Biohazard

5

Carl stayed well outside of Omaha, cutting north up to U.S. 30, and the farther we went the quieter it got in the Jeep. Even the small talk petered out after awhile.

We drove on through the fog, moving slowly in case there were stalled cars or trucks on the road.

Carl drove and drove and drove.

The silence grew thicker, almost permanent.

We drove for an hour and then stopped in a little town to gas up. I do not remember the name. It was dead, completely dead. A black silence echoed through the streets. The houses were gray and sagging, paint beginning to peel from their boards. The lawns were overgrown, weeds spouting up through cracks in the streets. The windows were all dusty and blank. Nothing had lived there in a long time. Mickey found a few skeletons in a little park across from the gas station where Carl did some siphoning.

But that was it.

We drove away.

I slept for awhile and when I came awake, Mickey was sleeping with her head on my lap, her knees pulled up to her chin. I looked over at Carl and he smiled at me with a wicked grin. Mickey came awake and looked like she was ready to do what Carl had been insinuating.

The fog was still pretty heavy.

We rolled into another little town and the streets were deserted, burned-out houses to either side. Lots of wrecked cars, weedy lots, and shattered plate-glass windows.

“Look,” Mickey said.

I saw them: people. They were lined up on the streets as we passed, faces distorted from sores and growths, raw and rotting. Ulcers had eaten holes right through them. For every one that stood, a dozen more were sprawled on the pavement or rotting in the gutters. They were all hot with plague. They threw things at us that splattered against the Jeep. I want to think they were rotting tomatoes.

We drove for a few more hours and then slowed down. I saw a town ahead.

“Bitter Creek,” Carl said.