inside, they’d unlock the guns and be done with it. But if the keys weren’t in there-or the register proved particularly stubborn-they agreed to keep their eyes open once again for other places to find guns. That issue temporarily dealt with, they headed out of town toward I-70.
The puppy glanced at them sleepily when the truck started, then rolled over and closed its eyes. Elliot hoped it wasn’t sick.
“What do you think that thing was?” Evajean asked, as Elliot drove the truck at a good clip along the highway, always careful not to overdo it and spill their heaps of supplies.
“What thing?”
“That woman. The one who…” She fingered her ear. They’d patched it up as best they could, cleaning the wound with alcohol and Q-tips, and it looked like it’d heal up okay. Evajean was okay, too, and thankfully didn’t need to be concerned about the plague the woman had carried. It’d been figured out by authorities long ago that the disease couldn’t be spread by bodily fluids.
“I don’t know. She was infected, I guess.”
“But they don’t attack like that,” she said. “At least Henry didn’t.”
“One’s I saw didn’t either, but I don’t know, they did all kinds of other strange things.”
“You mean the babbling?” she said, and pantomimed the rapid mouth movements they’d both become so familiar with.
“That, but the eyes also. And the way she moved. It was like Clarine before I- I had to tie her to a chair at the end, did you know that?”
“No,” she said.
“I did. She kept trying to run off. I thought maybe she was so out of it by then, so far gone that maybe she was trying to find Callie, my daughter, and maybe she thought Callie was still alive. That’s what this woman was like.”
“Searching.”
“Not while she was hitting you, but yeah. At the end, yeah. When she was on the ground and talking to us-and dying-it was just like with Clarine,” he said, realizing he was talking fast but liking it. It felt good to get all this out, whatever it was he was trying to say, and to be talking about Clarine and Callie again.
“But why aren’t they all like that? Was Callie that way?”
“No,” he said. “She got sick the way most of them did. Quiet, talking under her breath.”
“And then she died.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s like it was with Henry,” she said.
They rode silently for half an hour after that, Elliot concentrating on the road and Evajean playing with the dog. She still hadn’t told him what name she had in mind for it and he still couldn’t think of one himself.
12
There weren’t many cars on the freeway. Most people, when faced with the prospect of widespread death, shied away from road trips, heading home instead to care for immediate family-or just to hole up in the house and hope the disaster somehow missed them. It’s exactly what Elliot had done. This meant that the long stretches of America between the centers of population were empty, vast stretches of grass and trees and farms, viewed from curves of road unclogged by the normal rush of transit. The scene was peace and so Elliot drove, letting his thoughts stumble around memories of his wife and child, the events of the last several months, and the sudden attack earlier in the day. He didn’t bother Evajean, figuring she was doing much the same as he, and they were comfortable.
The still air inside the truck was eventually broken by a quick conversation about how long they’d drive today and where they’d stop for the night. Elliot wanted to go late and keep going until the threat of sleep was too great. If that meant a night in the truck, they’d manage. Evajean couldn’t take over for him. She’d never learned to drive a stick and Elliot had insisted on getting one when he and Clarine had been out shopping for this truck. “I’m gonna drive something like that,” he’d said, “the least I can do is try to make it fun.”
* * *
Miles later, Elliot squinted his eyes and
The puppy glanced at them sleepily when the truck started, then rolled over and closed its eyes. Elliot hoped it wasn’t sick.
“What do you think that thing was?” Evajean asked, as Elliot drove the truck at a good clip along the highway, always careful not to overdo it and spill their heaps of supplies.
“What thing?”
“That woman. The one who…” She fingered her ear. They’d patched it up as best they could, cleaning the wound with alcohol and Q-tips, and it looked like it’d heal up okay. Evajean was okay, too, and thankfully didn’t need to be concerned about the plague the woman had carried. It’d been figured out by authorities long ago that the disease couldn’t be spread by bodily fluids.
“I don’t know. She was infected, I guess.”
“But they don’t attack like that,” she said. “At least Henry didn’t.”
“One’s I saw didn’t either, but I don’t know, they did all kinds of other strange things.”
“You mean the babbling?” she said, and pantomimed the rapid mouth movements they’d both become so familiar with.
“That, but the eyes also. And the way she moved. It was like Clarine before I- I had to tie her to a chair at the end, did you know that?”
“No,” she said.
“I did. She kept trying to run off. I thought maybe she was so out of it by then, so far gone that maybe she was trying to find Callie, my daughter, and maybe she thought Callie was still alive. That’s what this woman was like.”
“Searching.”
“Not while she was hitting you, but yeah. At the end, yeah. When she was on the ground and talking to us-and dying-it was just like with Clarine,” he said, realizing he was talking fast but liking it. It felt good to get all this out, whatever it was he was trying to say, and to be talking about Clarine and Callie again.
“But why aren’t they all like that? Was Callie that way?”
“No,” he said. “She got sick the way most of them did. Quiet, talking under her breath.”
“And then she died.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s like it was with Henry,” she said.
They rode silently for half an hour after that, Elliot concentrating on the road and Evajean playing with the dog. She still hadn’t told him what name she had in mind for it and he still couldn’t think of one himself.
12
There weren’t many cars on the freeway. Most people, when faced with the prospect of widespread death, shied away from road trips, heading home instead to care for immediate family-or just to hole up in the house and hope the disaster somehow missed them. It’s exactly what Elliot had done. This meant that the long stretches of America between the centers of population were empty, vast stretches of grass and trees and farms, viewed from curves of road unclogged by the normal rush of transit. The scene was peace and so Elliot drove, letting his thoughts stumble around memories of his wife and child, the events of the last several months, and the sudden attack earlier in the day. He didn’t bother Evajean, figuring she was doing much the same as he, and they were comfortable.
The still air inside the truck was eventually broken by a quick conversation about how long they’d drive today and where they’d stop for the night. Elliot wanted to go late and keep going until the threat of sleep was too great. If that meant a night in the truck, they’d manage. Evajean couldn’t take over for him. She’d never learned to drive a stick and Elliot had insisted on getting one when he and Clarine had been out shopping for this truck. “I’m gonna drive something like that,” he’d said, “the least I can do is try to make it fun.”
* * *
Miles later, Elliot squinted his eyes and
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