Patting the earth smooth with the back of a shovel, Alex looks up at his father. “All buried.”

Mr. Dash, seemingly preoccupied and looking off into the distance through a pair of binoculars, says “Good.”

Alex waits for his father to say more, but he is still surveying the road, southward. He then turns and stares to the north.

“Dad?”

No response.

“Um…what next, Dad?”

“Wait, Alex.”

“Sorry.”

After a few moments, the father looks at his son. “Had to be sure no one was near, that no one followed us.”

“Who would follow us, Dad?”

The father smiles. “You never know. Always be aware of your surroundings, son.”

The words make Alex uneasy. He cannot understand why anyone would want to follow them; they are just ordinary people. But he supposed what they were doing was extraordinary. Burying food and supplies seemed at first to be ridiculous…maybe crazy…yet his father was always adamant that it needed to be done. Alex supposes it’s possible that someone might steal what they buried, but why would they when they could just buy their own food at the store? He then remembers that, according to his father, that the future will be dangerous, supplies will be scarce. Alex trusts his father. He has no reason not to.

Mr. Dash nods toward the bare patch of dirt. “Now we have to conceal the cache. The overturned ground is a dead giveaway.”

With his father, Alex drags heavy brush over the spot, concealing their work. Once finished, Mr. Dash once again scans the road, then they hop back into the silver Dodge pickup truck. Mr. Dash allows Alex to drive, despite him only being fifteen years old; he must know how to operate a vehicle should Armageddon come earlier than expected. Through the truck’s speakers, Johnny Cash belts out “Ring of Fire.”

“You sure we should’ve buried those supplies on that farm?” asks Alex. “It’s private property.”

“There won’t be any private property in the near future, son. It’ll be every man for himself.”

“Oh, right. Hard to remember that stuff.”

“I know. That is why we do these things, burying food stores and ammunition, driving from spot to spot. You must get into the habit of thinking this way. The world will be much different than it is today and if you can’t adapt to it, you’ll die. Plus, I figure you might be able to harvest any vegetables that might have been left. Just remember, you will have to cook everything you eat, even fruit. You mustn’t eat anything raw.”

“But, how do you cook fruit?”

“Same as vegetables; just boil it in some water.”

“Oh,” says Alex, satisfied with the answer. The fall foliage passing beyond the windshield in a blur as Alex ponders the future his father has painted for him on so many occasions. He glances at his father. “How do you know when it’ll come, Dad?”

“I’ve told you before, Alex.” He points toward the windshield. “Watch the road.”

“I know,” says Alex, looking forward again. “I just like to hear it.”

Mr. Dash sighs. A lengthy pause ensues that makes Alex uncomfortable, as though maybe he’s done something to upset his father. He only wants to make him proud.

The father scratches his short hair, in apparent frustration, then calms and says, “You were young…it was when I was still a police officer. I was on patrol in my vehicle when I saw a burst of light coming from that farm back there,” he says, thumbing behind him. Alex’s eyes are wide as he occasionally glances at his father. “I get out to investigate and find…” his father’s eyes drift off, an expression of great concern washing over him.

*********

“Alex?”

“Alex?”

A shove on the shoulder prompted Alex, then another. He opened his eyes, panic enveloping him as he realized he had been sleeping. He jumped to his feet and took aim at the empty space before him, his heart pounding. “What! What is it!”

“Nuthin’,” said Henry, calmly.

“We just wanted to make sure you were okay,” added Annabelle.

Henry nodded. “Yeah, so we woke you up.”

“Where are we?” questioned Alex.

“You said it’s a shed,” said Henry. “There’s a bunch of tools and stuff.”

“A garage,” corrected Annabelle.

Alex stood and studied the shadowy corners of the two-car garage. Hanging neatly from pegs on the wall were a shovel, pitchfork and two rakes, one steel, one leaf. There was a pair of pruning shears lying atop a few bags of topsoil, one of them with dark material spilling from a small tear. An old car was the lone vehicle.

“Did I search it?” asked Alex. “I can’t remember.”

Annabelle nodded. “Yep.”

“You sure?” questioned Alex.

“We all did,” replied Henry.

Then Alex remembered the incident on the access road along the back-bay inlets. Right before he had lost consciousness, he had been separated from the children by some strange obstruction. It had been invisible. Then, the pain in his head made itself known and he placed a hand to the spot, above his left eye. Dry, crusted blood flaked off when he rubbed it.

“How did we get here?” he asked.

“We drove,” said Annabelle.

Alex had no recollection of this. How could he have had the wherewithal to operate the pickup truck and yet have no memory of it?

“We drove here?” he asked, double-checking their assertion.

The twins nodded.

“Where’s the truck?”

“Out front, by the curb,” replied Henry.

Unable to recall arriving at the residence, Alex again contemplated his mental state. How could he drive a goddamned vehicle without some fragment of remembrance? Moreover, how much longer would he be able to care for Henry and Annabelle in this condition? It might worsen.

“Alex?” It was Henry.

“Yes, Henry?”

“Um…I’m hungry.”

Rubbing his eyes with his finger and thumb, Alex nodded. “Okay, buddy. Give me a moment and we’ll get moving.”

Alex’s attention was drawn to the car, half-covered by a gray tarp, which he removed. It was familiar, somehow. The more he studied it, the more he was sure he had seen the automobile before. It was a Mustang, one of the old ones, from the 60’s. White, with a blue racing stripe down the sides. He moved to the driver’s side door and stooped, wiping away the dust from the window. Inside he found what he had expected to: a pair of fuzzy, orange dice hanging from the rearview mirror.

This was Mo’s car.

He walked to the garage door, quietly opened it, and stared at Mo’s house.

Mo…

Who was Mo?

Someone from his past, he supposed. Someone he had known before his memory had grown foggy and distant. He had been at this house before; a hint of familiarity buzzing at the edge of his recollection. Yet, he could not place a face with the name.

Mo…

“Did I go inside the house?” he asked the twins.

“Nope,” said Annabelle.

“And neither did we,” added Henry, beaming with pride. “We know better.”

Alex turned and looked down at his brother and smiled. “Good, Henry. That was smart of you.”

Again, Alex looked upon the house, nostalgia budding inside him like a flower uncurling in morning sunlight. The flower petals stalled however, not opening all the way, and an almost recovered memory remained hidden. He felt encouraged to go in and have a look around, remember old times. The urge was strong. He could enter through the back door, where the laundry room was.

“Mud room,” whispered Alex. Mo’s mom had called it that.

“What, Alex?” questioned Annabelle.

Realizing he had spoken the words aloud, Alex said, “Nothing, Annabelle. Just thinking to myself.”

Alex stared at the house, wondering if any of his memory might be recovered if he went inside. He could stumble upon something, a photograph maybe, that might trigger remembrance. Perhaps Mo, or his family were inside, in need of help.

Perhaps death awaits you inside, he thought.

Yes, there was reason, poking him in the chest again, warning him to avoid impulses.

What happens to Henry and Annabelle if you die, Alex?

But was it an impulse? Or was it carefully thought out, the potential benefit outweighing the potential threat? He looked at the twins. They were hungry and he had nothing for them to eat. There might be some food inside. The chances were slim, he knew, but he decided it worth the risk.

That settled it. They were going inside.

“Guys?” Alex said. “We’re going to have a look inside the house, see if we can find any supplies.”

Annabelle shook her head. “No, Alex. I don’t wanna. It’s dangerous.”

Henry nodded in agreement.

Alex too, nodded. “I know it’s dangerous, but…so is everything. The problem is that we have nothing to eat. We’re just going to have a quick look and then leave.”

He convinced the twins – and himself – that it was a decision based on sound judgement and after putting their helmets on, the three of them made their way to the rear door. It stood open a few inches. Alex shouldered the rifle and withdrew the 9mm pistol, preferring it in a potential close-quarters encounter. Holding the pistol in his right hand, he brandished the flashlight in his left. He nudged the door open and to his relief, it produced no creaking.

The flashlight revealed that the mudroom was in disarray, perhaps the aftermath of other survivors searching for goods. Shoes and articles of clothing were strewn across the floor. A few coats were still available, draped on hooks secured to the wall. Alex imagined that when the first winter had struck after everything went to shit that some nomads were too far gone to even realize that they needed winter gear. Some had surely frozen to death.

As they passed into the kitchen, things crunched underfoot and when Alex directed the beam to the floor, he found, to his dismay, that they had been stepping on old, dry seeds. They were everywhere. He saw that the windows of the room were closed, which could mean only one thing: that something had brought the seeds inside.

Another survivor caught in a storm, maybe. They stuck to their clothing and were carried in here.

But reason dictated that the spores, reduced to dust when stepped on, had been here for a long time. Therefore, whatever had brought them in from outside had probably come and gone days ago, maybe longer. Then a thought occurred to Alex that chilled his blood: what if something inside the house had produced those seeds?

As if conjured by this thought, Alex heard a noise in another room. He stopped walking and the twins looked to him for instruction. Alex held a finger to his helmet’s visor, insisting they remain quiet. He aimed the pistol toward the doorway leading out of the kitchen. Frozen in place, the three of them stood in the dim light, waiting. Maybe he had only imagined the sound. He had often found that when anticipating a particular event, such as expecting to hear a sound, his mind could at times, fabricate that sound in his head. Instantly, Alex thought of the girl that had appeared to him on occasion. If the mind could produce a visual hallucination, why not an auditory one?

Then, somewhere ahead of them, in the gloom, something wheezed.