2025-09-23, 11:06 AM
Scattered clouds covered most of the pre-dawn constellations, leaving the sky broken and unfamiliar. The silent city around Hank also seemed alien—built of murky gray chunks under the crescent moon's shining fang. A loose wire sparked intermittently near the top of the football stadium's distant bulk, the only sign that electricity was still coming in from somewhere outside.
Hank could remember the stadium just three months ago, when he had stood there with raised fists in the end zone, TK and Floyd dancing around him. Every seat seemed to be bursting gold and red as the floodlights poured down a billion kilowatts on the Bent Creek High supporters chanting his name: "Ca-llum, Ca-llum, Ca-llum..." Even Luca was on his feet. With an illicit beer bottle held high, posed atop the safety rail, Luca swung his crotch like the spot-lit rock star he aspired to be. And the brightest thing of all was the new plasma scoreboard flashing '20-17' with Hank's face five feet tall next to the words, "Touchdown - H.T. Callum."
No noise now, though. Even the wind was sneaking through Lincoln, Nebraska these days.
"Is it time yet?" whispered Sammie.
Hank looked down at the digital watch he had picked up in the broken showcase of a pawnshop after his cell phone went dead. "Yeah," he told Sammie. "Make sure the others have everything." He had also picked up a thirty-eight revolver and a box of bullets at that pawnshop. The thirty-eight was in his coat with Hank's last six bullets in the cylinder.
Setting out in the dark like this was a risk, but it would be a long drive and they needed to find shelter by the time sunset fell. Most of the infected had left Lincoln over the first few weeks and drifted outward in their thirst for prey. There would be more of them out there than here in Lincoln, but staying in the city meant death: even the birds and roaches were gone. And Hank’s group had cleaned out the mini-mart shelves and supermarket back rooms of every last tuna can and ketchup packet.
Hank’s twelve followers were young—half of them were grade-schoolers. There was no way they could fight the other survivor gangs for food. So, the day before, he and Sammie had gotten three working cars and hidden them at the south end of the city with full tanks of gas and trunks loaded with their scavenged supplies.
This morning, they intended to silently weave between the city's abandoned vehicles on mountain bikes for the dark first leg of their exodus. Hank hoped that they would reach their cars and be racing down the open back roads before any predator could see or smell them. The hunters tended to be less alert so close to sunrise.
Hank watched the rest of the group emerge like ghosts from the basement stairs and roll their bikes out the broad front doors of the Pioneer Foundation Library. He would miss this place, and not just because it was the last and safest of their hideouts, but because of what it had meant to him before the apocalypse. Hank had never had much use for reading back then, but he'd spent over a dozen weekends down in the basement with the new librarian, Mr. Block, sorting crates of books, some of them older than his father. Block had so many stories to tell about life in Chicago: big things in a big city, like Bears games and Pride parades and stealing rides on 'El' trains.
Mr. Block was dead now.
TK was dead now.
Floyd was dead too: Hank had killed his best friend to save Floyd a fate worse than death.
Patrick Henry would have approved of that last act, the boy thought, fingering an American history text book in the return tray at the front desk. He thumbed through the tray—Joseph Conrad would have understood why Hank had done it. Golding would have said it was inevitable. Kierkegaard—well, as much as he read to escape boredom and terror these days, Hank could never stomach Kierkegaard long enough to see if the man ultimately made any kind of sense.
"We've got a problem with Jack," said Sammie, her face more stressed than usual.
Jack was one of the aces in Hank's pack. Just fourteen, he had been a dedicated Boy Scout in the world before. Hank saw a lot his own traits in Jack. The boy had learned how to slip through the city even at night, hiding his scent with the relics of urban life, such as motor oil and cinder dust. Because of Jack, the group knew where they could eat and where they could sleep and when they should run.
"What happened?" asked Hank.
"He left for the lookout post—said he forgot his radio. It's been ten minutes."
Far too long for a simple retrieval in the East Tower, even with Jack's careful, stealthy creep.
"Shit!" said Hank. Jack had the keys for one of the Toyotas. "You get everyone to the cars. I'll get Jack and catch up."
Sammie, his trusty sergeant, never hesitated, but Hank could see her eyes pleading with him not to go.
Hank and Sammie had lived a lifetime of friendship in the three months since they'd met. She had kept him going after the disaster with Luca and Floyd by reminding Hank that the others still needed him. Leaving the lobby, he heard Sammie's voice drift after him: "Thanks for everything, Hank."
He walked carefully along the outsides of the six flights of broad, stone stairs in the East Tower, the walls offering guidance and extra shadows.
At the top of the stairs, beyond the open door, Jack stood braced against the wall, looking miserable, but very much alive. If he was having a breakdown, he wouldn't be the first.
Hank surveyed the room, found it empty and entered. He put a hand on Jack's shoulder and said softly, "Time to go."
"I'm sorry, Hank," Jack half mumbled, half cried.
"Don't be. You just need to—" Then Hank followed Jack's eyes.
From outside, Luca swung down into the shadowed opening that had once upon a time been occupied by an ice blue stained-glass window. He reclined on the sill, his plain white sneakers jammed against one side. Luca folded his arms loosely and smiled with the world's whitest, sharpest teeth.
A cold, matter-of-fact realization sunk through Hank like a pebble into a pond. 'My life is over. I'm going to die here.'
Through all the shifting sensibilities of the punk-rock scene, Luca had always believed in the classics: tight white T-shirt for his lean torso and dirty, ripped jeans. His black hair was short and neat, but seemed to stay in place resentfully. He still had that bored, slack demeanor that had defined him whenever he wasn't screaming about the evil of meat as lead singer of Civil Disobedience.
In the surreal time crawl of the moment, Hank had time to think, 'A vegan vampire! Now that's funny.' Then he remembered Jack and the frozen moment burst like the ripples that spread on the pond after the pebble sinks. This was not Luca. All that remained were the distorted echoes of Luca's urges and emotions, amplified a thousand times and animating his shell.
There was no conscious thought behind what Hank did next. Luca had started grandstanding in his new croaky voice, as if he had finally become a big-time star, saying, "Mornin' Hank. Glad to see you looking so ha-" And that was when Hank shoved him out the window—just ran straight at him and, before Luca could even think of what was happening, thumped both hands into his ex-classmate's chest and sent him spilling out.
Time did not slow down again, but it still took a long while for Luca to hit the courtyard below, landing on his back with a crunch.
"Holy crap, you killed him," said Jack.
"No."
Hank had changed nothing for himself, only bought time for Jack to escape. Luca would shake off his thirteen broken bones and climb right back up the tower like a reptile before Hank could get to safety. But, by then, Hank would have given his gun to Jack and sent the boy—
Something bothered Hank. "What did you mean about being sorry?" he asked.
"He said he'd let us go," Jack said quietly. "He just wanted you."
"You mean you set me up?" Anger rose in Hank. Jack had betrayed him.
Jack!
But, looking back, it all fit together. Jack was the one out at night sharing the city with Luca—the one who could find Luca. And forgetting his radio? Jack never forgot anything.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Hank yelled. The boy just looked away. "And why did you even bother with this whole act? If Luca wanted me, why didn't he just come in the front door? I couldn't have stopped him."
"I didn't want to risk the others in case his bloodlust sent him wild. I told him I'd help him if he came for only you." Jack squirmed. "Don't you see, Hank? It's all about you. It's always been about you. He torments us to torment you. If I'd let you go on the road with us, Luca would just have kept coming. We can never be safe with you around."
Jack was completely right.
Hank thought back seven years. Luca in fifth grade was a gentle, quiet boy with bright green eyes, neglected shaggy hair and oversized hand-me-down-clothes. When Hank had transferred in, he had immediately noticed that Luca only showed diligence in one thing: taking care of the class rabbit, Hare Brain.
And TK and Floyd, it seemed, had taken it as their duty to torment Hare Brain. That first Friday, Hank watched Luca try to stop the boys poking the rabbit with rulers. Luca pushed at them, only to get knocked down, where TK and Floyd turned their rulers on him, laughing.
Hank could remember the stadium just three months ago, when he had stood there with raised fists in the end zone, TK and Floyd dancing around him. Every seat seemed to be bursting gold and red as the floodlights poured down a billion kilowatts on the Bent Creek High supporters chanting his name: "Ca-llum, Ca-llum, Ca-llum..." Even Luca was on his feet. With an illicit beer bottle held high, posed atop the safety rail, Luca swung his crotch like the spot-lit rock star he aspired to be. And the brightest thing of all was the new plasma scoreboard flashing '20-17' with Hank's face five feet tall next to the words, "Touchdown - H.T. Callum."
No noise now, though. Even the wind was sneaking through Lincoln, Nebraska these days.
"Is it time yet?" whispered Sammie.
Hank looked down at the digital watch he had picked up in the broken showcase of a pawnshop after his cell phone went dead. "Yeah," he told Sammie. "Make sure the others have everything." He had also picked up a thirty-eight revolver and a box of bullets at that pawnshop. The thirty-eight was in his coat with Hank's last six bullets in the cylinder.
Setting out in the dark like this was a risk, but it would be a long drive and they needed to find shelter by the time sunset fell. Most of the infected had left Lincoln over the first few weeks and drifted outward in their thirst for prey. There would be more of them out there than here in Lincoln, but staying in the city meant death: even the birds and roaches were gone. And Hank’s group had cleaned out the mini-mart shelves and supermarket back rooms of every last tuna can and ketchup packet.
Hank’s twelve followers were young—half of them were grade-schoolers. There was no way they could fight the other survivor gangs for food. So, the day before, he and Sammie had gotten three working cars and hidden them at the south end of the city with full tanks of gas and trunks loaded with their scavenged supplies.
This morning, they intended to silently weave between the city's abandoned vehicles on mountain bikes for the dark first leg of their exodus. Hank hoped that they would reach their cars and be racing down the open back roads before any predator could see or smell them. The hunters tended to be less alert so close to sunrise.
Hank watched the rest of the group emerge like ghosts from the basement stairs and roll their bikes out the broad front doors of the Pioneer Foundation Library. He would miss this place, and not just because it was the last and safest of their hideouts, but because of what it had meant to him before the apocalypse. Hank had never had much use for reading back then, but he'd spent over a dozen weekends down in the basement with the new librarian, Mr. Block, sorting crates of books, some of them older than his father. Block had so many stories to tell about life in Chicago: big things in a big city, like Bears games and Pride parades and stealing rides on 'El' trains.
Mr. Block was dead now.
TK was dead now.
Floyd was dead too: Hank had killed his best friend to save Floyd a fate worse than death.
Patrick Henry would have approved of that last act, the boy thought, fingering an American history text book in the return tray at the front desk. He thumbed through the tray—Joseph Conrad would have understood why Hank had done it. Golding would have said it was inevitable. Kierkegaard—well, as much as he read to escape boredom and terror these days, Hank could never stomach Kierkegaard long enough to see if the man ultimately made any kind of sense.
"We've got a problem with Jack," said Sammie, her face more stressed than usual.
Jack was one of the aces in Hank's pack. Just fourteen, he had been a dedicated Boy Scout in the world before. Hank saw a lot his own traits in Jack. The boy had learned how to slip through the city even at night, hiding his scent with the relics of urban life, such as motor oil and cinder dust. Because of Jack, the group knew where they could eat and where they could sleep and when they should run.
"What happened?" asked Hank.
"He left for the lookout post—said he forgot his radio. It's been ten minutes."
Far too long for a simple retrieval in the East Tower, even with Jack's careful, stealthy creep.
"Shit!" said Hank. Jack had the keys for one of the Toyotas. "You get everyone to the cars. I'll get Jack and catch up."
Sammie, his trusty sergeant, never hesitated, but Hank could see her eyes pleading with him not to go.
Hank and Sammie had lived a lifetime of friendship in the three months since they'd met. She had kept him going after the disaster with Luca and Floyd by reminding Hank that the others still needed him. Leaving the lobby, he heard Sammie's voice drift after him: "Thanks for everything, Hank."
He walked carefully along the outsides of the six flights of broad, stone stairs in the East Tower, the walls offering guidance and extra shadows.
At the top of the stairs, beyond the open door, Jack stood braced against the wall, looking miserable, but very much alive. If he was having a breakdown, he wouldn't be the first.
Hank surveyed the room, found it empty and entered. He put a hand on Jack's shoulder and said softly, "Time to go."
"I'm sorry, Hank," Jack half mumbled, half cried.
"Don't be. You just need to—" Then Hank followed Jack's eyes.
From outside, Luca swung down into the shadowed opening that had once upon a time been occupied by an ice blue stained-glass window. He reclined on the sill, his plain white sneakers jammed against one side. Luca folded his arms loosely and smiled with the world's whitest, sharpest teeth.
A cold, matter-of-fact realization sunk through Hank like a pebble into a pond. 'My life is over. I'm going to die here.'
Through all the shifting sensibilities of the punk-rock scene, Luca had always believed in the classics: tight white T-shirt for his lean torso and dirty, ripped jeans. His black hair was short and neat, but seemed to stay in place resentfully. He still had that bored, slack demeanor that had defined him whenever he wasn't screaming about the evil of meat as lead singer of Civil Disobedience.
In the surreal time crawl of the moment, Hank had time to think, 'A vegan vampire! Now that's funny.' Then he remembered Jack and the frozen moment burst like the ripples that spread on the pond after the pebble sinks. This was not Luca. All that remained were the distorted echoes of Luca's urges and emotions, amplified a thousand times and animating his shell.
There was no conscious thought behind what Hank did next. Luca had started grandstanding in his new croaky voice, as if he had finally become a big-time star, saying, "Mornin' Hank. Glad to see you looking so ha-" And that was when Hank shoved him out the window—just ran straight at him and, before Luca could even think of what was happening, thumped both hands into his ex-classmate's chest and sent him spilling out.
Time did not slow down again, but it still took a long while for Luca to hit the courtyard below, landing on his back with a crunch.
"Holy crap, you killed him," said Jack.
"No."
Hank had changed nothing for himself, only bought time for Jack to escape. Luca would shake off his thirteen broken bones and climb right back up the tower like a reptile before Hank could get to safety. But, by then, Hank would have given his gun to Jack and sent the boy—
Something bothered Hank. "What did you mean about being sorry?" he asked.
"He said he'd let us go," Jack said quietly. "He just wanted you."
"You mean you set me up?" Anger rose in Hank. Jack had betrayed him.
Jack!
But, looking back, it all fit together. Jack was the one out at night sharing the city with Luca—the one who could find Luca. And forgetting his radio? Jack never forgot anything.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Hank yelled. The boy just looked away. "And why did you even bother with this whole act? If Luca wanted me, why didn't he just come in the front door? I couldn't have stopped him."
"I didn't want to risk the others in case his bloodlust sent him wild. I told him I'd help him if he came for only you." Jack squirmed. "Don't you see, Hank? It's all about you. It's always been about you. He torments us to torment you. If I'd let you go on the road with us, Luca would just have kept coming. We can never be safe with you around."
Jack was completely right.
Hank thought back seven years. Luca in fifth grade was a gentle, quiet boy with bright green eyes, neglected shaggy hair and oversized hand-me-down-clothes. When Hank had transferred in, he had immediately noticed that Luca only showed diligence in one thing: taking care of the class rabbit, Hare Brain.
And TK and Floyd, it seemed, had taken it as their duty to torment Hare Brain. That first Friday, Hank watched Luca try to stop the boys poking the rabbit with rulers. Luca pushed at them, only to get knocked down, where TK and Floyd turned their rulers on him, laughing.