having brightened enough to see without them, and backed the Humvee down a shallow embankment until the buildings were out of sight.
“What do you think?” he asked, staring out the windshield. “Small-time ranch operation?”
“Looks like it,” I said. “See any movement?”
“No. But it’s early. If someone is there, they might still be asleep.”
“Ghillie suits?”
“Ghillie suits.”