CHAPTER TWO          lil' red

"Why would anything be easy anymore?"

IT FEELS LIKE I've got weights tied to my legs, each step heavier than the last as I drag myself through the trees. I barely register the sound of my boots crunching over twigs and whatever's left of the fall's dead leaves. Everything blurs together- running, hiding, the eerie silence that makes your ears ring and skin crawl that's only broken when I'm to loud. 

I hate it. 

I miss the sound of life. The television as background noise. Music in the car from my Dad's favorite CDs. Mom humming while folding laundry. I'd give anything to hear something other than the sound of my own breathing. 

I see it in the distance- that's what pulled my attention. A gas station, tucked in the opening of the trees, a faded, red metal roof. Big, blocky white letters that say MARTY'S. My stomach clenches so hard that I nearly double over. The hunger is so consuming. I tried to catch a squirrel yesterday. It laughed at me- or maybe I imagined that. 

The glass rattle as I knock against the door, axe raised. I tap my foot against the concrete like I'm not scared out of my mind, like I do this kind of thing every day. I bang again- nothing. No groans, scuffling, rustling. Just silence.

A good silence. 

Hopefully.

It's not surprising when the door doesn't budge when I pull. I let out a tired groan, resting my forehead against the glass. Of course, it's locked. Why wouldn't it be? Why would anything be easy anymore?

I drag myself around the back, eyes flicking over t each shadow, every twitch of movement. There's nothing back her but old garbage- black trash bags oof rotten food and sun-bleached flyers. I almost curl up next to the dumpster and call it a day. 

I go back to the front of the store- away from the smell- and sink against the brick wall. Everything hurts- my back aches, my feet throb, and everything feels heavy. I close my eyes and try not to cry.

What even caused this? It was only ever in movies- the dead rising and roaming the earth. Was it some freak science experiment accidentally gone wrong? Was this the rapture of God that my own parents were so determined to teach us? They thought they'd get lifted into Heaven, safe from the raging wars and plagues of suffering. If they were right, why am I still here?

Whatever it is, it is our extinction event.

I open my eyes. There's a window, cracked and old. But the frame's still intact. I stand, stretch, and give it a try. 

It slides open without a fuss. 

I actually laugh. Not loudly- just one that slips out when something finally goes right after everything being awful for so long.

I toss my axe through the window and hoist myself up. It's awkward. I grunt- it takes me two tries and a good bit of shame before I finally make it inside. 

It's dusty. Silent. My flashlight cuts through the dark, reflecting off cans and bottles. No ghouls. No people. Just me and shelves of half-expired snacks.

I immediately rip open a bag of salt and vinegar chips with shaking fingers. The first handful burns my tongue and I nearly cry again, but this time, out of happiness.  I shovel the chips into my mouth, chewing and swallowing as possible, like I haven't eaten in days- because I haven't.

The I choke. 

Figures.

I cough so hard, I think my lungs might come out. Crumbs fly everywhere. I slap my chest hard, until I can breathe again. Real graceful, Elody. 

I have to force myself to slow down. I grab a bottle of soda- a Dr. Pepper, hot and sugary. It tastes like summer. Like swinging on the porch swing and late night movies with my brother.

I settle down in a corner, right between shelves of dust liquor bottles and mixers and sip my drink. I only move to pick out more food- a package of Oreos, rainbow gummy bears, and a chocolate bar. 

I sit back down and eat, pretending this is all a game I'm playing. That I'll wake up in my bed, Mom yelling at me to get up before I'm late for school. 

I pull out my old, battered journal. It says February 2nd. It's freezing, and the sun sets early. So I guess that's right. 

And that means nearly three months of surviving on my own. Surviving. 

I don't know how I've made it this long. I look down at my jeans- torn, stained, crusted with dried blood. My shirt's so thin I can feel every gust of wind. Winter's been a nightmare- the only reason I haven't froze is because I just keep moving. 

Tomorrow I'll look for a vehicle. Just one with gas. That runs. I just need to get far away. Maybe to the coast. Ghoul's can't swim, right?

I pull my gun from its holster and check the clip. Eight bullets left. The little one hidden in my boot- the one Mom gave me- only has four.  Not great, but better than nothing. 

I sigh deeply and pick up the package of Oreos. The foil crinkles between my fingers as I eat more of the cookies. I can't help but think of my mother- she loves Oreos. Loved.

Images of her replay in my head. Lincoln was the only one of us who looked like her. The same blue eyes that adorned her, she shared with Lincoln, and the baby of the family, Alya. I took after Dad, sharing green eyes that always reminded me of an algae-coated pool. I would do just about anything to see them again. To feel my father's tight hug or smell my mom's cashmere perfume. Even to have Lincoln tease me about how I'll never get a boyfriend, and Alya beg me to play dolls with her again. My eyes blur with tears.

I blink fast. No crying. Not now. They wouldn't want that. 

The memories of before make my stomach sick. Knowing I'll never see my family again causes my chest to ache profusely, and I have to put the cookie in my fingers down. I realize that I've eaten just about the entire package and purse my lips- I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and kick the plastic package away from me in disgust. 

I wait until morning to leave. The sun filters through the windows as I  slide out the window the same way I came in. A quick shock sends a couple throbs through my ankles when I land, but I push through. Axe in hand, bag on my back, grit in my teeth.

Sweat prickles at the back of my neck, making my hair stick to my skin. I keep t the road, ears straining for any sound that isn't me.  I hear it- a car engine, rumbling in the distance. 

My heart leaps. I bolt into the woods, ducking behind the thickest tree trunk I can find. My  breath is caught in my throat. A military truck barrels past, green and massive, and too fast to see who's driving. It disappears as quickly as it came, the engine fading into nothing as it travels down the highway. 

I don't move. Not yet. I press my front so hard into  the bark I might morph into the tree. My pulse tenders in my ears.  I wait.  Give them time to be long gone before I peel myself away from the trunk. 

The sun climbs higher, probably noon, when I force my legs to keep walking. I don't want to. Every step away from the gas station feels like a step toward my death. A betrayal of the warm corner I claimed as mine. The chips, cookies, dusty drink bottles, and blessed silence. 

I think of Mom's laugh, Dad's strong arms. Lincolns dumb jokes and Alya's small hand wrapped in mine. They kept going. So I have to, too.

A glint of red in the distance, small, but unmistakeable. With a burst of energy, I break into a run. Hope blooms in my chest. It's a red pickup truck, parked right on the shoulder. 

I slow as I approach, scanning for any sign of ghouls. Or worse- people. The truck looks untouched. Not blood, dents, or scratches etched into the glittery, red paint. 

"Lil' Red," I read off the vanity plate with a small nod. 

I circle around, standing on my toes to peek inside. Empty- no supplies, but no corpses either. That's a win. 

There's a dry creak as I pull the drivers door open. I slide into the seat with a hammering heart, inwardly crossing my fingers as I turn the key. The engine sputters once and I nearly cry out. I try again, and the engine responds with a low rumble.

I scream- not loudly, just a breathless yes! that flies out before I can stop it. I pull the door shut and press my palm against the steering wheel, grinning like a maniac. 

I've never driven a day in my life, but I've seen both my parents and Lincoln do it. How hard can it be?

I set my axe down by my size and toss my bag over it. I grab the shift and yank it down. Nothing. I press down on one of the pedals. Still nothing. I groan, slapping the wheel like that'll make it work. 

I try again, this time, pressing the petal and pulling the lever down at the same time. The "D" lights up green. 

"Ha! Yes!"

I shift closer, barely reaching the pedals. I tentatively press one- the gas, apparently- and the truck lurched forward. "Woah," I giggle. Read driving. I'm actually doing it. 

I steer off the road and turn the truck around, back toward Marty's. Then I press harder- the truck accelerates, going faster. The surrounding environment flies past me; the wind lashes at my face, whipping my hair into my eyes. I laugh, loud and real and full of adrenaline. It feels like flying.

It doesn't last long. I feel it before I see it- a lone ghoul, stumbling across the road, missing an arm. I yank the wheel the avoid it. That was the wrong choice, because  tired screech across the asphalt as  try to steer back onto the road. I slam the breaks but it doesn't matter, because it's too late.

The truck spins. All I see is green- trees, grass, sky. it all blurs together. My body slams against the dash, and there's a searing pain blooming in my ribs. The sound of crunching glass and twisting metal fills my ears, and then nothing. 

Everything goes black.