First Chapter of Alone Together: queer post-apocalyptic romance adventure

[paulseawa]

AIDEN

 

I’ve got a light touch on the steering wheel. The road cuts a winding path through a dense forest, the cone of my headlights revealing just enough to see ahead. Everything else is stark blackness. Daft Punk blasts through the speakers—an EDM mix I made last year as a DJ for my high school. Back when DJs and high schools existed, that is. The bass rumbling through the seat makes me feel connected to the car.

For the third time this hour, I check on the vials. With one eye on the road, I paw at the backpack resting on the passenger seat. A little obsessive? Maybe. But it’s my critical cargo, what I’m risking my life for. And I’m doing this for Marcus. Just thinking of him makes my throat feel thick. But the familiar shape of the aluminum box through the nylon fabric calms me.

A sign flies by saying Rest Area - 1 Mile. I’ll probably stop. Looters often overlook rest stop vending machines. Plus, I do kinda need to take a leak. I mean, with nobody around for hundreds of miles, I guess I could piss in the middle of the road if I wanted. But some habits are hard to break.

When I pull up to the rest area, the car makes a path through an inch of pine needles spread over the parking lot. Weeds spring up through every possible crack, and vines are well on their way to swallowing the restrooms whole.

I leave the headlights on. Since man-made light is a thing of the past, you can’t see your hand six inches in front of your face, especially on a cloudy, moonless night in rural Montana.

A cold blast of air and the scent of pine needles hits me as I open the door. Must be low forties out. I can even see my breath.

I take the hammer from the trunk and head to the vending machines. I’m pleasantly surprised to find them well-stocked. I smash through the plexiglass and root through the items that aren’t rancid or moldy yet. Granola bars and pretzels usually last longer than greasy potato chips. I load them into my backpack.

After I do my business, I head back to the car, crunching through pine needles. I’m halfway there when a branch snaps someplace nearby. My heart rate spikes, as I stop in my tracks and stay totally quiet, staring into the inky blackness and straining my ears. No sounds. Not even insects.

I hurry back to the car, with a chill running through me. The car kicks up debris as I hit the gas, getting the hell out of there as fast as I can. For a while, I’m hyper-vigilant, scanning my mirrors. But as the minutes pass my nerves start to calm.

I’ve been cruising along for a while when my eyes feel heavy. It’s no use fighting sleep. I’m about to pull over for the night when headlights shine in my rearview mirror. God damn it. This usually means just one thing.

Carjackers.

Their standard M.O. is to drive up beside you and point guns at the car until you pull over. But I’m not planning on letting them get that close. The trick is to go slowly at first and make them over-confident. Let them think they’ve got easy prey. Then floor it. Take curves so fast, they’ll piss their pants. With any luck, their car will spin out, trying to follow. It’s half skill, half psychology.

And here comes a curve right now. I find just the right speed to keep traction. The tires squeal but hold. Right at the apex of the turn, I punch the accelerator. It pushes me back into the seat as the tires grab the tarmac, and the car blasts down the road.

Those guys should be long gone, but somehow those headlights shine in the rearview mirror again.

Shit.

These guys are good.

I floor the accelerator, but the engine groans in protest this time. There’s a distinct smell of burning oil wafting into the cabin. That can’t be good. This ‘97 Integra was the only car with a working battery in all of Sioux Falls, and I just passed Big Sky, Montana. So it’s hard to complain, but the timing sure sucks.

Whizzing sounds fly past the car. Are they shooting at me?

More whizzing. A bullet hits the rear window, shattering into a million pieces. My heart rate spikes. These aren’t carjackers. They’re trying to kill me.

I turn off the music. This isn’t a game anymore. Drawing in a deep breath, my training kicks in. One wrong move, and I’m dead. My focus sharpens, and my mind clears, each action becoming deliberate and calculated.

I weave the car back and forth to evade the next round of bullets and take the next turn faster than the last. The subtle feeling of the back end sliding out translates through the wheel. With the slightest shift of steering and a barely perceptible change of speed, the car holds to the curve.

Another round of bullets sprays the car, and the left rear tire explodes. The steering wheel lurches violently. Trying to steady it takes every ounce of strength, fingers clenched, my life on the line. The car veers off the road, and I slam on the brakes. Dirt kicks up everywhere, but it slows the vehicle enough that the crash doesn’t kill me. The front bumper smacks up against a tree.

Ninety to zero in five seconds. And somehow, I’m still alive.

I grab the backpack and my mix CD, but then the headlights approach. No time for anything else. I jump out and run for the cover of the forest. The sounds of screeching brakes and slamming car doors are right behind me.

Total darkness.

Brambles rip against my face and arms as I stumble through the woods. The knobby end of a tree branch hits me hard in the ribs. The pain is blinding, but I grit my teeth and push forward. More bullets stream past, some hitting nearby trees, covering me in an explosion of splinters.

A voice yells out from behind. “Aiden! I know you’re there. Hand over the vials and you can walk away.”

Who the hell knows my name? Worse, how do they know what I’m carrying? The only other person who knows is the woman who sent me. She hand-picked me because I was the only courier who could get the job done alone. Willing to do what most would call a suicide mission. And maybe that’s what this is.

Behind me, the gunshots and shouts are relentless. My lungs burn, and my ribs scream. Every part of my body is telling me to stop. To my left, the ground slopes slightly. I fumble in that direction, following it downward. As it gets steeper, the slope forces my pace to quicken. I’m barely able to keep my feet from sliding under me. A wet patch of leaves sends my legs flailing forward, and for the last thirty feet, I’m on my backside until my boots splash into a running stream.

My burning lungs force me to pause for a moment. Beyond the babbling of the stream are the sounds of gunshots and shouting, but they’re far off to my right. So I head in the opposite direction with slow and deliberate footsteps, favoring silence over speed.

After several minutes of painfully slow going, the sound of the stream is gone, and the gunshots have fallen silent. But I don’t dare stop yet. They could still get lucky and find me.

Time has lost all meaning in the darkness. It could be twenty minutes. Could be an hour. My aching feet and burning muscles are my only gauge, and they just hit empty. I crumple into a heap on the forest floor.

How did that situation get so bad so fast? My mind races, playing out all the scenarios that could have happened. If the car lurches the other way, or a bullet flies six inches to the right, then I’m dead.

Dead like Connor on our last mission together? Yeah. Dead. Just like him.

That damn voice in my head. Get the hell out. This is why I’ll only work alone. I can’t ask anyone to die for me. Never again.

Focus, Aiden.

I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing, forcing out unwanted thoughts. My heart rate slows, and my mind clears.

Okay. Survival.

When I open my eyes again, they’ve adjusted to the darkness. The moon has risen, providing the slightest bit of light. Vague details emerge. Scrapes run up and down my arms, but nothing is too deep. I’ll live. My ribs are tender at the spot where I hit the tree. The slightest touch makes me wince in pain. Yeah, that’s gonna suck for a while.

Inside my backpack, the small aluminum box has a minor dent in one corner, but beyond that, it’s undamaged. This is what my pursuers were after.

But who in the hell were they? I know the territories of every militia group between Boston and Seattle. Standard training for couriers like me. This is the turf of the Freedom Liberation Army. The FLA. But they’re nothing more than minor players. Idiots with guns. Grabbing whatever bit of territory they could after the Great Collapse. How could they know anything about my mission?

There’ll be time to figure that out. But right now, my focus needs to be on staying alive. Other than the box, there’s not much in the backpack—a bottle of water and the granola bars and pretzels I looted. Of course, my flashlight, compass, and gun are all back in the car. Wasn’t expecting to have to ditch it like that. Sure glad I took the time to get my mix CD. Shit.

It’s not a lot, but it’ll last me until tomorrow. No sense in wandering around in the dark, so finding shelter is the first order of business—something with cover and warmth. I find a small, protected hollow under a tree that fits me perfectly. A layer of moss and leaves act as my blanket.

This is when memories of my boyfriend Marcus haunt me. The point when I’m halfway between waking and sleep. When my subconscious mind has more influence than it normally does. His final moments play back in my mind like a horror movie.

I was returning from that ill-fated mission six months ago. The one that Connor didn’t make it back from. But things were even worse at home. Marcus had fallen ill, and he was lying in bed, sick and dying; the Infection was in its vicious final stage.

I stood by his bedside, a protective barrier separating us. The undulations in the plastic distorted his face. A face that was pale and drawn out, with deep creases marring what was once beautiful. He looked more eighty than eighteen.

“Aiden,” he uttered weakly, putting a hand up to the barrier.

I pressed my hand against his, with tears streaming down my face. “I’m here, Marcus.”

His voice was only a whisper. “I know about Connor. I know what you did.”

I pulled back, my heart racing. How could he have known? Connor and I were alone on our mission. And Connor didn’t make it back alive. But the hurt in Marcus’ eyes was unmistakable.

I wanted to explain. Tell him he’s the only one I love. But he used his last breath to say this to me. To pass his final judgment. He coughed up blood, and his body thrashed as the Infection claimed its latest victim.

I keep playing that moment back in my mind until exhaustion takes over, forcing me into a restless sleep. But even my dreams are plagued by this memory. No use in trying to bury it. My subconscious won’t allow it.

I wake up with a start, my heart pounding, and my eyes damp. It’s still dark out and I have no way to know how long it is until dawn.

The box. I reach for the backpack in a panic, but of course, it’s still there. That same familiar shape.

I’m under no illusion that the vials in the box will erase my torment or somehow bring Marcus back. But if it helps find a cure and saves a single person from the Infection, or spares a single loved one from feeling the misery I feel, maybe I’ll have done my penance. Maybe that will dampen the pain.

And if this really is a suicide mission? Well, that’ll dampen the pain, too.

[rachelmsterling]

Wow, really pulled into this. The post-apocalyptic setting feels very vivid, that very American dead space-ness with danger lurking unexpectedly anywhere. I really enjoy the narrator's voice--those moments of biting humor give the reader a nice breather from the heaviness of the world. And I was very curious to read to the end of the excerpt and get a sense of what the vials were for. I also love the idea of bringing queer romance into the post-apocalpytic genre too--I personally haven't come across much of that before, so always exciting to find queer narratives in unexpected places!