The blankets in the loft are still usable, even though they smell like smoke. I fold a couple and tuck them on the floor by the couch in case Stranna rolls off at some point. I hope she doesn’t mind going on a little trip. If I knew where her home was, I’d drive her there.
I check The Fire Swamp multiple times to make sure it’s not going to crumble from the burned timber, but it holds. I hop into my rickety truck and start the engine. It takes a couple rumbles to get going. The neighborhood shrinks in my extended side-view mirror along with the tops of the distant university buildings, taking the many hopes and dreams Nole and I shared with it.
I drive to the storage-container lot on the other side of town. After enough walking and exploring, I’ve learned which route to take so I won’t get The Fire Swamp stuck. I could have made this drive without The Fire Swamp, but I don’t want to risk leaving Stranna behind in a parking lot where anyone could loot it. She’d gotten in, after all, so anyone else could too. And they would not be as likely to pass over a vulnerable girl as they would a vulnerable guy. I have a chance to help, keep her safe.
It’s not enough to atone for the other things I’ve done, but it’s a start.
I arrive at the storage unit. It’s a cloudy night, so the alleyways between units seem particularly dark. Nole and I rented this after we sold Mom’s house. When we moved into The Fire Swamp, we put her belongings in storage, having no idea the virus would take over mere months later—one of the best timing accidents we’d had. We paid only two month’s rent before the owner got infected. He forgot to charge us. Another month later, he died.
We kept the key.
Some people turned their storage units into places to live until the virus trapped them. Because of that, I’m on alert whenever I visit. They could jump me. Especially now that my face is blasted all over the internet, jabbering about a cure.
I’m such a dummy. I thought being public—being vulnerable in live videos—would build trust and take people on the journey with me. I thought it would gain respect for Nole’s work and show people I was picking up his torch.
Instead it’s put me in more danger and tainted his entire memory.
I should have left the soot on my face.
I hop out of the truck into shadows. Always shadows. Always night. I miss the sun. Tenebra may have “daytime,” but it can’t replicate nature. It is limited by man’s imagination, which is a far cry from the creativity of God. No matter how bitter or resistant I am toward Him, I still know He gets the credit.
I haul open the storage door to the sight of a dozen five-gallon gas cans. Two are empty from the last time I came here. I empty four straight into the tank of my truck and then load the remaining six into the bed. Then I collect the last of my food supply.
It’s not much. A few boxes of pasta that make my mouth water just looking at them. A bag of potatoes that have gone to seed. Some canned beans and a jar of peanut butter come along too—the self-control I had to enact to keep myself from eating these a long time ago is a thing of the past. I unscrew the peanut butter and take a huge scoop out with my fingers. I allow myself ten whole seconds to savor it, then I haul the contents into the cab of the pickup and bid the storage unit goodbye, along with what’s left of Mom’s furniture and belongings.
I’m tempted to leave the door open or the key somewhere for someone to access if they need to, but I might need to come back someday. So I lock the door and pocket the key.
By now, some of the clouds have moved on, and the moon seems to shine on me like a spotlight.
I climb into the cab of the truck, start the engine, and press down the clutch. A prickle runs down my spine, and I look up.
A man stands in the narrow space between storage units, illuminated by moonlight.
He blocks my way out, a rifle aimed at my head.
“Get out of the truck,” the man with the rifle shouts. “I want the real cure. The one you swallowed.”
So it begins. He thinks I sold him a vial of olive oil while I kept the real cure for myself. Does he even spare a moment to wonder what I’d gain from that? Absolutely nothing.
“Get out of my way,” I respond with as much gusto as I can. Unfortunately smoke inhalation has turned my voice into a wheeze. I’m not sure he even hears me.
He takes aim with the rifle. “Have it your way.”
I duck beneath the dash, but he doesn’t fire. Instead the truck shakes. I peek out the back window to see another man tossing my last six gas cans out of the bed of the truck.
“Hey!” I pop open my glove compartment and pull out Nole’s handgun. It’s a revolver with six bullets and six chambers. Why Nole ever thought this was cool is beyond me, but at least I know how to use the thing.
I aim through the window but can’t make myself shoot. This isn’t a dreamscape. I can’t blame my actions on heightened emotions. I don’t want to kill. Again. Especially when it’s someone who paid me their life savings for a failed cure.
The man throws a fourth gas can over the edge, still oblivious to the fact I have a weapon. I drop the barrel and shoot low. The glass shatters, and the man falls over the edge of the truck bed with a cry. I aimed for his leg, but there’s no telling if that’s what I hit. The rifleman shoots, and the windshield explodes in a shower of glass. I pop up and aim with my revolver, but he’s nowhere in sight. I glance out each window and catch movement in my side mirror.
The man yanks at the door of The Fire Swamp.
Stranna.
I shoot a wild bullet his way in the hopes of deterring him. He ducks, but then pulls on the door again. Even though I locked it, the frame is weakened by the fire. It won’t take much more—
The door tears out of the wall so suddenly the man loses his footing. I shove the truck into gear. It jumps forward as I let off the clutch too fast, but it works in my favor because the man isn’t quite able to mount the wheel well to enter The Fire Swamp.
We crawl forward, and I shift into second gear. The exhaust belches a burst of black smoke, but she gets her wheels under her, and we pick up speed. I take the corner around a line of storage containers too sharply, and one scrapes along the side of The Fire Swamp until it catches on the door gap and tears off a piece of siding.
I don’t stop.
The rifle goes off again, and something slams into the side of the truck.
I don’t stop.
He yells profanities and shoots again, running after me with an awkward gait.
I don’t stop.
I lumber over the curb, drive through one of the barrier gates, and make it to third gear once I’m on the road. I finally reach a speed that can’t be overtaken on foot. I drive with my eyes level with the steering wheel in case another bullet comes from behind. When I glance at the clock, my heart jolts stronger than a rough shift to fourth gear.
5:53 a.m.
Seven minutes until the Nightmare comes for me. I drive as fast as I can to put some distance between me and the storage units. The guy and his pal got some gas cans out of their attack. Hopefully that will mollify them.
