Chapter 2

Then Ronnie had mentioned the cars, two of them, out here on Interstate 95, and he suggested Court take Adam to have a look. Of course Court agreed—Ronnie could’ve told him to go alone, and as much as he would’ve hated to do so, he wouldn’t have been able to refuse. This was Ronnie. They met in elementary school all those years ago and remained close friends throughout their teen years. Roomed together in college, married a few months apart, and lived next door to each other well into their thirties. Would’ve grown old together and died together, too, Court had been sure, until the summertime came, bringing with it disease and sickness and death. Now they camped together, and Court would follow Ronnie to the end of the world if it came to that.

Some mornings, he was afraid it would.

As the two men came around the bend in the road, the accident slowly slid into view. Two vehicles stretched across the interstate, blocking both lanes of traffic with a tangled heap of twisted metal. Shattered glass twinkled everywhere. The vehicle closest to them was an older station wagon whose chrome fender flashed its Morse code message in the morning sun. The fender hung off the back of the station wagon like a wry grin. Dark patches underneath it hinted at a sprung oil leak, but the viscous liquid had long since turned to tar.

The wagon’s rear tire Court could see was shredded, a retread that had blown, most likely the cause of the accident. He could almost imagine it, playing out in slow motion inside the movie theater of his mind—the tire wobbles and shakes, protesting the station wagon’s speed. The driver, unable or unwilling to stop, floors the gas pedal, hoping to make it around the curve and away from the sickness he’s trying to outrun. What he doesn’t know—or, if he listens to the news, what he knows and doesn’t want to admit—is that the sickness isn’t contained to his little bum-fucked town. No. It’s spread to every inch of the planet, killing indiscriminately, jumping from host to host without rhyme or reason. It isn’t just his little town dying out here in the middle of nowhere; it’s allthe little towns, and the big ones, too. It isn’t just the good ol’ U.S. of A., but the entire worlddying. How can one possibly hope to outlive that?

So the tire blows, the station wagon skids, and the dark blue minivan barreling from the opposite direction—also trying to outrun the sickness, not realizing it’s running right smack-dab into the very thing it’s trying so hard to get away from—the minivan doesn’t see or, worse, doessee but can’t stop in time. The van T-bones the station wagon so hard, skid marks burn into the gray asphalt, leaving smears similar to those the dried up oil left behind.

Court could see where the impact crumpled the van’s hood and shattered the windshield. Through the broken glass, the body of the van’s long-dead driver was sprawled across the accordion of crumpled metal and lay, face down on the hood, as if taking a snooze in the sun. If it weren’t for the polished bone poking out of the driver’s clothes, Court might have almost believed the man or woman really wassleeping.

Almost.

The windows in the station wagon were rolled up. Whatever remained of the occupants inside the car had to smell ripe, sweltering in the last vestiges of the summer sun. Court saw a body slumped over the steering wheel—had the driver been killed by the accident? Or had the virus done the job first? As he neared the vehicle, he saw more bodies in the middle seat, rags now, one strapped into a child’s seat. His heart lurched at the thought of children dying trapped inside the car.

This might get ugly.

He felt a dizzying silliness drape over his thoughts—he tended to act stupid to buffer himself from the worst life had to offer. A few months ago, at the height of the epidemic, he’d been borderline manic for most of the time. The last thing Jeanine said to him before she died was, “Can’t you be serious just this once?” As if she were scolding a particularly rambunctious child. The cough rattled inside her chest and bloodied her lips. Court remembered holding her hand as she slipped away.

Can’t you be serious just this once?

The short answer? No. He couldn’t. Not as she lay dying, and not here, where death had already staked its claim.

Giving the cart a final hard shove, Court released the handlebar and walked up alongside it. He reached for the baseball bat, felt the warmth of the polished wood beneath his hand, then plucked it from the cart. Closer to the car now, and narrowing the distance fast. The cart rattled a little off-course, but Court laced his fingers through the holes in the basket and yanked it back towards him. It struck the left taillight of the station wagon with a metallic ping!

“So sorry, ma’am,” Court cried out with a wink in Adam’s direction. “I guess the damn thing just got away from me.”

“Court,” Adam warned.