Chapter 105

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Day 91: July 8th, Thursday


By sunrise, Northumberland was burning, and so were the bridges over the river for miles. There was nothing left to cross over, even in the neighboring city of Sunbury.

"The military blew them all up," Alfie said in disbelief. "It's like New York all over again."

"Yes. It seems that way," said Peter begrudgingly. "And it looks like the horde had beaten us. I told you we shouldn't have taken that many rests."

Jun shook his head. "No. Different horde."

"How can you tell?" I asked.

"They're still coming off from Route 11, from the north."

Jun was right. There were probably a thousand more just leaving the exit ramps toward downtown, reinforcing the enemy's ranks wandering across the streets. It was as if they were driven by a mad need for destruction as if those two-pupil eyes of theirs watched this burning city with glee, content in the death they had laid waste. We watched the chaos over the hill leading into Sunbury, scanning the horizon with our binoculars where we saw the bridges' debris mangled underneath the river's fast current; some of the beams hanging from the support were still on fire. Vectors shrieked and growled together as if cursing at the military for burning it all down.

We didn't just hear the vectors' screeches; there were survivors still left down there, pulled apart, root and stem. Gunshots rang out, which was often followed by screaming that were cut out mid-cry.

Across the river, the soldiers watched.

"What the hell are they doing?" Miguel asked.

I grabbed the binoculars from his hand and surveyed where they were. I guessed it must be a company-worth, with three hundred or so soldiers camped from the town of Shamokin Dam. Billows of thin smoke came out from within their side, some in the woods, others in the town, which were probably campfires, I reckoned. They had probably set up snipers watching us right now, staring at them. Maybe I should do a little wave, let them know I'm still human? Ha! What am I saying? They'd probably just shoot me and be done with it. I doubt anyone on their side would argue against it.

"They're making sure nothing went across the water, forming up some sort of perimeter along the shore, I sai.d "I doubt the vectors can do much with the current, but they were never good swimmers, to begin with. Plus, it's a mile across."

Peter nodded. "Makes sense. These are the only major towns on this side of the river for miles."

"Can we just...swim?" Alfie asked.

Peter laughed. "Sure, pal. It's a mile wide, so that would be thirty, no, forty minutes tops to swim across? Then, you'd have to contend with the current, the rocks hiding underneath, the gear and supplies that we have to carry, and not to mention the soldiers who won't hesitate to shoot our ass, human or vector...."

"Okay. Okay! I get it. No need to rub it in."

Peter merely grinned and gave Alfie a pat on the back.

I gave the binoculars back to Miguel and whirled around, heading toward the RV. There, Yousef was busy pouring over the map. "They haven't taken the south yet. Yousef, can you find where the next bridge is?" I asked.

"Uh...hold on. Ah! Yes. Clarks Ferry Bridge. If we follow Route 147, it's about, er, forty-five miles downriver—"

"Forty-five—!" I stifled my anger, almost bubbling into a shout. Could this day not get off to a good start for once? "Alright. Then, we'll head there. What village?"

"No village, just an area called Inglenook."

"If the bridges are out there, too, what's the next village?"

Yousef looked at the map and gulped. "Um...well, again, not a village. Harrisburg."

Ah, just great! Another fucking big city. "It seems to me that the army is making a pincer move. Burning the bridges north of the river proves that. They might be herding the vectors southward where most of our forces are," I surmised, remembering where the army had taken camp from the news I saw on TV. For once, I was thankful they wouldn't shut up about it. I learned something, after all.

"Your call," Peter said to me.

I caught Jun giving me a curious look, but I tried to ignore it. "147 is direct, which means many people are going to use it to Harrisburg. Makes them good for ambushes, too. We're gonna take the backroads, follow the highway from there, and avoid trouble."

The others pondered the plan silently; some hummed, others just kept staring at the map. Getting closer to more populated areas made everyone jumpy. The farmlands we had passed didn't give us any trouble at all, and if we had our say, we preferred it that way. Every man wanted solitude more than the struggle.

I glanced over to Jun, who merely gave me a terse nod of approval.

We piled into the RV once again, though I never let it dropped from my expression that I was disappointed, grumbling here and there, even when Miguel gave me a cup of instant ramen noodles, I silently ate, deep in my thoughts. Of course, the others noticed. Logan tried to cheer me up with a movie, but that didn't work. Perhaps, I was too nervous about what we would find down south.

Perhaps I am not ready to lose more people today. Crap. Cities made me really down in the slump, and I used to love New York City, one of the reasons why I chose to attend university there in the first place. I am a city boy by heart, and now I couldn't even stand it imagining myself surrounded by the concrete jungle, the noise of the crowd now replaced by the screeches of the infected.

We had passed many people in the backroads who had thought of the same thing I did. Some were hiking, trying to flag us down, but we had no more room to spare. Others had their vehicles abandoned at the side of the road. A few of them were families, putting their youngest children over their shoulders, displaying them to gain sympathy to anyone who drove past. Kids as young as three waved their little arms, imitating their parents, hailing for us to stop.

I told Haskell not to. A lot of them sported injuries, and we didn't know how many of them were infected.

And if they were not infected, we didn't know how many of them were friendly.

What concerned me most were the cars fleeing northward, with some drivers sticking their heads out and telling us to stop, pointing at the south. It didn't take much guessing what they meant. I studied everyone's faces, their doubt growing if they were heading for a lifeline in this hellhole or to our inevitable death. If it was the latter, they did not let me know.

By nightfall, we made it to Inglenook, but the putrid, smoky, and coppery smell filling the air should have told us what lay ahead. The bridge was burning, an F-22 fighter jet flew past as if assessing the damage, passing above dead bodies floating in the water. I didn't know if they were vectors or just regular people.

Logan sighed next to me. "Well, shit. Harrisburg it is."


——


We found a place to rest in some old historical museum in the outskirts of Dauphin, five miles away from Harrisburg, though it looked like a three-story colonial house of some wealthy aristocrats that lived in the 1800s, who apparently built up the town during the mining rush. It's just an ordinary house now, I thought. Everything around me—the houses, the technology, the commodities—would be a historical relic in the next twenty years.

Time eats everything without prejudice.

We were tired from days of traveling. It was hard to sleep in a moving vehicle, waking up every hour or so, and then couldn't fall back asleep because Haskell ran over an abandoned car in the middle of the road with the snowplow, hooting and hollering along with those who were still awake. That game grew old fast. The obstacles became a pesky road bump that grumbled us awake, and Haskell now had to cringe every time he did it, muttering many apologies. The roads were so narrow that we had no choice but to drive through, else we'll end up stuck on a ditch at the roadside.

We needed solid, stationary ground, and I doubt we were in the right mindset to travel across Harrisburg with potentially hostile survivors and countless vectors.

I didn't want to run into a slaughter. But were we only prolonging the inevitable? I must admit, I am scared of what we would find inside the city tomorrow with both the military and the vectors moving in.

I listened to the others' snoring, content that I made the right decision from where I lay. I was surprised no one wanted to sleep inside the RV with the comfortable beds, but I realized the tin can had become too claustrophobic with us being stuck inside for days.

I wondered how long those people we left behind would reach Harrisburg. No more than two or three days since they had to walk at least sixty miles, but would they all make it to the city alive? Would the horde catch up to them? Was I wrong to abandon them to their own fate? Then again, would they do the same to me if I was in their shoes?

This is the fucking worst summer of my life, I spat.

If it had been a typical summer, I would be in a pride parade by now with my new friends in New York, attending university, and meeting cute boys. They were my favorite time of the year (more than Christmas), and it would be the first time I would miss the celebration and the massive parades.

Portland had very vibrant pride parades. I remembered how my mom took me to my first when I was twelve, bodies swaying with the beat and the drop of music under the summer sky could feel the heat and happiness radiating in the air. Honestly, at twelve, I only felt pure love, partying like it was the end of the world. I had never thought about the world ending even when, at the time, the president and his staff were hell-bent on taking our rights away, and then Covid hit. I went to every parade I could every year, bringing my friends and family with me.

But now, the world ended on a different note.

When I got my acceptance letter to Columbia at the end of my junior year, I planned all kinds of things, most of which were the lists I'd do once I get to New York. I was going to live my life as an independent man, find my own apartment with four other people just to pay rent, with the freedom to explore my sexuality in a new city, far away from home. I looked forward to the city's liberal thinking, millions of people who wouldn't bat an eye for who I kiss, touch, or fuck. I remembered fantasizing about what I'd do for my very first pride parade as a grown man with no parental guidance to hold me back.

I would climb up on one of those colorful, rainbow-patterned floats as glitter and balloons rained down between the skyscrapers, pulling the guy I really, really liked. I wanted to let the whole world know that, hey, I fucking live for this man, and then I would make out with him for the rest of the world to see, hearing them cheer for us from the streets below. I would smile, and he would, too, and everything around us would just melt until all I saw was him. We'd be surrounded by hundreds of couples who tried to forget the world for just one day, sharing it instead with the ones they love.

I know it sounds cheesy. I know. That's why it's a fantasy.

And in a cruel turn of fate, the rug got pulled under me.

No more pride parades.

No more love.

Only death and endless killing.

As I lay in my sleeping bag, watching the galaxy above me in the open fields of Pennsylvania, thousands of miles from home, I didn't know why I silently cried just thinking about it. So what if the pride parades were not a thing anymore? Who cares when there's literally a pandemic around, right? I guessed I missed the comfort of it, and I mourned that feeling, knowing it would no longer be there to make me feel better.

I realized I was lonely.

Here I was, surrounded by seven other men, sleeping out in some old house while the world was burning around us, and yet I felt like I was the only one lying down on the ground, and it seemed like the rest of them moved on so quickly. I didn't want to be left behind compared to the others. Perhaps I didn't want to let go of that image of me on top of that float, happy and naive of how the world truly turned. What if we're walking into our own deaths?

Or worse, what if I get many of us killed and I am still alive?

Everyone says that grief isn't some kind of race, that everyone should take their time, but it's been months, and I'm still not over everyone that I had lost, and have this nagging thread pulling every minute of who I am going to lose. I wanted it to be over.

I gathered that I was a little angry tonight.

I was afraid for tomorrow.

I was mournful of a possible fantasy.

I was homesick for my family.

I was vengeful for what I lost.

I was fucking horny.

I admit that I was fucked-up inside, and I didn't know how to make anything out of my bundled emotions, letting it sit there, fearing it would explode. These strings I couldn't cut inside made me want to scream.

I was lonely, but I could alleviate the sting. I thought about crawling up to one of them, snuggle up inside their sleeping bag, perhaps preposition what we all needed most, any kind of release that would take our minds away from this hell. It didn't really matter who I fucked as long as I get out of here.

Perhaps they would reject me, but what's so confusing was that I kind of wanted them to reject me as if it would justify what a shitty person I am, that I am less worthy than dirt, anything that could warrant the pain I bottled up inside.

I turned to lay on the side, thinking that a different position might help me sleep better, but that only gave me the urge to pee. I got out from my sleeping bag, bringing Betty and a flashlight with me just in case of an emergency, and careful not to wake the others. I flinched from every creak I made with my footsteps, but it was hard not to since this was an old house. I remembered there were bathrooms on the bottom floor, so I climbed down the steps, saw the MEN sign to my right. The door was unlocked. That was a good sign, so I went and opened it.

It was a private washroom, with only one toilet and a sink.

And it was already occupied.

Logan sat on the toilet, red-faced and sweating, panting with the flashlight on his hand, illuminating the nude magazine spread out on his lap of a woman with her legs spread wide; his other hand wrapped around his cock.

Our eyes met, and we both panicked, but an unexpected thing happened. Between his panting and hiked fright, he seized his privates tighter, white spurts splattered his stomach and under his chin, could see how he tried hard to hide and cover himself, trying to stop from finishing, suppressing the wave of ecstasy that seized his body. It looked painful.

"Bren! What the fuck—!"

But that was enough for me to see. I slammed the door, mumbled an apology, and walked out of there before he could open it and call for me. I am not looking at Logan in the eye when I had just seen him with his pants down and his 'friend' all up needing attention.

I found myself out of the house, breathing hard, red flushes on my cheek. I should have fucking knocked, I thought, but midway, I began to laugh. You should have closed the door, you idiot. He could have put a sock on the doorknob. That would be a good 'keep away' sign. I knew right away that the image of him wouldn't leave my mind for the night.

I realized I still needed to pee, so I strode over to the nearest tree and relieved myself. I glanced back, making sure Logan didn't follow, but the front door never opened. I chuckled to myself, imagining him waddling in the dark, tiptoeing toward his sleeping bag with the knowledge that I saw him naked. He did see me naked back in Colby, so I guess this is payback! I laughed more.

The RV lights were on, just a faint glow behind the small grating. I zipped my pants and headed over there, pulled out Betty, and chucked aside any thoughts of a naked Logan. I stalked toward one of the windows and peered inside, caught a shadow moving. Looter, I thought. I steadied my breath and turned the corner, slowly creeping toward the door, and grabbed the handle. I could hear the looter was not trying to be quiet.

I opened the door and found a gun pointed at me.

It was Peter. "Oh. Hey, Bren. What are you doing up?"

I breathed a sigh of relief and put my gun down. "What are you doing up?"

"I've slept plenty during the drive. Might as well keep watch, but we're far from the main roads, so I doubt anyone's coming to pry."

"You slept that well? I could barely feel my back from all the moving."

"I'm used to it. What are you doing outside?"

"Oh...well...bathroom break. I went to pee over on that tree, then I saw someone scuffling in here."

"Something wrong with the bathroom inside?"

"Oh...it was occupied..." I stopped, realizing Peter was grinning, amused. "Wait. You knew someone's in there."

"Last time I checked, Alfie went in there with Miguel's magazine. You know,"—Peter gestured jacking off—"to scratch the itch. You saw him?"

"Oh. Um, no..." It was definitely not Alfie I ran into. Did they have a rotating schedule of these things? How could I find out so that I didn't have to avoid scarring me for life?

"Anyway, look what I have." Peter brought up a bottle of Jack Daniels from behind. "I thought having a glass or two would keep me company. It might help you sleep. Want to come inside?"

Looking back at the house, I didn't want to climb up the steps and passed by Logan and then slept in the same room with him. He probably felt awkward and embarrassed, more so than me. I might as well sleep out here and deal with it tomorrow.

There was a DVD player on the dinette table, and I immediately recognized the movie 300 playing on the screen. "Want to watch with me with a few drinks? I love this movie."

I snorted. "You won't shut up about this movie since seventh grade, and I've watched it with you like a dozen times."

"A dozen more wouldn't hurt," he said, grinning cheekily.

"Alright. Pour me a drink."

That wasn't a good idea.

Watching a movie with the majority of the men half-naked, the lights dimmed, and alcohol in hand muddled my brain, especially what was beneath my waist. I tried to avoid any awkwardness by focusing on the story for the tenth time since I watched it, but Peter sat next to me on the couch, arms folded, sipping casually from his glass, eyes trained on the TV. I could sometimes feel him looking in my direction. At some point, the RV grew a little chilly, and Peter had to pull one of the blankets from the cabin and put it around my shoulders.

"Thanks," I said.

"Your welcome."

And so we watched some more.

And watched.

And watched until I felt my eyes growing heavy. Having to listen to the dialogue again bored me, waiting for the action instead, but Peter seemed so engrossed like he watched it for the first time. I could just close my eyes, I thought, and perhaps he wouldn't notice that I had fallen asleep.

Peter's hand rested on my knees and stayed there for...I don't know long. Suddenly, all the images I saw on the screen accentuated: the bulging arms, the rippling muscles, men's greased-up bodies fighting, moving in salacious ways...I pressed my knee against his palm, an invitation, and he squeezed his hand

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