US (Formerly The After Effect - Book 2)

53 - J O U R N E Y

It's funny how a few months can change so many things. Not too long ago, I was on this earth, trudging across the Blue Ridge Mountains, hoping to get the backing of the president to fight a war that wasn't hers to begin with. I was going to ask civilians to risk their lives in order to save the goodness of the universe they didn't even know existed beyond their own atmosphere. There's so much they don't know, so much they may never know or experience. I was going to ask them for blind trust.

I can't even trust myself sometimes.

Now, all of that has vanished. I walk alone, with an antidote gun on my hip and a determination to get home. I just need to touch the barnwood one last time, give our firepit one last fire, wave goodbye to my past the way I wanted to far before I stepped foot outside of our shelter. Then, when I was captured, I was stricken of the chance of ever seeing that place again. Its rustic beauty of chipped paint and worn furniture. It shouldn't take me more than a day to arrive. I hope no one has stepped foot on the lot since. It's strange knowing Travis was the last person to leave it.

I'm sort of glad he's moving on. Poor guy had a lot on his shoulders before meeting me. The death of his family, the nightmare of Caleb in the forest, Katie...the list is endless. I don't know how he managed to push past all that was against him. I don't think I could have been as strong as he was. Now, he commands an army at the bunker. I'm genuinely glad for him. But it just sucks he moved on from me too.

I've been gifted with a partly-sunny day. Could be raining. As I make my way to a street and then to the highway, I kick myself for not searching for a map back at the bunker. Although I'm not far, my mother's hints should serve me fairly well. Straight shot down the highway. I'm guessing that meant south. When I approach a fork in the cracked road, I stop to check for signs, and follow the S.

Listening to the sound of your own feet in a desolate world is one of the eeriest feelings. Back when I first left my shelter, there was still some noise. People raiding stores, running, fire...there was usually something else in the background. But in a street full of empty cars, silence sends chills down my spine. I remind myself of my power and grab hold of the gun for extra precaution. Still, I don't expect anyone to cross my path that is infected. They would have died off by now. If anyone is around, I'm hoping they'll be a traveller like me. Odds of a travel buddy are slim to none, but the thought excites me. Having normal, healthy people around should feel normal, but nothing is normal these days. Myself included. Normal is practically impossible, so I don't let the thought linger too long.

Instead, I try to think up activities to do to keep the time from crawling, but nothing comes to mind. Singing is out of the question. I wouldn't be caught dead squawking out of tune. Eventually, my thoughts steer in a negative direction. The fear of not finding my home doesn't even scratch the surface of the panic about what happened to Brink. I still am appalled at the fact that the others left him, knowing full well he was down there by himself. Damn, I wish I had known.

Taking back what happened is impossible, I get it. But that reality is hard to shake, only because I'd be devastated if they decided to leave me alone on a foreign planet, surrounded by an angry mob. However with me, it's more believable that they'd leave me. With Brink, I'm confused. I kick a pebble hard down the street and watch it skitter along the blacktop before running into a car tire and stopping.

The more I walk, the more guilt surfaces. I shouldn't have spoken to my mother the way I did. Shouldn't have been so demanding, so spoiled sounding. Who did I think I was demanding a limited resource as if I could do whatever I wanted? I shake my head and start to jog. I need to get moving; it'll help clear my head.

I weave in and out of cars and hurdle over shrapnel like I'm in a game. Some cars had smashed into each other, windshields busted, while others were practically untouched. I can't imagine the White House managed to siphon the gas out of all of them. I contemplate jacking one of these cars, but driving through this traffic jam would be a mission in itself. I'd be riding sideways along the shoulder or squeezing through any tiny space I could. Right now, walking seemed more reasonable. Plus, it wasn't too far. Less than a day of travel trumps endless miles it took to get to the bunker. And the faster I go, the quicker I'll arrive. I pick up my pace.