Vial #127

Chapter 2: Ascension of Hope

As I drive along the highway, the landscape gradually turns from the prairies to tiny hills. In the distance there's towering snow-topped mountains. In the fields, I see the occasional biter wandering aimlessly through the growth. The rare car sits at the side of the road, where people have stayed the night and never made it to morning.

Deep in my thought I remember Greta. I killed her, just like Dad killed my Mother. He did it for the best. I know that she's gone because of him so I can't blame him. Still I can't imagine the guilt he must have felt as he pulled the trigger, just like when I killed Greta. It was a selfish act. I only did it for protection. Because of me, a kid was killed. One more life was lost because of me.

My chest tightens, my eyes filling with emotion, then spilling over as tears. All of the guilt falling like rain drops down my face. Momentarily I look down, tightening my muscles, trying to hold in the guilt. From the corner of my vision I notice the gas gauge. It's low, too low. I'll be lucky if I make it past Canmore.

A sense of urgency rushes through my veins in anticipation. I have to make it. I will. At least I think. Every few minutes I check the gas. It's like a time bomb, ready to explode and I need to beat the timer.

Finally, I roll into the gas station. I pull out the

pump and try to turn on the gas but nothing happens. "Shit!" I say under my breath. There's no electricity. It won't work. Where else can I get gas? I get back in the car and think. It seems impossible. Where would there be gas?

A farm. They would have gas and some firearms and supplies. On the way up to Canmore I remember seeing one about twenty minutes back. The gauge is nearly empty, less than a millimetre from E.

I pull out from the gas station. Desperation courses in my body. I don't think that I'll make it. Just as I'm about to exit the town, I notice a hunting store.

Pulling to the curb, I notice a police officer slumped by the door. His hat covers his face. I can't tell if he's alive or dead, or a biter. I pull out my Father's shotgun. It's on its last bullet.

"Hello, sir?" I say, my voice filled with hope. No response. I gently kick his foot. He's gone. Tucked in his belt is a Glock 22 and one round of ammo.

I enter the store. It's filled with hunting supplies. On the back wall is a row of crossbows and arrows. I take one and 35 arrows, nearly as much as I can carry. Next, I head to behind the counter where there's ammo. I find some 155 gr. Seventeen shots in each round. I grab fifteen loads, 255 shots in total. On the wall behind the counter is a shelf of knives. I grab three, each with different lengths and styles. Finally, in a cupboard I find two flashlights and a pair of binoculars. Once I'm all geared up, I head to the door. Quickly scanning the shop for anything else I may need. In the back left corner I see a camping section. I know I can't carry anymore so I drop off everything in the truck, leaving me only with my Dad's gun. I step around a knocked over shelf and lean against the wall on my tippy toes, going for a sleeping bag.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps. I spin around. A biter is at the other side of the store. How did I miss him? I silently swing the bag over my shoulder and raise my gun; the last bullet ready to be shot. I cannot miss this. I aim right at the brain. Exhaling, the biter looks up at me, his eyes raging with hunger for my flesh. I load the gun and fire. The biter falls down, two feet from where I'm standing. The bullet went straight through his skull. My ears are ringing from the fire. My hand is shaking and I drop the pistol.

It all could've ended right here, a few seconds ago, but it didn't. I reach down and put the empty pistol in my back pocket. I don't know what ammo it takes but it's all I have left of my Father, so I keep it.

Before leaving the store, I grab a first aid kit and slide a Swiss army knife in my pocket. I step over the body and head towards the door. As I make my way to the entrance, I shove a couple water purification packets and matches into my coat.

Once I'm back outside, I am filled with reassurance; now that I have the survival equipment, I'm set for quite some time.

Putting the car back into gear I head back down the highway to the farm. The sun is forty- five degrees from setting. I have to get somewhere stable for the night.

I turn onto a dirt road, after swinging open a locked gate. The truck gets bumpy as the road twists and turns away from the highway on the gravel path. In the distance there's a large white farmhouse. A wrap-around balcony surrounds the building. To the left of the house, is an old barn that looks like it could fall down any moment. The place looks empty. The family that once lived here must've left near the start of the apocalypse.

To the right, is a large storage container marked gas. My heart fills with joy. I drive the car towards the cylinder shaped storage tank. In the rear of the truck is a syphon pump. I insert the pump into the container and the other end into the truck's tank. Then I start to pump. Slowly but surely the tank goes from empty to full.

This won't last me forever so I head to the barn in hopes of finding a jerry can or two. The barn doors squeal with friction. Cobwebs fill the corners. Cracks in the wood, filter in sunlight from the prairie sky. In the back, there's a shelf with several red cans with drips of gas still lingering at the bottom. I take two in each hand, leaving three on the shelf.

I turn around to head back to the truck but instead of having the exit in my sight, there's a biter. Saliva drips from its mouth as it daydreams of biting my body apart. Out of instinct I reach for my Father's gun but then I remember that it's out of rounds. I have no other weapon. Quickly, I spin around and grab another gas tank, dropping the others. I side step away from the biter heading for a ladder to the top layer of the barn. Just as I reach for the top floorboards of the second level, the ladder falls from beneath, leaving me dangling above the biter. I drop the gas tank and attempt to hold on. It is below me, reaching for my feet. I try to pull myself up and onto the platform, raising my legs and tightening my core but I'm not strong enough. The biter grabs my leg and I tumble onto my back. The air is knocked out of my lungs. The figure leans on top of me, its mouth biting out at my face. I place my arms on its shoulders and push it away but it leans in, closer and closer. It's no use. My journey is over. The biter's mouth opens and I let it lean down to end it all.

Then there's a gunshot and the biter flops down on top of my body. I turn my head to see a boy, just older than me, his arms still raised, rifle in hand. He saved me! He actually saved me. My journey can go on.