The Survivors: Book One

February 10th, 2013

1

"Angie!"

Marc snapped out of the nightmare abruptly, heart thumping. His eyes focused on steamed-up windows, feeling sweat rolling down his neck and back in small torrents.

He flipped off the heat and closed his eyes again. He could still see how her long, brittle hair had flared in the dust; how the blood-smeared footprints dragged out behind Angie as she walked the broken landscape, searching for her son while the radiation victims from his bus escape, the walking dead, followed on her heels. Was it only a dream or perhaps a vision, a warning? No way to know for sure, but it made him uneasy.

Marc snapped his seatbelt on over his long black coat, telling himself it didn't matter. Wherever she was, he would find her. He looked over his shoulder and grinned at the animal curled up on the neatly packed back seat. "How's it hangin', Dog?"

The big timber wolf ducked his head under a wide paw, and groaned.

Marc grunted in agreement, wishing the sun would hurry up and rise so he could make good time…and because he was sick of the damp, cold air that always hinted of snow. Not yet. Not until he found her.

"I hear ya. Few more days and we'll take a break - get some fresh food and extra sleep."

As if he understood, and Marc wasn't sure he didn't, the blackish-red and gray animal rolled over onto his back and stared at his master upside down with piercing gold eyes full of patience.

Marc yawned again, wanting a shave and shower, but he quickly swallowed a pill instead, wanting to be alert to drive. He was exhausted, making 250 miles in eleven days, 150 of it in the last five, even eating on the move. He had pulled over when he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. He figured Angie was roughly a hundred miles ahead of him, and he had pushed hard to get here. As a result, he wasn't completely sure where in southwest Ohio he was.

The roads were unbelievable and intersections required hours to get through in some places. It had taken him a full day just to get across the suspension bridge from Kentucky. Would have been faster if he'd left his vehicle behind, but he wouldn't do that without having another lined up.

He rolled down the window to view the foggy street sign. The first thing he noticed was the billboard above him wishing the city of Cincinnati a happy, prosperous New Year.

"Some great joke," he muttered, seeing a muddy, rusting CSX rail yard under inches of sludge. The dark trestles were barely visible through the fog, and even the graffiti he could see (Die Milton! Hondo eats draft ballz. Px2012) looked like it had been there for years, instead of just eight weeks.