Rain has begun to spot the windshield of an armored truck.
Not a military vehicle, exactly. Maybe it was once. Maybe parts of it were.
Twenty years of necessity have changed it.
Heavy steel plates have been welded across the doors. Some are newer than others. The windows are thick and narrow. An old dashboard has been supplemented with analog gauges, toggle switches, handwritten labels and a radio bolted beneath the dash.
The engine is loud outside.
Inside, remarkably quiet.
An old song plays softly through the speakers.
MATTHEW, fourteen, sits behind the passenger seat with a notebook open across one knee. He’s clean-cut and dressed neatly enough that someone probably reminded him they were visiting family.
Beside the notebook is a red apple.
He takes a bite without looking at it.
In the front passenger seat sits THOMAS, early forties. His clothes are practical. His rifle is within reach.
Nothing about him suggests he expects trouble.
Everything about him suggests he’s prepared for it.
The DRIVER glances at the darkening sky.
DRIVER
We’re not beating that.
Thomas looks through the windshield.
The sky ahead has turned nearly black.
THOMAS
We don’t have to beat it. Just don’t let it beat us.
Matthew looks up.
MATTHEW
That’s not how weather works.
THOMAS
Thank you, Matthew.
MATTHEW
You’re welcome.
The driver smiles.
Thomas turns enough to see Matthew’s notebook.
THOMAS
Homework?
MATTHEW
No.
THOMAS
Then you can stop doing it.
MATTHEW
I’m writing down what they changed.
THOMAS
Who?
Matthew looks at him.
MATTHEW
Uncle Peter’s compound.
THOMAS
I know whose compound.
MATTHEW
Then why’d you ask?
The driver suppresses a laugh.
Thomas turns forward.
THOMAS
What’d they change?
Matthew consults his notes.
MATTHEW
They added the second fermenter. They’re trying a different corn variety next year. Aunt Rebecca says they might tear out the west greenhouse because the glazing is getting brittle. And Uncle Peter says they can get another eight percent out of the still if they—
THOMAS
Your uncle says a lot of things.
MATTHEW
He showed me.
THOMAS
Then eight percent it is.
Matthew writes something else.
Through the side window, another vehicle moves alongside them for a moment before dropping back.
Behind it is the reason for the trip.
A tanker.
Large. Old. Heavily patched.
Another escort follows behind it.
Four vehicles carrying thousands of gallons of fuel through a landscape where four vehicles now count as traffic.
Matthew picks up the apple.
Takes another small bite.
Thomas notices.
THOMAS
Eat it or put it away.
MATTHEW
I’m eating it.
THOMAS
You’re studying it.
Matthew takes an exaggerated bite.
Thomas nods.
THOMAS
There you go.
The first hard gust hits the truck.
The vehicle shifts slightly.
Rain spatters harder against the windshield.
The wipers begin their slow rhythm.
The music continues.
Matthew watches the tanker through the window.
MATTHEW
How long will it last?
THOMAS
The fuel?
Matthew nods.
THOMAS
Depends on planting.
MATTHEW
If planting’s normal.
THOMAS
Nothing’s normal.
MATTHEW
Average, then.
Thomas thinks.
THOMAS
Long enough to get us to the next run.
MATTHEW
That’s not an answer.
THOMAS
It’s the answer you’re getting.
Matthew writes something down.
Thomas turns.
THOMAS
Did you just write that down?
MATTHEW
No.
Thomas reaches back.
Matthew pulls the notebook away, smiling.
A burst of static comes over the radio.
The driver lowers the music.
RADIO VOICE
Lead to convoy. Weather’s cutting visibility.
Thomas takes the radio.
THOMAS
Copy.
RADIO VOICE
Road’s washing at the low section.
THOMAS
Can we clear it?
A pause.
RADIO VOICE
Think so.
The driver glances at Thomas.
Thomas nods.
They continue.
The rain grows heavier.
The landscape begins to disappear.
Matthew watches water stream sideways across his window. The world beyond the glass is gray-green and indistinct.
He reaches toward the stereo.
Thomas catches his hand.
THOMAS
Leave it.
Matthew withdraws it.
MATTHEW
You like this song?
THOMAS
I do.
MATTHEW
Why?
THOMAS
Because it’s good.
MATTHEW
It’s terrible.
THOMAS
You have terrible taste.
MATTHEW
You listen to music that’s older than I am.
THOMAS
Most music is older than you are.
The radio crackles again.
This voice is sharper.
RADIO VOICE
Hold.
The driver immediately eases off the accelerator.
Thomas reaches for his rifle.
Matthew notices.
MATTHEW
What?
Thomas doesn’t answer.
Ahead, through the rain, the lead vehicle slows.
The tanker slows with it.
The driver peers through the windshield.
DRIVER
Something in the road.
The wipers sweep.
For half a second Matthew sees it.
Wood. Scrap metal. Pieces of fencing.
A barricade.
Then the rain covers it again.
Thomas is already on the radio.
THOMAS
Back us up.
The driver checks the mirror.
His expression changes.
DRIVER
Can’t.
Thomas looks.
Figures are moving behind the convoy.
At first only shadows in the rain.
Then more.
Matthew leans toward the window.
THOMAS
Matthew. Down.
MATTHEW
I can’t see—
THOMAS
Down.
Matthew obeys.
Something strikes the side of the truck.
A dull THUMP.
Matthew freezes.
Another THUMP.
The music continues.
Thomas raises the radio.
THOMAS
Lead, push through. Push through now.
Figures emerge from the rain.
Dozens.
Some carry sticks. Tools. Pieces of pipe.
Some carry nothing.
But they aren’t surrounding the convoy at random.
They’re converging on the tanker.
Matthew lifts his head just enough to see.
A man runs beside it, his clothes hanging from him.
Another reaches the ladder at the rear.
A third goes for the valve housing.
The rear security guard raises his rifle.
It bucks.
Matthew hears almost nothing.
Only a muffled pop beneath the music.
The man falls.
Matthew stares.
Hands slap against the armored glass.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Faces appear and disappear behind streaming water.
Mouths open.
Eyes wide.
Anger.
Fear.
Matthew cannot hear any of it.
The driver accelerates toward the barricade.
DRIVER
They’re all over the tanker.
Thomas checks the side mirror.
THOMAS
Exterior mic.
The driver flips a metal toggle.
STATIC.
Then the outside world crashes into the truck.
RAIN hammering steel.
WIND.
SCREAMING.
GUNSHOTS.
Someone yelling for the convoy to move.
Someone crying.
Metal striking metal.
A voice somewhere outside:
VOICE
Get it open!
Another:
VOICE
Please! Please!
Then lost beneath the noise.
Matthew recoils from the speaker.
The old song is still playing underneath all of it.
The driver slaps the stereo off.
The truck hits the barricade.
Wood splinters.
Metal disappears beneath the chassis.
The vehicle lurches violently.
Matthew loses his notebook.
The apple rolls from his hand.
He grabs the seat.
A face appears at his window.
A GIRL.
About his age.
For an instant, Matthew stops breathing.
She is soaked through. Her hair is plastered across her face. Her clothes are filthy and too large for her. Blood runs from somewhere near her hairline, thinned pink by the rain.
She is frighteningly thin.
Her palm hits the window.
Matthew jerks backward.
She hits it again.
Her mouth is moving.
Now he can hear pieces of her voice through the exterior speaker, swallowed by rain and gunfire.
Matthew stares.
The girl stares back.
Then her eyes move downward.
The apple has stopped against Matthew’s boot.
She sees it.
Looks back at him.
Something changes in her face.
She pounds the glass.
GIRL
FUCK YOU!
Matthew’s eyes widen.
A hand catches her from behind.
She disappears into the rain.
The truck swerves.
Something SLAMS into the passenger side.
The driver fights the wheel.
DRIVER
Shit!
A piece of exterior armor tears loose and drags against the road.
Thomas looks back toward the tanker.
Two figures have climbed onto it. Another is still fighting with the valve housing.
THOMAS
Keep moving!
The convoy pushes forward.
A MAN appears beside Thomas’s door.
Gaunt. Bearded. Soaked.
He catches the damaged exterior handle.
The door jerks.
Thomas grabs it.
The man pulls from outside.
For a moment they fight over the door.
THOMAS
Matthew, stay down!
Matthew crouches behind the seat.
The door opens several inches.
Rain blasts inside.
The sound becomes enormous.
Thomas drives his shoulder into the door.
The man reaches through and catches Thomas’s jacket.
Thomas strikes him with the rifle.
Once.
Twice.
THOMAS
Let go!
The man doesn’t.
He pulls harder.
The door opens farther.
Matthew sees his face.
Not clearly.
Clearly enough.
The man’s other hand comes through.
A short piece of sharpened metal.
Thomas sees it.
The man drives it toward him.
Thomas twists away.
Then fires.
The man drops from the door.
Thomas slams it shut.
The driver throws the manual lock.
Rainwater covers the floor.
Thomas sits back, breathing hard.
Matthew stares at him.
MATTHEW
Dad—
THOMAS
I’m okay.
Thomas checks the mirror.
THOMAS
Tanker?
The radio answers through static.
RADIO VOICE
Moving. Rear’s moving.
THOMAS
Anybody down?
A pause.
RADIO VOICE
Not ours.
Thomas closes his eyes for half a second.
THOMAS
Keep going.
The convoy accelerates.
The figures behind them slowly disappear into the rain.
The exterior speaker continues to carry the storm.
Thomas reaches over.
Flips the switch.
Silence.
Not complete silence.
The engine.
The wipers.
Matthew breathing.
But the world outside is gone again.
Thomas looks down.
Blood darkens his sleeve.
He pulls the fabric back.
A cut crosses his forearm.
Not deep.
Deep enough.
Thomas stares at it.
Looks toward Matthew.
Matthew is staring through the rear window.
Thomas pulls the sleeve down.
DRIVER
You hit?
THOMAS
No.
The driver looks at him.
Thomas meets his eyes.
A beat.
THOMAS
Watch the road.
The driver does.
Matthew slowly sits upright.
His notebook lies open on the floor, several pages wet.
He retrieves it.
The apple is beneath the seat.
A few moments pass.
The rain begins to soften.
MATTHEW
Dad?
THOMAS
Yeah?
MATTHEW
What’s “fuck you”?
The driver looks at Thomas.
Thomas looks at the driver.
The driver becomes extremely interested in the road.
THOMAS
Where did you hear that?
MATTHEW
The girl said it.
Thomas turns.
THOMAS
What girl?
MATTHEW
At my window.
Thomas studies him.
THOMAS
She said that?
MATTHEW
Yes.
THOMAS
You’re sure?
MATTHEW
I heard her.
Thomas looks through the rain-streaked window.
THOMAS
It’s an old obscenity.
MATTHEW
What’s an obscenity?
The driver almost smiles.
Thomas notices.
THOMAS
Something you’re not going to repeat when we get home.
MATTHEW
What does it mean?
THOMAS
It means somebody’s angry.
Matthew considers that.
MATTHEW
At me?
THOMAS
No.
MATTHEW
She was looking at me.
THOMAS
Matthew—
MATTHEW
She said it to me.
Thomas turns farther in his seat. His voice is patient.
THOMAS
Sometimes they remember things.
Matthew waits.
THOMAS
Words. Sounds. Things they used to do. Doesn’t mean they understand them.
MATTHEW
She understood it.
THOMAS
You don’t know that.
MATTHEW
She looked right at me.
Thomas considers how to explain it.
THOMAS
You know how parrots talk?
MATTHEW
There are twelve at South House.
Thomas gives him a look.
THOMAS
You know how parrots talk.
MATTHEW
They copy people.
THOMAS
Right.
MATTHEW
But they don’t know what they’re saying.
THOMAS
Not the way we do.
Matthew looks back through the window.
Nothing out there now but rain.
MATTHEW
She wasn’t copying anybody.
Thomas says nothing.
MATTHEW
She was angry.
THOMAS
They get angry.
MATTHEW
Why was she angry at me?
Thomas looks at his son.
He has no difficulty answering.
THOMAS
She wasn’t.
Matthew waits.
THOMAS
You were there. That’s all.
Matthew looks down.
He reaches beneath the seat and retrieves the apple.
Bruised now.
Dirty from the rainwater on the floor.
He wipes it against his shirt.
Looks at the bite he took from it.
Then at the window.
He sets the apple beside him.
He doesn’t eat any more.
Thomas turns forward.
His injured arm rests against his body.
Hidden.
The radio crackles.
RADIO VOICE
Gate says we’re twelve minutes out.
Thomas takes it.
THOMAS
Tell them we’ve got vehicle damage. Tanker’s intact.
RADIO VOICE
Copy.
Matthew opens his notebook.
The page is smeared from the rain.
He finds a dry corner.
Writes:
Zombies can remember words.
He stops.
Adds:
Maybe without understanding them.
He looks at what he’s written.
Then underneath:
Why was she angry?
The wipers sweep.
For an instant, through the clearing rain, the road home becomes visible.
The battered convoy continues toward it.
The apple sits untouched beside Matthew.
BLACKOUT.
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