Going into Portland had been a mistake. She knew that the longer they ran between the buildings on the outskirts of the city. She sprinted by her daughter's side — their knives out — both desperate to stop and catch their breaths. They knew that they had to escape the herd on their heels before that was even an option.
The growls were loud behind them, growing ever more present the longer they ran. She didn't want to look back, she knew the herd following them had only grown larger and that wasn't something she wanted to see.
"This way," Clarke said, turning suddenly down SW Columbia. Abby hurried after her, trying desperately to keep up with her. Clarke glanced back and said, "Come on, Mom."
Abby nodded, sprinting faster but Clarke was pulling ahead. She called as loud as she dared, "Clarke, wait!"
Talking was just another mistake to add to the long list for the day. Their heavy footfalls and panting were already enough to draw attention to them, but their voices turned the heads of those who hadn't noticed them. More of the dead emerged from the alleyways on either side of the street and Abby lost sight of Clarke. She was forced to cut down 13th and crossed over the highway on the Jefferson bridge to avoid the dead coming for her.
She glanced over at the Columbia bridge but found no trace of Clarke. She turned north, heading up 14th Avenue, trying to double back to the place they were separated but a pack of the dead blocked her path. She was forced to continue up 14th, leaving the spot she had last seen Clarke behind.
Abby stood in the center of Pioneer Courthouse Square, scanning the street for any sign of her daughter. It had been an hour and the city was quiet. She couldn't hear the dead anymore, couldn't see them either. She had lost the herd and managed to double back to Columbia and 13th, but Clarke wasn't there. She knew that the Square was a logical place to meet with 360˚ visibility and plenty of escape routes should danger arise.
"Clarke," she whispered to herself, looking at the empty street. She sank to her knees and felt the tears prick at her eyes. She blinked them away when she noticed a sign across the Square, secured to the front door of the courthouse.
She rose to her feet and hurried to it. It read: Arkadia In Cherry Grove, All Are Welcome. A map sat underneath it, a red circle just south of Cherry Grove was labeled Arkadia. Abby stared at it for a long time before she ran her finger along the highways that would get her there.
Clarke would see the sign, she knew she would. They had dreamed of finding a group after the disaster that was L.A. and the Red Cross aid station. They needed this.
Clarke sat on the steps of the Portland Art Museum, her eyes on the street, her knife tight in her hand. She tapped the blade against her thigh, scanning the street. It was empty, save for a few papers blowing around. There was no sign of the herd, she couldn't hear them either. The only noises provided by the dead were behind her, banging against the glass, trying to get to her.
"Come on, Mom," she whispered, trying to ignore the noises behind her. Abby knew that this was Clarke's favorite spot in the city, surely she would come here looking for her.
We should have had a plan in case we got separated, she thought sadly. She rested her elbows on her thighs and placed her head in her hands, letting the grief wash over her. Mom's dead, she has to be. She knew she shouldn't be thinking like that, it had only been an hour since they were forced to separate. Abby could still be running from the herd, trying to escape.
"You should be more vigilant, the dead can sneak up on you," a voice at the bottom of the steps said. She didn't look up right away, it was a male voice and she wasn't in the mood for company. The man pressed, "Hey, you're not safe out in the open like this."
She finally looked down at him and the first thing she noticed was that he looked…clean. His dark brown hair was neat and brushed, a slight curl at the nape of his neck where the hair barely touched. He had a beard that seemed to be well taken care of — trimmed and clean. His dark clothes and leather jacket were undefiled by the blood of the dead, just a little mud was visible on his boots. He carried a gun, another was at his hip. He wore a backpack and a machete was sheathed through one of the side pockets.
He's prepared, she thought as he walked slowly up the steps toward her. He stopped halfway up and she continued to stare at him. He said slowly, "My name's Marcus, what's yours?"
"Clarke," she said after a few moments.
He nodded and smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Clarke. What are you doing out here alone?"
"I'm not alone," she said quickly. His eyebrow rose and she clarified, "I got separated from my mom."
He nodded again and continued up the steps, sitting next to her. "Where at?"
"Near the university."
"I just came from that way," he said. "Were you running from that herd I saw?" She nodded and Marcus continued, "They weren't after anyone. I'm sure she's fine."
Clarke stared hard at the steps in front of them, trying to keep the tears at bay. But she found herself saying harshly, "Or she's dead."
"Don't," he said sharply. She looked at him and saw that his face had turned cold. It softened when he looked at her and he said, "You can't afford to think like that. She's fine, okay?" Clarke nodded. He stood up and offered her his hand. She stared at the callused palm before looking up and meeting his gaze. He nodded toward the street and said, "Come on. Let's go find her."
Clarke reached up and he grasped her hand in his, pulling her to her feet. He pulled the gun from his hip, offering it to her. She shook her head and said, "I can't shoot."
"So you'll practice," he said, pressing the gun into her hand.
"Why are you helping me?" She asked as her hand curled around the gun. He shrugged and replied, "Going at it alone, it's not feasible in this world anymore."
"You're alone," she observed as they set off, heading south on 9th.
He shook his head. "I'm not. I'm just on a scavenging run."
She didn't know what would possess someone to enter the city alone and wondered where his group was. Still, she found herself trusting him and guided him back to the last location she had seen her mother.
They searched the city until dusk, leaving notes for Abby everywhere they could. Marcus said that they would continue in the morning. Clarke nodded and let him lead her to the place he had slept the night before. It was in a courtyard, bordered on three sides by some municipal building. He said that they had to go over the wall that stood tall against the sidewalk.
Marcus jumped up and grasped the ledge. She was surprised when he hoisted himself up almost effortlessly. He glanced down at her and offered her both of his hands. Clarke jumped up and grasped his hands. He pulled her up and she sat on the ledge, staring down into the courtyard. All of the doors and windows into it were boarded up and she understood why this was the only way in. She wondered how many times he had slept here.
He hopped down onto a crate that he must have pushed over to the wall. He walked across the courtyard, calling over his shoulder, "Are you just going to sit up there all night?"
She sighed and jumped down after him. He was pulling out a sleeping bag from the bottom zipper of his backpack. She frowned, her backpack had been lost somewhere on SW Broadway. He unfurled it and glanced over at her, sighing when he saw the envy on her face.
"It's yours for the night," he said, nodding at the bag. She opened her mouth to protest his kindness, but he waved it off and walked over to a low pile of wood stacked against the side of the building. He grabbed several logs and returned to the center of the courtyard. Marcus knelt down and began to build a fire, Clarke sat on the sleeping bag, watching him. He moved with precision, Clarke sensed a military background.
He had the fire built within a few minutes. He pulled out two cans of beans and plopped them on the outskirts of the fire. "I hope you're okay with the bare minimum."
She smiled. "We've been on the bare minimum for a while."
He nodded, understanding. They waited on the beans and when they were hot enough, Kane cracked them open with a knife and offered Clarke a spoon, but she had already started gulping down the warm beans. He ate a spoonful as he watched her devour the food.
When she had finished, he asked, "How'd you come about being in Portland?"
"We were low on supplies," she spoke quietly over the low fire. He watched her intently as she continued, "Mom knew that we had to scavenge from the city, we had no other options."
He nodded slowly as her eyes met his. "The cities aren't safe—"
"Then why were you there?" She interrupted.
"I'm on a scavenging run, I have a camp about 40 miles outside of the city, in Cherry Grove."
They let themselves lapse into silence for the better part of an hour.
"Clarke," he finally said quietly. She looked at him and he continued, "We could head back to my settlement—"
She shook her head. "My mom would never give up on me."
He frowned but said, "She sounds like an extraordinary woman."
"She is," Clarke whispered, staring at the fire.
The sun had barely risen by the time Abby found herself walking down the center of the highway that led out of the city. She saw a lone deadman ahead and knew that she could avoid it by crossing a few lanes. The only thought in her head was Cherry Grove. The sign had said all were welcome in Cherry Grove. That's where Clarke would have gone, she knew it. Surely she had seen the sign too.
"Don't take another step!" A harsh voice called from the tree line. Abby's leg stopped mid-step, freezing in place. There was a laugh from the trees and the man called, "You can put your foot down."
Abby turned toward the voice and found three people walking out from between the trees. They were young, the two men were certainly out of their teenage years, but just barely. The girl looked about Clarke's age. They all carried guns, the girl had a short sword at her back, one of the men had a bow secured over his chest, a sheath of arrows over one shoulder.
The dark haired man with a mass of freckles on his face beckoned for the other two to follow him as they advanced on Abby. She dropped her backpack onto the pavement, along with her knife. She said, "I don't want any trouble. I'm just trying to get to Cherry Grove."
"That's 30 miles away," the girl commented. She looked Abby up and down and added, "You're going to walk the entire way?"
"I can't hot-wire a car," she said dryly, watching as the man with the bow bent down to search her backpack.
The dark haired man smiled and lowered his gun. "Cherry Grove, huh? Why?"
Abby said, "I saw a sign offering sanctuary. If my daughter saw the same sign, she would go there."
The three of them looked at each other and the man searching her backpack zipped it back up for her and stood, offering her her things back. He said, "It just so happens that we're from this settlement you're looking for. We could give you a ride—"
"Lincoln," the girl said quietly, touching his arm. "You know we're supposed to wait for Kane."
"And you know that he's twelve hours late," the man named Lincoln said. "He's probably dead. We have protocols for a reason."
"You know he wouldn't want us leaving him," the girl said, glaring at him and squeezing his arm.
"They are Kane's rules, he would want us to follow them no matter what."