Remnants: A Record of Our Survival Read online

  We screamed like wild raiders as Dad pushed the truck through a back patio post, the whole works crashing down in a din behind us, and then around and into the side yard. There were others on foot here, and Dad swerved at the last minute to plow into a little group of them huddled around a burn barrel. We’d caught that sad little bunch completely off their guard, and it hurts me a little to say that it felt good watching a few of them go down under the front of the truck.

  Billy reloaded. He leaned out the window, ready to unleash heck on these jerks, but they let us go. There were a few plinking ricochets sounding off the buildings around us, but we had made it through. Dad was cutting horizontally now through yards—thumping down off the curb and across the streets before blasting through fences and crashing straight through back yards. The engine strained, the speedometer climbing.

  “Everybody okay? How about a systems check?” Dad said. He patted his chest, squeezed his biceps, touched the back of his head. It was just another surreal moment for me, doing a once-over on myself after a danged gunfight.

  “Good!” Billy said. “Damned good, Dad! Whoooo! We made it!”

  Dad flashed him a look, then broke into a grin before reaching over and squeezing his son’s shoulder.

  “Allie?”

  “Fine, Dad. Fancy driving back there.”

  “Thanks, kiddo. Let’s, uh…let’s just disappear now, eh?”

  He had the high beams on and he kept his foot down and, before too long, we were almost where we needed to be.

  “That’s Yamhill there, Dad. Make a right. Right here,” Billy said, pointing. He was still breathing hard and I could tell that, despite it all, he was energized. My big brother had just killed somebody, and he looked ready to go another twelve rounds.

  Sheesh.

  Dad turned onto Yamhill. The park was pitch black, the shattered streetlights leading to the summit of Mt. Tabor like broken teeth in the truck’s high beams. Dad cut the lights off and then we were back in utter darkness.

  “There’s an old maintenance shed in the woods behind the basketball courts,” Billy said. “We could maybe leave the truck there.”

  Dad nodded, and we climbed the 600 feet directly to the summit, busting into the park and angling through a labyrinth of hundred-year-old firs. The shed sat deep in a cluster of trees, thick brambles of blackberry vines staking a claim to the structure.

  It sure looked deserted.

  Dad put the truck in park. “You kids stay put. Billy—hand me the shotgun.” He stepped out into the night. “Two minutes, Son. If I’m not back in two minutes, you get behind that wheel and head straight back to the cabin. Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Billy replied. “Please, Dad…please be careful in there.”

  Dad nodded. “I love you both. Be right back.”

  He shut the door and we watched him run, hunched, toward the shed. He inched one of the large double doors open and slipped inside.

  “Bi—” I started.

  “Shhhh!” he snapped. “Not now, Allie.”

  He slid into the driver’s seat, the pistol in his right hand.

  I watched the digital clock embedded in the dash. 10:43.

  We held our breath.

  10:44.

  “Crap,” Billy said. He arranged his mirrors, the muscles of his jaw getting a workout.

  10:45.

  “Not yet,” I whispered. “Not yet, Billy. You can’t leave yet.” I was crying. We’d lost Mom; we just couldn’t lose Dad.

  “You heard him,” Billy said. “We’ve got to go, Allie.” He jammed the transmission down into drive and began to turn the wheel just as Dad reappeared in the doorway. He had the shotgun and he was waving at us.

  “He’s there!” I screamed, tears streaming down my face. I completely lost it when I saw him. “Billy, he’s there! Go!”

  Billy let his breath go in a torrent. He’d been crying too, and I saw his lower lip quivering. “Jeez, Dad!” He turned the wheel and eased up on the brakes as Dad pulled the doors open and Billy slipped into the shed. Dad closed the doors behind us and we piled out of the truck and into the best family hug I’ve ever known.

  When we’d finished squeezing each other half to death, Dad whispered, “Okay, here’s the deal…we’re not alone in here. Keep your cool, Son. These people? I just don’t know yet. They seem okay, but…”

  He closed the truck door and the dome light switched off, leaving us in perfect darkness. There was a swish of a match and, in the farthest corner of the cavernous shed, standing near a work bench and a row of tractors, a man lit a kerosene lamp. “Please—come on over here,” he called out to us. His voice was weak. “I promise that we mean you no harm.”

  He had his family with him. Two young girls and a boy a few years younger than Billy. A tiny wife bordering on emaciation. He, too, was gaunt—a scarecrow rattling around in clothes at least two sizes too big.

  “Come. Please. We mean you no harm.” He motioned at us, and Dad touched Billy’s forearm—staying his pistol.

  “I’m Clifford Keane,” Dad called. “These are my children, Allison and William. We,” he dug in his pack and produced a handful of fiddlebacks, “have not contracted the blight.”

  He ate one and passed a few to each of us. We followed suit as we moved across the room, and I saw that trio of children staring at us with naked hunger.

  “Ah,” the man sighed, “she and I…we cannot break bread with you. Not in…not in that way, I’m afraid.”

  Billy’s hand came up on instinct, the pistol trained on the man’s head, even before the last word had left his mouth.

  “No, Bill! Put the gun down!” Dad said.

  “They’re infected,” Billy said. “This isn’t right. I don’t see how we—”

  “They’re going for treatment. Same place we’re going. They…they want to travel with us.”

  Billy stopped. He stared at Dad, at the family, back at Dad. He lowered the gun and I could see the woman relax. She pulled her children close, dissolving in a flurry of sobs.

  “Our children…maybe they have some sort of immunity? They haven’t been touched by all of this—at least not yet. My name is Jack Wilson; this is my wife, Penny. The little one here is Mary, her sister is Ann, and Pete is our oldest. We…we’re trying to get treatment. Just stopped in here to rest a minute.”

  “But it’s been a whole day, Dad,” Pete said. There was frustration in his voice and my heart began to ache for this family. Perhaps they were too weak to go any further.

  “I know, Pete. I know,” Wilson said, his smile strained. He coughed into his hand.

  “How much farther is it?” Dad said.

  “Farther?” Wilson replied. He wore a dreamy expression. “I’m sorry, Mr. Keane. Just…just lost concentration for a minute there. Do you…can you spare something to eat? For the children?”

  Goodness, they were so hungry. I looked at the fern greens in the palm of my hand and offered them without a second thought.

  “Allie, no,” Dad said. “Just…just put them there, okay?” He motioned to an overturned plastic bucket, halfway between us. I piled them there while he went into his pack and pulled out a plastic bag filled with mushrooms and greens. He looked at Wilson. “We can share. Here…send them over.”

  Dad put healthy portions of food on the bucket, and we retreated while the kids came over and fell on it like carrion birds on roadkill. It was gone in seconds, and then they were back, huddling with their folks.

  Smart Dad. It wouldn’t do for us to get too close.

  “How much farther?” Dad repeated.

  “Oh. Yes, I’m sorry. And thanks so much for the food, Mr. Keane. I’d say just three or four more miles. Can I…can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” Dad said. He put his pack back in the truck, the barrel of the shotgun still pointed at the floor. “What is it?”

  Wilson looked at his wife and something very sad passed between them. “We’re at our limit. We don’t…we won’t do what our condi
tion calls for us to do survive. If we…if we don’t make it into the Reclamation Zone, will you see that the kids get inside? We’ve been told there’s food—medicine. We just…”

  His words terminated there and he wept, his thin shoulders hitching with each sob. He pulled his son close and kissed the boy’s temple, wrapping his other arm around his little girls. Criminy…

  “We will, Jack. I promise you that we will. C’mon, now. Let’s get back on the road so you can bring them inside on your own, okay? Can you two make it?”

  Wilson swiped the tears from his cheeks. He smiled at his wife, who simply wore a dazed expression. She couldn’t return the gesture. “We’ll try. We waited too long to come into town, I think…but we’ll try. Thank you, Mr. Keane. Thank you.”

  We gathered our packs and started out for… ah, shoot! Only 6% battery left. I’ll try to get the rest of this in here when the juice is back up. Keep your heads down, if you’re reading this, and stay out of Portland.

  The place is a war zone…

  Chapter Seven: Into the Reclamation Zone

  The juice flipped back on about an hour ago. Hard to say, in light of everything that’s happened, if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but at least there’s a chance that I’ll be able to get most of this down after all.

  Somebody has been calling for help just outside of our room for the last thirty minutes or so. Billy and Dad just keep piling more stuff against the barricade every time that poor man screams. We thought about opening the door, but if the last few days have taught us anything, it’s that trusting in others is foolish and the blighted can be pretty darned sneaky.

  Sooo…let me just try to pick this back up where I left off.

  We kept upwind of the Wilsons. Even though it was cold outside and the air was heavy with frozen fog, we just couldn’t risk being near them.

  Jack and Penny stumbled along behind us, Pete acting as a crutch for his mom. We kept an eye on them, but they were as harmless as a couple of kittens in the shape they were in.

  We angled straight for Burnside. Jack said they’d cordoned off everything from the North Park Blocks to the northern end of the Pearl District. Bounded by the river to the east and the hills to the west, this was Dr. Camille’s Reclamation Zone—the heart of emerging medicine in the battle against the blight.

  Jack and Penny both stumbled a few times, but we actually made decent time. Dad said it was just after midnight when we encountered the recon team.

  “Halt!” the lead man said. He had some seriously heavy artillery, and he was dressed for battle. He wore night-vision goggles like the kind you see on the movies and a camouflage helmet. Seven soldiers, similar guns at the ready, fanned out behind him. “Do any in your party carry the blight?”

  “We’re healthy,” Dad called back, “but there are blighted among us. They need help right away. They’re following behind us, just a few hundred yards back, and they have healthy children. The kids ate with us.”

  The man nodded. He stepped forward, the phalanx behind him keeping pace. “Share a bite with me, then?” he said. He pulled a bag of baby carrots out of a pocket in his flak jacket and my stomach lurched. Man, the sight of those little beauties made my mouth water.

  Freaking carrots!

  “Of course,” Dad said. He took one from the bag and popped it into his mouth without hesitation. Billy and I followed suit and the lead soldier smiled at us. He shook each of our hands and Dad gave him our names.

  “May I?” I asked, motioning to the bag. He handed it to me and I had to fight the urge to scarf the entire thing down in a flurry of orange crumbs.

  “Feel free,” he replied, laughing. “But save a few for the youngsters behind you. We always need to be sure.”

  I felt terrible, having forgotten about the Wilsons. Sheesh. They needed the food much more than I did. I handed the bag back to the soldier without taking another, and he took it with an appreciative nod.

  “So you say the parents are blighted?” he asked.

  “They are,” Dad said. “And it seems that they haven’t eaten—any of them; at least it appears that way to me. The parents are willing to pass on instead. They…they just want to see that their kids are looked after.”

  “Well, we might have remedies for all of them. Have to wait and see. Jimmy! Take Blutz and Aaron and go check on them. Full de-bug.” He handed a tall man the bag of carrots and, without a word, three soldiers peeled away from the group and jogged toward the Wilsons. I watched their approach. Just as they neared the little family, Penny crumpled forward in the street.

  The soldiers pulled hazmat hoods from their packs and zipped them down over their faces.

  One of the soldiers yanked a wand from a holster on his backpack and began to spray a fogged substance over the entire family. The kids shielded their faces while Jack Wilson knelt and pulled his wife into his arms.

  When the soldier was finished delivering a thorough dousing, another swooped in and picked up Penny. The third took Jack’s arm and they hustled the parents away, not toward the checkpoint that was well lit on Burnside, but instead toward an old mission that had been cordoned off with chain-link fencing and razor wire. Jack held his youngest daughter’s hand for a tiny moment longer, the girl trailing after her parents, and then the man with the wand gently guided her back to her siblings. He produced the carrots and the kids tore into them. When they were finished, the last soldier guided them to the checkpoint, but they were routed toward a separate holding area.

  “God speed,” Dad said, and the lead soldier nodded.

  “My name is Captain James Perez,” he said. “We’re part of the security team here in the RZ. If you’ll follow me, Mr. Keane, I think we can get you set up with some modest accommodations.” He checked his watch. “Y’all must be pretty tired.”

  “Thanks,” Dad said. “It’s been a long,” he exhaled heavily, “…a long couple of months.”

  We walked with him to the checkpoint and passed through a series of chutes. We ate again with the soldiers inside and spent thirty minutes filling out paperwork. Vials of blood were taken. Our weapons were registered, our packs inventoried.

  An hour later and a woman in a military uniform picked us up in a Toyota SUV. The streets there were well-lit and free of debris. Though the windows were dark, the buildings had been maintained. I pictured people sleeping inside, resting up for an actual day in the world.

  “Welcome to the RZ,” she said after we were buckled in. She headed west on Burnside, toward the hills. “I’m Captain Delia Ward. I report directly to Dr. Camille. May I ask you a question, Mr. Keane?”

  “Of course.”

  “You and your children are healthy. Why did you risk coming into town?”

  “Because we lost someone. We were hoping she might be here. Her name is Marjorie.”

  If Captain Ward knew Mom, she didn’t let on. Her eyes alternated from the rearview, where she watched Billy and me in the backseat, and the road. “We’ll sort that out later, then. For now, let’s just get settled in.”

  She hooked a left into a parking garage and we piled out, grabbing our packs. A pair of nondescript brick buildings slumbered in the Portland night, though a doorman in a military uniform stood watch outside the foyer of each.

  Uptown Apartments a sign read outside the larger of the two buildings.

  “Home sweet home, at least for tonight,” Ward said. “This way.”

  We followed her inside and took an actual elevator up to the third floor. It’d been so long that I forgot the butterflies you sometimes get when the lift gets going. We followed her down a long hallway and she let us inside a spacious apartment.

  “Three bedrooms, so you can all have some privacy. Fridge is stocked, and there’s hot water if you’d like a shower. You have the run of the place until we figure out our next step.”

  She smiled at us. “Again, welcome to the Reclamation Zone. I hope we can help you find your Marjorie, and that you feel at home with us here.”

>   “Thank you,” Dad said, the gratitude plain in his voice. Captain Ward nodded and departed, and Dad worked the dead bolt on the door. He put the shotgun in the corner of the room and collapsed to the floor with a sigh.

  “We made it,” he said. “C’mere, kids.”

  We went to him and he pulled us into a hug. I thought he might be laughing a little at first, stunned that we’d actually survived a trip into the city, but his thin shoulders instead shook with quiet sobs. Billy followed suit and what was left for me but to do the same? We cried for a little while, and then Dad got up and made us plates of cheesy eggs and toast. We took hot showers. When we were finished up and had clean clothes on—tee-shirts and underwear and socks, pulled fresh from brand new packages!—we said our goodnights and went to our separate rooms.

  It was early in the morning—probably after 3:00—and I said a prayer for Mom and fell into the deepest, most restorative sleep I can recall since everything fell apart.

  0

  Dr. Camille visited us at 11:00 a.m. the following morning. Perez and Ward and two others we hadn’t met yet accompanied him. Dad made coffee and cooked up the rest of the eggs, and we ate while the doctor and his attaché filled us in.

  “California is a wasteland. It’s much worse there than it is here,”

  Camille said. He was a tall, thin man with a neat beard and moustache and kind brown eyes framed by gold-wired glasses. He wore slacks and a dress shirt beneath a white coat—in other words, he looked the way a doctor should look. “Washington is a much different story. The blighted there are well organized. They call themselves the—”

  “The Red Rising,” Dad interjected between bites of toast. “We know. We, uh…we heard one of their inventories on the radio. We’ve poked around a bit on the X-NET as well.”