Chapter 12
“You missed your last two check-ins. I’m worried. Contact me as soon as it’s safe to do so.” - Decoded message from ILF handler Hiro Tanaka to ILF undercover operative Nightingale
Six Years Ago
Briar
Something is very wrong. I switch from jogging to a full-on sprint, my gaze flying around the yard of my parents’ home.
The grass is wildly overgrown. Mom’s prized dahlias are browned and drooping from neglect.
The bungalow my parents have lovingly been restoring for almost twenty-five years looks like it did when I left for my internship more than two months ago, but they’d never let their yard and flowers look this way.
I stop in the driveway, catching my breath. Getting here was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m down to one bullet, and I’ve only been moving between three a.m. and seven a.m. to conserve it.
It’s taken me more than a month to get here, traveling only on foot and staying as hidden as I can. John joined a bigger group of survivors around a week into our trip, and I’ve been on my own since.
I key in the code to open the garage door, then slip inside and close it. The gun my dad gave me is clutched in my right hand, as always. Even when I’m sleeping, it’s there. I almost died when three men confronted me and it was buried in my backpack—I’ll never make that mistake again.
The terror that swam through me when one of them dragged me into the woods is still there. It walks beside me every day, and sometimes it even crawls inside my chest, making everything heavier.
My dad saved my life. Without his relentless training, I wouldn’t have been able to escape the man trying to rip my clothes off while his friends ransacked my bag. I disarmed him, broke his neck, and used his weapon to fire a bullet in the brains of each of his friends.
Being in the garage with my dad’s pegboard of gardening tools and his prized pickup truck makes me choke back tears. Both of my parents’ vehicles are here, which doesn’t feel right.
From everything I’ve seen and heard in the past month, I’m terrified I’m going to discover their bodies inside. The virus that hit the world out of nowhere was airborne, and it decimated the population.
There aren’t many people left, and many survivors are trying to capitalize on the devastation. I quickly learned to avoid populated areas with grocery stores. The power grid went down while I was still on the island for my internship. It took out cellular service. Looting and hoarding are rampant.
I was able to grab several boxes of protein bars from a tiny gas station, and I’ve been living on them. The water-filtering straw I had in my pack means I can drink from any stream or lake I find.
Though I’ve met my basic needs, I’m exhausted in every way. I need to find my family so I’m not doing this alone anymore.
When I walk into the house, I sigh with relief to see the kitchen looks like it always has. Mom’s potted herbs line the shelf above the sink, wilted. The wood cutting board Dad made sits on the counter, probably waiting for him to oil it.
I close the door behind me, locking the handle. Then I drop my pack to the kitchen floor and walk farther inside.
When I reach the pantry door, I open it and peek inside. The shelves are lined with food and Mom’s aprons hang from the dragonfly hook on the wall.
“Mom? Dad? Are you here?”
I cling to a few seconds of hope that one of them will answer. But there’s silence. When the sun-filled family room comes into view, my stomach sinks.
The books that lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves on one wall are scattered on the floor. The cushions on the furniture are in tatters, all of them looking like they’ve been cut open with knives.
I take in a slow, deep breath, my finger hovering over the trigger of my gun. Making sure my back is covered by walls, I slowly creep toward the hallway and into one of the guest bedrooms.
The bed is perfectly made, covered with a colorful quilt made by Grandma Nadine. Nothing seems out of place.
I go to my mom’s office next, my throat tightening.
It’s destroyed. Every book is on the floor and her desk has been cleared of nearly everything. Her computer is gone, and so are her trademark notebooks. She fills them with drawings, field notes and journal entries, and there are always stacks of filled notebooks on her desk and shelves.
I open her desk drawers and only find pens and other office supplies. The drawer where she keeps every card Dad, Mae and I give her is empty.
Outwardly, I’m cool and alert, but inwardly I’m seething. Someone violated my mom’s sacred, personal space. They took her belongings. The pit in my stomach just keeps growing.
My parents’ bedroom is next, and I’m dreading it. I fear finding their bodies side by side in their bed, their hands clasped and their eyes eternally open.
I steel myself and walk into the room, tears springing to my eyes when I find the neatly made bed empty. I make my way to their walk-in closet, scented with the sweet smell of the cedar that lines the walls.
Everything goes still when I see it. My dad’s worn leather holster is hanging from its hook, his 1911 tucked into it. My shoulders slump because now I know.
I don’t have official confirmation, but my dad doesn’t leave the house without his holster and 1911. He keeps it locked in his car’s trunk when he’s going somewhere he can’t bring it in, but he always, always takes it with him.
Either Dad didn’t leave the house on his own, or something happened to him here. I feel it deep inside, just like I know that wherever they are—alive or not—they’re together.
I’m not giving up hope, but this is a huge blow. Their house was ransacked by someone, and it wasn’t typical looters. The food and Dad’s gun wouldn’t be here if that were the case.
Why would someone want my mom’s computer and her notebooks? It doesn’t make sense. The world is literally on the brink of collapse, and she’s a college professor.
I continue searching the house, going through every closet in every room. When I unlock Dad’s gun safe and find it stocked with weapons and ammunition, I cry with relief.
He’s not here, but I still feel him. I imagine him telling me to stay strong and be aware of my surroundings. I’m sleep-deprived, and that makes people slow and sloppy.
I load two guns, then close and relock the safe.
My bedroom closet is much wider than the doors indicate. After eating some peanut butter and a can of ravioli, I make sure I’m locked inside the house and crawl into the hidden space in my closet with the guns, a pillow, and a blanket, rearranging boxes to hide myself.
I’ll stay here for now, in case Mae or my parents come. And if they don’t, I’ll leave a note and set out to search for them.
It’s like looking for a single grain of sand on a vast beach, but I don’t know what else to do. My dad prepared all of us to survive a situation like this, but all his plans assumed we’d be together.
I’m not giving up on any of them, but for now, I’m in this alone.