Page 78 of Glass Rose
Toward an island I’ve never seen and people I’ve never met. Toward hope, however fragile. Toward a future, however uncertain.
Life goes on, even as it ends.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
EIGHTEEN
SOFIA
The world transforms with each mile we drive. Suburbs, outskirts of a city, scattered rural communities, then nothing but forest and abandoned cars.
Three weeks ago, these roads would have been filled with commuters, families, people living their ordinary lives. Now they belong to the dead, or those desperate enough to risk encountering them.
“We’re close.” Gavin drives right at the upcoming fork in the road. “It’s longer but avoids the main highway.”
“Highways will be deathtraps by now,” John mumbles from the back seat.
I check on him in the rearview mirror. “How do you feel?”
“Good.” His beard twitches with what might be a smile. “Stop fussing, Doc. I’m not dying today.”
“You better not.” I focus back on the front. “I didn’t waste those antibiotics just for you to check out on us.”
Gavin’s hand finds my knee, a fleeting touch that somehow grounds me in the chaos.
“Tell us more about this island,” I say. “What should we expect?”
“One main house, three outbuildings. Solar panels,” he rattles it like a grocery list. “Perimeter fence. Dock with boathouse. Rainwater collection system. Trees.”
“Sounds like paradise,” John says, with only the slightest edge of sarcasm.
“It’s defensible,” Gavin says. “Self-sufficient. Remote enough to stay clear of major population centers but close enough to make supply runs if necessary. They’ll be there.”
I hope he’s right.
The SUV rounds a bend, bringing us to a small cluster of houses set back from the road. Unlike the abandoned properties we’ve passed, these show signs of occupation—curtains moving, smoke rising from one chimney, a makeshift barricade blocking the communal driveway.
Three men with rifles, not looking like they’d invite us for tea, emerge from behind it.
“Slow down,” John says. “They look twitchy.”
Gavin eases off the accelerator but doesn’t stop completely. One of the men raises his hand in a clear signal to halt.
Maybe they’re nice?
We come to a stop thirty feet from the man on the road, engine running.
He approaches cautiously, eyes bouncing between Gavin and me. “Where you headed?”
“North,” Gavin says.
The man nods as if this makes perfect sense. “Military’s set up blockades on most major roads. Trying to contain the spread.” His laugh is brittle. “Fat lot of good that’s doing.”
“Any way around them?” Gavin asks.
“Depends which way you’re going.” The man gestures vaguely northward. “Harbor Bridge is clear for another five miles, then it’s all backed up. Crash, then a military checkpoint that got overrun. Nasty business.”
“Is there an alternative?” I ask.
