October Country: Blood and Desperation

Lucas's eyes snapped open suddenly. The Pacific Northwest, and all civilization West of the Rockies had been lost last night. It irked Lucas's soul, and he couldn't stop thinking about it. His grandmother in Spokane had not contacted him in a few months. For all he knew, she could be either dead or undead. Both were not good endings. He stood up from his mattress, holding his head in his hands. When did it all go wrong?

The settlement, if you could even call it that, occupied the shell of what used to be a hardware store on the edge of Gravelake. The windows were boarded with plywood and sheet metal. The air inside smelled like mildew, old motor oil, and unwashed bodies. Outside, snow had started to fall again, early even for Minnesota. The kind of cold that got into your bones and didn't leave.

Lucas rubbed his face and pulled on his jacket, a threadbare thing two sizes too big that used to belong to someone named Derek, according to the duct-taped nametag still stuck to the chest. Derek was long gone. Everyone was.

Footsteps echoed from the front of the store. Mara's voice, flat and clinical: "Radio's crackling again."

Lucas stood, joints popping. He was seventeen, but he felt seventy. He walked past the makeshift partitions, old shelving units, and tarps that divided their sleeping areas. Ethan was already at the radio, a battered emergency receiver they'd salvaged from a ranger station two months back. It sat on a folding table next to a road map so worn the state lines were barely visible.

Jonah stood near the window, rifle slung over his shoulder, peering through a gap in the boards. He didn't turn around. "Anything?"

Ethan didn't answer. His hand hovered over the dial.

Then the voice came through.

Static first. Then a woman's voice.

"...This is the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Broadcasting on all emergency frequencies. This will be our final transmission."

Lucas's stomach dropped.

Mara stepped closer. Her face was blank, but her hands clenched at her sides.

"There is no light at the end of the tunnel. May God be with you all."

Then nothing. Just the hiss of dead air.

For a long moment, nobody moved.

Then Jonah laughed. It was a short, bitter sound, like something breaking. "That's it? 'May God be with you'? That's what we get?"

Ethan's jaw tightened. He reached over and turned the radio off.

"We knew it was coming," he said quietly.

"We knew?" Jonah turned from the window, his face flushed. "We knew they'd just, what, fucking abandon us? Just say 'good luck' and die?"

"They didn't have a choice," Mara said. Her voice was flat. "There's nothing left to coordinate."

"Bullshit." Jonah's voice rose. "There's always something. There's always someone. You're telling me the entire government just-"

"Yes." Ethan's voice cut through like a blade. "That's exactly what I'm telling you."

Jonah stared at him, breathing hard. "Then what the hell have we been waiting for?"

Ethan didn't answer.

Lucas felt his chest tighten. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck in his throat. He'd spent weeks, months, telling himself that someone would come. That the government would send trucks, helicopters, something. That they just had to hold out a little longer.

But now there was nothing.

"We should've left weeks ago," Jonah said, his voice shaking. "We should've-"

"Left and gone where?" Mara's tone was sharp now. "South? West? They're gone. East? Overrun. North's the only option, and you know it."

"Canada." Jonah spat the word like a curse. "You really think they're just gonna let us waltz across the border? You think they're not shooting anything that moves?"

"We don't know that," Ethan said.

"Yes, we do!" Jonah jabbed a finger toward the radio. "You heard them! 'No further aid!' That means everyone's dead or dying, Ethan! That includes the Canadians!"

"Then what do you want to do?" Ethan's voice was still calm, but there was an edge to it now. Dangerous. "Stay here? Wait for winter to kill us? Wait for the infected to find us?"

Jonah's hand drifted toward the rifle strap.

Lucas saw Mara tense.

"I want," Jonah said slowly, "to stop pretending you have a plan."

Ethan stood up. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, with hands like sledgehammers from twenty years of roadwork. "I do have a plan."

"Yeah?" Jonah stepped forward. "Then why didn't you tell us the supplies were running out?"

Ethan froze.

Lucas's stomach dropped again.

"What?" Mara's voice was low.

Jonah's smile was ugly. "Yeah. I checked. We've got maybe a week of food left. Maybe. And Ethan's been saying we're fine for the last two."

Ethan's face didn't change, his hands curled into fists. "I was trying to keep everyone calm."

"You were lying."

"I was buying time."

"For what?" Jonah's voice cracked. "For this? For them to tell us we're fucked and hang up?"

Ethan took a step forward. "I was buying time to figure out how to get us north without everyone panicking."

"Too late." Jonah unslung the rifle.

He didn't point it. Not yet. But it was in his hands.

Mara moved to the side, angling herself between Jonah and Lucas. Her hand went to the knife on her belt.

"Put it down," Ethan said.

"No." Jonah's voice was shaking now. "No, I'm done. I'm done listening to you. I'm done waiting to die because you think you know better."

"Jonah-"

"We should've left!" Jonah screamed. "We should've left when we had the chance! But you wanted to wait! You wanted to-"

Lucas didn't see who swung first.

One second they were yelling. The next, Ethan's fist connected with Jonah's jaw, and Jonah stumbled backward, the rifle clattering to the floor.

He caught himself on the table, spitting blood, then lunged.

They hit the ground hard. Fists, elbows, knees. Jonah was younger, faster, but Ethan was bigger, stronger. He got on top, pinning Jonah's arms, but Jonah twisted, bucked, threw him off. Mara shouted something Lucas didn't hear.

Then Jonah's hand went to his belt.

The knife came out fast, a fixed-blade hunting knife, six inches, serrated on one side. Jonah swung wild, and Ethan threw himself backward, the blade missing his throat by inches.

"STOP!" Mara's voice cracked like a whip.

Jonah didn't stop. He advanced, breathing hard, the knife low and ready. Ethan scrambled back, his hand reaching for something, anything.

Lucas grabbed the nearest thing he could find, a length of pipe leaning against the wall, and swung it into Jonah's shoulder.

Not hard enough to break bone. Just hard enough to make him drop the knife.

Jonah howled, clutching his arm, and Ethan lunged forward, slamming him into the wall. This time he didn't let go. He pressed his forearm into Jonah's throat, leaning his full weight into it, and Jonah's eyes went wide.

"Enough," Ethan said.

Jonah clawed at his arm, gasping, and for a horrible moment Lucas thought Ethan wasn't going to let go.

Then he did.

Jonah collapsed to the floor, coughing, wheezing. Ethan stepped back, breathing hard. Blood ran from his nose. His knuckles were split.

Mara picked up the knife. She folded it and slipped it into her own pocket.

Nobody spoke.

Outside, the wind howled against the boards. Snow hissed against the windows.

Finally, Ethan wiped his face and looked around at all of them. His eyes were hard.

"We leave in an hour," he said. "We take the truck. We go north. Anyone who doesn't want to come can stay."

He looked at Jonah.

"But if you pull a weapon on me again, I'll kill you myself."

Jonah didn't answer. He just sat there, staring at the floor, his hands shaking.

Ethan turned to Lucas. "Load the truck. Everything we can carry. Food, water, medical supplies, ammunition. Leave the rest."

Lucas nodded numbly.

Ethan looked at Mara. "You're in charge of the map. Find us the fastest route to the border. Avoid the highways."

Mara's face was unreadable, but she nodded.

Ethan picked up the rifle from where it had fallen and slung it over his shoulder. Then he walked to the door, pulled it open, and stared out at the snow.

"We're not dying here," he said quietly. "Not like this."

Lucas believed him.

He had to.

They worked in silence.

A Continental Courier Service box truck sat behind the building, half-buried in snow. It was a miracle the thing still ran at all. Ethan had kept it going with spare parts and duct tape. The tank was nearly empty. Maybe a quarter left. Enough to get them thirty, forty miles if they were lucky.

The trainyard was eighteen miles northeast.

Lucas loaded boxes into the back while Mara spread the map across the hood, tracing routes with a gloved finger. Jonah sat on the loading dock, staring at nothing. His jaw was already swelling.

Ethan checked the engine, then the tires, then the fuel line. He didn't look at anyone.

When everything was loaded, they climbed in.

Ethan drove. Mara sat beside him, map in her lap. Lucas and Jonah sat in the back, on top of the supply crates, rifles across their knees.

The engine coughed, sputtered, then roared to life.

Ethan put it in gear.

"Last chance," he said.

Nobody moved.

He pulled onto the road.

The settlement disappeared behind them, swallowed by the snow.