Metastasis

Chapter 6

Parked just a few yards away is Trevor's Wrangler. It's the kind of thing that got popular after the first Jurassic Park movie came out. The weathering, age, and layer of dried mud and dirt, however, indicate functional and useful. There's nothing about the vehicle that makes Lowry think Trevor chose it for base amusement.

It's more compact than the Cherokee, meaning that whatever supplies are inside are only ever an arm's reach away, even with it all stuffed into the back. Really, it's not a bad choice.

As they get closer, Lowry squints to get a glimpse through the dirt-caked windows. The first thing he sees are camping supplies: a sleeping bag, rolled blue tarp, camper's stove, two gas lamps. Clearly Trevor knows what he's doing. In comparison, Lowry is a hack of a survivalist.

Even rolled up, the sleeping bag looks gloriously comfortable. Lowry's been sleeping in the reclined driver's seat with an old flannel blanket and not even a pillow. He hasn't gotten a good night's sleep in weeks. On the other hand, he's been terrified of being genuinely unconscious—fully out of it and unaware.

A dozen more shambling paces and they're at the Wrangler, Trevor pulling open he passenger's door, tossing Lowry's wolf mask on the seat like the final piece of bait in a trap. The image strikes a cord in Lowry, makes him stop in his tracks as everything in him screams, 'Stranger danger.' From his childhood to his college orientation to every post-apocalyptic movie he's ever seen.

There's not a single good reason to get into the car.

"How are you feeling? Are you alright?"

Lowry glances at Trevor, moving slowly to keep his balance. It's not far to look. Trevor hovers a sparse few feet from him, brow furrowed in concern, corners of his lips drawn down. He looks ready to dive in at a moment's notice to whisk Lowry off his feet like a damsel in distress.

Bleeding from the back of the head, energy draining by the second, all Lowry can do is hope Trevor's as genuine and honest as he looks—or that he's the kind of psychopath that kills his victims quickly. Lowry steals himself with a breath and drags himself into the vehicle.

It takes an inordinate amount of energy to swallow back the sigh of relief that threatens to leak out of him as he settles.

Once Lowry's limbs are safely inside, Trevor shuts the door behind him and crosses the front of the Wrangler to the driver's side. He tosses Lowry's things into the back, on top of his own neatly piled items and within Lowry's reach, before climbing in himself.

"What are you doing around here anyway?" Trevor wonders as starts the engine, which rumbles to life eagerly.

"I live here."

What comes next is predictable, but still makes Lowry's blood run cold and hairs all over his body stand on end. "So you already have a place."

"No." Lowry snaps, harsh and immediate and insistent with a sudden surge of energy. It's a single syllable, but it sounds desperate and broken. He doesn't check to see what the reaction is, just glares at the dash and tightens his grip on the bat. "Not my place," he fleshes out a half dozen breaths later. "There's—I know another place though. It was in good shape last time I was there."

The Weiss'.

Wren has—had?—been a close friend of his since elementary school, but when her family decided to attempt for an evacuation camp, despite the fact that the infection hadn't even made it to Avery, he never saw them again. His mom had still been alive then.

"Sure. Just tell me the way."

They don't talk as they drive. It's only ten minutes from Green Trees Market and the Sheriff's Department but it's a hard ten minutes. While most of the houses are off the main road, blocked by trees, it's the ones that aren't that make the ride so uncomfortable—why he stares at the road and doesn't look up. He saw it all on his way out, and when he left he hadn't planned on coming back. He doesn't want to see it again.

Lowry knows that a majority of the houses are in tact. Some residents left when news first broke about the virus spreading out from San Diego, driven by the need to go down the mountain and connect with other family.

When the alert system first sounded state-wide on October tenth, more left. It was moving so quickly, and people were nervous.

None of the people who left in those first waves came back.

The ones who stayed relied on Avery's small size and remote location. They were in the mountains. The only traffic they saw were campers and fishers and hikers, all of which had come to a halt in light of the infection. While the rest of the state devolved into chaos, Avery stood.

The state was deemed overrun and, as though given permission to reign free, the infection finally reached Avery.

One day Avery was clean, safe, a haven in the mountains. Then an infected man went on a rampage in Green Trees Market. The next day Avery was officially infected.

Another day and Lowry watched his mom's body burn with half a dozen neighbors and friends.

The majority of houses visible from the streets are untouched, remnants of the people who left when they had the chance. But it's the ones of those who didn't, the houses that belonged to people who were still present when the infection hit Avery, that Lowry doesn't want to see. The memories of shattered windows, glass smeared with blood, smashed doors, and bodies and parts half-hidden and starting to decay, are already etched in his memories.

He doesn't need the reminder.