Page 43 of Them

He had accepted long ago that to wander the brackish waters and tributaries would be akin to suicide, but in a way, that was good. At least he would die trying. Yet L.B. had promised DC was safe, and in a way, that was terrifying. The last static-suffocated official broadcasts he’d heard long ago—before the bunker generator sputtered, spat, and gave up the ghost—instructed survivors to get as far away from the East Coast as possible. The president claimed that he would meet the refugees in Colorado. The same man who’d promised the country safety… only to turn around and tell East Coast America to leave everything. To run like hell. The same man who’d dropped bombs on New York City. And L.B. wants to meet there? At our own mass grave?

The man walked northeast over road and through wood for what seemed like endless hours. A world soaked with the tar of time. Empty skies hovered above, the ancient oily breath of constellations seeping out over light-years. Fireflies dotted the billowing textures, watching him with a thousand golden eyes. Blinking.

Along the way, he stopped twice to urinate, performing both acts on the front porches of neighborhood homes. If the Scorpion was somehow still standing—still hunting him—then that would keep it busy. Let the beast raze its own fruitless path. The man doubted it would return, though. He hadn’t heard it in hours; it had to be dead by now. The Nightwalker was surely dead.

Another neighborhood appeared from the dense darkness on his right flank. He noticed there were at least two cars in every driveway, windshields reflecting the moonlight. Were they that stubborn? Afraid to run? Or had that much scrap to spare?

At half past midnight, he ate two bags of beef jerky. One was plain, bland even. The other was teriyaki and much more flavorful. He ate that package last and left both empty bags on a house’s front porch weighted down by a rock as another olfactory diversion. The rest of the way to I-95 was winding country roads, and he took them in stride.

Why didn’t they come for me, Nightwalker? More importantly, why didn’t they come for you?

As he often did, the man found himself yearning for Rockin’ Ray’s voice, but the posthumous DJ had disappeared into the static after Richmond. He would’ve taken any distraction, truth be told. The only other radio station he’d been able to find was repeating the same emergency broadcast message he’d heard back in Florida. Like Ray’s, it must’ve been running on some heavy-duty batteries. Maybe even solar. He could still hear the robotic voice droning on and on in his memory: PLEASE REMAIN CALM. THIS IS A MESSAGE FROM THE EMERGENCY ALERT SYSTEM. ALL TRAVEL NORTH OF THE MASON-DIXON LINE IS NOW PROHIBITED. FRIENDS AND FAMILY IN THE NORTHEAST REGION WILL BE EVACUATED, BUT TRAVEL INTO THE REGION IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. ARTHROGIGANTOCCISOR, OR MACROSCORPION, SIGHTINGS ARE TO BE REPORTED TO 911 IMMEDIATELY. THIS INCLUDES BUT IS NOT LIMITED TO: UNUSUAL ANIMAL TRACKS OR DROPPINGS, UNUSUAL ROCKS OR SCALES, UNUSUAL SOUNDS ESPECIALLY NEAR OR DURING SUNRISE AND SUNSET AND PRECIPITATION EVENTS, CHANGES IN WILDLIFE PATTERNS ESPECIALLY NEAR OR RELATING TO BODIES OF WATER, EVISCERATED OR MASTICATED BODIES, STRANGE BLUE LIGHTS, DEMOLISHED HOUSES, ABANDONED CARS, DEAD MACROSCORPIONS, AND LIVING MACROSCORPIONS. REVISE YOUR SLEEP SCHEDULE, AVOID MACROSCORPIONS AT ALL COSTS, AND ONLY ACT TO DEFEND YOURSELF IF ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY. CITIZENS WHO FAIL TO COMPLY WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW. PLEASE REMAIN CALM. THIS IS A MESSAGE FROM THE EMERGENCY ALERT SYSTEM. ALL TRA—

“Arf! Arf!”

The man pumped the shotgun and spun around, finger on the trigger.

A dog stood before him. Large and black and curly and brown with paws so big it could’ve been mistaken for a baby bear. The man turned on the flashlight and saw the hound was holding one of the beef jerky bags, the teriyaki one, between its jowls.

“Arf!”

Eyes like copper marbles gleamed up at the man, studying him, pleading with him. Pupils shining in the LEDs.

A rustling behind them in the high grass. The man whirled around. The brush rustled again, and he nearly pulled the trigger. There was something in there. Something alive. Is the dog’s owner injured? Is this a trap?

“Whoever’s in there, I have a gun.”

He took a tentative step closer—

—and a single mockingbird fluttered up from the grassy tangle and began to fly away.

A flash of dirty white fur and gnashing teeth erupted from the brush and snagged the bird from midair. It landed hard on the dirt, front paws pinning its wounded prey, and offered a quick death.

The little white dog, fur matted and stomach thin, picked up its catch, briefly met the man’s dumbfounded gaze, then turned and trotted away into the brush. A moment later, the man heard more hungry canine whining, as if there were a whole hidden pack for whom these two dogs were providing.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, turning back to the larger dog, who was still holding the jerky bag in its mouth. “I suppose we’ve let you all down.”

The dog stared at him. Expectant. Waiting.

The man reached inside his backpack and brought out another sealed baggy of dried meat. He tore it open and pocketed the silica gel packet, then plucked out a prime piece and offered it to the animal. “Here,” he said, crouching. “It’s teriyaki. Like the bag you’ve got.”

The dog cocked its head and stared at him. The empty bag fell from its mouth and danced away in the breeze. A high-pitched bark sounded from the brush, as if to say, We need to go now; it isn’t safe here. The dog glanced in that direction, then back at the man again.

“Oh,” the man said, not bothering to hide his disappointment. The dog wasn’t hungry. “You thought I might be someone else.”

Those eyes, like amber medallions beneath the night, told him all he needed to know. The dog turned away and began to retreat into the tall grass. It only hesitated when a sliver of beef jerky landed on the grass right beside it, followed by the rest of the bag.

The man watched as the dog sniffed it. Savoring the scent, tail offering a feeble wag. He imagined the animal thinking: Yes, it’s the same. The very same flavor their old human used to feed them on long car rides to the coast. After long walks off the leash in the endless woods. The matted wolf breathed in the fragrance of nostalgia, then devoured the single strip of meat, saving the rest of the bag to share.

The man pictured the copper-eyed dog looking back for him, perhaps wanting to thank him, even befriend him. Or maybe the dog simply wanted to feel a human’s touch once more, even if only for a second. Even if the stranger wasn’t the old friend they once knew.

But when the dog turned around, the road was empty. The stranger was gone.

The following night, the man awoke in a gluttonous neighborhood far away from the dog with copper eyes. The homes were large and lavishly decorated, each preserved with a sense of ornate pretentiousness. Narrow white windowsills and thick mahogany doors resisted the decay and overgrowth, as if some clan of unpaid gardeners and housekeepers still lurked around the dust. The man knew better, knew their herbicides and sod would not last forever.

L.B. said it would take him two weeks. That was a week ago, and now L.B. was on his own long walk. The man was somewhere south of Fredericksburg; he could make it to DC with time to spare. That was good, but he couldn’t afford another run-in with an insomniac. The Nightwalker hadn’t made an appearance since he’d run across the dogs, but it’d raged a helluva lot longer than he’d expected. He was almost sure it was dead in a ditch somewhere, probably playing host to its brethren already, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Once the man reached Route 1—NORTH TO FREDERICKSBURG, WASHINGTON—the surroundings began to change, shifting from upper-class residential to commercial. The night emptied. Despite the sprawling shopping plazas and parking lots, the world rang hollow. When he occasionally turned his flashlight on and swept it around the decrepit human habitat, nothing so much as scattered. Crickets and bats had reclaimed many of the ancient structures, yet here in this part of town they seemed absent. All but the hardiest of plants had receded, the decorative garden beds consumed by weeds and wild grass. There were no birds flying about, nor squirrels or rodents running amok. The garbage and litter they’d once feasted upon had gone all but extinct. Scarcely anything useful remained for the living in a land soiled by the dead.