Page 35 of Them

The metal bench was covered in a rubbery coating that had halted, or at least hid, the worst of the rust. The man sat down, unstrapped his radio from his shoulder, and tuned it to 107.7.

After a few minutes, the static hissed and crinkled. The voice spoke:

“Hello again. Today’s the day, I reckon. I’ve got to get going. Don’t have too far to trek, but you and I both know what’s out there. Besides, these mountains do a number on my joints. Not easy ground to cover in just two weeks, but I’ll manage. Got to head out today or tomorrow if I want to welcome you to the sulking capital of our dead world.

“I… I have no idea how many of you are out there. How many of you can hear me, or are even alive to have a needle-in-a-haystack chance of listening. If there’s anyone listening at all… but… but I’ve got a feeling. I’ve got a feeling it’s only you.”

That’s what I used to believe, the man thought.

“You probably won’t hear from me again. Not until we meet at the White House. I’ve got lunch and wine for the both of us. Sadly, all the beer’s gone bad. I know you’ve got no reason to trust me, like I’ve got none to trust you. But we’re both still here, aren’t we? Besides, there’s something I need to pass along to you.

“So, until then, dear listener: Follow the highways. Stay away from the coast. And whatever you do, don’t let them get you. I’ll be okay. If one of those three-legged freaks sets their eyes on me, I’ll poke ’em the hell out.

“But please. Don’t let them get you.”

The man waited a few minutes, and when it was clear that the stranger had no more to say, he stood and shut off the radio. The tin of tobacco appeared from his pocket, and he carefully pinched out a small lip and placed it against his lower gums. A sign pointing the way toward I-95 NORTH TO RICHMOND beckoned him, and he followed.

L.B.’s promise of empty roads turned out to be as good as gold. The traffic was a mess. Cars and trucks with plates from all over trying to flee the inevitable. Wrecks and breakdowns in every lane. Personal belongings scattered. Desperate remnants of hysteria. But there were no predators or cannibals lurking in wait. That was good.

It could have been any old apocalypse. Most of the cars were in fine shape, disregarding the weathering and minor collisions. A few vehicles had been tossed aside or moderately mangled, but those were infrequent. If there’d been any bloodshed, it’d washed away long ago. L.B. was right—they didn’t come to highways, not without a reason. That much was clear.

Then stay quiet and don’t give them one.

Traffic on both sides of the highway was headed south. The man wondered if it was official or mob rule that had made that decision. There were no corpses. Some of the car doors stood ajar, but those that did were propped open by another vehicle or stray debris. The rest had been blown shut, the man assumed. They must’ve all started to run. None of the windows were even broken. How long were they stuck for? How bad could the traffic have been for them to get out and walk?

Ahead, the sky began to hemorrhage color. The man checked his watch; the morning cries weren’t far off. With no exit in sight and rural forest on both sides of the interstate, he began to peer into the cars and trucks, searching for a place to sleep. Even if a Scorpion did come this way, it wouldn’t be able to sneak up. He’d have eight lanes of tin-can noisemakers surrounding him.

But it didn’t take long for the man to realize that his earlier assumption had been wrong. In one minivan, he saw a grotesque half skeleton, the details obscured by shadows, prone in the back seat. A pus-stained blanket had fused to the corpse. The man found a few others like it, the ones who must’ve chosen to hide while everyone else ran away. He refused to dwell on them.

The fact that their bodies remained and had not been eaten or used for any kind of incubation lent L.B.’s words even more credence. Nevertheless, the man decided that he wanted something without windows. The nearest big rig truck was his next target.

The massive vehicle had been hauling an unmarked container. The moment that the man’s hand pressed down on the locking latch and opened the cargo door, a sour stench seeped out into the lifting dusk. Inside were crates upon crates of produce and other groceries, most of them perishable.

Perished, actually.

He let the heavy metal door swing ajar behind him and headed for the next truck. It was a dirty, used-to-be-white semi with New York plates. The side panel bore the logo of a company the man vaguely remembered but didn’t care to try to recall. The cargo doors required three solid shakes before the man was able to break them open. Upon his third pull was a snap and he stumbled backward, nearly tumbling to the ground.

A wooden cane toppled to the asphalt, broken in two, followed by a shower of cardboard and paperwork.

Although the container had been locked from the inside, there was nothing of any apparent value within—just mountains upon mountains of boxes. Not strange, the man assured himself. Someone barricaded themselves in there until help came. There must be another exit.

But as he hoisted himself up, he didn’t see anything at first, his nose the only witness. A tinge of metal in the air. There! At the far end, only a shadow but there, the man could see a pile of boxes silhouetted against the back wall. A neatly stacked pyramid. A shape slumped at the bottom.

He groped for his flashlight and clicked it on.

The LEDs washed the dark cargo in a blinding white, the first light those boxes had seen in years. The source of the foul stench was immediately obvious: yet another half-rotted corpse at the foot of the cardboard mountain.

The man very much wanted to turn back now. His nostrils had had enough decay for one night, and dawn was fast approaching. Yet he was curious. It had taken all his courage just to leave the bunker, but this person appeared to be guarding something. This person had a point. A purpose. Something so important that they had died for it.

The man hadn’t died for anything.

But there’s still time.

He reached over the body, his flashlight sending a small insectoid army scattering, and grabbed the box at the top of the pyramid. Expecting something grand, the man hurried back over to the mouth of the cargo container so he could examine its contents in the approaching light of dawn.

When he opened the box, it fell from his hands at once. The slips of paper within spilled out, each of them a shade of sterile green.

As the man walked away, he spat out his tobacco on the faces of dead presidents.