Metastasis

Chapter 2

With nowhere else to go, Lowry goes back home.

Not literally. The mere thought of going home sends chills up his spine and sets his stomach roiling. He goes back to Avery, tucked away in the depths of the Stanilaus National Forest in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Where everything was safe until it decidedly wasn't.

There were a few hours when he considered making his way out of the evacuated zone. The last he'd heard California, Nevada, and the western half of Arizona to Phoenix had been in the process of evacuation. Oregon isn't out of the realm of possibility, but he doesn't have the drive or the motivation.

Coming out of the mountains to get to Sacramento had been bad enough. He can't imagine what it would be like to try to drive real highways, pass through towns and cities, attempting to get to Oregon. He'd be fighting infected and survival and himself, because if cancer does anything it's make his body his own worst enemy.

So he went back to Avery, found the Roberts' boat still in their driveway and the Johnson's Cherokee in their garage and formed a plan.

There's a tiny island on the lake out by the dam. It's just big enough to be a nice place to camp if you can get to it before anyone else has. He'll have a fantastic view of the sun rises and sun sets, peace, quiet, and nothing around for miles. He'll read and fish, and one way or another he'll choose how he dies and it won't be at the hands of somebody who used to be a person and is not a psychotic killer.

Hitching up the boat saps an unreasonable amount of his energy, leaves him panting and fatigued and desperately wanting a nap. He's not thinking properly: evidenced by the fact that he sits down, leans against the boat trailer's tire, and takes a breather. The population of Avery was never large, but it wasn't empty when the infection hit. It's no safer to sit on the ground and take a break here than it is anywhere else.

He's just so tired.

It takes hard focus and concentrated willpower to haul himself back to his feet, crawl behind the wheel, and make his way to the center of Avery where the Sheriff's Department sits a few doors down from Green Trees Market.

He needs supplies more than anything else, but the crawling itch of anxiety that is a constant these past weeks tells him to take ammunition as well, even if he's almost certain infected are coordinated enough to swim. Almost certain isn't certain, and he only has two magazines for the automatic.

The parking lot still has a spattering of vehicles in it. He ignores them, tries not to think about why the doors are hanging open or wonder where the drivers are now. Instead he drives straight up to the Sheriff's Department, pulls the jeep and the boat trailer around so the vehicle is not only close but positioned to make a quick escape, and jumps out.

As he walks to the doors, gun in hand, wolf mask on, the familiar voice in the back of his head comes back—the one that's been there since he was diagnosed and only gotten louder in the past month. The one that whispers a low murmur of words that are truth but that he tries hard to turn a deaf ear to because things are bad enough as they are.

It's the voice that tells him he's dying anyway.

He's only got another month in him, if he's lucky.

So why is he fighting so hard to survive?

Why fight at all?

Why not just drive to one of the lookouts, watch the sun rise, and let that be the last thing he sees?

The frosted glass door opens. He's three feet away, arm just starting to reach out for it, and it's opening.

Heart lurching, stomach dropping, Lowry scrambles backward, trips over his own feet, and pitches back.

There's a crack and a lightning sharp pain that makes his vision flash white when his head snaps against the concrete. Groaning, tears prickle at the corners of his eyes that he refuses to close. Grip tight on the gun, he looks up, teeth grinding together, silently pleading not to have to do this again.

The gun wavers in his hands. He's not sure if it's because it feels like it weighs twenty pounds. Or because he might have a concussion. Or because he's remembering the last time he shot an infected and that, despite the hollowed features and the blood-smeared face, the broken teeth and the crazed eyes, the face of the woman is seared in his memory and he doesn't want another face to join her.

"Woah. Hey. Don't shoot."

Lowry can't make out much of the figure in front of him other than general male, but the moment to voice cracks through the silence he goes lax, arms dropping at his sides, eyes closing so he can focus on pulling himself together.

Infected don't speak.