October 12, 2013

Hamlet Quick Stop - U.S. Highway 26
Clatsop County, Oregon

"Max?" Reaching over, I gently nudge her shoulder. "Hey...Earth to Max."

She jumps a little, startled. "What?"

"I asked if you need anything."

"Oh." She blinks, looking like she's not sure how we got here. "Where are we?"

I point out the truck window to the shabby-looking gas station and the faded yellow sign that reads Hamlet Quick Stop. "We need gas."

The Hamlet Quick Stop isn't exactly a glittering oasis. The main building is about the size of a large single-story house with a pair of old gas pumps out front, and two-thirds of it is taken up by one of those places that looks like it's trying to be a coffee shop, convenience store and newsstand all at once, and somehow managing to suck at all three. The rest looks like it used to be a garage or something.

There's a long building on the other end of the lot that looks like one of those rent-a-space storage places and just beyond that, half-hidden under some trees, is a slightly beaten looking RV. For a second I think it might be Frank's, then I remember that he was killed when the Two Whales burnt up, and I feel the familiar ache in my chest grow a little.

"Already?"

"Afraid so." I hope I don't sound as irritated as I feel. I should've remembered that my battered old truck's gas tank had been a lot closer to empty than full, but I'd been so shocked that it'd survived the storm at all that the thought hadn't even crossed my mind. If I'd been thinking, I would've siphoned some gas from another car before we'd left what was left of Arcadia Bay behind. It's not like it would've been the first time; when you've got a truck and no job, you do what you gotta to keep it rolling. But even if either of us had been thinking that clearly, I doubt we wouldn't even found another car still on its wheels. "So, do you need anything?"

"I don't know," Max admits, her voice dull.

"You hungry?"

That draws a half-shrug from her, at least. "A little, I guess."

"Okay. I'll just get you a sandwich or something." I'm reaching for the door handle when I remember that my wallet is as empty as the gas tank, because of course it is. "Hey...uh...I don't suppose you've got some cash on you? I'm a little short right now."

Max blinks slowly, as if she needs an extra second or two to parse the concept, then shakes her head. "My wallet was in my bag."

I don't start shouting, but it's a near thing. It figures that somewhere in the process of bouncing from one timeline to another, Max would have lost track of her trusty messenger bag. I tried not to think about how that meant my dad's old camera had been lost with it.

"Well, shit." Tapping the steering wheel thoughtfully, I notice a few quarters in the cup holder. On a hunch, I check the glove compartment to find a half-dozen more, a few dimes, and a pair of crumpled dollar bills. A few minutes later, a thorough search of the truck's cab has turned up another seven bucks in loose change, but the real find is under Max's seat; a zip-loc baggie containing a few grams of weed.

If there's one thing I've got an eye for, it's shady characters, and the guy leaning against a rusty Dodge pickup next to the storage building definitely fits the bill. The dude's almost twitchier than Nathan Prescott, and his eyes linger on Max a little longer than I'm okay with, but a little fast-talking is all it takes to convince him to buy the weed. The sale nets us another twenty bucks. Altogether, it's enough for the gas we'll need to get us the rest of the way to Seattle with a little left over to buy some food, as long as we aren't feeling very picky about what we eat.

I leave her with the truck and go inside, stuck on a question that's been running around in my head since we made our way down from the lighthouse; if your entire life gets ripped from the face of the earth on Friday morning, what the fuck are you supposed to do with the rest of your weekend?

Me and Max had started out by looking for survivors. As violent as the storm was, we'd both been fixated on the idea that someone in Arcadia Bay must have made it through alive.

We decided to head toward my place, searching almost every building we passed along the way. Anything that seemed more or less intact or looked like it might've served as shelter.

Max had collapsed to the ground when we'd found the first corpse, throwing up what little food she had in her stomach. I'd knelt beside her, gently rubbing her back, and saying, 'you're okay' and 'that's it'. All the shit you're supposed to say when someone is puking their guts out. By the time we got to the Two Whales, she was barely reacting to the bodies at all, save for the occasional resigned sigh.

I'd insisted on checking the diner, despite what Max had told me. I'd hoped that she'd been wrong or that something had changed. That it would still be in one piece and that my mom would be safe inside with a bunch of other survivors. But all we found was a burnt-out shell with shattered windows and a very faint burnt-pork smell that I refuse to let my thoughts linger on.

We'd shouted until our voices gave out and we were reduced to banging pieces of debris together, hoping that someone might hear us, and we came across plenty of people along the way. No survivors, though.

I keep trying to remember the faces of the people we found, but it's hard to distinguish them. All the dead just kind of blur together in my mind. Before yesterday, I probably would've found that more horrifying. I'm sure some therapist is gonna have a field day with me when I'm older.

It'd been eerie beyond belief when we realized we were the only thing making a sound. The birds hadn't come back yet and even the ocean waves seemed subdued. Eventually we'd accepted that we were the only ones still alive and had given up on making any noise at all.

It was almost noon by the time we actually got to what was left of my house, and I can't describe how surreal it was to see the place I grew up as a shattered wreck. Half of the roof - the half over my room, of course - had been torn away altogether, and the remaining half looked ready to fall off at any second. David's dumbass dick-replacement muscle car had been picked up and thrown across the street; the back half of it was sticking out of Mrs. Wilcox's living room. The front of the house on the left had been torn clean off, making it look like some kind of giant fucked-up dollhouse, and the house on the right was just...gone.

And right there, in the middle of all that devastation, was my old piece-of-shit pickup truck. Just sitting by the curb, right where I'd parked it, completely fucking untouched.

I think that moment will probably be burnt into my mind for the rest of my life. I'd reached for the pack of smokes in my pocket, realized that they were completely soaked, and my first thought had been to go buy more at the gas station up the road, but I couldn't. There wasn't a gas station up the road anymore. My second had been to steal a cigarette from my mom's purse, but there wasn't a cigarette in my mom's purse, either.

Because there wasn't a purse.

Because there wasn't a mom.

And that was when it'd hit me like a fucking freight train. It felt like the air had been sucked right out of my lungs and before I'd known what was happening, I was crumpled on the ground, clinging to Max like she was my only lifeline and sobbing like a little girl.

So, back to that question. When you lose everything you know before breakfast, what do you do next? I can't speak for everyone, but me and Max? We decided to get the fuck out of town.

The road had been shockingly clear of debris, despite the absolute carnage to either side of it; everything from downed power lines, to overturned cars, to the shattered remains of the town's weaker buildings. Even a whale – an entire fucking dead whale – sprawled over the broken roof of a small house. I hadn't been sure whether it was one of the whales that'd beached themselves, or some innocent animal the storm pulled out of the water to spitefully throw at some equally innocent people.

We didn't make it far. We were barely past the bent but still cheerfully colored 'Welcome to Arcadia Bay' sign before we turned off onto a service road. We spent the rest of the afternoon and the entire night in the cab of my truck, curled up together under an old blanket as we tried hopelessly to get some actual rest. I'd drifted in and out of sleep the entire time, and at one point I'd woken to the sound of Max softly listing the names of her fellow Blackwell students, one by one.

Listing the names of the dead.

When the sun had finally come up, we'd agreed our best move was to make our way to Seattle, where we'd hopefully find Max's parents waiting for us. We couldn't call ahead – Max had broken her phone during the storm and mine was just as waterlogged as everything else in my pockets. Whether or not we had enough gas had been the furthest thing from my mind. It was just dumb luck that the route I picked brought us to a gas station only a few minutes after the truck's gas light had come on. If we'd ended up stranded on the side of the road with no food, fuel, phones, or cigarettes, I might have just freaked out entirely.

An obnoxious set of chimes startles me when I pull the door open, and I take a second to glare at them like they did it on purpose. The layout inside is pretty much the standard for most gas stations, though the Hamlet Quick Stop's interior looks like it hasn't been updated in a decade or two. I make a beeline for the coolers against the back wall and grab a pair of semi-fresh-looking ham sandwiches from a refrigerator that looks like it's been pulled right out of the mid-eighties.

I pass by a dusty stationary section on the way to the counter, and on a whim grab a spiral notebook and a pen. I know how much Max's journal meant to her, and even though I can't replace the one she lost, maybe this could be the next best thing. Sure, it might mean having a little less gas in the tank, but it'd be worth it. I'll just make sure to plan the shortest route possible.

The kid at the register looks about seventeen, and I have to suppress a growl at the way his eyes blatantly roam over my body. I have zero fucking patience for this right now. Just wanna pay for my shit and get back on the road.

"Afternoon, hot stuff," the idiot says, with what he probably thinks is a charming smile. "How're you doing today?"

"Peachy..." I look down at his nametag, which reads 'Chris'. "...Dave. You?"

He looks confused, but that might just be his regular face. "Oh, I'm pretty g-"

"Yeah, neat." I drop the sandwiches, notebook, and pen on the counter between us, then hold out the money we scrounged together. "Here's twenty-seven bucks. Ring this stuff up and put the rest on pump one."

"Uh, sure." He nods, checking the price tags on the sandwiches. "So, you and your friend on a road trip or something?"

"Or something."

"Cool, cool." He gives me that same smile again, which really only draws extra attention to the giant zit on his upper lip. "Where you headed?"

"North."

"Right on." He nods. "From?"

"South."

Frustratingly, the vague responses don't discourage him. This guy needs to learn how to read the room. "No kidding? You see that big storm yesterday? The news said it was a real monster."

"No."

"Oh." The disappointment on his face makes me want to punch him. I manage to resist. Barely. "Supposedly it took out some shit-knuckle town on the coast. Like, totally wiped the place off the ma-"

"Just ring up the fucking sale, will ya?" I put enough of a growl in my voice that he actually recoils, and despite everything I feel a little proud of myself.

"Jesus, fine," he grumbles, punching a few buttons on the register. "Don't get your panties in a bunch."

Picking everything up, I snatch the receipt from his hand. "Like you know shit about my panties."

"Have a nice day," he says to my back. It's probably more out of habit than sincerity, since he quietly adds, "...bitch."

"Heard that, needle-dick," I shoot back, flipping him the bird over my shoulder as I shove the door open.

It doesn't take long to pump the gas, and I can feel the kid glaring at me the whole time. It takes most of my willpower not to glare back. Part of me is just itching for a fight, but with my luck he'll turn out to be Sheriff Billy-Bob's nephew or some shit.

I tilt the nozzle up to make sure I get every last drop, hoping it'll be enough, then climb back into the truck to find Max listlessly picking at her sandwich. She's got that same detached, faraway look in her eyes, but I feel a little better when I see the notebook held protectively in her lap. I even feel a happy little flutter in my stomach when I notice the words 'Property of Max Caulfield' already written on the cover. "That good, huh?"

"What?" She looks at me, blinking, then down at her sandwich. "Oh, yeah. It's okay. Thanks."

I fight the impulse to ask if she's okay, because at this point that's an impossibly stupid question. We've asked it to one another who knows how many times since we left the lighthouse, and every time, no matter who's asking, the answer is always the same.

No. Of course we're not.

October 12, 2013
Interstate 5 Express
Seattle, Washington

The drive from Arcadia Bay to Max's house in Seattle live isn't very long, relatively speaking. About five and a half hours altogether, including stops, and when I check the distance on the cheap roadmap I pinched from the gas station, it seems like barely anything at all. It kinda reminds me of a line in song I heard once; Close enough to make the effort; far enough to make excuses.

I look at the sleeping girl next to me. What were your excuses, Max? Fuck, what were mine? If I hated being in Arcadia Bay so damned much, why didn't I just drive up here one weekend to visit? I could've looked up Max's address, and even brought Rachel alo...

I abandon the thought before it goes any further, filing it away with all of the other things I'll 'deal with later'.

Focusing on the road, I can see the tall buildings of downtown Seattle beginning to rise on the horizon and can't help but feel a little intimidated by the size of everything. The two-lane Oregon Coast Highway that ran past Arcadia Bay is nothing compared to the eight-lane width of the I-5 Express, and I force myself to loosen my grip on the wheel as hundreds of cars move around us.

Growing up, the furthest I ever made it from home was an hour up the coast to the tattoo shop in Seaside. And after living my whole life in a town of just over fourteen hundred people, I'd actually found Seaside to be kind of impressive. Now we're coming up on a city with something like eight hundred thousand people and I've never felt like such a pathetic small-town girl in my life.

I glance over at Max again. Somehow, despite the slightly alarming noise my truck's engine makes as it struggles to meet the speed limit and the occasional asshole honking their horn as they blast by, she's still asleep. I'm pretty sure my heartrate is in the triple-digits, and she's over there sawing logs. Hardcore, Maximus. Very hardcore.

Finally our exit appears, and I unapologetically cut across three lanes to make it. The off-ramp leads onto a relatively calmer four-lane street, taking us past suburbs, shopping malls, and a golf course that looks bigger than Arcadia Bay was.

Checking the directions Max wrote on a post-it and stuck to the middle of the steering wheel, I diligently follow them to a quiet side street. Slowing to a crawl, I reach over to poke Max's shoulder. "Hey, Max." She makes an adorably unhappy noise and swats at my hand. I poke her again, a little harder. "Wake up. We're here."

"Huh...what?" She looks around blearily, her eyes lighting up as she recognizes her own neighborhood. "We're here!"

Detective Caulfield cracks the case. "We sure are. Which one is yours?"

"It's at the end of the block." She points down the road. A second later, she starts bouncing excitedly in her seat. "That's it! Right there!"

It's actually a pretty nice place. I mean, the two-story house is no mansion, but it's still half-again the size of the one I grew up in. It's painted a deep red color that feels appropriately opposite to the blue my dad had been painting our place before he died. The tall front windows give me a pretty good view of the inside, and what I can see has the same comfortable lived-in feel I remember Max's house having back in the day. It looks warm, too; a lot warmer than my truck's barely functional heater can manage, at least.

Guess they traded up when they left the Bay behind. Lucky them.

I spot somebody standing near the windows as soon as we pull in, but the glare of the afternoon sun coming off the glass keeps me from seeing their face. If I were going to put money on it, though, I'd say it's probably not her dad. I remember him being this huge lumberjack-looking guy, and even if I'm a lot taller now than I was five years ago, I'm still pretty sure the person in the window is too small.

My brilliant deduction is proven right when they step closer to the window and I instantly recognize Max's mom. She's peering curiously at us, probably trying to figure out where my busted-ass truck came from and what it's doing in their driveway.

Then, when Max climbs out of the cab and offers a half-hearted wave, her confusion turns into flat out dropped-jaw shock. She shouts something we can't hear to someone we can't see, then practically she sprints away from the glass. About three seconds later the front door bursts open and Max's parents are scrambling down the front steps toward us. Except for a few grey hairs and a little extra weight around her dad's waist, they look almost exactly the same as I remember.

Max starts to run toward them and makes it about five steps before they've got her wrapped up in a big, relieved, tearful, Caulfield-themed group hug. She practically vanishes between them, and underneath all the I love you and thank god and so worried and glad your safe noises, I'm pretty sure I can hear Max crying. I'm happy to hear it, too, after seeing nothing but zombie-Max the whole drive.

The three of them probably stay that way, blind to the world, for at least five minutes before her mom lifts her head and looks in my direction.

"Is that..." she whispers, gently releasing her daughter to come closer. "Chloe Price? Is that you?"

I shift nervously from one foot to the other and raise a hand in a hesitant wave. "Hey, Mrs. Caulfield. Been awhile."

"How...? Where did you...?" She keeps looking back and forth between me and Max, like she doesn't know what to ask or who to ask it to.

"Chloe saved me," Max lifts her face from where it's been buried in her father's chest to give me a watery smile. "She brought me back."

Before I can point out that Max has saved me way more times than I've save her, which would take some time and probably a lot of complex bullshitting to explain, her mom has me wrapped in a crushing hug of my own. I barely have time to try and get some air back in my lungs before she starts sobbing into my shoulder. "Thank you, Chloe! Oh God, thank you for bringing my little girl home!"

I don't know what it is, exactly. Maybe it's the hug and the tears. Maybe it's the solid familiarity of seeing my best friend's mom and dad for the first time since I was fourteen years old. Maybe it's that feeling of finally reaching the place you've been going.

Whatever the reason, it's right there, trapped in the other woman's embrace, that I finally release the white-knuckle grip I've been keeping on my own emotions. It all hits me at once and it seems like my entire body sags against Mrs. Caulfield's. For a second, I'm not sure which one of us is holding up the other.

I start bawling my eyes out, just like I did before Max and I left the Bay, and all at once I'm struck by a memory of being eight years old. I'm sitting on the front steps of the Caulfield's Arcadia Bay house and trying to be strong for Max, who's sitting beside me, holding my hand, and openly crying at the fact that I got hurt. And there's Mrs. Caulfield kneeling in front of me, gently wiping the dirt away from my freshly scraped knee and telling me the same thing she's telling me now.

"It's okay to cry, sweetheart. You don't have to be brave anymore. You're safe now."