Zocopalypse (Death Fields 1)

“Is it gone,” Paul asks.

We strain to hear but just as quickly as it left it returns circling nearby.

“Do you think they know we’re here?” Mom asks. She’s already slipped the straps of her backpack over her thin shoulders.

“They can’t,” Paul says.

I swallow, again looking out the window. The spotlight travels back and forth. Not near us but closer to the water. “I think they’re looking for the people under the bridge.”

“Wait, shhh,” Paul says, his hand clutching my arm. “Listen.”

At first all I hear is the propeller, but then the sound of a voice bounces against the night. It sounds tinny, like it’s coming from a bullhorn. I press my ear against the window.

“Collect your belongings and walk to the top of the bridge. This is a mandatory evacuation. You have five minutes to be on the top of the bridge.” The voice repeats this information on a loop. From the small visibility I have through the window I spot a group moving under the bridge.

“I see some people in hazmat suits,” I report.

“I guess they have to be careful,” Mom says. “Any of those people could be infected.”

Paul is quiet next to me. He’s still clutching my arm, but his knee is bouncing up and down like a jack rabbit. “Dude, what is going on with you?”

“I want to go.”

“What?” I ask.

“To the bridge. I want to evacuate. I don’t like it out here, Alex.”

“We’re fine. We’ve been okay. We’ll be okay.” I rest a hand on his knee, hoping to calm him. I know I’m saying this just as much for myself as for him.

“You and your mom are going south. I’ve got to head north. Once we pass that bridge we’ll never see each other again.”

“Three minutes,” the booming voice says. “This is a mandatory evacuation. Those who refuse to come willingly will be taken by force.”

This spurs Paul into action. He leans over the seat and grabs his bag, his stash. I glance at my mom but she just looks sad. “But this is too fast—just slow down. We haven’t divided up the food and stuff.”

“There’s not enough time,” he says. “Alex, this may be my only chance. I’ll get on that bus and figure out a way to find my family. Who knows, they may have news about them.”

He has all of his things and unfortunately, some of our things, although nothing we can’t live without. I can only nod. I mean, it’s not up to me to stop him. I barely know Paul. His journey is different from mine. Even so, the mood in the cab has shifted to an unbearable tension. My mother, who cannot tolerate the slightest confrontation, breaks it with typical ease.

“Good luck, honey. Thank you for saving us at the apartment. I hope you find your family.” She gives him a tight, motherly hug.

“One minute.”

I move aside so he can get out the door. “Good luck. I hope we see each other again.” Before he steps down I say, “Please don’t tell them about us, okay?”

“I won’t.” He promises.

It’s an awkward goodbye, one I realize I should get used to. It’s not like relationships will be the same in the apocalypse. Paul is out the door quickly and I whisper, “Be careful.”

I take the chance to lean out the door, the wind lashing at my face from the hovering helicopter. Paul darts between the trucks and in the increasing daylight I see the crowd forming on the bridge. Paul easily catches up, the red patch on his backpack a beacon for me to latch onto as he moves farther away.

“Please move to the center of the bridge and make room,” the voice says.

For the most part people do as they are told, huddling closer together their hair and loose clothing whipping around them like

they’re in a hurricane. That’s when I notice a few people move slowly or not at all. One person creeps off the opposite direction. Curious I watch him slink away from the others, but just before he steps out of view he lurches forward and falls. I look upward and see a raised gun and a soldier crouched on the edge of the helicopter. The crowd remains oblivious, due to the intense wind and noise.

“They shot someone,” I whisper. My mom moves closer and peers out the door opening.