Chapter 18
Cars filled both eastbound lanes.
Not moving.
Some had doors hanging open.
People walked between them carrying bags.
A police cruiser sat diagonally across the intersection with its driver's door open and no officer nearby.
Smoke rose beyond the shopping center.
Several columns. Emergency lights flashed in every direction.
At the far side of the intersection, people crowded a stalled SUV and pounded on its windows. They weren't trying to help.
The driver suddenly accelerated.
The SUV jumped the median, crossed it, and disappeared down the opposite lanes.
A woman ran into the intersection waving both arms.
"Stop!"
I slowed automatically.
Dombrowski grabbed my forearm.
"No."
She saw us.
Ran toward the Civic.
"Please!"
I almost stopped.
Then another person came from between the stalled cars.
He hit her from behind.
They went down together.
He bent toward her neck.
I pressed the accelerator.
Dombrowski stared straight ahead.
Neither of us spoke.
The highway entrance was visible half a mile east. A solid line of brake lights stretched toward it. Nothing was moving.
County roads.
I turned west.
We passed a gas station jammed with cars. Two people fought beside a pump, someone lay motionless on the concrete, and a man carrying gas cans ran between vehicles with someone chasing him.
I kept going.
My phone rang.
Dad.
I answered through the car.
"I'm out."
"Where?"
"Heading west."
"You alone?"
I looked at Dombrowski.
"No. One of my neighbors is with me."
"Good."
"Roads are bad."
"How bad?"
I looked ahead.
A delivery truck sat sideways across the next intersection.
People moved around it.
Some walking normally.
Some not.
"Bad."
"Don't come straight here if you can't."
"I know."
"We're fine."
"Good."
"Gabe."
"Yeah?"
"You okay?"
I looked at my right hand. Blood had dried across the knuckles, mostly not mine. My wrist hurt. My shirt was spotted red.
I could still feel the hammer striking the man's head.
Again.
Again.
Again.
"No."
Dad said nothing.
I swallowed.
"I'm alive."
"That's enough right now."
I stared through the windshield.
"Yeah."
"Call when you're clear of the city."
"Okay."
The call ended.
We reached a smaller road.
Fewer cars.
I accelerated to forty.
Dawn spread slowly across the fields ahead of us.
Behind us, the city looked almost peaceful except for the smoke.
Dombrowski leaned against the passenger seat.
"Where are we going?"
"My parents' place."
"Country?"
"More or less."
"Good."
"You have family?"
He looked through the passenger window.
"Daughter in New Mexico."
"Call her."
"I did."
"She answer?"
"No."
"Try again."
He nodded.
We drove another five minutes.
A minivan sat abandoned half in the ditch, then a motorcycle. A man walked alone along the shoulder.
He raised a hand. I eased off the accelerator slightly.
Dombrowski watched him.
The man looked normal.
No visible blood.
Backpack.
Maybe thirty.
Terrified.
I kept driving.
He shouted something after us.
I couldn't hear it.
My chest tightened.
Maybe he needed help. Maybe opening the door would get both of us killed.
There were no good decisions anymore.
Only decisions.
The road curved north through open fields as my phone dropped another bar of service.
For the first time in hours, I couldn't hear sirens. I didn't feel safer.
Now I understood that staying or going had only been the first question.
There would always be another one.
Which road. Which person. Which door. Who to trust. When to stop. When to run.
The Civic still had nearly three quarters of a tank. Smoke stretched across the brightening horizon behind us.
Beside me, Dombrowski tried his daughter again.
This time she answered.
His shoulders dropped and his voice softened.
"Anna?"
A pause.
Then, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."
I kept my eyes on the road.
Ahead, beyond a stand of trees, another column of smoke rose into the morning sky.
Not from the city.
Farther west.
Closer to where we were going.
I watched it for several seconds.
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
What is happening?
This time I didn't try to answer.
I drove.