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“She doesn’t tell me much either.” Candice pours herself a tall glass of red. “So don’t feel too bad about it.”

Gunshots puncture the disquiet, and the lights flicker but stay on. The stranger’s visit has put a pall over us. Those dark blue eyes and the way he seemed to look through me—did he see through Juno too? Is that why she’s shaken? In a world that’s in the throes of an apocalypse, somehow his arrival feels like a damnation all on its own.

“Vince, do I need to worry?” I ask quietly.

Scooping up his plate, he stands to leave, but he gives me one of his hawkish glares first, his eyes almost squinted. “With this guy, weallneed to worry.”

3

Two months later

Gene is missing. I didn’t notice it until today, but the lunch I brought him last week is still sitting on the breakroom table where I left it. My stomach sinks when I see the familiar plastic container with the sticky note on top.

“Shit.” I wheel my bike to the stairs and carry it up (the elevator died last month, though thankfully no one was in it). When I get into my office, I look through the staff directory for Gene’s phone number. Cell service is never guaranteed despite the government taking over the networks, but if he has a landline, I might be able to reach him.

I flip until I find the custodians, then scan to his name. Only one number. No address.

My desk phone gives me a comforting dial tone, and I punch in his number. It rings once, then gives a “this number is disconnected” recording.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” I tell myself. Plenty of people don’t have working phones anymore.

Returning the receiver to the hook, I sit back and press my palms to my face.Think, dummy, think. The weather has warmed a bit, but it’s still frigid in my office. My breath clouds from my nose as I open my laptop and hope—not for the first time—that the university Internet is still running.

Gene and I are the only ones left in my building, the university barely holding together now. The core systems are still working, though. Maybe the squatters realize it’s in their best interests to have power and Internet access, so they’ve left those bits of infrastructure alone. The Internet itself is sketchy, though. Plenty of domains unavailable because of missing servers. Some places have no power, others have damaged infrastructure, so the former connectivity of the world wide web is gone. The only sites that have a decent track record of being available are government ones.

“All right, Gene. Where do you live?” I do a quick search on his name, then add his phone number to the terms. A few more clicks and then I find a cached page from a defunct people search site. If it’s correct, Gene lives on Maple about a mile from the school. Based on the street map (and assuming they’re still accurate) I could make it there and back home before dark easily.

I chew my lip as I consider my options. I’d intended to run a few blood samples I’d received from the hospital and get them started on testing. But the centrifuge will take half an hour to set up and then another twenty minutes or so for its first run. If I don’t run the vials now, I’ll have to hope the specimen refrigeration stays cold enough despite power blips for me to run them tomorrow. It’s rolling the dice on whether the samples will be viable overnight. Maybe I should listen to Juno and move my lab to the governor’s mansion where the power is steadier, but I’ve been staying at the university out of sheer will. A foolish desire for the feeling of my life from before. And more than just a little bit for Gene. Everyone else has abandoned ship but us. I couldn’t leave him.

I can’t leave him now, either. It’s already two o’clock, my morning filled with election briefings and planning with Juno and her core team. Though glad to be included, I was fidgeting so much that Juno told me to go ahead and get to my lab before I levitated out of my chair from sheer impatience.

I glance out the window at the sunny sky, the blue reassuring me that this is a good day, a fine day to visit a friend. Besides, Maple Avenue isn’t far at all. I can make it there and back. It’s not reckless if I keep my head down and go straight to his address. I’m not helpless—no matter what National Guardsman Mike thinks. I mean, Idohave weapons.

I have to go. What if Gene’s hurt? He wouldn’t stop showing up without leaving a note or saying goodbye. If I tried to call in a welfare check, I’m certain the dispatcher would laugh me right off the line—if I could even get anyone in the first place.

I stand and wheel my bike out of my office, then lock the door behind me. I’m going to check on Gene and get back here to work up my samples. Easy peasy. When I return to the capitol, I’ll ask Juno if there’s any possible way we can get him a position there. Maybe I’ll finally cave and set up a makeshift lab in the basement and Gene can be my assistant.

With that bit of hopefulness, I set out from campus. More makeshift villages have popped up along the streets, and they only grow thicker the closer I get to the hospital. Hanging a left to avoid the tents and barricade at the entrance to the plague triage unit, I pedal hard and cruise along the sidewalk past the silent stadium as a few cars and cyclists pass. A man yells at me from somewhere at my back, but I don’t stop. These days, curiosity is dangerous.

I slow when I reach I-35. The interstate runs overhead, and the underpass has become a more permanent city where dozens if not hundreds of people have taken up living. The entire street is closed off with bits of tent and plywood and even a huge green road sign that used to mark the on-ramp. Only one lane remains open, the shadowy area just wide enough for a single car to pass beneath the bridge.

Glancing around, I make sure the street is clear as I slow and stop. The makeshift structures keep going on either side, showing no signs of a way across. I can either ride along the service road and hope for a bigger opening or try to pedal up onto the Interstate and cross there. I wouldn’t have to worry so much about car traffic, but the Interstates have become a thoroughfare for people walking and biking—and with that comes danger. A river of people is bound to have more than a few alligators lurking to pick off stragglers and take whatever items they might have. No, I’m safer making a break for it on the surface street.

The dark corridor beckons. Not a single car or cyclist has come through it since I’ve been waiting here and thinking, the sun still moving inexorably across the sky and reminding me of the coming dark.

Gripping my handlebars tightly, I start pedaling, my body tense as I approach the narrow lane. I can see the sunlight on the pavement on the other side. It’s a straight shot. I pedal faster, determined to make it through as quickly as possible.

When I enter the shadow of the overpass, a sharp whistle cuts through the air that sets my hair on end.

A board slides out in front of me, and I have to hit my brakes so hard I ride up onto my front wheel as another board slides into place behind me. Trapped.

Breathing hard, I reach up and check that my mask is in place. Then I grab my pepper spray and hold it out, my finger on the trigger.

“Have to pay the toll.” A rough female voice comes from the other side of the board ahead of me.

“What? What’s the toll?”

“What’ve you got?” She taps the other side of the board twice. “Hear that? It’s American steel. Make any moves I don’t like, and it’ll shoot right through this wood and into your gut.”