The vectors roamed the streets, alert and hunting for prey.

Jun and I had been navigating through his supposed route around them, but we had been sneaking all afternoon, and we were still not halfway there. Luckily, Jun had a watch with him where I could track the time. It was past six in the evening, merely three hours until sundown, and I was quickly losing the light. I shuddered to think what would happen if I'm surrounded by darkness, alone with the crazies.

We had navigated through back alleys, shambled streets, and on rooftops, the latter we stood on by the time we got closer to downtown. Colby was almost a quarter of Albany's size, but it's still a large town, nonetheless. There was evidence that the CRA had once controlled Colby during the mandatory evacuation. There were roadblocks and some neighborhoods sealed off by makeshift walls, traffic barriers, and gates, dozens of posters encouraging the residents to evacuate, and many other things we had to trek around, padding more hours into our hike. But the CRA men were long gone now, probably to Binghamton.

"Are the CRA still around this town, or maybe some of them still left?" I asked to make sure.

Jun shook his head.

"Maybe these guys are former CRA."

"No," he said. "Too amateur-ish with guns."

"Oh."

We walked in silence for another few minutes, and then he pointed me to another route that I saw would take us another hour to go around. "You said this was the quickest route," I said, not letting my annoyance a secret.

Jun pressed his lips together. "I told you safe, not fast."

I rolled my eyes. "But still—"

"Not my fault," Jun said, shrugging. "I wasn't the one making noise."

"It's not just me, it's the...what were they called again? Ah. Alphas. The dick squad. They must have gone through here and rattled a horde."

"Correct."

I stopped, looking at him. "How'd you know?"

"Smell the air," he said. "Gunpowder."

"Seriously? You can tell from that? All I smell is piss, shit, rotting bodies, and burning rubber."

Jun ignored me and pointed ahead. "See that?"

I followed where he was pointing at a tall pole with a top logo, advertising some local diner called VINNY'S BURGERS: BARSTOW & DINE-INS. Next to it was a building around the tail-end of downtown. Well, at least we didn't have to go through the center, I thought.

"Our last stop," Jun said.

"Oh, sweet Jesus. Finally."

Jun sauntered over to the edge of the roof, where an emergency ladder led down to the alley below. A black arrow sign was drawn by a permanent marker on the ledge, one of Jun's symbol that marked his route. "It's three more blocks," Jun said.

Three blocks might not be much, but it would take us another hour to get there, given our pace.

I sighed. "Well, lead the way, boss."

Jun blinked at me without letting slip any expression, nodded, and went down the ladder. I went down the ladder after him.

Three more blocks, I recalled in my head. Yep. I can do that just fine.

"Get down!" Jun hissed, pulling me behind a concrete barricade, meshed with a chain-linked fence with coils of barbed wires on top. I only managed a glimpse of the street beyond as a pickup truck passed through. Jun pressed his fingers to his lips, and I nodded.

The vectors' shrieks echoed around us, picking out at least four from their different vocalizations. Three shots rang out from the pickup truck, followed by the vectors' agonizing cries as they fell to the ground. Against my better judgment, I raised my head high enough to take a peek beyond the fence and saw three men on the truck, one in the driver seat, while the two were on the truck-bed, the vectors' shooters, who wore a tank top while the other one wore a red bandana. A fourth man stood several feet from the open passenger door, hacking his machete on an infected woman by the sidewalk. None of them I recognized from Elk Mountain Road.

"Fucking hell, they're coming from everywhere!" One man wearing a tank-top exclaimed. They shot two more coming from a bookstore. They waited for a few seconds in silence, listening for more, but no one was coming. "I thought we cleaned this neighborhood up."

"We cleared the streets, yes. But the noise must have brought them out of the buildings we haven't marked yet," Machete Man said. "Fucking Porter and his crew shooting the place up. Gotta disturb the peace and get the entire town riled up, those imbeciles. What are they thinking?"

"They're chasing that boy—" the driver started.

"Like idiots!" Machete Man sneered. "They some bitches thinking we're in Grand Theft Auto, or Fast & Furious, or some shit."

"You didn't hear what the boy did? He killed fourteen of our men," the tank-top man said, shaking his head. "The bastard ran over Moira, and he laughed. Heard he was also laughing while he killed the others, too."

"Damn. Her poor husband," the one with a red bandana said. "He must be fucked up in the head to kill someone like that."

"No way. I don't believe it. A kid did that?" Machete man asked.

"Charlie radioed me in. He was there on the resort, said he butchered Porter's brother unrecognizable and then dropped a Molotov on Gibby and lit him on fire like nothing, the sick fuck."

"Porter's gonna go hunting all night then."

"You betcha. Carl's pissed. Don't want to be near him right now."

"You think they're CRA? They captured two of them. They must be."

"Fuck if I know. I just want to kill the bastard and give his head to Carl. Imagine I'd get a fucking prize for that."

"Maybe he's dead. Too many damn freaks running around."

"We're too far up north, man. We should head back home and let these freaks calm down a bit," the driver suggested, looking around and clearly freaked out that they're out in the open.

"We can't go back, Billy! Didn't you hear what Carl said? Three of them escaped," the machete-wielding man hissed.

"We're on clean-up duty if we come home empty-handed, and frankly, I'm on Carl's shitlist since yesterday. I don't want to give the guy any reason to shoot me in the ass."

"We can always blame you, Billy," tank-top man hooted.

The bandana man snorted. "We should have cleared this area long ago. If we did, we're gonna be hunting that brat for Moira and Kossa without delay."

The radio suddenly crackled from inside the truck. Billy, the driver, picked it up when a woman's voice echoed out from the interior. "Billy, we got shots fired at Dalewood. It's the three escapees. Edgar and Niles need back-up."

"On our way," Billy said. "Alright! Let's get to it, guys!" Machete man climbed into the passenger seat just as Billy stepped on the gas and drove out of the street.

I turned and looked at Jun, shocked and thrilled, all at once. "They're talking about my friends, and they're alive! Did you hear what they said?" I asked excitedly.

"Yes."

"Some of them escaped. We need to get them at, what was it? Ah! Yes. Dalewood. Where is that?"

"East."

"Alright. Do you know what's there?"

"Houses mostly."

"The suburbs?"

Jun only shrugged.

"Okay. Change of plans. We're heading there, er, unless you want to come with me?"

Jun nodded. "I know the way. Safe."

"I need a fast route. I want to beat those guys before they reach it."

"On foot?"

"Yes. On foot."

Jun thought for a moment. "Okay. I have another way. Fast, but very dangerous. But what about their home base?"

"My friends are in trouble, and I need to help them. If they're still alive, we'll have more manpower to pull off a rescue for the others."

Jun went quiet all of a sudden and stared hard at me. All I could do was shrink a little from his gaze. "Is what they say true?" Jun asked.

I merely nodded without saying a word. My stomach felt heavy suddenly, churning, and I thought I was going to puke out my lunch from earlier. Fortunately, I held them down. Fourteen. Was it that many? Am I wrong for not thinking how many people I've killed in a single day, or that each of them blurred from the next, not knowing if I should care or not? I shook the memory out of my head. Every second I dwell on, it made my head spin.

"I...I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

Jun didn't let slip any emotion as he said, "Okay." He bolted back to the alley and climbed up the ladder toward the same roof we went down earlier.

I looked briefly over the horizon, wishing Logan and the others were still kicking and fighting for as long as they could.

"Hang in there, guys," I whispered. "I'm on my way."

——

Memories are fickle little things, but I reckon that it'll breathe new life to the past if told as a story, one that can be remembered with vivid details. That's what I plan for this diary or this memoir, anyway.

Granted, I have taken plenty of creative liberties on my account of the pandemic's first two months. Though, one may say I'm an unreliable narrator—I like to think the opposite—so fuck you for thinking I'm a dubious hack—pardon my French.

Anyway, I have no hope anyone will ever read this memoir, or whatever the hell this will become. Let it die on the hill where I'll leave it someday, unseen by any remaining humans if there's more of us left. This ain't some Jane Austen or David Copperfield shit that future generations will continue to read and analyze.

I am a nobody and will stay as a nobody.

But one thing is clear: I am not the one holding the cards with a story to tell, that I am not the only one with a definite point-of-view of the past, especially with what happened in Colby and our fight against the Alphas. While I had a strenuous life-and-death skirmish against the hostile group, fending them off with every turn (and lucky enough to find another survivor that can fight), my friends fought the same battle as I did.

So, I'll continue to write what happened as a story even if I wasn't there to witness it firsthand, flourished with my creative liberties based on what my friends have told me over the fire, padding some stuff along the way. Nevertheless, I'll stay close to the truth as possible.

Promise.

——

LOGAN

Six Hours Earlier

If there was one thing that Logan Hardy knew best was showing formidable strength.

You must show you're strong and unchallenged if you're ever going to be the top dog of the number one football team across the Portland school district. It's what kept him unquestionably in power throughout Preston High; dating a popular girl like Natalie along the way was an added bonus. He wasn't fazed that he and the others were ambushed. The prospect alone that they were outnumbered didn't bother him, more annoyed really, like a nagging ant biting at your ankle, and he was willing to push through even if it killed him.

This... wasn't one of those days.

The last thing Logan remembered before he blacked out was a man stepping up behind him, whipping the rifle's stock at the back of his head before he could fire a shot. He didn't even feel hitting the pavement right after, or that they plucked his weapon off of his grip. He also didn't remember how the Alphas had dragged him across the pavement, friction burns across his arms and lower back, and then tossed him into the end of a pickup truck with the others like a dead body.

The last time Logan Hardy was hit on the head was when he was twelve, bruised and battered from a fight with Thomas Weaver and Ryon Crowe, the eighth-grade bullies and top dog of Longwood Middle School, behind the campus's back alley. Logan had run for home after, away from the prying eyes of his classmates and his best friend. He hadn't known that his father was going to be home too, the head coach of Preston's Football Team, thinking he'd be a shoulder to lean on, but Logan's father struck him instead.

"Don't be a pussy," his father said, his breath smelling of whiskey. "Fight and end what they started. And don't you dare cry. You want to be a fag? You want your friends calling you a faggot?"

"No."

"Men don't cry, Logan. Remember that. Be a man."

And so, Logan did. He went back to school the next day and beat Weaver and Crow so severely, they didn't come to school for a whole month because of a broken arm and hip. Logan got in trouble, of course, a two-week suspension, but he could never forget the look on his father's face, the look of approval and respect, one that he rarely received from him. He didn't tell his mother where he got the big bruise on his cheek, and she never asked, thinking that Wealey and Crowe did it to him.

Logan had cherished that image of his father ever since, the only reason why he continued to fight, to be better at everything he did, and kept his mind on. When his brothers always joined Preston's football team and became star athletes of Preston High in the process, Logan strived for the same thing. Eventually, he became the school's star quarterback, led under his father's iron-willed guidance.

He never once got hit on the head again until now.

His father couldn't do a damn thing to save him from the bind he's in. It's all up to him now.

Logan did recall waking up to darkness, streams of light poking from tiny holes over his face, shining like stars, although one stung as it hit him on the eye, made him squint and adjusted his vision. He realized after a few seconds that there was a straw bag over his head, one that lingered with dirt, sweat, and copper—a dead kind of smell. He was lying on his side, wrists tied up in front of his abdomen, but he felt that his ankles weren't bound.

Logan distinguished two other men were talking somewhere nearby, his guards, muffled by the wind and the bag over his head, but they were too deep into their conversation for them to notice he's awake. He tried to wiggle out of his binds, but a few minutes of fiddling, his wrists turning red from friction, he gave up. He couldn't break out of it.

"Heard anything from Moira's and Kossa's group?"

"Nope. They radioed in and said the kid jumped off the waterfall. They're going to the resort now and corner him there."

"That's a pain in the ass."

"Yep. Should we wait for them?"

"Too much hassle. We should get these guys back home and get them prepped. Kossa and the others can handle one kid."

A radio suddenly sputtered to life, and the man answered. "Jameson here. What's up?"

"We're approaching the resort now, shouldn't take too long to get the runaway back," a man said from the other line. "Oh shit! We got him! Up the barricades, Charlie! See that? Shoot him! No, fuck, the leg! Hey, we'll give a report as soon as we get the brat."

"Copy. Sounds like you got your work cut out for you. Keep us updated. We're heading back to base."

Bren. No.

Logan tried to wiggle out of his binds again, but suddenly, he felt a hard pressure against his throat, realizing someone had stepped on his neck. The pressure grew heavier.

"Do that, and I'll fucking break your neck. You want that?" The man, Jameson, growled.

Logan went limp, relaxing his hands and muscles, trying to make sure the man knew he was complying.

A couple of seconds passed, and Jameson took off his foot from his neck, letting out a boisterous laugh. "Good boy. It'll be fun trying to break you, boy. Hey, everyone! I got dibs on this motherfucker right here." Logan felt a light kick at the back of his skull. "He's mine."

There were a series of grunts and grumbles around them, and soon, he realized that Jameson was walking away, talking to someone, their voices growing fainter. Logan hacked a cough, clearing out the tender sore embedded in his throat.

Beneath him, the floor shook and hummed to life, surmising quickly that he's on a vehicle, possibly on a pickup truck. The same man called out for the others, barking a list of orders, heard the truck's doors opened and closed, and then they were on the move. Logan had no idea where they were going or what his attackers were planning to do to them. He had no intention of finding out.

Logan must have stayed on the ground for several minutes, feeling the gust of wind enveloped him from the back of the truck as he thought of dozens of ways to escape. None came to mind that wouldn't bring him closer to his maker. He was weaponless and outnumbered, and he had no idea where the others were. He lost count on how many corners they turned onto, no hope of coming back to Elk Mountain Road to look for Bren now that he's getting farther and farther away.

Suddenly, he felt someone struck his shin. He paused for a moment, thinking at first that one of the two guards did it, but they were both engrossed in a conversation about two women they wanted to sleep with back in their camp. Logan thought he must have imagined it, his nerves and adrenaline still pumping his systems back into consciousness, but there it was again, harder this time, as someone's shoe connected to his lower leg.

"Ow!" Logan groaned, thinking that the same man was playing on him again. On reflex, he kicked the guy back. No assholes get to have a free pass kicking him like a dog.

"Who's there?" Someone whispered to his side. It sounded like Pete.

"Logan, you fuck-nut." He managed to croak out, still having some discomfort down his throat. "That you, Gauthier?"

He felt someone's forehead pressed against his. "Oh, it's you," Pete said, not hiding the spite behind his voice, some of his breath puffed in front of his face.

Logan recoiled back. "You heard about Bren?"

Pete was quiet for a second. "They got him."

"Nah, I don't think so."

"Didn't you hear what he said?"

"Yeah, but you know Bren. He'll make it harder for them."

"I hope so," Pete said.

They both waited for several seconds, listening to the other two guards for any signs that they heard them. When they didn't react, Logan continued, "Who else is here?"

"There's someone behind me. But he's not answering or moving."

Logan didn't feel anyone laying down from his other side. "None here."

"So, it's just the three of us, at least. The others might be in another truck."

"Obviously," Logan said, rolling his eyes.

The two guards suddenly stopped talking in the middle of their conversation, and Logan braced himself for any blows that might come his way, ready to fight if the opportunity arose. Shots were fired, but they didn't come from the truck, sounding like a few blocks away.

"What the hell is that?" One of the guards asked.

"It's coming from the warehouse," the other answered.

"Shit. You think it's the others are in trouble?"

"I don't know, man. I don't know."

"You think we should go have a look?"

The other man didn't answer him, shouting, "Holy shit! Watch out!"

Logan's blood ran cold when he heard the familiar shrieks converging around them. He didn't have to see Pete's frightened face to know what would come next. Shots fired around them, coming from the two guards looming somewhere on the truck bed.

The guards' radios crackled, "Split up! Split up! There are too many of them! We'll lose them on the third, you guys take Madison. Don't lead them home!"

The truck roughly veered to the right, making Logan rolled on top of Pete and the other, ending up in a tangled