The Enduring: Stories of Surviving the Apocalypse Read Online Free Page B

ways to enter that valley and my parents told me that every route was guarded by a combination of local Colorado National Guard units and a local militia.”
    I sat back, admittedly impressed. “It sounds like the folks around your hometown take preparation seriously,” I said in lighthearted banter. Zane didn’t laugh. “Yes,” his face was stony. “And it’s just as well, don’t you think? The ‘Affliction’ never reached that part of America thanks to those volunteer local militia units and the National Guard. Their preparedness saved thousands of lives.”
    We lapsed into a kind of prickly silence. I was thinking about Zane Francescato and how the Apocalypse had impacted on a young man who had begun the horror as a university student and returned here now – two years later – as a man. The toll was not immediately obvious because on the surface he had retained a kind of affable geniality that was probably part of his nature. It was only when you scratched below the surface that the profound extent of the traumas he had endured began to show in little flashes of temper, and a gaze that could turn from friendly to ice in an instant. I supposed the Apocalypse had affected all those who had endured in different ways. On the young – like Zane – perhaps the impact had been the greatest.
    I wondered what that meant for America as we moved forward into a future with fuel shortages, starvation and a population wary and mistrustful of its government and even strangers within its own communities.
    I don’t know what Zane was thinking right then; perhaps he was remembering those dark moments at the University, or maybe he was reflecting on what he had been forced to do in order to endure. Nothing showed on his face. His expression was fixed, revealing nothing.
    “So you drove to Alamosa,” I said, breaking the uneasy spell of silence.
    The corner of Zane’s mouth twitched. “I drove to my uncle’s farm,” Zane qualified. “It’s about five hours drive from here. It’s like a half-way point between here and Alamosa.”
    “And you made that part of the journey without incident?”
    Zane started to reply and then stopped himself. He dug his hands deep into his pockets and leaned his hip against a wall. He raised an eyebrow and glared at me cynically.
    “Do you mean, did I kill any more of the ‘Afflicted’?”
    I shrugged my shoulders. It was exactly what I meant, but I sensed Zane’s hostility, and my instincts told me the interview teetered on the precipice. Regardless, I stared at him frankly. “That is what I mean.”
    Zane narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” he said eventually. “I killed two more of the ‘Afflicted’ on the way to my uncle’s farm.”
    I sat up a little straighter. “Tell me what happened.”
    Zane pushed himself away from the wall and went to stare out through the broken glass of a nearby window. When he began to speak, it was like he was talking to the clouds… or maybe the heavens.
    “By the time I got on the road, the freeways were choked,” he said. “There were lines of cars for miles, people walking along the side of the road carrying their possessions on their backs. Some pushing bicycles. Parents dragging their crying children by the hand, hurrying in panic. Everyone was looking over their shoulder, expecting the ‘Afflicted’ to appear on the skyline at any moment. People turned ugly. There were car accidents and fistfights. I saw one guy get out of his station wagon and shoot a woman in the head… for her car. His had broken down. He stole her car and then drove a few hundred yards before he lost control of the vehicle and crashed into a crowd of people pulling a hand cart behind them. The car went into the crowd and bodies were thrown into the air like rag dolls. The cart must have been filled with everything the family owned. People got out of their cars. No one helped the driver. No one even helped the family. They just stole whatever they could pick up and drove