Jayson Part I

Northern Nevada

Jayson's first thought after leaving the facility behind was of Monica. At first, her betrayal cut deep into his soul. He didn't want to be alone, and he especially didn't want to be without her. He meant what he said in Arizona; he was irrevocably, head-over-heels, stupid in love with her. She'd chosen to stay behind, in that God-awful compound, with the enemy. She'd chosen them.

She wasn't safe there. Surely, Monica had to know that. Jayson had seen Benson leer at her more than once, watching her with lust in his eyes. Everything about that man gave him the heebie-jeebies. The way Benson spoke, twisting everyone's words, so he seemed to be acting in humanity's best interests, tinged Jayson's vision red.

Colonel Benson was evil. He'd imprisoned Jeannie, turned Taylor against him, and now Monica. They were all isolated and Jayson himself was alone.

Even worse, he'd fallen into that man's trap, acting on pure emotion. Had he been given meds to curb the withdrawals, Jayson might have acted differently. He wouldn't have unleashed his fury on Taylor and beat him to within an inch of his life.

That first night in the mountains, huddling in his fleece jacket, Jayson sobbed. He cried for his broken friendships, and most of all, he wept for the shame that washed over him. His actions had been despicable, and he had only himself to blame.

Unfortunately, his pity-party was shortlived. Not even an hour after the sun had set, he'd been awoken by the sound of several engines. There had been no shelter available across the stretch of land, and he'd been forced to sleep beneath the stars in the cooling air. In early September, it wasn't cold enough yet for snow, but it would be soon. The approaching winter wasn't his only issue though. Despite the lack of human zombies, there were still wild animals to worry about. One bite was all he'd need to fall victim to the disease. With that in mind, he lat low to the ground, trying to get a better look at the vehicles driving off-road in the distance. The silloehettes were difficult to make out in the dark, but something in his gut had told him these people weren't friendly. When the vehicles slowed, he flattened himself to the ground. Whoever was inside, they were searching for something.

Was it possible Benson had sent someone after him?

The thought was ludicrous. Perhaps Jayson was paranoid, and this vehicle wasn't from the compound. But if it wasn't theirs, then who were these people? The trucks had the military armored body—that much he could discern. Was it possible a civillian had acquired one in the past week?

He had so many questions, and until they were answered, he'd have to remain out of sight. The trucks continued, slowly moving over the rough terrain. Jayson waited until they were far enough away for him to move without being detected. Tightening the straps on his bag, he trekked forward, careful not to roll his ankle on a loose rock. The ground was uneven and sloped, making travel in the dark almost impossible.

An animal howled in the distance, and Jayson froze as something darted between the brambles nearby. A small rabbit skittered away, and his heart rate spiked. When the creature sped away from him, he expelled a relieved sigh. Stuck in the middle of nowhere with only his hunting knife left him exposed. If an animal turned and came upon him, he'd be screwed.

Unable to sleep with the thought of what might hunt him in the middle of the night, he picked up his trek again. Several miles passed before he came upon a stream. Unloading his bag, he checked his canteen. It was still half full, but he'd need more water as he traveled. Unfortunately, he had no way to know if the water was clean or if the virus lived in boiling temperatures. He'd have to take his chances though and hope for the best.

He rummaged through the contents until he found his lighter. Then he piled together some dry brush, surrounding it with stones. With that done, he looked for something he could use for cooking. His canteen was made of plastic, and it would melt before he could properly sterilize the water.

When his search yielded nothing, he sighed. His survival training back in the day didn't cover what to do in the event of a zombie apocalypse. The only thing he remembered was to look for clear, running water and to avoid larger rivers in case of pollution.

His stomach rumbled, directing his attention to another issue. There were snacks in his bag from raiding the gas station in Phoenix, but even those wouldn't last him much longer than a day. He could hunt though, but like with the water, he had no way to know if the animals he caught were infected.

"I really went and made a mess for myself, didn't I?"

Sinking to his knees, he sighed. He never should have hit Taylor. Lies or not, he was his best friend. Now, his little buddy, his dearest friend wouldn't know how much Jayson cared. It was more than friendship, is was love transcended to something pure, special on a soul level that he couldn't quite label. And ultimately, the feeling of betrayal through the lies had been the reason he lashed out.

He glared at the dark stream in front of him. He couldn't chance drinking it; his best bet would be to find a small shop or house that hadn't been looted or wasn't infested with any Soapies.

Resigned, he secured his bag and hoisted it on his shoulders. The sooner he found shelter, the better. He didn't want to be found in broad daylight by the military, and there was nothing in sight to keep turned animals from inviting themselves to a free buffet.

"Frack, I should have been more careful."

Several hours later, the dawn was beginning to rise over the horizon. Jayson wasn't accustomed to this level of walking without a break; he hadn't marched this hard since he was in the Army. Everything hurt, from his aching thighs to his the muscles in his shoulder blades. His bag weighed down on him. Instead of being around ten pounds, it felt like fifty.

Leaning on a long stick he'd picked up several miles behind him, he wiped his brow. His sweater was tied at the waist, and sweat clung to the front and back of his shirt, despite the chilly morning.

In the distance, he spotted the outline of a small structure. It couldn't be more than a single story building, but it was a potential sanctuary nonetheless.

"Oh, thank God," he wheezed, picking up the pace. His legs muscles screamed in protest, but he forced himself forward anyway. He could crash for two days once he was safe.

On he marched until the building gradually grew larger. A single highway came into view beside it, with rocky terrain and mountains on each side. The road was empty, with nary a car or person in sight, both living and Soapie alike. Eventually, he was able to make out a carport over three protruding lanes, and relief thrummed through him.

What were the odds his first sight of civilization would be a gas station?

Tightening the straps around his shoulders, he jogged forward until he was less than a stone's throw from the building. The sign overhead read 'Monty's,' indicating it to be a privately owned business rather than a franchise. The pumps outside were old, reminiscent of the late sixties, and a thick layer of dust covered them as well as the outside brick and stucco walls of the main building. The wind in the cool air and the surrounding cacti only added to the sense of abandonment.

Coming closer, he noticed a bright yellow bag over one of the pumps that read, "Out of Service." The windows were dingy and the lights were out inside the station. Either the power had finally shut off with no one to man the electrical plants, or the building had been closed long before the outbreak began.

Moving more cautiously now, Jayson slowly rounded the building, where a rusted, dented car sat parked beside the garbage bin. By the looks of the smashed windows and stripped interior, as well as the red paint peeling off the sides, this heap had been here for awhile.

Jayson didn't know whether he should laugh or cry. If the station was closed, there would be no food to stockpile into his bag. On the bright side, there was a strong chance he could seek sanctuary here for a few hours before he was on his way again. Just because there were no Soapies didn't mean the military had given up their search. And with the outbreak toppling any form of government and order, there would be gangs and thugs creating their own societies.

The sun lifted a little higher, casting a blinding glare over the large swath of land behind him. He must have traversed a good fifteen miles with only one canteen of water, and his throat was drier than sandpaper.

Trudging with the speed of molasses back to the main entrance, Jayson pulled out his hunting knife and tapped on the windowed door three times. It echoed through the building, reverberating off the inside walls. When nothing immediately moved, he tried the door handle. It rattled, but remained locked.

Sheathing his blade on his belt, he paced for a moment, running his fingers through his grimy hair. He couldn't risk breaking a window. Leaving an uncovered opening would bring predators, and it could attract unwanted attention to himself. There had to be another way inside that didn't risk putting himself in danger.

One of the windows to his left had been boarded and spray painted blue, covered by several layers of faded graffiti and dirt. Removing his knife again, Jayson worked at a couple of loose nails until they came free, falling to the cement with a plink. He slid his fingers beneath the rotted wood and pulled. The barrier came away easily, and a swarm of termites angrily scattered against the home they'd created between the window frame and the cover.

He ignored the insects and craned his neck to see better between the gutted shelf blocking the window. Nothing moved except for dust specks floating in the beam of sunlight bathing the empty lobby.

"Hello?" he whispered. "Is there anyone here? Soapies looking for a nice, juicy meal?"

He laughed at his lame attempt at humor. Had Monica been with him, she'd have snorted and rolled her eyes before telling him to come up with a better joke. Taylor would have responded with something equally off-putting, and Eric would have shaken his head.

Grief momentarily threatened to paralyze him, dragging his heart into the pit of his stomach and wrapping iron chains around it. It hurt to think of them as he saw nothing but their smiles in the back of his mind, and it was a painful reminder that Jayson was now alone in the apocalypse.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he slipped inside, belly first through the shelves, snagging his shirt on a jagged edge. He shimmied the rest of the way through until his hands touched the floor, and he used to to pull himself the rear of the way out.

Once he was on his feet, he sneezed from the loose dust kicked up from his shoe. The air was stale from years of disuse, and nothing adorned the surfaces except for a vintage cash register, and an empty plastic water bottle in the corner. The label had long since faded, and the plastic curled in on itself, melted and dried from endless summers of sitting in the same spot.

Behind the counter was a single door, and when Jayson pushed it open, the adjoining room proved to be as empty as the rest of the building. The only thing inside was an old filing cabinet and metal desk, screwed into the wall. Above, one of the ceiling panels was missing, revealing exposed innards of torn cables, their edges corroded against the rubber insulation.

Dropping his backpack to the floor, Jayson leaned his head against the wall. This building hadn't provided anything useful in terms of survival later on, but he was too exhausted to travel any further. The only purpose it served was a place to sleep for the next few hours before he moved to the next destination.

As much as he wanted to give in to the call of sleep though, he needed to secure himself first. He unlocked the door from inside and fit the board back into the window, careful not to leave any traces that he'd disturbed anything. Then he went back inside and locked the door behind him, sequestering himself inside the small office. He unloaded his bag and took out a Snicker's bar, biting his teeth around it as he inventoried the contents. At the very bottom was a half empty bottle of coke he must have forgotten about when he first arrived to the compound.

Finishing off his candy, he opened the soda and drank what was left in one gulp. The coke was flat, churning his stomach with old sugar, but it was better than nothing. He tossed the bottle aside, where it rolled into the wall with a loud pop of plastic bouncing against brick. Then he pulled out a clean shirt and rolled it, placing it on top of the bag as a makeshift pillow.

He lay down on the filthy floor and closed his eyes. His feet throbbed and his head hurt as a migraine from dehydration and not enough sleep clawed into his temples. Within minutes, his breathing deepened and his mind drifted, claimed by an uneasy sleep.