Escape (3 page)

When Julie’s parents had died, Meredith had taken over the farm, intent on keeping up the family tradition. It was a noble cause, but one she’d ended up taking on alone.

Early on, Julie had voiced her desire to sell it, but Meredith had disagreed, opting to live on it instead. The farm had always been a source of contention between them, and Julie’s marriage to Dan had only made things worse.

In hindsight, the arguments they’d had seemed small, insignificant.

Dan regretted they had ever happened.

“That might actually be a good idea, Quinn,” he said finally.

His daughter beamed.

“There’s a chance that the virus hasn’t hit there yet, and even if it has, the crops on the farm should be untouched. Come to think of it, finding Aunt Meredith may be our best bet.”

“Do you think she still has Ernie?”

Ernie was Meredith’s miniature poodle, a spunky black dog that loved to jump on unsuspecting visitors. Meredith had gotten the dog around the time that Quinn was born.

“I bet Ernie’s still there,” Dan said. “But he might be a little older than you remember.”

His daughter smiled at the news, suddenly filled with a burst of energy. She held up the teddy bear on her lap with two hands.

“Did you hear that, Samson? We’re going to see Aunt Meredith and Ernie!”

Dan smiled back, glad that they’d made a decision. In spite of that, he kept his relief contained. Making the decision was easy.

Getting there would be the hard part.

3

M
eredith Tilly had been running the television set for a week straight. Most of the stations she’d once had had gone down, and of the reports she received, most were speculation. Although few details were known, one thing was certain.

No one had been inside the contamination zone for long and survived.

She walked from her couch to the window, peering out over the field of crops outside. Aside from a few circling crows, there wasn’t a creature or a human in sight. Thank God she lived in a rural area.

It was days like these that made her glad she’d kept her parent’s farm.

At the same time, she felt a deep sense of loneliness and isolation. She hadn’t had a visitor in days, and even before that, her chats with the neighbors had been short and anxious.

Nobody knew what was happening, or what was coming next.

Reports of the contamination had started in Arizona and New Mexico, but in the days following, there had been rumors that it had spread into Oklahoma. Meredith had yet to see any evidence of it herself, but then again, she wasn’t exactly living in the city.

Her daily routine consisted of interacting with more animals than people, and that wasn’t saying much.

Despite the fact that she’d been safe thus far, she was wracked with worry. Ever since the initial reports had come in, she’d been thinking of her sister.

She’d been calling her every day.

All attempts at communication to the affected areas had been useless. The phones in the contamination zone were down, and according to the news, even people at the edges of the state had long since lost contact.

Meredith’s biggest fear, even greater than her own safety, was that she would never speak to Julie or her family again.

Three years ago she’d gotten into an argument with Julie over the farm, and they hadn’t spoken since. Although Meredith regretted the fight, she’d been stubborn, refusing to make the first move to patch things up.

Now, she’d do anything to make things better. She just hoped she wasn’t too late.

A few days prior she’d taken her car into town, ready to drive to Arizona herself if necessary. But according to the townsfolk she’d run into, the government had blocked the roads and highways; any attempts to get through had been prohibited.

She’d even heard rumors of people being shot.

Although she couldn’t see how that could be true, she’d resolved to wait a few more days, hoping to receive word from her sister. Surely the outbreak would come to an end.

Something had to give. Things couldn’t stay like this forever.

Could they?

She sighed at the window. Regardless of everything she’d heard, she was hopeful that her sibling would contact her soon. She wiped under her eyes, fighting back tears, and let her hand fall to her side.

Almost immediately, something wet hit her fingertips.

She smiled and looked down at the little dog at her feet. “Hi, Ernie!”

The animal was licking her hand, and when she said his name, the dog dove at her mid-section. Meredith reached down and scooped him up, caressing the small patch of fur on his head. The dog snorted in appreciation.

“You’re a good boy,” she told him.

Outside, the sun had propped itself high in the sky, shining its rays of luminescence onto the crops below. In a few minutes she’d go out and tend them. Tragedy or not, she needed to keep producing, especially if she wanted to eat.

It was July, and the farm was teeming with vegetables: cucumbers, corn, tomatoes, and eggplant. On a normal day she’d harvest the food and bring it into town to sell at the family food stand. Now she’d been keeping close to home, surviving off the food she’d grown.

She no longer trusted anything else.

Meredith set the dog on the floor, ignoring his repeated requests for attention, and resolved to go upstairs and get changed.

Before she had a chance, she heard a shrill, high-pitched noise from the kitchen, and her heart jumped in her chest.

Her phone was ringing.

Who could that be?

Once a day she’d been trading calls with her neighbors, Sheila Guthright, an elderly woman who owned a property to the north, and Ben and Marcy Sanders, a middle-aged couple that owned the property next door. Even though they were all neighbors, their houses were spread far apart: each owned about ten acres of land.

But she’d already spoken to all of them today.

Maybe it’s news about Julie.

By the time Meredith got to the kitchen, she was out of breath. Ernie circled her heels. She looked down at him, and he barked, as if he sensed her nervousness.

“Quiet, boy,” she said to the dog. She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“M-Meredith?”

The voice on the other end was cracked and distorted, and she pressed the phone tight to her head, doing her best to hear it.

“Sheila? That you?”

“Yes. Something’s wrong with Ben.”

“What do you mean? Is he there?”

“Yes.”

“Is Marcy with him?”

“No, dear, she’s not. And he’s acting strange. I told him I’m not going to open the door.”

“Does he look sick?”

“He doesn’t look well.”

“Oh God. Listen, Sheila—“

“He keeps banging, and he won’t stop.”

“Whatever you do, don’t let him in! He might be infected, Sheila!”

Before Meredith could protest further, the phone disconnected. She tapped the lever and frantically dialed back the woman’s number, but there was no answer.

She called back a second time, a third. The phone rang and rang.

In a panic now, Meredith hung up and raced for the door.

It was possible that Sheila had been overreacting; that Ben had simply come to visit her. After all, the woman was almost ninety-years-old, and she’d suffered a few bouts of confusion in the past few months. But even still, Meredith couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the woman was in trouble.

She just hoped to God she was wrong.

Meredith flew from the house and into her pickup truck, the keys jangling in her hand. She threw them in the ignition and fired up the vehicle.

The quickest way to Sheila Guthright’s house was to take the road. Even though the two were technically neighbors, their properties were enormous—it would take Meredith almost ten minutes by foot.

The way it sounded, ten minutes might be too late.

She backed down the fifty-foot driveway to the road, the truck tires crunching gravel, and swerved out onto the pavement. She’d just started driving when she had a sudden thought.

She’d left her .22 caliber rifle in the house.

She glanced back at the property, contemplating going back for the weapon, but dismissed the idea. She’d already lost enough time as it was, and Sheila needed her help.

From the little footage that the news had been able to gather—footage that had been looped over and over—she knew that things were looking grim. Still, she couldn’t imagine it happening here: not in Settler’s Creek, and certainly not to people she knew.

Her best bet now was to hightail it to Sheila’s house. In the event something was happening, she’d figure it out when she got there. Chances are that Ben had run into some medical emergency; maybe his wife was sick and needed help.

Sheila must’ve gotten it all wrong.

Meredith continued to convince herself of these things as she drove the rural road to the woman’s house. In just a few minutes, she’d driven by the wooden fence that marked the edge of her property. In a few more she’d hit the driveway leading to Sheila’s house.

She turned in faster than she should and gunned the accelerator. Sheila’s driveway was as long as Meredith’s, about fifty feet or so, and she could already make out Sheila’s Buick Regal parked at the top.

To her surprise, there was no sign of Ben’s pickup truck.

Ben and Marcy lived on the other side of the property, to the south, and were also a considerable distance away. Unless Ben was looking for exercise, he normally would’ve driven, especially if there was an emergency.

Meredith swallowed the lump in her throat. She climbed the remainder of the driveway in her pickup, and when she’d reached the top, she killed the engine and stared at the house.

Sheila lived in a modest white Victorian, with a railed front porch and several front steps leading up to it. The house contained two floors, an upstairs and a downstairs. Meredith was consistently surprised that the ninety-year-old woman was able to navigate her way between both.

Almost all of the shades of the house were open. That made sense, because Sheila was an early riser.

What didn’t make sense was that the front door was open as well.

Meredith leapt from the truck and walked the yard, then peered inside from the foot of the porch stairs. Inside, she could see the staircase leading to the second floor and segments of the living room and kitchen.

In none of those places did she see Sheila or Ben.

The house was silent, vacant, as if the occupants had left in a hurry.

Had Sheila gotten into Ben’s car to go somewhere? Had they gone for help? But if that were the case, wouldn’t they have called her back? And why had Sheila disconnected so fast?

Nothing about the situation made sense.

Meredith crept up the stairs, the wood creaking under weight, and peered through the front door. She could now see into the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen. Empty.

It wasn’t until she caught sight of the doorframe that she gave pause.

The wood had been splintered and cracked, and it looked like the hinges had been damaged. As if someone—
Ben
—had kicked it in.

Her heart rate increasing, Meredith tried to envision a scenario where breaking down the door would make sense, but came up with nothing. If Ben were inside, he hadn’t been invited.

I should call out to Sheila. Let her know that I’m here.

Meredith opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, a bang erupted from upstairs. She jumped back in surprise, raising her hands to defend herself, but there was nothing in front of her.

Get ahold of yourself, Meredith.

The bang came again.

It was coming from one of the rooms upstairs.

She forced herself to move forward. If someone was inside, they might need her help. She walked through the front door and inside, grabbing the rail on the stairs leading to the second floor.

“Sheila? Ben? Everything all right?”

There was no response, but she heard the scurrying sound of footsteps on the floor. Someone was approaching the top landing. Meredith gripped the railing and steeled herself to fight or to talk; whichever the situation called for.

Her hands shook; her fingers were clammy on the rail.

All at once, the footsteps stopped and a head poked around the wall.

Meredith let out a muffled shriek.

It was Sheila.

The old woman lifted her hand to her lips, signaling for Meredith to be quiet, and then waved her up the stairs. Meredith let out a silent sigh of relief, her body still trembling, and then climbed up to meet her.

Thank God she’s OK.

When Meredith reached the landing, Sheila clutched her arm with a rigid hand. Although the old woman looked frightened, she looked uninjured: she contained no marks or injuries that Meredith could see, and her clothing was intact. In her hands was a rifle.

The old woman pointed to a closed door at the end of the hall.

Meredith nodded and listened. Despite straining her ears, she heard no movement or sound from within. It was almost as if the occupant was listening, too. After a minute of silence, she whispered to the woman next to her.