Page 79 of Glass Rose
The man scratches his beard. “Not unless you’ve got a boat. Or want to add thirty miles to your journey through infected territory.”
Gavin and I exchange glances. Thirty extra miles with John bleeding in the back seat isn’t an option.
“What’s it look like at the blockage?” Gavin asks. “Passable on foot?”
The man’s eyes narrow. “If you’re desperate or stupid. Lot of infected clustered there. Military shot up a bunch of civilians who were showing symptoms. Now they’re all wandering around with bulletproof vests and sidearms.”
Perfect. Zombie cops and soldiers. Just what we need.
“Appreciate the intel.” Gavin reaches for the gearshift.
“Hold up.” The man steps closer, his posture shifting subtly. “Toll for information these days. Gas, food, or ammo.”
I tense, hand sliding toward the gun in my waistband.
“We’re running on fumes ourselves,” Gavin says. “But we can spare some medical supplies. Antibiotics. Bandages.”
The man considers this, then nods. “That’ll be great.”
I reach into my pack and extract a small bottle of pills and some gauze. Enough to show good faith without depleting our own critical supplies.
“Word of advice.” He accepts them. “Whatever you’re looking for, better be worth dying for. Because those odds ain’t good.”
“Thanks,” Gavin says.
He taps the hood of our SUV twice. “Good luck then.”
We drive away, the small community receding in our mirrors, those men standing guard over their fragile pocket of civilization.
“People helping people,” John muses. “Didn’t expect to see that still happening.”
“Crisis brings out extremes.” Min-ji’s sacrifice, Alex’s betrayal. “The best and worst of humanity.”
“And everything in between,” Gavin adds.
The road curves through farmland, abandoned fields where crops grow wild without human intervention. Nature reclaiming what was briefly borrowed. In the distance, billboards advertise products no one will ever buy again, restaurants no one will eat at, and movies no one will see.
“You think there’s a way back from this?” I ask. “For humanity, I mean.”
John wheezes. “Always is. We’re cockroaches, kid. Hard to stamp out completely.”
“Smaller populations,” Gavin says. “Isolated communities. Eventually, networked settlements. It’s been done before.”
“After plagues, you mean?”
“After wars. Famines. Natural disasters. Humans rebuild.”
“Different world, though,” John says. “Can’t exactly have open borders when every corpse becomes a walking weapon or every human wanting your stuff.”
Slowly, we approach the disaster the man was talking about. Abandoned checkpoints, barricades, even a tank sitting empty on the shoulder of the road. Did they flee? Turn? Join the ranks of the infected now wandering aimlessly along the roadside?
And lastly, our death sentence.
A military checkpoint spanning the full width. Concrete barriers, sandbags, and an armored car turned sideways to block passage. No movement visible, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty.
“Go around?” I suggest.
Gavin shakes his head. “Too risky. Might have mines, spike strips. Look behind it.”
