He trudged down the Old Martin Dairy Road. On his right lay an old farmstead, fertile ground long since forgotten on the valley floor, and on his left climbed a steep hillside snarled with pine trees so thick the sun never saw the soil. He passed a sign that read: PRIMITIVE ROAD. NO WARNING SIGNS, but weren’t they all these days? He had come this way on the Interstate and it had become a primitive road, completely impassible by automobile.

He felt an eye on him, watching him, or maybe a pair of eyes, yes that was it. He pulled his jacket a little tighter and shuddered against the cold. He kept on walking for another three miles until he came upon a sign: Roslyn- 5 miles. Would he find safe harbor there? Years before, it had been a bustling little mountain town, full of industry and charms. Now he suspected it would be nothing more than another above ground, mass grave.

He had been on the road for three months now and had seen only a very small sampling of survivors. Terry had met a crazy old man back in Easton a few days back, but that man had tried to kill him. There were perhaps only two left alive and they had nearly killed each other. Fortunately for Terry, he was stronger than the maniac and he lived. The maniac did not. It seemed ironic that what few souls remained, spent their energies trying to kill other survivors…

The sickness wiped out just about everyone, save Terry himself, and the crazy man as far as he knew. Was this God's judgment? Or just the inevitable result of man’s sprawl, his greed? It came on like the flu, only you never got better. You puked and crapped your pants until you were completely dehydrated, dry, then dead.

Terry looked up the hill again. Barren pine trees stood sentinel, they looked like a child’s game of pick-up sticks. They had limbs only at the very top. He imagined if he even dared the path, he would be snatched up. He had an eerie feeling some monster would come barreling down the hill at any moment and devour him whole. He would scream, but no one would hear him. There's no one left. He pulled his jacket a little tighter again, but it was of no use. Long fingers of cold reached inside his coat and stroked his flesh. He had to get off the road and soon. Twilight lay heavy upon him and soon it would be full dark.

Terry didn’t care to walk in the dark. Bad things happen in the dark, terrible things. Survivors disappear in the dark. The road forked and he took a right. Right felt wrong but left felt worse. He put his hand on the butt of his pistol holstered at his belt and readied himself for whatever surprises lay ahead. 

Man grows weary of seeing only the dead and it had been a long time since he’d seen anything but. He had never been a big fan of people per se, but he found the longer he went without seeing them, the more he missed them. It turns out they weren’t all bad after all and he missed them, craved them even. What he wouldn't do to see another living soul. A friendly face, a reprieve from the cold, to hear their story and to tell his own. 

He got the feeling the eyes were upon them again. He looked all around, and as always, he saw no one. He was sure he had heard the crack of a branch beneath a foot. Maybe an animal— the dead moved silently. He hadn’t seen an animal in an awfully long time either, so the thought offered very little comfort. Maybe the wind? Yes, it had to be the wind, just the wind and he quickened his pace. It was getting darker faster now and he had to find shelter.  

Night was the worst time. That's when he really felt the eyes. Sometimes he could almost hear their breath, feel their approach, and nearly feel their grip around his neck.

He passed another road sign: NO HUNTING. That’s a laugh. If only there were something to hunt … anything to hunt. It seemed only the insects had survived and Terry survived on a diet of bugs and greens. God, how he missed food, real food. Pizza, steaks, burgers, beers; it seemed that life was over. The world as he knew it was over.

Terry continued on until he hit an impasse. The road had long since been washed out and a mad torrent cut right through it, perhaps six feet deep or more. He would have to enter the woods to find safe passage, shallower water, or perhaps a fallen tree for a bridge if he was lucky. The sun dipped behind the hills and he felt the malevolent presence that much stronger. He had to find that shelter and now. Not that shelter actually provided any protection from the sickness or the creeping feeling of being watched; it just felt a little better. It offered a slight psychological bandage which was all the comfort a guy could hope for in times like these. He stepped off the relative safety of the road and into the darkening woods. A pine cone crunched beneath his foot and he cringed. But who was he hiding from? The eye? There was no hiding from the eye. From other men or beasts? Haha, no such thing, Terry. Either way, he tried to be a little more stealthy. It seemed the appropriate thing to do.

The wind gusted up the hill all at once, as if it had been saving it up just for him to unsettle him all the more. 

Whooosh! Guess what, Terry? You’re dead—maybe you’ve survived the flu thus far, but you’re dead—don’t forget, Terry, don’t forget…

He pulled his stocking cap down a little further over his ears and kept hiking until he hit a narrow trial, maybe an old Jeep trail, and followed it to the right. The wind couldn’t choose a direction to blow and now turned to get him a facial assault. 

Not this way, Terry. Turn back the way you’ve come, it seemed the wind nearly whispered. He continued on the trail and was glad he did because he came upon a bridge. It was probably dry beneath much of the year, but the water licked at the timbers tonight. If it rose much higher, it would take the bridge too. He crossed and half a mile further, he spotted an old automobile in the brush. Someone had either gotten too far off road or just dragged it up here to abandon it. The plates, the VIN, and the wheels had been stripped off, so he guessed the latter. Terry made his approach most carefully. Sometimes these things were tombs. He breathed a little easier when he creaked the rear driver’s side door open and the car was clean, well sort of. There were no bodies, no stench of death. The door opened only part way on rusty hinges and pulling it open wide enough for entry required herculean effort. The door wailed in protest, but opened up, and Terry crawled inside onto the bench seat. He unfettered his pack and his bedroll and he slept. The car rocked gently in the wind, and the trees creaked and moaned, but Terry enjoyed the sleep of the dead. Roslyn would have to wait for the morrow.

#

Terry awoke when a pine bough slapped across the hood of the Buick he was sleeping in. The wind was still howling and snapped it off, dropping it twenty feet below and making one helluva racket. He was still dreaming, but snapped wide awake and drew his gun. The needles still fluttered on the hood, telling him what had happened.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered and rubbed his face, wiped his eyes. Terry peered out through the dirty glass and saw no one and nothing, so he stepped out into the cool, morning air. It was early November, but the snow had not arrived, for which he was thankful for. Higher on the hills and on the mountains he could see the white and he knew it was just a matter of time. If he was still traveling when the snow hit, he knew he was in for a world of hurt. He was barely eating now and his chances of finding food in the winter were extremely slim. He had to find someone’s food supply who had not survived the flu. Most didn't, damn few.

Roslyn was a small mountain town and it often got cut off by the heavy snows. People stocked up for the wintertime and Terry knew his chances of finding a full larder were pretty good in that town. He had visited there several times, back in his old life, back when it was only a day’s drive away. It was beautiful; surrounded by the mountains, clean air, quaint little shops, and great pubs with friendly faces. Probably all dead now.

He would have arrived sooner, but he had spent a month looking for his family before giving up hope and heading over Grants Pass to look for greener pastures, other survivors. When the flu hit, it hit everyone, everywhere, all at the same time. Terry was just 250 miles south of home, away on business, but it took him nearly nine days to walk home. The power was off, phones were down, roads were blocked and all communication were cut off, so he walked. Walking into Seattle was dream like. He moved in slow motion through the morbid haze of death and decay. So thick he imagined his body parting it as it would through thick smoke. The only people or animals he saw were dead. Dead, hot and bloated. It was August and the stench was crushing. A full-on nasal assault that filled your lungs and burned your eyes. He couldn’t decide whether to breathe through his mouth or through his nose. Do I want to smell it, or taste it? Neither option held much appeal and he frequently found himself taking short breaths and becoming light headed until he left Seattle … without his family.

Terry began to rummage around for something, anything he could eat. He found a few berries a bit past their prime on a nearby bush, and some black ants beneath a piece of bark on the needle-carpeted floor of the forest. He scooped as many of them up as he could and ate them live. Anything for protein, he thought as the little bastards bit his lip. He found some lichens nearby and gathered them up to save for later.

Terry began downhill to reconnect with the Martin Dairy Road again. He had hiked about three miles uphill to find a crossing of the seasonal torrent and crunched down the hill. In the daylight, he didn’t have the impression that stealth was so important. Just at night. He figured his paranoia could be attributed to a number of things: malnutrition, fatigue, seeing the world end maybe. Either way, he felt comfortable during the daylight for the most part. One did have to be weary of bands of marauders, particularly if one were female. Along with the breakdown of society, came the breakdown of morality. People took what they wanted without regard for others. Women were raped. Men were murdered for their boots. It was a new world.

Terry stepped back on to the Martin Dairy Road and saw a new sign shortly thereafter, Entering Roslyn. He was still a couple of miles outside of the town proper and he passed through the cemetery first. The lucky ones were in here. He suspected there were more corpses in town than in the graveyard. At least it was cold now. It wouldn’t be so bad, so smelly as Seattle had been.

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