Day 92: July 9th, Friday

My husband would have blushed if I told him how many men I had slept with, both around my age or older, exes or casuals. Even I couldn't remember how many. Was it five? Eight? Thirty? No...It should be more than that. Some were intimate, but a few were rougher either on me or my doing. Threesomes and orgies, bodies tangling across the sheets, sweat, laughs, and silence after that, just trying to forget the world's troubles as our common idiosyncrasy; the fucking a mere afterthought. There are hardly any babies born nowadays. You could say some people are compensating.

I did it, I thought to myself, lying on my back on that bunk bed, staring at the ceiling. The clock struck five in the morning, the sun still not out, and I was too lazy to get up.

So...that was sex. Am I supposed to feel something? A little sore, maybe? Wait. There was a little flutter on my stomach (might be hunger), a glow on my cheeks (room was a hotbox), but I still felt like nothing drastically changed on my body. Don't get me wrong. I did enjoy the heck of what occurred the previous night. Some parts I had expected from watching porn, then other parts where I did not expect: too much sweating, the occasional accidental hitting among headboards, elbows, and windows, and then the weight, especially with how heavy a guy can be on top of you for too long (It was fucking uncomfortable like I cracked a rib).

But then again, was it supposed only to last like four minutes? Perhaps this was when I should stop comparing some pornstars' god-like endurance to real-life men. They couldn't possibly do it for two hours straight...right? Maybe everyone was telling the truth. People's first times tended to be underwhelming, lacking, and I realized it wasn't as it's cracked up to be. What if I did it again, knowing what I'd expect? Would things change? An idea for another time.

Too much hype killed itself, I thought, chuckling.

Peter must have felt my chest rising, turning around to face me as he stirred awake. His arm shot out and draped around my chest, hand nestling at the crook of my armpit, pulling me close, his lips caressing my neck. I smiled, though I wasn't in the mood for what he wanted.

"So..." he whispered, "Last night was...."

It took me a moment to respond, partly because I didn't realize he wanted me to. I broke the awkward silence. "...was good."

Peter smiled, though his eyes were closed. "Yeah. Been wanting to do that with you. Sorry about the condom."

"Hey. We have an early start today," I said, looking at the clock again. It had already been fifteen minutes past five.

"For what?" He murmured, eyes still closed, half-asleep.

"Harrisburg, Peter. Was last night that good that you forgot?" I asked jokingly, raised my eyebrow.

"Ha. I wish."

"Hey! Was that a diss? No? Did you mean the good part of the forgetting part?"

"Bah, you know what I mean."

For a second, I had thought of telling Peter what I saw last night. Did I imagine it? It seemed so real. I glanced at the cabin door, a split-second glimpse of a head peering in with Logan's shocked and embarrassed face. Here, I thought it was him again, coming back to check on us, but it was only my imagination and after image from last night. Was he truly there? I decided not to tell Peter. It was going to be awkward if I did.

"We need to wake the others," I said, changing the subject. "The city's only over those hills by a few miles, and then we'd be in unknown territory. We need to plan our route."

"Stop reminding me, Bren. It's all I could think of for the past few days." Peter drew me close to his chest again. "Besides, this is a nice change of pace. I want to be inside you again." He gently thrust his hips against my leg, could feel him growing.

I laughed. It was tempting, but there were other things we should attend to, no matter how I wanted to do it again and test my theory from earlier. I shoved his arm back to his side, trying to get out of bed, albeit unsuccessfully.

Finally, Peter opened his eyes and peeked through the blinds, groaning. "It's still dark out."

I pushed the covers off, forgetting that we weren't wearing anything underneath. I glanced at Peter's body, admiring his arms and muscles, going down below his waist where he was at full attention. A smirk lingered on Peter's lips, caught me looking. "Go on," he said, thrusting his hips upward, his cock pointing toward me. "What are you waiting for?"

I am not in...I sighed, rolled my eyes, and slapped his cock away.

"Ow!" Peter cried out.

I got up and headed for the door, ignoring his cries of pain and protest. "I'm gonna take a shower. You can join me if you want," I said.

"That hurt, Bren!"

"Come on. I barely touched it."

He let out a moan, but then a smile cracked on his lips. "Shit's sensitive, dude. You gotta be gentle."

I shook my head, wanting that shower more than ever. Suddenly, he shouted, "Wait, stop! Don't move!"

I froze, looked over my shoulder in a mild panic. "What? What? Something wrong?"

Peter grinned. "Have you been working out?"

"What? Why?"

"Because you got a great ass."

I rolled my eyes again, finding that towel he gave me last night at the foot of the bed, and threw it at his face. "For crying out loud! You scared me! I thought there's something behind my back!"

"Yeah. A great bun."

"Peter...Not. Another. Word. I'm going to take that shower now."

"Wait, I'll join you."

"No, no. I take back my offer after that stunt."

"But—"

"You can fuck me later." Or when I am not annoyed. "You can stay here and get more Zs. Don't let this ass distract you, though."

Peter groaned, pushing his head back on the mattress, and lifted a pillow over his head. "Well, that's not gonna work now," he said, voice muffled through the cushions.

I shook my head, chuckling. Three minutes, I reminded myself when I hopped into the tiny shower stall, remembering how we had to conserve our water, wishing I could afford a nice, hot shower as the cold rain on my back.

——

MIGUEL

As a lark, Miguel Peralta loved the sunrise, but it was different when watching it out in the country.

Over the hills, the sun bled orange, peeking out from the horizon, the shadows retiring into the deep recesses of the forest. It was quiet. Peaceful. Not a sign of a bustling city or the smell of exhaust, where the light got caught behind the towering pillars and skyscrapers of the concrete jungle, and the wind was crisp and fresh of earth.

I could get used to this, he thought. There's always the little things...

As usual, Jun was the first one up like clockwork, though Miguel had no idea how the boy could even manage it. Sleep was valued more than gold by his reckon, then again, he never forced Jun to catch food, and Miguel was more than happy to receive what he found. Today, he brought two dozen quail eggs. Miguel didn't ask how the fuck Jun found those in the woods. After all, they were surrounded by farmlands.

Eggs for breakfast? We hadn't had that for a fucking long time, Miguel thought. The boys were going to be happy with their meals today, and for once, they'd probably clean up their plates as a thank you, though he doubted it. It was Pete's idea to eat breakfast before entering Harrisburg. The way he put it, a full stomach kept the mind sharp. I guess that asshole has a point.

Indy stood by his foot once he prepared the eggs, whining and hungry.

"Ought someone gotta teach you some manners, little pup," Miguel chided, lightly patting Indy on the head.

Indy tried to swerve away from his touch, pretending to bite his hand off, but then that smile mischievously grew, his tongue out, as if saying: Psyche! Made you flinch!

Miguel shrugged. "I guess I can put some egg crumbs on your kibbles."

If Indy understood what he said, he was more than happy to devour everything he put in his bowl without question. Greedy little pup, Miguel thought, noting to talk to the others later about potty training him.

Since quail eggs were smaller than chicken eggs, Miguel had to use a dozen to make a large pot of scrambled eggs for everyone, placed some canned diced tomatoes, red onions, some black pepper and salt, and those wild oyster mushrooms he had foraged near Colby a week earlier. Pete wanted breakfast to be big. Well, He got something big. He had never cooked anything larger since the pandemic began because of rationing (aside from rice and oats), but today was special. He just wished it wasn't because they were walking into their doom and that this would be their last meal.

What a bunch of crap. I deserve to die with a big, juicy ribeye and a giant plate of enmoladas than some fucking scrambled eggs, he groaned. Miguel saved the rest of the eggs for later and stored them inside their small fridge if they made it out in one piece. Scrambled eggs for tomorrow sounds nice, too.

"This smells good, Miguel," Yousef said, taking a whiff of his plate, then took a bite. "Tastes good, too."

"Ha! What do you expect? I used to make scrambled eggs for a living. You can say I have mastered it." Miguel took the spatula and put a serving in his plastic bowl. "I take pride in my cooking, so you ungrateful fucks better not complain about it being too salty or too runny. I'm not having that shit."

"Got it, chef!" Alfie and Haskell both shouted in unison.

Miguel grinned. "You goddam right."

Miguel missed Franks' diner, the busy rush hour order after four, the challenge of cooking half a dozen things in under twenty minutes, the sound of chatter from the customers, the enticing aroma of food. He missed it all; even the smell of bacon and smoke stuck to his clothes when he would come home after closing. He missed his fellow cook, Eddie, and his stupid jokes and strange encounters during his gambling trips to Atlantic City (which was every weekend). Tonya's kids sitting by the side booths with their coloring books when she couldn't find a babysitter. Or Mr. Franks regaling Miguel about his experience in Afghanistan and Vietnam, and the countless horror stories about his six ex-wives and his Vegas shotgun weddings...The diner was like a home to him.

Miguel stared at his food, then to the sunrise, daybreak turning past seven. They would have to move soon before more people—more survivors—streamed into the city, and that only made him nervous. The boys were anxious to cross one of the bridges as soon as possible if the military hadn't destroyed them first.

Home was in everyone's mind except for Miguel. And now it was gone. New York City didn't exist anymore, just a crater put on the history books, a mere footnote in the grand fuck up of the world's end. Mr. Franks' diner probably got buried under the tons of rubble from the bombs. He wondered if Eddie, or Tonya, and her kids, or Mr. Franks had survived, but so many people he knew were probably dead, or worse, had turned into vectors. The mere image gave him shivers.

Miguel hardly had any family left in New York. The fourth son of immigrants, both of his parents died when he was too young to count his ABCs, raised mostly by his grandmother and his own brothers and sisters, barely coming out into adulthood with several bruises to prove it. Then, they had families of their own, moving off to New Jersey, Texas, or Florida without even a call or a hello years later—forgotten.

Those that stayed, well, life broke the facade of simplicity. Two of his brothers fell into the city's shadows, sentenced to ten years each for killing some asshole that probably deserved it before he graduated middle school. His oldest sister had died of an overdose when he got out of sophomore year, and if that wasn't bad enough, his oldest brother had maimed his legs in a forklift accident, causing him to turn to the comfort of a bottle and drank himself to death a year after. Then his grandmother, perhaps the only one that he was very close to, got sick, and he had to take care of her, postponing his plans to go to a community college. Then she died a year before the outbreak began, but by then, he was stuck between three jobs and too many bills to pay.

He had cousins, nephews, nieces, aunts, and uncles, too, the good and the bad, the distant and the ones he was close with, family gatherings that trickled as he grew old, the loneliness creeping in. There was an extended amount of time where he never went at all, learning after a few years that they had moved to different states or neighborhoods, and those that stayed hardly knew him now. It pained him to think of his nephews and his nieces trapped or burnt under those fallen skyscrapers, and though he never showed it to anyone—not even to Bren—he tried to find a private room to let himself be.

Miguel almost teetered into the edge at the prospect of a grim future before Mr. Franks had offered him a job, a chance to clean up. He was grateful for him, a true guardian angel on Earth, but he never believed in those kinds of things. The city had chipped off those beliefs out of him, so much chaos and death that once the pandemic began, it hardly seemed any different from when everything was civilized. When crime was an everyday occurrence, when fucked up shit fell on his lap before he had come of age, the chaos he saw running down the streets seemed run-of-the-mill. But then, people never tore each other's throats in broad daylight.

Sometimes.

Miguel wished it was all coming to an end—the proper way. Not whatever the government was doing. The pandemic wrecked the world already, and he doubted the chances of the country recovering from it. This wasn't like the aftermath of nine-eleven, or the Great Depression, the Cold War, or World War II, where we picked up the pieces and life continued. No. This was a thousand nightmares of epic proportions, where countries had reported on the news with death tolls and infected patients that far exceeded their current population. How fucked up is that?

So, it was barely a surprise when everyone was relieved that the military was moving in. Still, Miguel wasn't going to be silenced with his skepticism, even when Haskell, or Alfie, or even Yousef refused to hear him. Have they forgotten what they did to New York? They blew up a city to win at all cost. How far are they going to go if Harrisburg doesn't go their way? If the Delaware Campaign becomes another catastrophe? He wondered what made them think this would be any different. Maybe they had some reservations that they just bottled up, too distracted with this pandemic ending sooner more than the awful reality of logic. Miguel almost bought into it if not for Jun or Bren's hesitation to voice their opinion. Bren remained tight-lipped even when he asked.

Didn't they say silence speaks louder than words? Or was that action...

Speaking of Bren, his eyes flicked to where he was, sitting there on the dinette area with Pete. Then, something shocked him. Miguel sat on the couch, giving him a good view under the dinette table, and he saw it all when Pete's hand suddenly slid off his lap and landed on Bren's crotch with a gentle squeeze. Bren quickly pushed Pete's hand away, trying to hide his reddening cheeks while Pete smirked triumphantly.

They're fucking. Miguel almost laughed at that. Pete had been chasing Bren since he had met the soldier, and now...That makes sense. He found it odd that Bren wasn't in the house when he woke up, surprised to see him already in the RV, though Miguel thought nothing of it. They're fucking. I'm sure of it. Miguel wanted to rub it on their faces that he knew, but he was too busy chewing on his food, and h couldn't leave that to waste. Eat now, make fun later, he noted, laughing to himself.

A part of him felt a little jealous. When was the last time he shared a bed with someone? All he knew was that it had been too long, though he didn't want to admit that it had been more than a year.

He grew bored with the plethora of ex-girlfriends and tourists coming by his apartment for a quick fuck before leaving, never contacting again until two weeks later, which constantly reminded him why they left him in the first place; the various trysts borderline into an addiction. So, he made a deal with himself. He kept himself busy with three jobs, side jobs, hobbies, family, food banks, community outreach...and he never thought of the need for sex at all. Sure, there were various DMs here and there, but he politely declined. Not until he tried to get back into the game where he lost his mojo, and before he knew it, no sex for over a year. Then, the outbreak hit, which fucked everything up, leaving him with only a dirty magazine and his hand to keep him company.

And surrounded by a bunch of men. The universe really doesn't want me to get laid.

Another thought occurred to him. I thought Bren and Logan were fucking. Miguel looked around for Logan, but he was nowhere to be seen. He shook his head.

Men these days...

* * *

It was almost eight when Bren called for a brief meeting, laying out what they would expect in the city. They had suspected for days now the masses of survivors trying to make it to the Red Zone's borders, reluctant to stay put when bombs, armies, and vectors would turn the entire region almost uninhabitable. Miguel had wished they stayed put in Colby with the warehouses' many resources (even though some had started to rot and expire), but then, how long would this war last? How far would it break him?

No one wanted to be caught inside a war zone, especially when hunkering down or making a run for the borders were equally dangerous and stupid. But I'd rather keep moving than wait to die like some cornered bag of meat, Miguel thought.

Miguel watched Bren from the RV's doorstep, leaning on the frame, listening to Bren prattle on about things on the map. Miguel puzzled why they should even bother with it. They didn't have a complete map of the city, mere guesswork, and half-blind routes through what they could make out from the satellite GPS. Even those were getting less accurate by the day. Alfie explained it had something to do with NASA and the other private space companies not having enough employees to maintain their orbit.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to be prepared, I guess.

The boy reminded Miguel of his youngest brother, though a couple of years older than Bren; headstrong, a fighter, and a little too stubborn. It had been, what, two years since his last contact, by his reckon? Last he saw of him, Moses was just attending Texas A&M for his freshman year, but he hardly got to talk to him after he moved out of New York when he was fourteen—Social services concluded Moses was better off with their grandparents from their father's side, who lived in Houston, than his shitty apartment.

I wondered what he made out of this, if he's still alive, or if they're sheltering somewhere safe...Now that he thought about it, how far was Houston from Pittsburgh? A thousand miles? Maybe more? If he'd grab a car after they arrive at Pittsburgh, he could be there in two days. If he hiked, probably two months? Then again, would the military let him leave the city?