Page 6 of Last Light

I don’t want to get involved in whatever he’s trying to tell me. It probably got this man killed.

Noble impulses are dangerous. If anything has been proven true since the asteroid hit, that has.

Surviving is the most we can hope for anymore.

But this man is trying with the last of his strength to hand the paper to me, so I take it.

There’s blood smeared on part of it, and I try to wipe it off with my fingers. Eventually the writing on the page is legible.

It looks like some kind of brief note with a drawing beneath it.

“What about Fort Knox?” I ask, looking back up at the man.

The question is futile. He’s dead now. I can see it clearly even before I check his pulse.

It’s almost a relief. I’ve seen far too many people die in my life, but I’m still not comfortable with watching someone suffer.

Now that he’s dead, I can take the truck without feeling guilty about it.

I reach across to try the ignition. It sputters but doesn’t start.

Out of gas.

I mutter a few curses and walk around to pop the hatch on the camper shell.

At least I have some luck there. A few cans—peaches, beans, and corn—and a few boxes of mac and cheese. Also quite a few bottles of water.

I haven’t eaten since yesterday, so I grab one can, open it with my knife, and then eat the peaches with my fingers, standing on the side of the road. I put all the food and as many bottles of water as I can carry into my pack and walk around to check the back seat to make sure there’re no other supplies I can use in the truck.

Nothing.

If I’ve been estimating the passing days correctly, it should be August now. The temperature isn’t nearly as hot as summers I remember from my childhood, but the air is thick and dirty, and the damage to the ozone layer has made the sun’s rays far more destructive than they used to be.

I’m sweating so much it’s dripping into my eyes, and it’s dangerous to be lingering here on the side of the road.

I’m about to walk back to the motorcycle—my one and only priority right now is finding gas so I can keep going—but I’m drawn back toward the bloodied letter I’m holding in my hand.

I should just drop it and move on. That’s what a real survivor would do.

Curiosity is like sympathy. It will kill you in the end.

I read the letter anyway.

Fort Bragg fallen. Drove (3000) on way to Fort Knox. Evacuate. Look for sign of wolf.

Beneath the words is a stylized drawing of a wolf.

I stare down at the piece of paper, anxiety roiling in my gut.

I don’t understand the wolf reference, but the rest of the note is perfectly clear.

Fort Knox is in danger of being overrun by a three-thousand-member drove.

If that happens, everyone still in the world who matters to me will be killed or taken.

The dead man was sent to give the warning, and now it would never get there.

I can try to deliver it myself, but it’s a long shot I’ll survive all the way to Fort Knox.

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