Chapter 5

XX

John found Jason outside again the next morning, naked and defecating on the grass behind the gas station store. It was too running and Jason kept making unhappy noises. John watched with growing concern. The food here was not going to be much good for much longer. Not only would it soon run out, the stuff was mostly snacks and junk food. Hardly what the human body needed, especially two growing boys. John went back inside to get some saltine crackers and a roll of toilet paper. As he searched the darkened store, John decided that he and Jason had to move. They couldn't stay here.

But then what happens to Jason?

John had no easy answer to that. Jason had gone feral, partly during the day and almost completely after dark. He wasn't himself anymore. He had made it out of Portland, but it was obvious that he wasn't going any farther unless forced to. Jason was simply incapable of properly taking care of himself. And from what John could tell, Jason was attached to him.

If John moved on alone and left Jason to his own devices, the already-traumatized boy would take it as abandonment. John knew he could never do that. For one thing, he'd kind of liked the brash, super-macho, overconfident Jason Morgan that he had known before the plague. A lot of kids and adults had. Before Captain Trips, Jason Morgan had been one of the most popular boys at John's school. He was so outgoing and energetic that it had been difficult not to like him.

And what was more, Jason was the last living friend John had from the old world. It calmed and assured John to have someone, anyone, left from the life he'd once known. If he hadn't found Jason, maybe John would have eventually broken under the weight of so much shock, pain and grief… the way Jason had.

When John headed out the back door, he heard Jason crying. He made sure to walk slowly out onto the grass as he approached. Jason was unpredictable in the morning, when the shattered remains of his civilized self and the feral instincts he reverted to at night warred with each other until the sun was completely and unquestionably up. John checked and noted that Jason was done emptying his bowels for now. It didn't look good; Jason was going to need more rest and better food.

John rustled the crackers in their wrapper and held up the toilet paper as he passed in front of Jason. The brown-haired boy's head snapped up; madness ruled there. He hissed and bared his teeth, then made an unhappy noise and winced as he defecated again.

"I know your stomach hurts," John said calmly, slowly. "I brought you crackers. These will help. And you need toilet paper, so here it is."

John set the items down in front of Jason and stepped away. The other boy watched him closely, warily, like a wild dog that is debating whether or not to bite. Finally he lost interest, shifted on his haunches, and began to urinate on the grass. John went back inside and checked his backpack behind the counter. He had enough provisions to get moving, enough for the first week of travel, probably two. After setting the M1 rifle next to his bag, John debated putting his shirt on, but ultimately decided against it. Instead he knocked out around 30 pushups, enough to build up a decent sweat as the cicadas started singing in the trees.

When John stood up, he saw Jason standing in the doorway to the stockroom, dressed in a pair of jeans and shoes. "Hey," John said, hoping for a friendly interaction.

"Hey," Jason said. He nodded. "Your pecs look good. Not as good as mine, but good."

"Maybe I can learn from you once we get to Boulder," John suggested with a smile.

"Maybe you could," Jason agreed. He hesitated. "Thanks for helping. Just now."

John nodded. "Glad to help."

Jason hesitated again. "All of my friends are dead. Are, um… uh… are we friends?"

"Yes," John said immediately. "We're friends." He wanted no uncertainty on that.

Relief flooded Jason's face, but he quickly hid it, clearing his throat, flexing his sturdy biceps and triceps, shuffling his feet a few times. "Well, okay," he said. "I guess we can be friends. If you want."

"I'd like that."

"Alright." Jason paused. "I don't remember. I just know everyone's dead." Jason started to look panicked. He began wringing his hands, his eyes went wide, and he started to breathe hard. "Why- why can't I remember anything? What- why can't I remember? Everyone- everyone's fuckin' dead!"

"Hey, easy," John said gently, holding up his hands. "Everything's gonna be all right. I promise, Jason."

"I don't know," Jason said fretfully. "I can't. I don't remember. I can't remember."

"You don't even know how you got here?" John asked.

"No."

"I'm going west to Boulder," John decided. "I want you to come with me. I want to show off my best friend when I get there."

A smile twitched at the corners of Jason's mouth. "Best friend?" he asked.

"Yep," John replied, smiling back.

"Whatever," Jason said, but he was clearly pleased. After more flexing and shuffling and throat-clearing to cover his macho rep, Jason said, "So you don't wanna go to the Dark Man either, right?"

"No. I hate the desert. And I'm so pale that I'd just burn up and die if I went out there anyway."

"No!" Jason suddenly yelled. "Don't say that! Don't joke about that!"

"Sorry," John said. "I take it back."

Jason coughed. "Well, I, you know. I just don't wanna be bored and stuff. Out in Boulder."

John smiled. "I got you."

"Will there be babes in Boulder?" Jason asked hopefully.

"I think so. I sure hope so." John tried a smile. "Hey, I mean, I need love, you know?"

"Yes!" Jason exclaimed, pumping a fist in the air. "We would've had so much fun in high school! Fucking babes all the time, going to the gym! You, me- like, the girls, man. There would've been a line. A line, man, outside our fuckin' bedrooms."

John smiled, a little pleased to see Jason including him in such a what-if. He hadn't really been thinking about girls as much as Jason had clearly been before the superflu, but he was a boy and he knew he'd soon start getting those 'urges.' And things were very, very different now.

The few boys left alive would soon be needed to father children with the few remaining girls. Jason and John might both be parents before turning 20, but that was provided that they lived that long. The long, long walk to Boulder lay ahead, and it was a rough world out there now.

"Well," John said, "we better not keep the babes waiting." Jason grinned.

With Jason's spirits up, John got things packed and both of them on the road a full hour earlier than he'd hoped for. Jason talked constantly, looking and sounding like any normal preteen apart from the salvaged backpack stuffed with supplies and the .45-caliber pistol crudely 'holstered' in his right pocket.

John was happy enough just to listen, even as Jason talked crudely about girls and the things he wanted to do with them. That stuff was probably a lot of fun, but John had always thought that you were supposed to be more respectful of girls than that. After a while, though, John realized that Jason was repeatedly looking at John, constantly checking for his reactions.

He's trying to impress me.

John was surprised by that realization but decided to laugh, smile, and agree where needed. He even made a few crude remarks and described a graphic scenario he hoped would happen between him and a pretty girl. He honestly wanted and needed to be friends with Jason. It was much, much better than going it completely alone. Periodically, John turned and checked behind him. He was reluctant to tell Jason, but he was afraid that someone was following. Maybe the Dark Man, maybe one of his agents. Maybe Henry and Mark Evans.

John was concerned that Jason would disbelieve if he brought that last one up, or panic if he did. Whatever he'd seen on the road to this moment, Jason had clearly been through enough. John didn't want to add more worries to Jason's life unless he had to.

The long, hot day made hiking beside the endless sea of stalled and wrecked vehicles harder. John gripped the M1 firmly for a while longer, then slung it over his right shoulder. He made sure to stop once in a while for water, or for relief. Jason, he noticed, avoided looking too closely at the dead cars and trucks. He'd seen all he wanted to inside them, all right. John was sure of that.

John was grateful in a new way to have Jason around. They'd both seen too much, but having each other made facing whatever would be coming on the heels of the plague easier. Jason was doing remarkably well throughout the day. He was talkative and spirited, and he was learning how to survive on his own just as John was. He clearly liked and trusted John, although that might have been out of desperation. John wondered if Jason wasn't latching onto being friends with him just to keep from going completely crazy. It was possible, but then John knew he was doing pretty much the same thing.

XX

The first spot of trouble John ever had with Jason since they'd met up- beyond Jason having turned part-feral and trying to kill him- happened as the two boys passed in view of a church that stood uphill from the interstate. It was mid afternoon, and John could feel the sun's heat beating down on him as they walked. He nodded toward the church and said, "I hope there's a preacher still alive. We'll need them out in Boulder, too."

Jason snorted rudely. "Yeah? And what for?"

"Someone has to preach the word of God," John answered, as if that went without saying.

"You still think God's real?" Jason demanded. "You think this is all part of some big plan? God's plan?"

Jason's tone was harsh, and his eyes blazed like the sun above as John turned to look at him. John knew he stood on dangerous ground now, but he shifted the M1 on his shoulder and nodded. "I think so. If we listen, we can hear what God's plan for us is. Maybe Mother Abigail can tell us when we get to-"

"Alright, lemme tell you about your God's plan," Jason interrupted. He got closer, and John noticed with some discomfort that the other boy's strong muscles were completely tensed up. He was ready to fight and then some.

"Well-" John started, but Jason just kept going as if he hadn't heard.

"There were millions of people in the world before the plague or the fucking superflu or whatever hit," Jason said. "Millions, man. Millions just in this country. We had thousands in- in- in Po-Portland. And in, what, a couple weeks? We lost all of 'em. Everybody fucking dead except you and me and some fucking old lady in Wisconsin. I don't give a fuck. I'm not going because I care about her weird fantasies about some God, because if He is real, if he is, then He chose to kill everybody. Everybody! And he didn't just kill them! He made them choke and strangle and drown in their own fucking snot while they ran a fever of fucking 200 degrees! He killed everybody and He made sure they fucking suffered!"

"Jason-"

"Every single person that we've ever known is dead!" Jason screamed. "Dead! THERE IS NO GOD!"

John staggered back as Jason blindly took a swing at him, then stumbled off among the cars. Jason doubled over, retched, then threw up. When he had no more to give, Jason's stomach dry-heaved and he collapsed on all fours. John went over and offered some crackers and water. Jason glared but accepted the offered items. When he was able to get up again, Jason started talking about girls again as if nothing had happened. John decided to let it go. It wasn't worth trying to upset him.

XX

Nightfall brought chills as a cold front moved in, and John headed out to the treeline to salvage wood for a fire under the highway overpass where he and Jason stopped. Jason grew steadily quieter until he finally hissed, bared his teeth, and fled for cover behind a moving van. After that he periodically crept closer to get cooked food John left out. He'd snatch it up and run off to hide among the rows of silent vehicles. Whenever Jason got close, John would speak to him in a calm and even tone, but Jason would just growl or hiss in response. Eventually, he balled up under a GMC Suburban and fell asleep. John saw him shivering as the night wore on, however, and brought the sleeping bag from Jason's bag over to him.

Jason instantly snapped awake, made as if to charge, then hissed and dashed away among the cars and trucks. He only returned after John had withdrawn to the fire he was tending to. After briefly pulling curiously at the sleeping bag, Jason dove inside and went back to sleep. Soon after that, John almost fell over while poking at the fire and realized he needed to rest himself. He had been putting it off, finding excuses to stay up as he watched out for Jason, and for… whatever was out there in the dark. With the world having fallen silent at last, the Dark Man's time had come. Monsters that John had once feared lived in his closet were out there, serving the Walkin' Dude.

John didn't know how he knew that terrible being's name, yet he knew. He just did. The Tall Man. The Dark Man. The Walkin' Dude. He was the embodiment of evil. John feared him, and knew that there would be consequences of refusing to go to Las Vegas, the city where the Dark Man was gathering followers, consolidating his power. But going to that… that hellish monster… it was unthinkable. John knew he could never do it. Jason would instantly desert him, and John could never hope to face his parents and the rest of his ancestors in the world to come. They would never forgive him for bowing to a being of pure evil.

Rain blew cool wind under the overpass as a storm moved in. John shivered and left for the cover of a gray Ford Ranger's enclosed bed. It was musty in there, but good enough for now. John moved his pack inside and unrolled his sleeping bag, then got inside with the M1 beside him. He no longer felt at ease without it. It was amazing how fast things changed, how swiftly he'd adapted. Just a short time ago, John had been surrounded by the towering achievements of human civilization, by its benefits and luxuries. His chief worries had been avoiding homework, chores and boredom. Now it was a fight to just live another day, to fend off the monsters in the dark.

Thunder rumbled outside. Rain was now falling in waves. John closed his eyes, but couldn't quite shake the feeling that he wasn't alone. He fell asleep still thinking of the Dark Man. Who- or what- was he? Where had he been all this time before the plague killed nearly everyone? The world was lifeless and empty now, its once-busy roads, highways, cities and airports darkened and quiet. This was the Dark Man's time now, his moment come round at last. John wanted no part in whatever he had planned, but a man like that, if he was even genuinely human, didn't seem interested in leaving others alone. You could choose to avoid him, but would he let you be? Not likely. He'd come after everyone, given enough time, and do what he wanted to them.

John had never been interested in big confrontations, and he still wasn't interested now. He didn't like dramatics at all, in fact. But he wanted to live, too, and it surprised John how strongly that desire resonated with him. He'd fight if he had to, just like he had when Henry and Mark had surprised him at home back in Portland. And he had more to worry about than himself now. He had Jason to look after, and John was going to protect his friend.

No matter what it took.

I am not alone, John thought as the rain drummed outside the overpass. Depending on how he thought about it, those words brought him either fear or comfort. The Walkin' Dude was out there, and Henry and Mark Evans were, too. But so was Jason Morgan, damaged though he was, and so was God. John still believed in Him like he always had, even if He had seen fit to allow the death of most of the human race.

I am not alone. I still have something. I am not alone.

XX

Sitting in an empty Cadillac Coupe de Ville, one of many abandoned cars that were stopped forever just short of the highway overpass, Henry and Mark Evans might well have agreed with John. They knew very well that he wasn't alone.

"C'mon," Mark hissed for the third or fourth time. "He's right there. Let's just get him."

"Easy, Mark, easy," Henry said, grinning at his brother. "He's got a friend now. We should include him in the fun."

XX

Jason Morgan woke up early in the morning just as the rain was finally ending. He hurried out from under the overpass, found a nice spot on the grass, then pulled down his dirty underwear and defecated. It wasn't as painful as before.

Shit good, he thought in the simplistic language he reverted to at night, when his fears always got the best of him, when his base instincts ruled everything he did. I shit good. Wait, done now. Okay, gotta piss. Good, good.

Once Jason was all done with that, he wiped himself with some of the odd paper that other kid had given him, the nice one that Jason wasn't sure if he trusted. His feral instincts said to run, fight, kill, hide, but 'John' offered food and helped when things got bad. That said he was a friend. But Jason's friends were all dead. Even Tony Summers, although Jason didn't know where his friend had gone. Maybe he'd never know.

Jason spent a while foraging for food and succeeded in locating wild blackberries. Then he wandered back toward the overpass, dazed and uncertain of what to do next. His mind was trying to think in more complex terms, but all that time roaming as a feral made that hard to do.

"Hey, man!" a boy's voice called out as Jason got near the overpass. "Hey! Jason Morgan!"

"Yeah!" Jason shouted excitedly, recognizing the voice. "Yeah, John! That's me!"

The blond boy approaching him laughed. "No, I'm Henry Evans. Remember?"

"Henry Evans?" Jason asked. He frowned at the well-dressed blond boy, trying to remember. "Creepy Henry?"

For an instant, Jason saw rage flashing in the other boy's eyes, and Henry's face went cold and white as snow. Then Henry smiled again, warm and charming.

"No, I'm just Henry," the blond assured him. "My brother Mark survived, too. How's that for luck, huh?"

"Luck, yeah," Jason said. "I did a shit." Many, many days on his own, operating on base instincts, made Jason feel rather proud of taking a dump with toilet paper all on his own.

"Hey, you did?" Mark Evans said, clapping Jason on the shoulder as he walked up. "I did, too!"

"No, no!" Jason exclaimed, shuddering and shrugging Mark's hand off. "No! No touch!"

"Okay, man." Mark said. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"So how'd you survive this long?" Henry asked.

"Looks like our man went feral."

"So, how was that, Jason?" Henry asked, grinning. "You ate whatever you could find, shit and pissed wherever you felt like it, ran around naked and generally acted like an alley rat, huh?"

"Not sure," Jason mumbled, not liking the way these two were treating him. "Not sure."

"Jeez," Henry scoffed. "You used to be so fucking popular. It's okay, Jason. Everybody's dead now. Doesn't matter who's popular anymore."

"I don't remember," Jason said. "Not sure. I- I don't remember."

"Did your parents die? Mine did," Mark said. "I saw it happen, Jason. I watched. It was cool."

"I saw," Jason said. "I don't know, what, but- but I saw. I can't remember now."

"His mind's fucked," Henry said. "Jason, do you believe in God?"

"I don't know," Jason said.

Henry smiled. "Well, let's just say you get to find out if He's real, right now."

Before Jason could question the meaning of that statement, Henry pulled out the M1911 he'd been hiding behind his back and shot Jason in the head.

XX

John couldn't find Jason when he woke up, and right away he knew something was wrong. He ran frantically among the cars and trucks, searched all the little spaces where a feral kid might hide under the overpass. When he looked up and saw Jason again, he felt a flood of relief, but terror instantly set in as he saw who else was out there, maybe a hundred or a hundred and fifty feet off.

It was Henry and Mark Evans. They had found Jason and were talking to him, toying with him from the looks of it. John tried to scream a warning but his chest had tightened up so much he could hardly breathe. He silently, helplessly watched, saw it all, as Henry smiled at Jason, said something to him, and then shot him in the forehead with a pistol.

"NO!" John screamed. He'd found his voice at last.

Henry and Mark turned as Jason fell, his head a bloodied mess. They grinned and sprinted forward, dove behind a car and briefly disappeared from sight. John's hands shook as he went for his M1. As he got it off his shoulder, John saw Henry and Mark reappear, demonic glee in their eyes, guns in their hands. Mark dropped the long, heavy-looking weapon he carried on the hood of the car closest to him. Henry simply shouldered the gun he was carrying.

Oh, no.

Almost too late, John hit the ground as Henry and Mark opened fire. The roar of the two guns together was so loud it drowned out the world. The Evans boys were both carrying automatic weapons, and they made liberal use of that feature for… John didn't know how long. He had struck his chin hard on the pavement when he fell, and lay there on the blacktop as if pinned there. Somehow, his feet had been swept out from under him as he'd stood there cluelessly, not quite realizing what was happening. Somehow he was still alive.

The gunfire continued with the steady clatter of Henry's automatic rifle and Mark's machine gun. The latter made a ripping sound as it fired, a lot like fabric tearing. John stayed frozen behind a stalled Chevrolet Astro as Henry and Mark's bullets tore it apart. Glass showered him as they completely destroyed the windows, then chips of paint and even pieces of metal as those monsters laid into the van further.

OhGodI'mgonnadieI'mgonnafuckingdieJesusChristfuckfuckfuckMomDadI'msosorryJasonI'msorryIswearItried-

GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF!

John's rising panic slowed as that second thought entered his head. He knew it was God, God speaking to him somehow… even if God did sound exactly like his grandfather. The old vet who'd taught John about the M1 Garand would sure have known what to do right now. John wished Grandpa was here.

GO FLANK THEM OUT, YOU STUPID SONOFABITCH! AND STAY DOWN! THEY'RE BEING CARELESS, DON'T HELP THEM FIND YOU!

John obediently started crawling away from the destroyed van, whimpering in pain as his bare arms went over the sea of glass and metal. His elbows got the worst of it by far, but John kept the M1 in his hands and forced himself onward. A glance behind him showed Henry and Mark had realized John might have gone prone and were firing lower and lower by the second. John crawled away faster, teeth clenched tight against the pain, swearing and sweating and praying to God for a chance to live.

Then, when John had made it some twenty or thirty feet away, the firing stopped. John listened but kept crawling as his ears, still ringing from the apocalyptic noise, began to catch what Henry and Mark were saying.

"…alive or what? Did I get you, you fucking faggot?"

"How's it feel, motherfucker?" Mark shouted. "How's it feel to be fuckin' dead?"

"Did you even kiss any boys before you died, Johnny? Or was that just in your little gay dreams?"

John didn't waste time answering. He crawled, wishing the pain in his elbows would stop, begging for the agony he was feeling to not be so bad that he'd cry out, giving away his position. He stayed in the "high crawl" as Grandpa had called it, keeping his M1 safe and clear of the ground. It was all he had. The M1, and the 8 rounds of .30-06 loaded into it. There was more ammo in his pack, but getting to that would take time. Time that John probably didn't have. He'd have to win this with few reloads, if any. And any reloads he did perform would have to be fast.

"Okay, I guess he's fuckin' dead," Henry decided, lowering his voice. "C'mon, Mark."

"I wanna cut him right between the legs," Mark said eagerly. "Cut it all off. Let me do it."

"Sure thing, Mark."

"Did your gun get real hot? Mine's fucking burning up."

"Jeez, I had that problem with a chick the other night!"

"Fuck off, Henry."

"I love you, Mark."

Mark's voice grew emotional, affectionate, as he responded, "I love you, too."

They were nearly to the Astro. John crawled faster, wanting to put as much distance and as many vehicles as possible between himself and the place where Henry and Mark would find out John wasn't dead.

"Okay," Henry said distantly. "Motherfucker's gonna be back here. I saw him drop."

"Yeah, and it was me that got him, Hitler's fuckin' buzz-saw, man."

"No way, it was me and my fucking Type 58- hey!"

"Hey!" Mark shouted, his voice rising in outrage. "The motherfucker's not here!"

"Oh, Johnny!" Henry yelled mockingly. "I wanna go on a date with you! All the girls're dead, so I think I'll turn gay now!"

Mark snickered. "Man, you know that's not gonna work."

"Worth a try. He's so fucking dumb," Henry said. "Okay. One more."

"Hey, faggot!" Mark shouted. "You come out now, right fucking now, and we'll kill you fast instead of slow!"

"We'll make it last for days if you don't give up now," Henry promised. "Days. And we'll even stitch you up after we cut your dick and your balls off, so you can live a while longer. I know how to do it."

John just kept crawling. He knew what the odds were here, what the score was. It was life or death, kill or be killed. The deadliest game of hide-and-seek he'd ever played. The fear of capture he'd felt in those old world games in the backyards of so many houses seemed so remote now, so far-off and childish. This was for keeps.

"Goddamn it!" Mark screamed. "I'll get you, John, you little faggot! Run and hide all you want, we'll find you! You'll be fucking sorry you ever shot at us!"

You started it, John thought as he kept crawling, moving under a dump truck. You came to my family's house while I was burying my parents. You saw the pain, the grief. You had to have seen it. But instead of helping me you tried to kill me. So I tried to kill you. That's life, man. That's how it is.

But if you listened to Mark and Henry telling the story, it was all John's fault somehow. Like he was supposed to have cooperated, just laid down and let them murder him. Maybe, in Henry and Mark's minds, everything was someone else's fault. Never theirs. They couldn't make mistakes. If they attempted to commit murder, that was their right, and the other person was at fault if they resisted. Maybe that was what justice looked like to those two.

John stayed down until his elbows could bear it no longer. He got to his knees and continued forward in a low crouch, hoping he wouldn't be seen.

BRRRRRRRRRT!

A spray of bullets from that machine gun said John had most definitely been seen. He dove for the front wheel of a big Pontiac sedan, peered around the chrome front bumper, spotted Henry and squeezed off two shots down the iron sights.

BANG! BANG!

BRRRRRRRRRT!

Mark had seen or heard John's firing, or both, and had quickly adjusted his own. John jerked back behind the cover of the Pontiac, grateful to still be unharmed. He sprinted low until he got some four vehicles away, then turned and fired again at Mark.

BANG!

The steady clatter of Henry's automatic rifle started up again, and John dove for the cover of some low-slung sports car, what little it offered. He stuck the nose of the long-barreled rifle over the top and fired twice. Five shots. He'd used five so far.

"I'm gonna cut your little worm off and cook it in front of you!" Mark yelled. "I'll get you! You'll be fucking sorry then!"

No way, man, I got girls to party with, I need to use that thing later, John thought of saying, and the idea made him laugh. Jason had definitely planted that one in there. A self-proclaimed ladies' man if there ever was one. John sobered as he realized that Jason was on the ground out here somewhere, shot and killed by Henry and Mark Evans. They had taken the one friend the plague hadn't.

John ducked and dodged for a while longer, fired off a shot here and there. He dreaded the noisy PING! that came from the M1 as it automatically ejected an empty en bloc clip, but the metallic sound was completely inaudible past a few feet thanks to how much Henry and Mark were shooting.

Finally, Mark grew impatient and charged in to "finish the little fag off," breathing hard under the weight of that machine gun. John hid behind a car but sure enough, Mark headed right for it, having already seen him. The M1's bayonet was already fixed in place on the end of the barrel. It was more than capable of doing the job. So John kept the weapon parallel to the ground as he waited just past the rear left corner of the Oldsmobile 98… and held it firmly in place as Mark eagerly sprinted around the corner, machine gun in his hands, and ran right into it.

"Ugh!"

John fired reflexively, splattering the ground behind Mark with blood and pieces of tissue. Mark dropped like a sack of potatoes. His crisp blue eyes stared up at the sky, wide as they could be. John didn't need to even check for a pulse; he knew that Mark Evans was dead.

"NO!" Henry howled from his firing position. "NO! MAAARK!"

You killed Jason, John thought fiercely. I guess you only like it when it's not you.

With nothing left to lose, John shot several times at Henry in rapid succession, going for the head. The blond youth screamed in rage and dove for cover, then got back up and sprinted forward as John fired again. Henry fired wildly at John but failed to hit him, and John's M1 spat out another en bloc clip just as he missed with his eighth shot on his third clip.

"RRRRRRAAAH!" Henry yelled, sounding as savage and primal as Jason had in the gas station store. He sprang forward and narrowly missed cutting John's throat as he leapt over the hood of a car. John brought the M1 up to meet him, bayonet first, but Henry saw it in time and twisted his own rifle to block.

The two boys collided and hit the pavement. Henry cried out and John heard something snap, and realized gratefully that Henry had just severely injured one of his ankles. Sure enough, as they grappled up close, John kicked Henry in the left ankle and got an agonized cry of pain.

"Stop this!" John shouted. "Stop!"

"Grrrrrrah!" Henry howled. "RAH!" With clawed hands, he went for John's face, his rifle forgotten. John got a firm grip on the M1, struck Henry in the stomach with the butt, and quickly scrambled up and moved away.

"Don't- move…" John panted. "I'll… surrender… and… you live."

"Grrrrrr!" Henry said. "I'll-kill-you! I'll-fucking-kill-you!"

"I never did anything to you!"

"Mark! Killed Mark!"

"Because you two tried to kill me! You followed me all the way here and killed Jason! Why?"

Henry grinned, and John saw the cold, pitiless look in Henry's eyes then. There was no humanity there. Henry and Mark hadn't attempted to kill John the first time because he'd actually done anything to them, because all three boys knew he hadn't. The Evans boys had come to kill John simply because he was there, because they could. John felt a tremor of real fear. Henry's blue eyes were as empty and soulless as any hellish monster's, and that grin said that John could talk all he wanted, Henry would never, ever stop. There would be no end to this until one side or the other was dead.

John ordered Henry to stop, aimed the M1 and threateningly gestured with the bayonet, but Henry just laughed. He got uncertainly to his feet and went for the automatic rifle. John fumbled for a new en bloc clip, then gave that up as a wasted effort. Henry took a step forward, attempted to thrust the bayonet toward John's chest, then screamed as his injured ankle gave way. His left knee buckled, and Henry struck his head on the open door of a Mercury Topaz. Henry died as quietly as his adopted brother. He hit the pavement, shuddered, sucked in one small, final breath of air… then let it out again and went still.

John stood there for a few moments, adrenaline coursing through him, a savage joy at having won the fight beating in his heart. He threw back his head to the sky and screamed. Then, having done that, John doubled over and vomited. Then he fell to his knees and sobbed for nearly half an hour.

XX

After going through every possible stage of hysterics, John picked up his M1 and staggered off among the cars, trying to find Jason, hoping against hope that his friend was still alive. He found Jason lying on the ground where he had fallen, blood everywhere. The other boy looked strong and handsome, even in death. The girls would've loved him, had the superflu not killed all of them.

John looked up at the sky and howled again, this time in anguish, in grief. He ranted and cursed incoherently, committing unthinkable blasphemies as he swore at the Lord Himself for letting me live while Jason, Jason had to die.

Then, finally, John had nothing else to say. He set down the M1 and knelt beside Jason and cried. A brief afterthought told him to try for a pulse. It was pointless, sure, but… what else was there to do?

John picked up Jason's left wrist and clumsily felt for a pulse, expecting nothing, certain he'd get nothing.

A pulse! He's alive!

The pulse was weak, barely there at all, but Jason Morgan, somehow, was still alive. John broke down and cried all over again, thanking God, this time, for letting Jason breathe a little while longer. As storm clouds gathered overhead, John slipped off his pack and Jason's, then picked the other boy up. He thought of the church uphill a few miles back and looked around. Up past another green, grass-covered hill was a silent intersection with some stores, and a ways off to their right… a steeple.

John slung Jason over his back and got started, putting one foot in front of the other. The effort was hell after all he'd been through, but John made the mile-and-a-half journey anyway. Soaked in sweat, he barely noticed as rain began to fall. He staggered into the church and found it miraculously empty, mercifully free of decaying bodies.

There was no time to think as John laid Jason down at the base of the altar on his back. He went out into the rain and hauled both boys' packs into the church, then went out yet again and took Henry and Mark's. He retrieved their weapons, their ammunition, and finally, their bodies. Even as the rain pounded down, John dug a grave for each of them in the church yard. He prayed as he worked, hoping that God would somehow find it in Himself to forgive even these two. Whatever they had been on Earth, they were in His hands now.

When John thought he could bear it no more, the water-filled, six-foot deep graves were ready. John could barely stand up by that point, so he simply rolled Henry into his grave, then Mark into his, then shoveled mud back in on top of them both. It was a crude effort, completely without ceremony, but John wasn't sure what else to do. No way could he have put each of these two into a proper casket and gotten that here before their bodies started to rot.

John finally called the effort off after patting the last of the muddy earth down. He dropped the shovel between the two graves to mark the spot, making the decision to assemble a wooden cross for Henry and one for Mark later on. Then he stumbled off for the church doors, threw them open, then let them swing closed again.

With practiced effort, John got the first aid and survival kits out and worked to clean and bandage Jason's wound. It had struck the skull and gone around the side, digging a trench along the right side of Jason's head. There would be a prominent scar there for as long as Jason lived, John knew, even if Jason did survive this.

John tended to Jason until he dropped to the carpeted floor on his own, snoring right beside the other boy. When he woke up hours later, he dug out the dampened sleeping bag he'd retrieved for Jason's bag and set it up to air-dry, then fell into exhaustion-induced sleep yet again. Then, with great effort, John ignored his overworked, agonized muscles enough to lay Jason out on the dried sleeping bag and set some linens he'd found in a hallway closet over him. Then he sat down with the M1 in his hands, meaning to keep watch over Jason.

Instead, John passed out within five minutes and didn't wake up until twelve o'clock the next day. He didn't dream, didn't see any visions of the Dark Man, of Las Vegas, or of Mother Abigail and her home in Nebraska. John didn't see anything. He just slept, deep in that unique kind of sleep only brought on by total exhaustion.

XX

A/N: 2-24-2020.

My first update to this story in a full four months! I had a lot to keep me busy but I should have some opportunity to write again going into 2020 from here. Hard to believe we're already this close to being done with the first two months of the new decade. I can't offer any specific timetable for when I will update this story again, partly because I have to sketch out my plan for what else the story will feature. Feel free to post a review or send me a PM about this story if you like! And regardless, I intend to plan out the rest of this story and complete it. I never leave stories I start unfinished.