The Immune

10: Outside

Soon enough, Isaac and I discover that we have no idea where the 3-to-4 route even is. Finding an old highway is easy enough; all roads eventually lead to it if we skip over the ones with "Dead End" written on them in blockish, black letters. Once on the six-lane road, though, neither of us have a clue which way to go. A green and white sign hanging by only one screw tells us that Chattanooga is in one direction, our left. Yet, there's no sign for the other direction. Just more highway and sloping hills.

We pedal towards Chattanooga, banking on the familiarity of its name.

"If nothing else, maybe we can find a map or something," I suggest, a little breathless.

"Yeah, because they definitely leave those lying around." Isaac's smirk is visible even as he keeps his eyes on the road. "We'll figure it out."

I sigh and eye the pavement in front of us. For miles, there's nothing but empty asphalt and cracked yellow and white paint. The grass on both sides has become wild and overgrown. It's probably riddled with snakes and ticks. I expected to see cars lining the road, but instead they're nowhere to be seen.

Our virus was a slow one, though. People saw it coming. They ran home, hid, waiting until it was over. Yet, for most of those people, they wouldn't see the end— just their own slow, painful death as the virus took their mind first and then their body.

I shiver at the thought. Rumor has it that the Infected crave human flesh before they're completely insane, a metallic craving at the back of their minds. No one's had the chance to ask. Anyone close enough to one probably isn't thinking of asking about how they felt while they were transitioning. Would Dad know? He studied the virus first hand.

Well, a little too late to ask now, huh? I glance up at another highway marker as we coast down a steep hill. The shadow of the city is almost over us, now.

"Hey!" I skid to a stop, planting a foot on the ground. Isaac's bike squeals as he brakes. "'Highway 127'," I read. "Jane said that they were traveling 127 to a town called... Dunlap. That's this way."

"Maybe we should go that way, then."

Isaac rides over to stand beside me, looking at the path ahead. A curvy stretch of road bends under several street lights and past abandoned store-fronts before disappearing up an impossibly steep incline. The looming mountain is dotted with shells of houses between red and orange trees.

The mountain is daunting.

"We had better get started." Isaac mounts his bike and kicks off. "I don't think we're going to be able to ride up, and it could take hours to walk up it. Don't wanna be stuck outside when it gets dark." I nod and follow after him.

The strangest thing about being outside the compound is the lack of artificial noise. Sounds surround us, but they're different— natural. Birds cry out overhead and in the trees around us. The wind whistles past our ears, unbridled. A metal chain on Isaac's bike clinks in a quick rhythm as it synchronizes with the spokes of my own ride. Buildings creak from the emptiness; skeletons of windows rattle like bones.

Weeds poke their heads through cracks in the roads and sidewalks. Flowers bloom all around us; they grin out from between empty gas stations and merchantless open-air markets. Vines have climbed up and over everything, creating a kudzu blanket that hangs from the corners of street signs. One particular sign is almost gone, but the sturdy brick and etched calligraphic letters have somehow fought their way out. 'Baylor School', it reads, '1893.'

How has it stood up this long? That was so long ago. Did students once walk across the grassy courtyard that is now a forest of weeds? I glance up at the red brick buildings on the hill. Did they live there or just attend school there? My own memory of actual school is faded and worn— chalk people scribbled on sidewalks and multi-colored tarps thrown into the air. What would middle school or even high school have been like?