Chapter 43: The Highway - Part 1
Wednesday Afternoon - 2:47 PM
The highway was a graveyard of metal and broken dreams. Cars stretched for miles in both directions, abandoned mid-evacuation, their occupants long gone or worse. Some vehicles had bodies inside—desiccated corpses or reanimated husks still strapped into seatbelts.
The RV's engine coughed, sputtered, died. Dale wrestled it to the shoulder, cursing under his breath.
"Radiator hose," he announced after popping the hood. "It's split. We need to replace it."
"How long?" Rick asked.
"Hour, maybe two. If I can find the right parts."
Shane kicked the RV's tire. "We can't afford to stop. Every hour we waste is an hour closer to—"
"To what? Running out of gas? The RV dies, we lose half our supplies and our mobile shelter. We fix it, we keep moving."
Rick intervened. "Dale's right. We stop, we fix it, we move on. Everyone spread out, scavenge what you can from these cars. Water, food, medicine, fuel. Anything useful."
The group dispersed into the vehicle graveyard. I paired with Alicia, moving through the maze of abandoned cars systematically.
[ TIMER: 22:18:44 ]
Less than a day. The headaches were back, constant now. Red tinge creeping into my peripheral vision. The pressure demanding, insistent.
Need a target. Soon.
"You okay?" Alicia asked, pulling supplies from a minivan.
"Fine."
"You look terrible. Pale, shaky. When's the last time you slept?"
"CDC. Before the explosion."
"That was yesterday. You need rest."
"I need a lot of things. Rest isn't one of them."
She found a case of bottled water, handed me one. "Drink. At least that."
I drank. The water was warm, stale, but wet. Better than nothing.
We moved to the next vehicle—a sedan with Georgia plates. The doors were locked. I smashed the window with my knife handle, reached inside to unlock it.
The backseat had a child's car seat. Empty. A backpack beside it, pink with cartoon characters. Inside: toys, juice boxes, a stuffed rabbit.
Alicia picked up the rabbit, held it like something precious. "Someone's daughter left this behind."
"She's dead now. Or worse."
"You don't know that."
"I know the statistics. Children are the least likely to survive. Too small, too slow, too trusting."
"That's bleak."
"That's honest." I took the rabbit from her, tucked it into my pack. "When we find Sophia, we'll give it to her. Kids need toys. Especially now."
Alicia's expression softened. "That's almost kind."
"Don't get used to it."
We continued working. Found more water, canned food, a first aid kit that hadn't been looted. Patricia would appreciate that. Every vehicle was a time capsule—snapshots of lives interrupted mid-flight.
A truck held camping gear. An SUV had hunting rifles in a locked case—Daryl broke it open, distributed the weapons. A motorcycle had saddlebags full of ammunition. The apocalypse's supply chain, one abandoned vehicle at a time.
I was checking a cargo van when I heard it—a weak voice, barely audible.
"Help. Someone. Please."
The voice came from a sedan three cars down. I approached carefully, weapon ready. Could be a trap, could be walkers. But the voice sounded human.
"Hello?"
"Here. I'm here. Please."
The sedan's driver-side door was crushed against a truck. The passenger side opened with a screech of warped metal. Inside, a man in a business suit—mid-forties, overweight, sweating despite the cool October air.
His right leg was trapped under the dashboard, crushed when the front end had collapsed during whatever accident had left him here. The skin around the injury was purple, swollen, infection setting in.
"Thank God," he gasped. "I've been here for days. No water, no food. Thought I'd die."
"You might still."
"Please. Help me. I have money, I can pay—"
"Money's worthless."
"Then whatever you want. Supplies, information, I can—"
I moved to check his leg. The dashboard had him pinned thoroughly. Would take tools to free him, time and effort.
"What's your name?"
"Marcus. Marcus Webb."
His wallet was on the passenger seat. I picked it up, flipped through it. Driver's license confirming his name. Credit cards. Family photos. And a badge—bail bondsman, licensed in Georgia.
"You track people?"
"Tracked. Past tense. I found people who skipped bail, brought them back." His voice was getting weaker. "Not exactly heroic work, but it paid."
"I'm sure."
I checked the trunk through the back seat. It wouldn't open from inside—safety feature. But I could see through the gap. Restraints, heavy-duty. A taser. Pepper spray. And a folder of photos.
I recognized the type immediately—surveillance shots. Scared faces, bruised skin, people who looked like they'd been hunted. Some of the photos had notes: "Resisted arrest - force authorized."
Marcus Webb wasn't just a bail bondsman. He was a predator with a license.
[ TIMER: 18:33:12 ]
The timer pulsed. Opportunity.
Guilty. He hurt people for money. Hunted the desperate. This is justified.
"I'll get help," I said, closing the door.
Marcus grabbed my wrist through the window, grip desperate. "Don't leave me. Please. I have money, I have—"
"I know what you have." I pulled free. "Sit tight. I'll be back."
"When?"
"Soon."
I walked away, leaving him calling after me. Found Rick near the RV, helping Dale sort through radiator hoses from various vehicles.
"Found a survivor," I said. "Trapped in a sedan. Leg crushed, infection setting in."
Rick straightened. "Can we save him?"
"Maybe. Need tools to free him, antibiotics for the infection. Even then, he might lose the leg."
"Where?"
"Three rows over, blue sedan. But Rick—he's not priority. We have limited medical supplies, and Sophia's still missing. Saving him means using resources we might need later."
"We save who we can."
"Even when it costs us?"
"Especially then. That's what separates us from them."
If only you knew.
"I'll check on him," Rick said. "Get the tools ready."
He walked toward Marcus's location. I stayed behind, ostensibly helping Dale but really calculating.
Rick will want to save him. Will use our supplies, our time. Marcus will recover or he won't. But if I infect him first, before Rick gets there, the decision gets made for me.
Alicia appeared beside me. "You found someone?"
"A bail bondsman. Trapped, injured. Rick's going to try to save him."
"You don't think he should?"
"I think resources are finite and choices have consequences. Saving him means not saving someone else later."
"That's cold."
"That's math."
She studied me. "You've changed. Since the quarry camp attack. Since the CDC. You're harder."
"The world's hard. I'm adapting."
"Adapting or breaking?"
"Same thing, probably."
Madison called us over—she'd found a cache of supplies in a panel truck. Medical supplies, food, bottled water. Enough to sustain the group for weeks if rationed properly.
We loaded everything into the RV. The work was mechanical, mindless. My head pounded. Vision flickering red at the edges. The virus demanding, insistent.
[ TIMER: 17:22:47 ]
Less than eighteen hours. Critical range. Soon the Stage 2 symptoms would start—full red vision, loss of fine motor control, aggressive impulses I'd struggle to suppress.
Marcus Webb. Tonight. After the group sleeps.
Rick returned an hour later, face grim. "He's in bad shape. Leg's infected, probably septic. Even if we free him, he'll need serious medical attention."
"Which we don't have," Shane said.
"We have antibiotics from the CDC—"
"Which we need for our people. Not for some random guy we found on the highway."
"He's a person, Shane. Not random. A person."
"A person who's going to die whether we help him or not. Why waste supplies?"
"Because it's the right thing to do."
"The right thing gets us killed."
They stared at each other—Rick's idealism versus Shane's pragmatism. The fundamental divide that would eventually tear them apart.
Lori intervened. "What if we stabilize him? Give him water, basic first aid. Then leave him supplies and keep moving. He can choose whether to stay or try to follow."
"That's a death sentence," Rick said.
"That's a choice. More than most people get now."
Rick looked like he wanted to argue. Then he nodded. "Fine. We stabilize, we leave supplies. But we try."
They went back to Marcus's car. I followed at a distance, watching. Rick worked to free the leg using a jack from another vehicle. Shane provided water. Marcus drank desperately, thanking them, promising anything.
They got him free after twenty minutes. The leg was mangled, bone visible through torn flesh. He screamed when they moved him.
"Antibiotics," Rick said. "Now."
Patricia appeared with the medical kit. Applied bandages, administered pills. Marcus's color improved slightly. Not enough to save him, but enough to delay the inevitable.
"Rest here tonight," Rick told him. "In the morning, we'll reassess. If you're stable, you come with us. If not..." He didn't finish.
"Thank you," Marcus gasped. "Thank you so much."
Rick and the others left him in the sedan, leg bandaged, supplies nearby. He could survive the night, maybe. Long enough to become a burden.
Or long enough for me to make a different choice.
We made camp between the vehicles, using them as windbreaks and defensive positions. Fires were lit, food distributed. Glenn found a guitar in one of the cars and tried to play it—badly, but enthusiastically.
Carol sat apart from the group, staring at the woods. Waiting for Sophia to emerge. She'd been missing since... no, wait. That hasn't happened yet. This is before the herd.
Focus. Sophia goes missing tomorrow, probably. Or the next day. Timeline's fuzzy.
Dale climbed onto the RV roof, keeping watch. Daryl checked weapons. Madison organized sleeping arrangements. Normal evening routine, apocalypse edition.
[ TIMER: 15:18:33 ]
Fifteen hours. Half critical range. The headache was splitting now, vision swimming. I needed darkness, solitude, and Marcus Webb's guilt.
Around midnight, I left camp. Told Dale I was checking the perimeter. He nodded, trusting.
If he only knew.
I found Marcus where they'd left him. He was awake, shifting uncomfortably, leg clearly causing pain even through the medication.
"You came back," he said, relief flooding his face.
"Said I would."
"Thank you. Rick said you argued against helping me. That you thought I was a waste of resources."
"I did. You are."
His face fell. "Then why—"
"Because Rick's right. We save who we can." I knelt beside him, examined the bandages. "But you're not going to make it. The infection's too advanced. Even with antibiotics, you'll be dead by morning."
"No. I'll fight. I'll—"
"You'll die. The question is whether you suffer doing it."
I pulled out my scalpel—the one I kept for medical work and other purposes. Made a small cut on his arm, then one on my palm.
"What are you doing?" Panic in his voice now.
"Mercy. Of a sort."
I pressed my cut palm against his wound. Blood to blood. The virus transferring.
[ INFECTION INITIATED ]
[ TIMER RESET: 72:00:00 ]
Relief washed through me like cool water. The headache vanished. Vision cleared. The pressure released.
Marcus stared at his arm. "What did you do?"
"Gave you eight hours. Maybe less. When you turn, you'll be too weak to be a threat. Just another corpse in a graveyard of cars."
"Turn? What—"
"Everyone's infected. Death triggers it. You're dying already. I just... accelerated things."
"You're insane."
"I'm Patient Zero. There's a difference."
I left him there, horror and realization dawning on his face. By morning, he'd be dead. By noon, reanimated. And the group would put him down, thinking it was the infection from his leg.
Justified. He hurt people. Hunted the desperate. This is mercy compared to what he did to them.
But the rationalization felt thin tonight. Hollow.
Back at camp, Alicia was waiting by our tent. "Where were you?"
"Checking the man. Marcus. He's dying."
"Rick tried—"
"Rick tried. It wasn't enough. Some people can't be saved."
She looked at me for a long moment. "You're different tonight. Calmer. Like something changed."
"Nothing changed. Just accepted reality."
"Which reality?"
"That we're all dying. Some faster than others."
She touched my arm. "Not everyone. Not you."
If only you knew.
I went to sleep, timer reset, guilt manageable, and Marcus Webb dying three rows over in a blue sedan.
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