BREN

Everything hurts; my body, my legs, my arms. I couldn't speak, and even when I tried, it was suffocating, a big lump welling inside my lungs, unable to break free. In and out, I slipped between being awake and asleep. The next thing I knew, water lapped on my cheeks and ears, the rustle of the wind against the trees, and the occasional hum and drum of planes and gunfire, muffled by some distance.

I opened my eyes a crack, blurry yet bright. Half of my head was throbbing, my muscles numbed. Someone had dragged me out of the river and into the muddy shores, a man panting and grunting beside me. It took me a moment to recognize Logan hunched over, both hands on my chest, his lips inches away from mine. A relieved smile washed over him, heard Indy barking next, his fur matted and wet, but he looked okay.

I stirred, realized now why my chest was burning. Logan did a piss-poor job at administering CPR, and I thought he cracked some of my ribs. It hurt to breathe. But something exploded up to my throat, and I didn't have a choice but to turn to the side and spit out mud and river water, coughing and heaving through clenched teeth.

"You're awake!" Logan said. "Thank God, you're awake! You scared me half to death!"

Indy barked as if agreeing with him.

I lay there for a moment, staring at the sky clogged with black smoke, ashes falling onto my face. I looked around the riverbank, filled with the debris of steel, wood, odd furniture... and bodies. Hundreds of them, sprawled in tangled messes of loose cables, jagged metal, and thick mud, shirts ripped and tattered against the cool wind, their faces caked with dried blood. From the horizon, Harrisburg was in flames and half of the bridge was gone. Makeshift cables, beams, and decking held what was left. I could see the tiny dots of vehicles and people moving across the mangled ruins.

I turned my head to the right, toward downstream. Alfie came into view, trudging across the muddy bank several feet away, carrying a metal pipe. He strode toward two vectors trapped beneath a slab of rebar. Alfie raised the pipe and slammed the back of the vector's head, and hit him over a second time. He did the same for the other.

Closer to the embankment, Edgar leaned against an overturned Humvee, half of its body buried under the mud. Next to him, Nico checked on his wound, tying a clean cloth around Edgar's wounded leg. Edgar sputtered a curse I couldn't make out.

Edgar slammed his fist on the ground. "Not so tight!"

"Quit being such a baby," Nico said.

"Nico! Give me the rest of the first aid. Bren's awake!" Logan said.

Nico nodded and extended his hand through the Humvee's broken window, and took out a plastic red box. He patted Edgar on the shoulder before he jogged over to our end of the river and handed Logan the box.

Logan turned to me. "Stay there, Bren. Don't get up. We're going to move you out without hurting you as much, okay?"

"Looks bad, man," Alfie said, coming over toward us. "We're going to move him quickly. We're too exposed, and we don't know who's infected among these bodies."

"One at a time, Alfie," Logan said, annoyed.

I followed where Logan was looking at, confused why I was some fragile, expensive glass they're afraid to break. That was a mistake. I looked down. And there, lodged at the side of my belly, was a piece of wood about the size of my index, middle, and ring fingers together, sticking out of my gut.

My eyes widened. "The fuck...?"

I didn't know if it was from shock or from the dread of seeing my open flesh, but no scream escaped my lips.

Instead, I passed out while Logan slapped me on the face, shouting at me to stay awake.

If this was what dying felt like, it's a total bitch.

——

Somewhere...

I was in that meadow again. The same one I saw Luke smiling at me from the top of a slope, sun shining beyond the snow-capped mountains, which I now recognized was Mount Hood, an imposing giant looming behind Portland's skylines. But out here, there were no cities, only the lush forests and spring rivers, birds trilling and insects chirping, and the gentle breeze kissing my skin. So quiet, so peaceful.

Luke Matheson was there, but so were the others. Dead ones. Some I recognized. Some I did not. There was the living, too. Logan sidled through the small crowd gathered up top, nuzzling Luke aside and they stood there, smiling down at me. He had his football jersey on, not a smear of dirt on that pretty face of his, nor was he wounded. It was the last thing I remembered of him when he boarded the plane that would take us to New York.

And one that would take us to our hell.

I saw a woman stood next to him with her gorgeous long red hair, and I realized I was looking at my mother. A calm washed over me from her sight. It didn't take long before my father joined her, curly short brown locks and a full beard that accented his hard jaw. Standing beside Luke and Logan, my father was a hulking statue. His steely blue eyes trained at me, though I couldn't quite read his expression, one of disappointment or one of relief, I was glad he was there.

I took a step.

My father shook his head, and I stopped. I didn't understand. Why wouldn't he want me there? Did I do something wrong? I took another step and my father shook his head again. Why can't I? I wanted to shout.

I blinked, and the day turned dark. The moon had replaced the sun, alone in a starless sky. The wind howled, drowning off the birds and the insects, and it almost knocked me off my feet, but I stood my ground, holding up my jacket against my body, trying to fight it off.

I noticed the bodies.

Dozens.

Hundreds of them.

Faces I recognized. Classmates, friends, neighbors... my mom. My dad. Logan, his neck wide open, sliced to the bone. Luke with that awful bullet on his head, oozing black goo through the gaping hole. Jun laid facing down with a dozen arrows laid out on his back like toothpicks on a sponge. Not far, Miguel muttered soft prayers against the wind, with both his arms missing, his shredded hands gripping a tenderizer mallet and a pan, both resting on his lap. Henry—poor, sweet Henry—with his little body torn in half next to him. Margot with large syringes sticking out of her gaping, empty eyes as Felipe bled beside her, his stomach riddled with bullets. And Aria, her chest cut open, heart laid out in front of Yousef, where his own exposed heart plucked out by crows.

I had blood on my hands, bathed it in from head to toe. I stood on a mountain of bodies miles high, gripped the edges of darkness beyond sight, and I couldn't move a muscle. Except for my throat, which I let out a scream without a voice, and the skies fall red, blinding me. That was a mercy.

I found myself on the ground, curled like a fetus, shaking and crying.

A female vector leered over me, a sneer of pity, but this one was different. No two-pupil eyes, but the same yellowish-gold lit her gaze; motherly and astute. She opened her mouth as if urging me to do something, though I couldn't make out her speech, garbled like eating mud.

Save them, it wanted to say.

I shook my head. I didn't want to open my eyes, but I know they're all dead.

Find me then. Find me... before it is too late.

But where?

East, it said. East.

And before I drowned in all that blood, I kept hearing a name, over and over.

Comoros.

Comoros.

Comoros.

It filled my ears, burrowed into my bones until it had sidled into my brain and latched into my memories.

——

Two Weeks Later

"Comoros."

I opened my eyes, heard the soft music from a radio somewhere, but the sound was too muddled and sharp for me to recognize, at least in my state. I felt like shit. My entire body was aching all at once, screaming at me to do something—anything—move my arm, prop one leg over the other, turn over, cry, scream, but my mind went blank. I lay there, staring at the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers of dinosaurs, rocks, and palm trees.

I turned my neck to the right. A bit of a chore, but I made it work, ignoring the muscles there, telling me to stop before I hurt myself some more. Beyond the white curtains and the partially open window, the sun was up, lighting up the evergreen polka-dot wallpaper that wrapped the room. I reckoned it was about midday.

Based on where the tree stood close to the window, I was on the second level of a house in... somewhere. I didn't recognize the room, but I surmised it belonged to some eight-year-old who loved dinosaurs and polka dots. And a superman blanket, which I realized was draped over me. Wafting cattle, dirt, and manure from outside. A goat mewled from a distance.

A farm, I thought. Or a ranch.

I tried to get up—A big mistake. My stomach churned and spasmed, and I almost threw up, though nothing came out but spit. I guessed I should be glad about that. I would have ruined the bedding, and some child who owned them would probably throw a fit that I soiled it. Suddenly, I noticed a needle stuck at the back of my arm, followed the catheter to an IV bag dangling from a metal stand.

Nobody else was in the room.

Except for Indy. He was looking straight at me, sitting at the foot of the bed, frozen, though I liked to think I gave him a bit of a fright.

"Uh... hi," I said.

Indy bounced off the bed and ran for the door, which was partially ajar. He used his little paws to open it, slid through the gap, and left me alone.

Um. Bye.

I didn't have a shirt on me, so I lifted off the blanket and looked at my stomach. There was nothing wrong there, but below the belly button, on the right side, were some stitches and bandages that wrapped around my lower abdomen. It took me a second to remember what the fuck happened to me until the river hit me like a brick. I didn't know if I should be relieved, but a wash of disappointment came over me. I couldn't believe I was hurt again.

How long was I out?

I lay my head on the soft pillow and groaned. "Fuck. That happened," I said out loud. My throat was scratchy, dry, like sandpaper.

My head was splitting, the dreams I had slipping out of my memories. I tried not to recall what I saw, choosing to forget it. I looked around the room again and found a half-full glass pitcher of water and a plastic cup. I reached for it, forcing my fingers to wrap around the cup, and picked it up, but I couldn't hold on to it for a couple more seconds, and I ended up dropping it on the floor. It clattered loudly, rolled, and disappeared under the nightstand.

"Ah, shit."

The door opened, and I heard a gasp. A woman around my age with blue eyes and long blonde hair, a plump and round build, stood behind the door frame. She carried a tray of clean linen and water on one hand while the other gripped the doorknob. Her oval-shaped face turned pale. Indy slipped past her and jumped onto the bed, at the same spot where I found him, and sat; tongue panting, tail wagging.

Before I could speak, the woman hurriedly closed the door, heard her footsteps moving away from my room. I tried to move my legs and get up, pulling enough courage to muscle through the pain, but it wasn't worth the trouble. Indy whined at me as if telling me not to do that.

"Fine. You win, pal," I said to Indy, and he lowered his head back down on the bed.

Fine. I'd let them come to me whoever this good Samaritan was that patched me up. I doubted they'd be happy if I stood up, wandering about, and tore my stitches before passing out.

The door opened again and an old man in his seventies came in, sporting a full head of white hair and a well-trimmed salt and pepper beard. He was thin and tall, wearing a blue flannel shirt and muddy boots, fumbling to open his glasses, which dangled around his neck. He put them on and inspected me.

"Ah. You're awake! That's a good sign." The old man said. He turned towards the woman who entered earlier. "Lacey, why don't you grab a glass of water. No, not that one on the nightstand. We left that there yesterday. Grab one from the fridge with some ice. And why don't you call his friends up, okay?"

"Yes, paw-paw," the woman—Lacey—said. She walked out of the room.

The old man pointed at Indy. "Is he..."

"He can stay."

"Alright."

The old man grabbed a chair from the corner and dragged it over to my bed and sat. He gently grabbed my arm and felt my pulse on my wrist, then he took out a stethoscope from the nightstand, put them on, and listened to my heart. We did this for about five minutes, placing the stethoscope around my left chest, sternum, and both sides of my neck, and listened from my back. Once in a while, he would tell me to take deep or short breaths, lay down or sit straight, which was harder to do with the stitches. He nodded after each one. He put the stethoscope on my belly and it rumbled.

The old man smiled. "My, my. Someone's hungry."

"Very," I said.

He put the stethoscope back into the nightstand drawer. "We'll get you a meal in no time, but let's start with soft foods for now, okay? It might not taste great, but it'll fill your belly."

"Are you the one who patched me up?"

"Seen anyone else?"

I huffed. "No."

"Yes, that would be me. My name is Doctor Evans."

"Doctor?"

"Retired for three years now, but don't you worry. I don't think I could forget over forty years of cutting up a body and stitching them back up, won't I?"

"Am I in your... clinic? Hospital?"

"No. You're in my humble abode, I'm afraid. Oh, how I'd wish we were in a hospital. Last week would have been a breeze."

"Oh. Well, I guess I should thank you for saving my life."

"Part of the job. A doctor never retires, no matter if I'm enjoying the beaches in the Bahamas or growing corn in the middle of nowhere."

"How... how did I get here?"

"My grandsons found you by the river. They watched the battle, those dumb nitwits. They went behind my back despite me telling them not to. But I guess it's part of God's plan for them to find you. They spotted your friends dragging you out of the river and came to help you. Just so you know, if they had waited another day, we'd be burying you six feet under weeks ago."

"Weeks? How long was I out?"

"Two weeks, boy. Well, you wake up here and there, but you are so delirious, that we have to sedate you during surgery and for the fever. You went into sepsis, almost thought the shock would kill you, but God graced you with his presence. A few days ago, we thought you wouldn't make it, and I think that upsets your boyfriend."

I winced. "Er, boyfriend?"

"Yes. You know. That tall Italian boy with the Hallmark face. The poor boy wouldn't leave your side, day and night. I told my grandsons to drag him out and forced my wife's meatloaf down his throat. I think he hated me for that." Dr. Evans laughed.

Oh. "Um, he's not... never mind." I shook my head and Indy raised his head and tilted it a bit, giving me a funny look.

I gently touched my abdomen above the bandages. "It's still sore."

Dr. Evans swatted my finger off. "You'll open up your stitches. But, ah, that's quite normal. You need another few days of rest for it to heal properly. At least your stomach and digestive system are grumbling, so that's a good sign. Everything is properly working down there, so you can eat. Your heart is healthy and so are your lungs, but since you've been in bed for far too long, we had to watch out for thrombosis and such. If you feel any chest pain or any shortness of breath, let me know, okay?"

"I've got a bit of that."

His face dropped. "R-really?"

No. "Um. I'm kidding."

He crossed his arms and looked at me with disappointment.

"Sorry. I know you did a lot for me."

"You don't have to be sorry." Dr. Evans barked a laugh. "Oh, boy, we had to pull out the wood and splinters one-by-one, but a few days later, your appendix up and gone inflamed and was close to bursting, so we had to slice you open again and cut that thing out before the infection got worse and start invading your other organs. It should be me apologizing. I should have caught that earlier. You must be exhausted."

"Sounds about right."

"But you're safe now. You broke your fever three days ago, and you have been sleeping soundly ever since."

I looked at my catheter wedged on the skin at the back of my hand, wanting to take it off. It felt funny.

"Let's not pull that out yet. Perhaps finish the bag. It's not much, plus, you still need the fluids. You barely ate the food we gave you during the days you were conscious."

"I don't any remember that."

"No, I don't think you would. It'd be scary if you did."

"If I'm in your house, how did you get all this surgical equipment? I don't think you'd have that lying around, especially the anesthesia."

Dr. Evans smiled. "Ah, I have to thank your friends for that. There's a medical center close to here, overrun by those... things."

My heart stopped. Logan. "Did they..."

Dr. Evans interjected, "Fine. All fine. They came in, and before I can prep you for surgery, they came back with all the things I needed. They had a few scrapes here and there, but nothing I couldn't patch up."

"But they're all alive? They all made it back?"

"Yes. Very much so."

I let out a heavy sigh. "That's good. That's... you almost gave me a heart attack. Um, thank you, Dr. Evans, for everything."

He waved his hand off. "Bah, it's nothing. And please. Call me David."

"Okay." I nodded. "David." It sounded weird calling a doctor by their first name, but if he insisted, I would not argue. There wasn't much-reserved energy on that front.

"Oh, I think they're almost here!" David said.

The door opened again, and Lacey entered with a glass of water and a bowl of food. Logan and Alfie appeared behind her, smiles lighting up both their faces, both out of the muddy and wet clothes since I saw them last, and they strode toward the bed. Edgar walked in, leaning against a cane as he walked toward the bed. Nico followed behind him. My heart raced. Seeing them all together with barely any scrapes and bruises made me grin like a total idiot.

They're alive! They're alive! I wanted to shout.

"You slimy little fucker!" Logan laughed. "I told them not even the grim reaper can kill you." Logan sat on the right side of my bed and Indy snuggled beside him. He draped his arm over Indy's and rubbed his belly. Logan tried to hug me, but my abdomen started acting up and I winced. "Ah! Sorry. Almost forgot it's there. Did I hurt you?"

"It's fine. And don't jinx it."

Logan raised his hands up. "Oops. Sorry." He knocked on the wooden nightstand's surface.

Alfie stood beside him and patted me on the shoulder. "I'm glad you made it! We were all so worried."

"How about let's not get into the habit of attracting near-death experiences?" Nico said with his British accent. "Now I'm glad I took swimming lessons three years ago from that fit bloke in Cabo."

Alfie scoffed. "If you call flailing in the water swimming."