Chapter Eight

"Have you checked the Net for reports of other people like us?" I asked. He froze in the middle of packing our rucksacks into the trunk and cussed.

"No," he admitted. "I'm a complete dumbass. We don't need other people to get the word out about us. We can make a fucking video and upload it."

"That might not be a good idea," I replied, stepping in his path to stop him from getting in the passenger seat and accessing the car's laptop. I could see his hackles raise like he was about to start hissing like a pissed-off cat, so I threw up my hands, pleading for him to let me explain. "There are lunatics out there. If you start broadcasting about smart zombies, it's going to get worse than it already is. We need to keep our heads down and recon first. Isn't that what they said in our wilderness survival class? You never rush head-first into an unknown situation."

"That class was taught by assholes who were faking every word out of their mouths," Hanson replied through clenched teeth.

"True, but you have to admit it's stupid to put our faces out there when we don't know how people will react. If you upload a video to the world, we'll have the military trying to turn us into lab rats and we'll have regular civilians trying to ambush us everywhere we go."

"You don't know that."

"And you don't know if it'll do any good to tell people about us," I retorted. "We're both making assumption because neither of us knows shit. At least I'm trying to be cautious. Do you really think anyone is going to let us try to help them if they know we're half-zombies before we ever open our mouths? They'll shoot at us just to keep us away."

Hanson took a deep breath like he was about to continue arguing, then exhaled it and seemed to collapse in on himself. "Fine. We can't take the chance you're right. I just... I want to believe this happened to us for a reason. If it didn't, then what's the point?"

"I understand. I swear I do, but we have to weigh the risks. So no video or photos, okay? Why don't I drive us across town while you scour the Net for any mention of people like us. If you find some, it should be safe to leave messages. Just don't tell them our names or our current location or tell them anything about what we look like. We need to keep some anonymity. Think of it like secret identities."

The reference to acting like superheroes pulled a partial grin out of him and I took it as a win. We finished loading the car, then I took the wheel while Hanson took the passenger side. He immediately twisted the laptop in the dash to face him and started typing away on it. I listened with partial attention when I heard video playing, but I otherwise focused on getting us across town in one piece.

Driving wasn't a problem since I'd had my license for nearly two years, but it was difficult to pick a direction since I had no idea where I was going. I only had the faint memory of my singular trip through town as a roadmap. I didn't recall any major turns, so I simply pulled us onto the highway, pointed the car to the East according to the compass in the dash, and tried not to be freaked out by the lack of cars on the road. I told myself it was nothing to worry about.

The lack of zombies—that worried the shit out of me. In movies, there were always giant hordes of them, yet I hadn't seen more than a handful of shufflers lingering around. Where the hell had all the infected gone?

"This area is part of a literal dead zone," Hanson said after several minutes, having noticed the same thing. "You know how firefighters use bulldozers to dig a firebreak ahead of a brush-fire so it doesn't have anything to feed from? According to the news, they did the same thing with people. They came in and forced an evacuation starting several hundred miles ahead of the infected areas, moving people at gunpoint in places. Everyone from here to clear across Oklahoma was taken West while the infection was still spreading along the East Coast. That's why there aren't a lot of zombies hanging around. All we're seeing are the people who stayed behind or managed to get this far before their infection turned them."

"Isn't that good? It means the government is keeping things under control."

"That's what scares me. This is way too organized. Zombie movies always predict the collapse of the government for a reason—there's too much petty bureaucracy that would get in the way during a real emergency. Pulling back to the Rockies is understandable, but the creation of a No Man's Land of this size? We're talking entire states completely devoid of people now. That can't be done by normal means."

"What are you saying?"

"I think someone knew this was going to happen and they knew exactly what measures needed to be taken for our country to survive in the long run."

I opened my mouth to call him out for being a conspiracy theorist, but he shot me a glare. I shut my mouth without saying anything.

"I know it's pointless to think about that kind of thing right now," he continued. "And I know plenty of people are already trying to blame the government for letting this happen, but... fuck. What if they did?"

"Does it matter?" I retorted. "It's done. It's not like we can stop it and it's pointless to think about hunting down the culprit. Focus on things we can actually do something about. Did you find anything online about immunity or half-zombies?"

"I've found several who claim they were bitten and nothing happened, but so far they all seem to be hoaxes. One guy even posted an apology and showed the Halloween prosthetic he used to fake the picture he took. I also found a link to a guy who said he was immune, but then I found a news report saying he and other four guys were shot dead in the middle of filming a fake zombie attack inside the quarantine zone."

I scoffed. "Fucking idiots wanting their five minutes of fame."

"Yeah. I don't think they were in touch with reality. They'd been safe through all this. It's all a joke until you're face to face with it."

"Is there anything on people being changed like me?" I asked. "That'd be harder to fake than immunity."

"Actually, I have two possible hits. One is a forum post from a woman in Detroit. She was a teacher volunteering at her school's pop-up emergency care center when it was attacked. She fended off a few dead-heads and managed to get to a rooftop where she collapsed. Next thing she knows, she woke up with a pack of zombies sniffing around her like dogs. Since then, she claims they've been ignoring her. She lists heightened senses, bruising, and joint pain as side effects. The other person I found is an old guy in Nashville. Same thing—down two days, then woke up invisible to zombies. He posted a picture of himself and he looks just like you do. I'm going to message both of them and let them know they're not alone."

"No personal details. We don't know who else might be watching to see who contacts them."

"And you think I'm the conspiracy theorist," he snarked. "Don't worry so much. I'll be careful."

I sighed and turned my full focus back on driving. I realized too late I'd somehow gotten onto the Interstate and we'd actually left town instead of simply hopping across town. I kept driving, though, since we had no dedicated destination in mind. We could scavenge as easily in the next town as we could this one.

When we started to come up on another exit, I glanced over at Hanson and saw he'd fallen asleep with his hands on the keyboard. I decided to keep going. I ended up driving for nearly three hours straight, stopping only twice. The first time, I stopped the car to piss on the side of the road. Not because I actually felt the need, but because I realized it'd been hours since I'd done so. Thankfully, everything below my belt seemed to work fine, allowing me to check off 'bladder function' in the still-human column. At the same time, I had to check off 'lack of bladder cues' in the zombie column. I made a mental note to follow suit whenever Hanson needed a restroom in the future.

I stopped the second time when my legs began to stiffen from sitting for so long. I pulled over on the side of the road and decided to try out Hanson's suggestion of jumping jacks. I grumbled to myself as I forced myself to do fifty of them, but I had to admit they worked. By the time I got us back on the road, I felt almost normal again. There was merely the itty-bitty problem of not feeling tired at all. I tried to brush it off as lingering insomnia due to having slept for two days straight, but I knew it was more than that. Just like I hadn't felt exerted by our long walk into town, I didn't feel a need to rest at all. It was another check in the zombie column.

Was I alive? Was I undead? The more changes I cataloged within myself, the more unclear the answer became. Trying to figure it out distracted me. I almost didn't notice the change in my environment in enough time to hit the breaks.

"What the hell!" Hanson shouted, lurching awake in the passenger seat as I spun the car in effort to keep us from driving straight into a river. For an electric cop car, our vehicle had excellent steering and excellent brakes. I was able to pull a pinpoint U-Turn and drive us a safe distance back down the road, where I put the car into park and shut off the engine. "Was that—?"

"Yeah," I said, knowing I should be breathing hard after such a close call. Together, we got out of the car and walked to the end of the road. The interstate ended with a chunk of bridge hanging out over a massive river. The waters had to be half a mile wide and there was no way in hell we'd survive trying to swim across it. On the far side, we saw the type of view expected in the zombie apocalypse—cars piled up, right up to the edge of the river, and a few dangling over the edge of the bridge on that side.