Chapter 11: 11

Clearing the piled-up mutated corpses takes the rest of the day. By the time we've moved them all away from the tires to give us enough space to move, the sun is sinking below the horizon, turning the sky pink and orange. I upend a bottle of lukewarm water over my hands, scrubbing off the blood, then hand it to Noah.

"Maybe we should get some sleep and hit the road again tomorrow."

He hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. Sure."

The floor of the bus is splattered with gore, which I carefully step around. Several of the barricades on the windows and door have given way beneath the relentless attacks, but Noah doesn't seem bothered. It's not much of a place to live anymore—just a method of transportation.

Noah stubbornly refuses the mattresses in the back, instead choosing to sleep in one of the seats, backpack slouched next to him. At least the day's activities have worn him out—he falls asleep almost immediately, while I lie awake for a while, wondering how Ama is doing. If she's struggling to sleep, not sure if I'm dead or alive.

The next day dawns bright, but the thunderheads on the horizon have flattened into a dull grey sheet of low-hanging clouds that prowl slowly in our direction. The rain will hit us by nightfall.

Searching for cars with full tanks of gas and then bringing it back to the bus takes up most of the morning. When the sun is high in the sky, we're ready to go again, the bus protesting more than yesterday after the abuse it endured I get it started and Noah retrieves the blood-splattered map from the floor, directing me through the city.

By the time evening falls again, the Golden Gate Bridge is visible through the tangle of buildings, sticking up into the clouds. A light rain has started, pattering off the windshield and swaying the leaves of the palm trees that line the street. I stall the bus, letting it idle. Noah gets up to stand next to me, staring outside. I take my hands off the wheel, dropping them in my lap and looking up at him.

"Well? You ready?"

"Yeah. Let's just wait until it gets dark."

"Okay. Here, you should eat something in the meantime." I shut off the engine completely, getting up out of my seat with a wince. Driving for hours, trying to find detours around car pileups, takes a lot out of a person. I rummage around in my backpack and toss him a sealed bag of jerky, moving to sit in one of the passenger seats. Noah sits down beside me after a brief pause, opening the bag and then holding it in his lap, staring down at the contents.

"I'm not really hungry."

"You should eat anyways."

He complies, taking out a piece and chewing it painfully slowly, like the idea of eating makes him sick. I sigh and look out the window at the growing rainfall. Movement catches my eye.

"Oh, Noah, look at this." I tap a knuckle against the glass. Noah leans over me, peering through the rain-streaked surface. From behind a phone booth, overgrown with greenery, a slender, rain-slick head appears, crowned by two antlers bearing a single offshoot each.

The deer steps out, ears flicking in every direction. It watches the intruding bus with large, watery eyes, fur shiny with moisture. It's followed by two more—both does, flanking the male on narrow, delicate legs.

Noah has forgotten about his food. "Are those deer?"

"Yeah." I smile, watching one of the does nip at a patch of grass on the ground. Deciding the strange blue vehicle in their territory isn't a threat, they lower their guard, flicking their stubby tails and taking careful steps toward whatever greenery looks edible to them. "City was overrun with them for a while—guess they figured they'd move in after we all moved out or died. Then the mutated realized how delicious they were, so their population is a lot more controlled now."

"Huh." Noah looks enraptured, more invested in this than anything since his brother died. "They don't mutate if they walk into the hotspots?"

"Nah. At least, I don't think so. I've never seen a mutated animal."

"Me neither." He leans back again, though he keeps his eyes on the window. "Guess we're the ones who got lucky with that one."

It's not funny. I laugh anyways.

"They are pretty though," he says at last, after a moment of silence. I nod.

"Yeah. That's what your jerky is made of, actually."

He looks even less hungry than before, holding up the bag to examine the contents. "This is deer?"

"Yep. They were easy hunting for a while, back when there was a lot of them around here."

The rain has started to fall harder now, pounding against the cracked pavement and leafy ferns that sprout out of the road. The buck shakes its head, flinging water droplets, then breaks into a run from a standstill. The does follow, each making an elegant, parabolic bound over a low park bench before disappearing into an alley. It's grown dark without me realizing, like a blanket settling over the city. I shift in my seat.

"Should we get going?"

"Yeah." Noah gets to his feet, reaching for his pistol and flashlight. I swing my backpack over my shoulder and pick up my rifle, checking it for ammunition. I'm dangerously low after spending so much of it killing the mutated—but I should be okay. I flick on the flashlight attached to the muzzle of my rifle, illuminating the inside of the bus with white light.

Together, we push through the doors and into the warm, pouring rain. I'm drenched immediately, but Noah doesn't seem bothered, so I don't complain. The bridge is visible above the concrete jungle, dark and silent. I cast a glance around, sweeping my surroundings with the beam of my flashlight. Now that we're on the move, anxiety is starting to eat at me—we're in their territory. There could be anyone out here, scouting or on guard.

"Okay. Let's go."

With a steely nod, Noah falls into step beside me.

—

The bridge is lined with cars as far as I can see, parked at chaotic angles, many with their doors still thrown open. The air is filled with the roar of rain on metal and the crashing of the surf, where the rocky coastline flattens down into a seaweed-strewn beach on either side of the iconic bridge. About halfway across, the bridge is lit up, white floodlights glancing off of parked cars.

That must be where they are.

I drop into a crouch, pulling out a roll of red duct tape and plastering a few layers of it over the end of my flashlight. It dims into a bloody crimson glow—too little to really see much by, but at least it won't give us away immediately. I toss Noah the tape and get to my feet again, pushing rain-soaked hair out of my face.

Getting to the other side of the bridge is a slow process. We move between the cars, ducking behind each one and peering through shattered, rain-streaked windows before moving on to the next one. I would take it over the road being completely empty, though. At least there's plenty of cover.

We've covered about a quarter of the distance when we see the first guard. I tug Noah down to the slick asphalt, leaning against the flung-open door of a small, low car. Noah leans out toward the edge, staring intently.

It's a lone man, walking between rows of dead, stalled vehicles. He carries his gun in a tense grip, his shoulders squared, head turning as he flicks his gaze around the setting. If what Lucy said holds true, they're probably all on edge and waiting for the mutated to break through on the other side.

"I got this one." Noah lifts himself to the balls of his feet.

"Noah!" I hiss. Before I can stop him, he makes a break for the next car up, pushing his gun away. I hurry after him, moving as quietly as I can, reaching him just in time to see a flick of metal as he brings out a hunting knife I definitely haven't seen him use before.

"Noah, wait—"

Noah is much quicker than I expected. I grab for his arm, but he ducked beneath the door of a lifted pickup truck. Almost before I can move, he leaps into the guard's back, slapping a hand over his mouth. I don't see the knife go in, but I hear the distinct sound of it, see blood splatter black against the dark pavement. Noah follows him down, holding onto his prey like mutated bringing down a deer. He doesn't release his grip until the man has stopped moving. When he moves his hand, blood spills from his lips.

I catch up, breathing hard. "What the fuck, Noah? Someone could've heard him struggling."

Noah stares at the blood on his hands, then blinks. "And they wouldn't have heard a bullet? Come on, we need to do this smart."

"I guess, but..." but what? What was my plan—to rush in, firing shots off blindly? I didn't really have a plan past this point, and Noah's makes a lot more sense, but something about the bleeding, gaping wound in the man's throat disturbs me. His head is twisted at a strange angle, eyes open and blank, chin and neck covered in crimson. I force myself to look away. "Whatever. Let's just try to be quiet about this then, I guess."

Moving up, the barricade protecting the base from this side of the city comes into view. It's hundreds of cars—stacked one on top of each other, on average about four vehicles high. It blocks off the entire road, lit up by brilliant lights set on either end of it. Crushed metal catches the floodlights where the weight has pressed them into each other, and the asphalt here is coated in broken glass that no doubt crunches underfoot and acts as a second security system. Just a few yards down the road in our direction, the crane they must have used to build the walls now sits, dead and unused. Another light hangs from the rusting hook set on top of its long neck.

Through the destroyed vehicle windows, I catch glimpses of shelters—tents, corrugated steel lean-tos, or old cars repurposed into beds. More people mill about than I would've expected, mostly likely because of the threat they face at the other barricade. Must be hard to sleep with mutated banging down your metaphorical door.

Noah grabs my shoulder, pointing at a man and a woman walking our way, threading between the few vehicles here that didn't get used to build the barricade. I nod wordlessly, then point Noah towards a car several yards away from me. He scrambles over, sticking beneath the shadow cast by the crane.

The two guards carry an idle conversation as they walk, but their voices are heavy with sleep deprivation. They step into the brilliant circle cast by the crane light, suddenly shifting their features into sharp black and white contrast. Their faces are gaunt; eyes hollowed and tired. I press my back to the car as they near us, silently slipping my rifle strap back over my shoulder and reaching for the switchblade I keep on my belt instead. Across from me, Noah is ready—crouched against the side of a sedan, knife in hand. The harsh light brings out a hungry glint to his eyes.

The guards walk past us, not noticing our presence in the shadows. I move the moment Noah does—he straightens, climbing to his feet, and lunges on top of the woman. I leap for the man, wrapping my arms around his throat and clamping a hand over his mouth, muffling his startled cry. I flick out my blade and bring it in a downwards arc, stabbing it towards his jugular—

A slug slams into the asphalt next to me. Balance thrown, I leap instinctively for the cover of the car, raising my arm above my head. Another shot rings out, followed by a warning shout.

A man emerges from the dark cab of the crane, cradling a shotgun.

Fuck. Of course it's a fucking lookout.

Noah has fallen against the side of the sedan, staring at his hand. His eyes are huge with shock. Blood streams over his fingertips to the pavement.

"Noah!" I rasp. "Are you alright?"

The woman he attacked is stretched out across the asphalt, blood pooling around her skull. The man, however, is stumbling, wheezing for breath but definitely not dead. And the guard from the crane is now running towards us.

There's a clang as someone on the other side of the barricade lifts a ladder up against the stacked cars. A rope is thrown over the side. Boots hit metal. Reinforcements are coming.

Fuck it. Our cover is blown anyways. I throw down my switchblade, swinging my rifle to my shoulder just as the red-faced man gains his composure and springs towards me. He's stopped in his tracks as I fill his stomach with lead, the scream of bullets filling the air.

The other guard vaults over the hood of the vehicle Noah is sitting against and lands on top of him. I don't realize it's me shouting as I lunge to my feet, rushing towards him. Noah struggles, crying out as the man uses his hand to slam his head against the ground. I see red.

The ground hits me hard as something heavy crashes into me. I fight against the hands that find me, screaming and kicking blindly, trying to reach my trigger.

I sense movement just in time to see someone swipe at me with the butt of their rifle. The pain engulfs me at once, warm blood spilling over my right eye. I thrash wildly, trying to break free of the weight that presses me into the concrete.

I'm hit again. This time, everything is plunged into darkness. When I can see again, everything is red-tinged and blurry, people reduced to blobs and shapes. They're rushing, but I can't track their movement. It feels like my eyes are lagging behind my brain—but my brain isn't any better either.

I can't think. I can't see.

What's going on?

"Noah," I mumble. Hands have grabbed my arms. A feeling of wooziness rushes over me as I'm pulled off the ground, overwhelming me with vertigo.

Why can't I see?

I catch snippets of conversations, words garbled and in distinct, like I'm listening to people talk from under water.

"—back over."

"Before mutated come—"

"—killed—"

"Don't hurt him," I slur, unable to hear the words come out of my own mouth. Maybe I'm not even saying them. Maybe I'm just trying to.

Broken glass crunches underfoot. The crane light is nothing but a blinding white orb that hurts my head—actually, my head just hurts.

I think.

I feebly try to move my legs, feeling them drag against the crushed lass like they're not attached to me, like they belong to someone else. The grip on my arms tightens. The last thing I see before the darkness clouding my vision takes over once more is the towering barricade, seemingly much taller than before.