30. Knox
THIRTY
KNOX
“Holy shit,” Ava breathes. Her voice is muffled by her mask, but I feel the same hair-raising apprehension as I take in the wasteland surrounding us.
Amarillo is a charred ruin.
I eye the chipping Gerty Got Us graffiti on a billboard, then the train on the railroad tracks, abandoned and covered in ash alongside the interstate. It, too, is covered in spray paint—psalms about the Rapture and reunification in the dying world.
Reluctantly, I drive deeper into the city, hopeful that it’s not entirely gone. Motels, gas stations, business and apartment complexes—they still smolder, as if it’s only been a day or two since the fire came through, spreading toward the New Mexico border.
Metal shipping containers and lampposts dusted with soot are all that seem intact, and I slow the Chevy to a stop in the middle of the road.
When I look at Ava, she peels her eyes from our more-than-lacking prospects.
“We could turn around,” I tell her. “We could keep heading north—drive until we can’t anymore. We have a quarter tank left. Then we continue on horseback.”
“Or,” she hedges, “we take a chance here. There have to be supplies somewhere.” She glances at our reserves in the back of the truck, worrying her bottom lip. I can’t help but stare at the way she tugs it between her teeth. “It’s a risk,” she admits. Her lip is slightly swollen and red from biting it so much. “But we have no idea what we’re up against if we continue north. It’s already worse than we thought. Maybe this is our chance to find out.” She peers around, uncertain. “We’re already here,” she says more quietly, and I think she’s trying to convince herself as much as she’s trying to convince me. “Besides, you have your shotgun and pistol, so we’re not helpless.”
When Ava looks at me, I see it in her eyes—a desperation of sorts.
“Fine, but we don’t stop if it’s sketchy.”
Ava snorts a laugh. “If it doesn’t look sketchy at this point, it is sketchy.”
I huff with the shake of my head. “That is...disturbingly accurate.” With a combined sigh, we brace ourselves and continue down the interstate.
Amarillo seems sprawling, a long stretch of road that looks like it takes us straight through the city. “We’re not going downtown,” I tell her. “We stay out in the open.” At this point, especially in a place this ravaged, anyone remaining will be desperate, and that itself is enough to make me turn around, wasted fuel or not.
Ava nods, her attention fixed on the ominous stretch of road out the window.
I need to let the horses out soon, but not here where there are too many places for lurkers to hide. With my attention split between what I can see ahead and the baleful scene around us, I keep my eyes open for movement in the haze.
We pass a few silos and houses, a heavy equipment yard, and a mechanic shop. And as buildings untouched by fire emerge, a mixture of hope and fear swells in my chest. Hope that there are people here, and fear we will meet them.
“Knox.” Ava taps my shoulder and points out her window as a fire station appears a few hundred feet ahead. Its windows are dusted with ash and the garage is open and empty—devoid of engines. The building, though, is intact. “We have to check it, right?” she says. “I mean, they will know what’s going on more than anyone, and if we can even continue north.” Ava looks at me, expectant, and she’s right. If we’re going to find any supplies or information, it doesn’t get much better than a firehouse. “Even if they evacuated, it’s worth scoping out,” I agree.
I glance in my side mirror, ensuring no one has crept up behind us, and scout my route options. A median and frontage road separates us from the firehouse.
“There’s a turnoff up there,” Ava says, squinting.
I nod, and in spite of the familiar tension coiling throughout every inch of my body, the charge in the air buzzes with anticipation instead of hopelessness.
We make our way toward the turnoff, and I eye the businesses and buildings as I take the exit. Most of the buildings in this area appear vacant, with very few vehicles left in parking lots and driveways. As we approach the firehouse, however, a knot forms in my stomach. If I park too far away, we’ll be hard pressed to get back to the truck and horses if something happens. If I drive into the lot, I’ll undoubtedly be heard and seen by anyone still inside.
Gritting my teeth, I decide closer is the lesser of two evils because I’m leaving Ava with the truck, and I park just shy of the driveway on the side of the road. We have no idea who we’ll find inside, or if we’ll be greeted with resistance, but there’s no going back now.
The truck brakes grind slightly as we come to a complete stop, and I lean toward the window to see up the flagpole. The American flag is wilted without a breeze and at half-mast, and I wonder how long ago it was lowered.
The firehouse itself is boxy, but the building facade appears relatively new, aside from the ash and soot that coats it. That could be a good thing, or bad. If the station was built within the last decade, it will be retrofitted with government mandated amenities and equipment in preparation for a cataclysmic event and state of emergency. It would have stockpiles of food inside, oxygen tanks and masks, excess fuel, solar-powered generators, radios, an underground bunker, thousands of gallons of water stores, fireproof gear—it’s a safe haven built to protect the people who would have to save humanity in the end. Which also means if people were smart, they would flock here for safety. Or ransack it and take everything worth saving.
The three open bay doors of the empty garage tell much of a story. No fire engines means the place is likely abandoned.
I shut off the truck and look at Ava. Her chest is heaving, her eyes wide with fear. “I’ll go in first. I don’t want the truck unattended until we know what we’re dealing with.”
She nods, if a bit reluctant, and we both get out of the truck. “Keep the shotgun with you the entire time,” I tell her. “Use it if you have to. Honk the horn if you need to get my attention.” I nod toward the glass doors at the entrance. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
I can only hope that if someone’s in there and they see me coming, they ask before they shoot.