Westport Page 7

  She sees people.

  "Jake, look!" she says, pointing to the street behind the marina.

  At first he sees just a few of them, shadows on the other side of the fence from the docks — then as his eyes adjust, the rest of them appear. There must be dozens, maybe more, wandering the area just beyond the barrier — crowding the closed gate only fifty yards from where they were moored.

  Sarah Lockwood had kept an open mind since the outbreak first began. Too many times over the years she'd listened to one expert after another give dire warnings about the latest epidemic, only to find out that their predictions were nothing more than hysteria. It seemed every news outlet in the country had one — a doctor with a kind personality and warm smile, and a talent for convincingly crying wolf with uncanny regularity.

  On July 22nd, doctors from around the world sounded the alarms once more, this time concerning a flu that was spreading rapidly throughout Europe. Few people on the continent listened, and those that did were too late to do anything about it. For her own part, Sarah didn't listen to anything in those early days either — and neither did the rest of the United States. As the days passed, however, bizarre stories started to make their way into the news cycles — and with them came fear and confusion throughout the nation. There was talk of missing towns throughout the mainland of Europe, of planes landing at empty airports, even reporters for news agencies that were disappearing overnight. Then on the morning of the 26th, there was nothing.

  For the first time in an age, the entire continent was silent.

  Rioting and overall mayhem was spreading throughout every major city here in the states, fueled mostly by misinformation on social media, and by a deepening distrust in officials that were trying their best to control an already uncontrollable problem. At this point nobody in the country had actually fallen ill, but the mere fact that the virus existed had been sufficient to bring the system to its knees. Adding to the problem was the fact that information about the infection itself was scarce.

  By the time the virus did arrive on our shores, the news media and Internet had been virtually shut-down, and replaced with continuous loops of generally worthless advice on what not to do. People were being told not to leave their homes, not to drink water from public supplies, not to visit crowded shopping centers, and not to go to the hospital for any flu-like symptoms. It was the last one that broke Curtis, that made him aware of just how much danger they were in. Looking back on it, Sarah knows that it should have affected her too, but she chose not to see it, chose not to believe that the world around her was changing. Ultimately it was the sound of radio static that opened her eyes, that made her recognize that her children would never grow up in the same world that she and her husband had. Those days were now gone.

  It was now shortly after midnight, and the Lockwood family has huddled up around a small campfire that sits beside the cabin they now call home. They'd spent the previous day cutting wood for the wood stove and getting the cabin ready for habitation. They had beds to prepare, cupboards to stock with food, and a seemingly endless amount of disinfecting. When they were finally done, they decided to start a campfire and spend some time outside, telling themselves and each other that they shouldn't waste such a beautiful evening. The real purpose, however, was avoidance. They wanted distance, from both the cabin and what it represented.

  The two boys, Matt and Ben, are lying on the ground, gazing at the few bright stars that are visible through the trees. The radio hisses quietly in the background, creating a sound that seems more lonely and empty than when its off, but they listen anyway. Earlier in the evening, both Curtis and Sarah waited impatiently for the glow of lights that normally come from the nearby towns of Westport and Grayland, but the lights never appeared. Also gone was the fog horn from the state park, and the sound of traffic from the highway in front of their place. All that was left was the roar of the ocean, the wind in the trees, the birds overhead, and a radio searching for something that no longer existed.

  "How long are we going to stay here?" asks Matt, looking quite comfortable.

  Sarah looks at Curtis, who looks back and shrugs, unsure of what to say. "We could be here a while." she answers back. "Don't you like it here?"

  "Its kinda cool. Can we go back to the beach tomorrow?"

  "We'll see. There's still work to do around here." says Curtis. "How much do you guys know about what's going on?"

  "What do you mean?" asks Matt.

  "I mean this whole virus thing, and why we left..."

  Matt and Ben both shrug.

  "I don't know." Matt answers dismissively.

  "You know its killing people, right?"

  "Yeah..."

  "And you know that's why we left...?"

  "Yeah, I guess..."

  Sarah places her hand on Curtis' knee, then shakes her head. They hadn't really discussed when to talk to their sons, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to him, but it obviously didn't seem that way to his wife.

  "We'll talk about it some more another day." he says. "Its getting late, we should probably head inside and get some sleep, we've got another busy day ahead of us."

  As Curtis shuts the cabin door behind them, closing out the world from their senses, he misses something unusual — something that would never be seen again. To the north, just barely visible from the steps of the cabin's porch, is a line of hundreds of lights, stretching for miles down the highway. None of them are moving, and none will be seen by the time the sun comes up. Throughout the night, one by one, they slowly fade away.

  Nearly two months have passed since they first arrived at the cabin, and although it looks completely different on the inside, the outside looks virtually unchanged. How it stays watertight Curtis will never know, but the pathetic excuse for a home has been just that, a home. Its a two-room, single story, unpainted mess of half rotten wood and rusty nails, and yet its kept them warm and dry through the most difficult time of their lives.

  He can't imagine what his grandfather would think if he could see them now. As a boy, Curtis and his family would spend summer vacations here, and even the occasional weekend in the winter months to dig for razor clams on the beach below. He remembers those days fondly, and it bothers him deeply that his own sons' memories of this place will be full of sleepless nights listening to the radio as their world disintegrates around them.

  A storm had moved through only a couple of days ago — not exactly a rare event for late October, but being the first real wind storm of the season, it left the air feeling fresh and brisk, and the deciduous trees around them leafless. It was the first time his family had witnessed an event like that, a windstorm so powerful that it moves the earth beneath your feet. Explaining to them that it was actually tree roots moving the ground didn't seem to help matters, or the fact that he couldn't wipe the enjoyment off of his own face. He loved the storms at the beach, he always had — even when he was a kid. He remembered his Dad staying up with him, sitting in front of the wood stove, watching the flames dance every time a gust would come down the chimney. They could watch it in silence for hours, words being unnecessary in a moment like that.

  Walking up the driveway, he can smell the woodsmoke from the same tiny cast-iron stove. He wonders if it was smart to leave his wife and kids alone with such an obvious sign of life visible for miles around. Today was different though, today he walked down the beach to the edge of town for the first time since arriving here. He was determined to take the family into Westport tomorrow, but before they did, Sarah insisted that he check everything out first.

  Standing in front of the cabin window, he sees his wife folding clothes on the bed, an old-fashioned wifely duty that she would've expected him to share only a few months prior. She'd become just like her mother, and although she'll never admit it, especially to Curtis, the role somehow made sense in their current situation.

  Sarah didn't look her age, she never had. When she was in high school she looked like one of the teachers, and
now that she's over forty she really doesn't look any different. These last couple of months have been tough though. While her face looks exactly the same as it did last year, her eyes have lost their sparkle, and her skin tone has changed to a color bordering on gray. She tells herself that its the almost complete lack of sunshine on the coast that's done it, but she knows the real cause runs much deeper. Although she's grateful that she has her husband and sons with her, she hasn't yet come to terms with the fact that her daughter is hundreds of miles away, if she's even still alive. From the day they arrived at the beach they've been living day to day, hoping for a sign that things will return to normal. Tomorrow could be their chance to find out, and she's afraid of what the answer might be.

  As Curtis walks around the back of the cabin, he sees his sons playing some sort of game that apparently involves throwing sticks and yelling, as most games do when you're their age. Last summer it would've taken a small miracle to get the kids outside, and today they're playing the same types of games he and his friends used to play when they were young. Moving to the middle of nowhere seems a drastic way to get his kids to play something besides video games, but he has to admit, it is rather effective. The oldest, Matt, is exactly like Curtis was when he was twelve — quiet and reserved, and secretly the wild one of the two. Ben is different. He's talkative, energetic, playful, and without a trace of deception. Curtis feels close to both of his sons, but he's worried what this new world might be like for Ben. His cheerful attitude would either save him from the darkness yet to come, or he would find himself lost and incompatible in a society that no longer has any use for such behavior.

  Lost in his own thoughts, Curtis hadn't noticed his wife standing next to him, holding out a glass of water.

  "Thanks." he says, swallowing the mineral-rich contents in a single swig.

  "What did you see in town?"

  "Not much. I went down to the boardwalk in front of the park, then walked to the grocery store."

  "Did you get anything?"

  "There wasn't much to get, the shelves were already empty."

  "Did you see any... you know..."

  "Dead bodies?" he asks.

  "Yeah."

  "A few. Its mostly bones though, scattered around in the streets like litter."

  Curtis sits down on a wooden swing next to the cabin and motions for Sarah to do the same. He notices a slight tremble in her hands, but says nothing about it. Although he knows this new information has probably startled her, the visible manifestations of stress and anxiety are something they stopped talking about weeks ago. Some things can be mentioned only so many times before the meaning wears off. In truth, neither of them cared to talk about it anymore. Instead, he simply takes her hand into his and holds it.

  "We can't take the kids into a place like that, can we?" she says.

  "To be honest, I think the town is safer if everyone is dead. At least then we don't have to worry about catching anything."

  Sarah says nothing. A small part of her wants to be angry, to yell at him for making such an outrageous comment — but she doesn't have the energy to be judgmental or righteous anymore, and a growing part of her agrees with him. Her moral and ethical boundaries are in constant shift these days, leaving her feeling empty and numb.

  "You didn't answer my question..." she says.

  "If there was rioting in the streets I would agree with you, I wouldn't want to go either — but there's nobody there." He takes out his cell phone, then opens up a photo. "I hope and pray that this is the worst thing they ever see in their lives..."

  The photograph he's showing her is of a sidewalk covered in leaves, with several bones sticking out from underneath them. She takes the phone from him and starts flipping through the other photos. When she reaches one that shows a street view she stops.

  "Where are the cars?"

  He looks at the picture closely, and not a single car is parked anywhere in the shot.

  "I don't know, I didn't really notice that."

  "So your view is that everyone is dead, and Matt and Ben have to see it eventually... Right?" she asks, her voice calm.

  "Right."

  "And if they aren't dead, then what?"

  "Then we keep our distance."

  She keeps the volume of her voice low, so the kids can't hear, but her tone becomes more indignant. "For what purpose? Why do we need to go?"

  "We're running out of supplies."

  "That's not an answer, you could go get the supplies without us."

  "And what if I didn't come back? Would you come search for me, or just figure that I dropped dead someplace?" He waits for a response, but gets none. "We have to stay together in this, no matter what."

  She looks at the boys again, watching them run around like fools in the woods surrounding the cabin, a glimmer of innocence still bright in their eyes. From her own childhood she knows how easily that innocence can be damaged, even destroyed.

  "Okay." she says softly.

  "Okay what?"

  "We'll stay together. No matter what."

  After dinner they decide to walk to the beach and relax before heading off to bed, hoping the fresh air and the sound of the waves might take their minds off of the hike tomorrow. The sun is beginning to make its slow decent into the ocean when they finally cross the sand dunes and catch their first glimpse of the water. A sun setting red in the sky is seen as a bad omen in many parts of the world, but somehow over the ocean it seems tranquil and calming — even hopeful. As the boys divide their time between digging in the sand and chasing seagulls, Curtis and Sarah sit on a flattened piece of driftwood that a storm had conveniently left on the beach. They'd been to this spot before, but this time the wind seems cold and penetrating, a sign of the changing seasons. Although she's wearing two layers of clothing, Sarah can feel the icy breeze clear to her bones. Curtis doesn't feel anything. He has something else on his mind.

  He'd seen things in town, things he couldn't share with Sarah.

  Horrible things.

  Although he'd spent nearly two weeks obsessing over the trip, Larry Gossman hadn't actually thought a lot of it through. One could argue that it could have been grief over the death of his wife that caused it, or the overwhelming stress of a worldwide epidemic taking place all around him — but neither of these is actually true. The real reason Larry never followed through with the planning was simple — he never planned on living long enough to leave.

  Shortly after his wife died, Larry developed a cough. It was exactly like Jennifer's in every way — except in his case , he lived. To this day he's never told another soul about it, not even Beth. There isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't wonder why he lived and his wife died, or whether he was actually sick from the same virus that killed her. In his mind it seems far-fetched to believe they contracted two different illnesses within only days of each other. The odds would have to be astronomical.

  He also feels an incredible amount of guilt — not concerning his wife, but for possibly exposing Beth. He'd managed to keep her away during the entire sickness, even threatening to disown her if she stepped foot inside their house — but after Jennifer's death he became weak, both emotionally and physically. When he called her that night to tell her the news, there was no hesitation on her part, and within minutes she was standing beside him as they stood over his wife's body. Part of him knew that he was likely condemning his sister's life with that phone call, and the fact that she likely knew it too meant the world to him.

  His lackluster planning had nothing to do with supplies. They'd brought hundreds of dehydrated meals, dozens of cases of filtered water, medications and first aid supplies, extra clothes, fuel, and even a sewing kit for reasons still unknown to Beth and Jake. What he didn't count on was sitting for very long. As long as it was moving, the 'Obsession' ran perfectly, except for one small problem — a leak.

  Larry had known about it for months, but it never seemed a great concern as long as the bilge pumps were working. Out on the water
they ran off the boat's own electricity, and in the marina they ran off of power at the dock. Sitting in the middle of Sequim, however, was a different story. They'd been here for over a month with no electricity, forcing Larry to waste precious fuel by running the engine every other day just to keep the boat from sinking into the strait.

  None of them wanted to be in Sequim, it was in the opposite direction from where they needed to be. They'd much rather be heading west toward the Pacific Ocean, and from there south to the Oregon coast — but they all agreed that backtracking to the east a few miles might help to throw Sean off of their trail. So far it seems to have worked, since they haven't seen a single sign of him all month.

  They hadn't actually planned on staying this long. After reaching the marina they all agreed that a week should be sufficient, but a series of storms blowing in from the Pacific changed their itinerary, and now they have no choice but to pray that the weather holds out for just a couple of more days as they make their way to Astoria.

  Its late-evening, and Jake is standing on the stern deck watching downtown Sequim in the distance. Beth climbs down the ladder from the pilothouse and stands beside him.

  "Larry says as long as the skies look clear in the morning, we're headed out." she tells him.

  "Sounds good."

  "Did you know that Sequim gets less rainfall than Phoenix?"

  "Everyone knows that." he responds, his voice more blunt then he intended, a consequence of being forced to live in such tight quarters for this long. They stand in silence for a moment, his gaze focused on the city, and hers at the decking between her feet. "Why the smalltalk?" he asks.

  "Because I'd rather talk about anything else, anything other than that..." She nods in the direction of town, the direction that Jake is staring. From one end of town to the other, hundreds of shadows are making their way out into the streets, just barely visible enough to be recognized as the citizens of Sequim. They've been watching them for weeks now, coming out at dusk, and completely disappearing just before daybreak. During the last several weeks they've come up with a million ideas of what the people are doing, or who they are, but after studying them for countless hours now, they really have no clue. They seem lost, wandering with no purpose or direction, mindlessly walking with no routine whatsoever. They've watched some of them go in and out of buildings, apparently at random, always staying in motion — and yet others simply stand in one location for hours on end.