I woke to a cold, wet nose and lots of sticky slobber running down the side of my
face.
“Liam.” I groaned. “I was having such a good dream.”
His furry face, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, was completely unforgiving.
“I know, I know… We have to keep moving. No rest for the weary. Yada, yada, yada.”
I began rolling up my sleeping bag and digging out our breakfast. A granola bar for
me, a handful of Acana for Liam, and water for us both. Liam quickly gobbled up his
meal and sat gazing at me expectantly.
“Sorry, buddy. You know we have to ration things out. It’s not like you didn’t have
a nice fat bird… and squirrel… and frog last night. I don’t see you losing any weight
here.” I pinched his side playfully. He rewarded me with another slobbery kiss on
the cheek.
I sighed as I dusted myself off, donned my pack, and took up my homemade walking
stick/spear and knife. Liam began running in circles, excited to be on the move
again.
I remember the first day I laid eyes on the furry little pup two years ago. He was
a refugee at our local animal shelter—if you could even call it that. They were no-
kill, so they had that going for them, but other than that, it was little more than a
glorified kennel. The animals were given the minimal veterinary care and fed even
less. If they made it out alive, that was a miracle in itself.
But a positive, for me anyway, was that they couldn’t have cared less when a
seventeen-year-old sauntered in and offered up a little cash to take one of the
critters off their hands. It didn’t seem to bother them, either, that Liam—then
named Willy—Who does that to an animal?—was obviously at least half wolf. He
was labeled: husky mix, “Great with kids!” He lost some of his fluff over the next
year, but everything from his huge grey-and-cream ears to his terrifying mouthful
of gleaming white, super-sharp teeth and grossly oversized paws, screamed WOLF!
Good thing I’m a pretty good trainer and he didn’t grow up and try to tear out my
intestines, huh?
Things were so much easier back then. Up until the past six months, my life was
just about as easy as a teenager’s life could be. My parents are… were… some kind
of government scientists or engineers or something—they never could give me
any details—so we were never hurting for cash. We had the American dream: nice,
big Victorian house with the white picket fence, a minivan and sports car in the
driveway, and even a nice piece of land to raise some animals and ride ATVs on.
Okay, that last bit might be more the redneck American dream, but it was still nice.
Until the epidemic…
I was just settling into my new apartment, breezing through the first week of
classes, when the news reports began. Some facility on the west coast had been
completely devastated by a mob of crazed, violent employees. Like pretty much
everyone else in the world, I paid very little attention. Stuff like that happens every
day, unfortunately. But, over the next week, it kept happening, spreading out from
the new “ground zero,” faster and faster. When my dad called and informed me
they would be heading into work, the “lab” as it was always known, for an indefinite
amount of time, I immediately packed up my essentials and headed back home to
retrieve my Liam. Screw the no-pets policy of the campus apartments; I needed him
and he needed me.
After spending one night in my old, juvenile bedroom—I was obviously an adult
now, after having spent a whole two weeks living on my own—I was gathering
up Liam’s favorite toys, food, and massive crate when the tornado sirens went off.
Seeing that it was a crisp, clear late summer day, I couldn’t imagine why those sirens
would be blasting at seven in the morning.
I threw my sleepy body onto the sofa and flipped on the local news.
…We don’t know exactly what has spurred this series of events, but we do know
that you should take this threat seriously. The president has urged everyone
to please remain locked indoors. Do not allow strangers into your home. Take
whatever protective measures you deem necessary, and above all, stay safe.
Emergency phone circuits are completely overloaded at this time. All pertinent
government personnel and military reserves have been called in, and we are
assured that everyone is hard at work trying to understand and contain this
epidemic…
Epidemic? I just thought a bunch of angry people were rioting. What is this about an
epidemic?
Quickly, I tried dialing up my mom’s cell.
…We’re sorry. All circuits are now busy. Please try your call again later. We’re
sorry. All circuits are now busy. Please try—
I punched the end button and tossed the useless phone on the coffee table. Liam
jumped on the sofa beside me and rested his head on my lap, cutting his mismatched
blue and green eyes at me in an attempt to garner some head scratching—which worked, of course.
I sighed. “What are we going to do now, buddy?” He growled softly and licked my
hand. “Yeah, I don’t know either.”
A rustling drew me out of my memories. A menacing sound rumbled from Liam’s
throat and he turned to the noise on high alert. I unsheathed my knife and held my
walking stick in a more defensive position, squinting into the brush along the side of
the highway we were walking on.
Before I could take one cleansing breath, a young girl, probably no more than ten or
twelve, burst through the briars and vines and barreled toward us. At first glance,
she looked just like any other preteen—skinny jeans, Converse sneakers, black tank
top—only her clothes were dirty and torn and her hair was a tangled mess. And the
eyes… That’s how you really knew. The eyes were blank, cloudy, and ringed a cherry
red. She was infected. And eager to rip out our throats.
So, I bet you’re thinking zombie apocalypse here. Crazy kid tearing out of the woods
to eat our flesh for breakfast. Well, not quite. These people are definitely sick, very
zombie-like, but the last thing they want to do is eat human flesh. They just want
to kill. They are controlled by an insatiable thirst for base violence. Nothing more.
They kill; they move on. They never eat—anything. So, fortunately for us, they will
eventually starve to death. Unfortunately, if they don’t succeed in killing their victim,
they almost always pass along whatever twisted virus it is they’re carrying.
Another stroke of fortune is that I seem to be immune. I’ve been attacked at least
a dozen times, and I’m still “normal”—no cataract stare, no bloodshot eyes, no
animalistic violent nature. After a few weeks, when Liam and I were looting a local
grocery store for all the dog food and nonperishable food items we could find, we
heard an emergency broadcast announcing that there were, indeed, individuals who
seemed to be immune, and they were gathering in a compound-like facility in New
York State. So, that’s where we were headed when bush girl jumped us.
One beneficial thing, I guess, about these zombies—I like to call them perps—is that,
although they are fast, they are incredibly clumsy. So, thus far, I haven’t had much
trouble gaining the upper hand and making short work of our attackers. This chick
is no different. She lunged with outstretched hands and tripped on the edge of the
pavement. This gave me enough time to spear her in the shoulder, pin her to the
ground, and run my blade through her carotid in one swift movement. This isn’t the
first time I’ve had to use this move, but this time, I notice the nervous tremors that
have accompanied all my kills are subsiding a bit. I’m not sure if this is a good thing
or a very, very sad thing. As Liam tilts his head and gives me “the stare,” I think it is
probably very, very sad. It’s just wrong to kill a little girl on the side of the road, no
matter what the circumstances.
I clean my knife on the grass before sliding it back into the leather sheath. There
isn’t much I can do for the stick, so I try to tap off as much of the blood as I can
before turning it point-down and tossing my pack back onto my shoulders. I say a
silent prayer for the poor dead girl and cluck my tongue for Liam to follow. Maybe
he says his own prayers over the dead bodies. But he never tries to eat them. I can
imagine that would be quite the feast for him, but not once has he so much as licked
one of the infected. Somewhere deep inside, I imagine this is out of respect, rather
than the remote chance that he could be infected, too. So far, it seems to be strictly a
human disease.
Bounding up beside me, he nudges his head under my free hand and I give him a
quick scratch behind his ears.
“Thanks, boy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I really don’t. I can’t imagine
facing this alone. It would be nice to have a human companion sometimes, but
honestly, Liam has made the best traveling and apocalypse-surviving counterpart a
girl could ask for.
Up ahead, I see the big blue-and-green “Pennsylvania Welcomes You: State
of Independence” sign. The word independence stirs up a well of long-buried
emotions, and my heart seizes with sadness and excitement all at once.
“Look, Liam. We’re getting close!” My voice is squeaky and strained with the tears
that threaten to fall.
He gives a little yelp in response and we continue, one step at a time, toward
whatever our fate might be.