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Social Distance

KEVIN J. ANDERSON & REBECCA MOESTA

I

Dale


“This is going to be the most grueling, most difficult survival challenge any of you has ever faced,” I said, looking at their faces, a few of them already sunburned and sweaty. I watched the expressions of the nine high school students change as the grim reality washed over them.

We stood together in the Utah desert surrounded by endless blue skies and jaw-dropping stretches of red rock pinnacles, canyon labyrinths, scrub brush, pinon pines, yucca plants. And no people.

“We’re on our own here.” I shifted the heavy backpack on my shoulders and tightened the strap to carry the weight low on my hips. “We’ll give you the skills, but you have to put in the work.” I glanced at the other two adult guides for this CanyonTrek adventure. I wanted my introduction to sound like a pep talk. “You’re going to love it.”

Preston—thin, bookish and thirty-eight, five years younger than me—wore the most expensive hiking clothes and had the most earnest expression on his face, taking his job as a CT counselor so seriously that even his fellow guides couldn’t have fun.

Judy, whose age I put somewhere between sixty-five and infinity, was a leather whip of a woman who had spent twenty years in the army, the rest of her life in the desert, and could probably tie a boot lace with her teeth. She had seen it all, and was probably the most competent person in this part of southern Utah.

The nine teenagers looked up to me, though, as the ostensible leader of the expedition.

“Dale’s right,” Preston said, nodding to me. “These three weeks are going to all be about your personal growth, meeting new challenges, and becoming a better person inside.” He pressed his palm to the center of his chest and spread his fingers as if he expected angels to spring out of his heart.

Ophelia, a spunky fifteen-year-old with a dark braid draped over one shoulder, snickered. “Three weeks without cell phones, computers, air conditioning, toilets. Oh, joy.” The other kids seemed cautious, still getting a feel for the situation.

“We’re good to go,” Judy said. “It’s time to walk the earth.” She strutted out with a trekking pole in one gnarled hand. Her hiking boots looked as old as the Dead Sea Scrolls and yet sturdier than my own.

Our group set off together along the desert path, on our way to the horizon and back. Fortunately, we had topo maps.

Exploring new landscapes and building stronger people was what the CanyonTrek brochure said, and the parents of troubled teens gobbled it up.

As we walked, Bridger and Logan took the lead. Bridger looked like a squeaky-clean Boy Scout, though I knew he had been suspended for bullying his lab partner in chemistry, while Logan had been caught selling alcohol to classmates. Marco, a broad-shouldered Hispanic student who had lost his spot on the varsity soccer team when his grades took a nose dive, hurried to join the other two.

“Ten miles the first day,” I said, “while we still have energy.”

“Who has energy?” Shaylee asked with a dramatic groan.

I pressed my lips together. I’d hoped to make at least half a mile before the complaints started. “Could be the most beautiful miles you’ve ever seen,” I said. “When we get to the Needles Overlook, it’ll take your breath away.”

“I can hardly breathe now,” panted Noah, a scrawny, freckled thirteen-year-old, the youngest member of our group. He was on the high-functioning end of Autism Spectrum Disorder, which made him intensely knowledgeable if you were interested in his particular obsessions, or annoying if you weren’t.

“As you walk,” Preston said, as if reading from a handbook, “be aware of your reactions and consider what you might write in your journals tonight. It’s all part of the experience.”

“Homework already,” Ophelia said. “Oh, joy.”

“Personal growth,” Preston corrected. “Not homework.”

“Can’t call it homework, anyway,” Noah added in a flat tone. “We aren’t going home for three weeks.”

“Right,” Judy said. “Think of how strong you’ll be when you’re done.” I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not. Her voice was usually a combination of tough chick and prune juice.

CanyonTrek, headquartered in Moab, drew most of its patrons from the troubled teens of wealthy, frustrated parents along the Wasatch Front, hoping to wear down their unruly kids and teach them discipline by sending them on the “experience of a lifetime.” There were plenty of reasons these teens ended up on our expeditions. They might be oppositional, blowing off school, drinking, taking drugs, rebelling against step-parents—the possibilities were endless.

By offering fourteen- or twenty-one-day expeditions in the spectacular canyonlands, CT proposed to empower students by instilling a perspective of honor, self-reliance, and balance. The brochure also asserted that participants would realign priorities and find inner strength through the beauty of nature.

As far as I was concerned, the arduous job of schlepping a heavy backpack for mile after mile, day after day, should be adequate to settle turbulent or distracted minds. Always worked for me. Preston, though, had planned a curriculum filled with personal-centering exercises, conversation starters and, of course, the daily journal of their thoughts.

“I thought this was going to be summer camp,” said Ava. “Like riding horses, weaving lanyards, singing around the campfire.”

“Way better than summer camp,” I said.

I liked to be out here, especially in uncertain times. The world seemed nuttier than usual at the moment. The headlines were mostly about some kind of flu epidemic in New York, Los Angeles, and other major cities. In most cases, violence seemed to follow within weeks of each outbreak. Democrats accused Republicans for not offering enough medical and financial assistance, while Republicans blamed Democrats for creating the environments in which the virus flourished. I couldn’t stomach the news, which seemed less informative than argumentative day after day.

One more reason to stay away from the cities, if you asked me. I was glad to be out in Red Rocks country, deep in the desert, even with nine surly, difficult kids. It was still better than any normal day in Salt Lake, or going to board meetings at the tech center.

This was the fourth group I had led for CT since taking a golden-parachute retirement from my tech job in Salt Lake. The severance package was big enough to keep me in pleasant, comfortable freefall for a long time until I figured out what I wanted to do next. And I loved the backpacking experience.

My favorite area of the state was this wild segment of Bureau of Land Management canyon country adjacent to the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park. Arches Park was always crawling with tourists, especially this time of year, mid-June with the kids out of school and the days warm. Before long the desert would show its angry side and temperatures would rise.

I led the group along our planned route, a network of trails and four-wheel-drive roads. Over the three weeks of our character-building expedition, we would go more than 150 miles along with whatever side trips caught my interest. Trekking overland, finding our own campsites, following the maps to little known springs and water sources, and killer views.

Our first main destination was an overlook, a dot on the BLM map with an informational sign and a gravel half circle for parking at the edge of a mesa drop-off. Ahead, we could see the vista of the Needles District and its incredible, surreal formations. In its wisdom, the BLM had installed a metal pipe barricade at the edge of the overlook to keep people from falling off that particular twenty-foot section of the cliff.

“Sure glad they put safety first,” Ophelia said, grasping the pipe fence and shaking it. Her parents were intellectual property attorneys, and she was bright and spoiled and a bit of a wise ass.

“Just enjoy the view for a minute,” I said, wanting to drink it in myself. It was indeed enough to keep the rambunctious students together and quiet for a minute. I said, “Reminds me of a story about a Scottish shipbuilder named Ebenezer Bryce who became one of the first settlers in all this Utah desert.”

“He was LDS—a Mormon pioneer,” Shaylee pointed out.

“Bryce Canyon was named after him,” Preston added, as if pleased that he knew the answer.

“Bryce Canyon,” I agreed, “is one of the most beautiful and complex canyon systems in the state, a wonderland of multicolored rock forma—”

Noah broke in. “Did you know that Bryce Canyon isn’t actually a canyon? It’s a series of amphitheaters along the edge of a plateau, and they’re full of those lumpy rock spires called hoodoos.”

I let out a sigh. “Thank you, Noah. Very informative, but back to Ebenezer Bryce. When he came along and found that amazing area, supposedly the first white man ever to see it, you know what he wrote in his journal?” I looked at the nine young people, holding their attention. “He called it ‘one hell of a place to lose a cow.’ That’s it.”

Some of the kids dutifully chuckled, while others held onto gloom or aloofness as a matter of pride.

I felt a sudden urge to get through to them. “Don’t be a Bryce. Learn how to look at everything around you, not just in terms of the hard work it might represent, but in terms of the wonder—of what might be,” I said. I was getting a bit zealous, but I couldn’t help myself. “Learn to enjoy beauty that’s not about entertainment, computer-generated scenes, getting people to like what you post online—none of that. Look at everything around you and realize each sight is a mental snapshot, a moment in time.”

With a curt nod, Judy spoke up. “Only guarantee in life is that things change.”

“Right.” I took up the baton again. “Time won’t stand still. You’ll never see exactly the same thing in the same way ever again. Deserts are different from seashores or rainforests or snowy mountains. They’re all amazing, all distinct. Let yourself be enchanted.” I scanned the group for any reaction.

Ophelia rolled her eyes and Logan made a scoffing sound. While Ava and Isabel looked attentive, Noah watched a lizard sunning itself nearby. Bridger and Shaylee were whispering to each other, and Marco folded his arms across his chest, while Zane seemed to be playing a drum solo in the air.

I took a deep breath before plunging in again with a stern tone. “This adventure may not be your choice, but there’s no opt-out button. You’re here. You’ll learn survival skills and how to work as a team. You’ll get sweaty and sunburned. Your feet’ll be sore and you may discover some muscles you never knew you had until they started aching. But you’ll be proud of what you accomplish. By the time three weeks in the wilderness are up, you’ll be stronger, braver, and more resourceful than ever.”

“And more in touch with your inner selves,” Preston said.

Judy hooked her thumbs into her belt loops and her eyes narrowed as she stared out at the vista nodding in appreciation.

That was before we ran into the first zombies.

Ophelia Journal

Day 1. Is there any more ridiculous assignment than journaling? My shrink makes me do it. Won’t work any better here than it does at home, but here goes.

I’m trapped in the wilderness with 8 other students and 3 counselors who think they own us for the next few weeks.

Dale acts like the chief. Okay-looking for an older guy, but he must be like 45. Pretty sure of himself and definitely on the bossy side. I like it when he jokes.

Preston’s on the wimpy side. He actually meditates. So dorky. Says he was an Eagle Scout. No surprise there. His clothes look more stylish than practical, like he’s posing for a magazine. Talks in that annoying super-friendly voice that therapists use.

Judy is a tough lady. Not sure she was ever fifteen like me. Looks like a piece of beef jerky with a chunk of dandelion fluff stuck on top. Says what she thinks but keeps it short and snappy. Some people would call it rude, I call it refreshing. If we say “shit” or whatever she always says “language!” meaning not to use bad words, but I’m pretty sure she’s got some “language” in her, too, depending on the situation. I’ll wait and watch.

This morning’s first lesson was “hygiene.” Beyond embarrassing. Who wants to talk about digging catholes to poop or bury blood? Yich. Plus, the spot has to be just right. Seriously. Six inches deep, at least two hundred feet from any water sources, trails, or camp. Use hand sanitizer. Blah blah blah. Hope my period doesn’t arrive while we’re still out here. But it will. Insanely awkward. Anyway, we already had that mortifying lesson. Ach. Ick. Ew. Backpacking is hard enough without adding that extra serving of torture for us girls. Whyyyyyyy?


Day 2. This is so not a vacation. Why would anyone choose to camp? I. Would. Not. Everything takes ten times as much work as at home. We have civilization for a reason, so why put ourselves through this by choice?

We can’t just go to bed. No. We have to put up tents. We can’t just nuke food and eat it. Again, no. We either have to build a fire or use those dumb little gas stoves. Then add water to dry food that all joy has been drained out of. Don’t even get me started on doing dishes, either. Everyone has chores every day. That’s on top of ten or more miles of hiking! It’s impossible to get a minute to ourselves, and then we have to journal.

And Utah in June? June! Whose brilliant idea was that?

Today’s main lesson: protecting the environment. We can’t just throw stuff away when we’re done with it. No, no, no. Whatever we “pack in” on our trip, we have to “pack out,” including trash. WTF?

Next lesson was finding and purifying water with our portable filters.


Day 3. The lowdown on my fellow inmates.

Bridger is LDS, which means Mormon, but he doesn’t like to be called that. Says he loves to read, and plays guitar, drums, and piano. Weren’t allowed to bring books or instruments, so I bet he’s frustrated. I hear him humming a lot.

Noah is only 13—youngest in our whole group. Pretty sure he’s high-functioning on the Autism Spectrum and klutzy like my cousin. His aunt’s a veterinarian, so he knows a lot about animals. He drones on and on about them. All. The. Time. Plus he blurts stuff out at random times and doesn’t notice if we look confused or shocked or whatever. He doesn’t pick up on social clues. His mom teaches special ed, which is probably a good thing, considering.

Marco is tanned and decent looking. I approve. Why is he on a CanyonTrek? Got suspended from the varsity soccer team when his grades did a swan dive in the winter. Didn’t say why. He’s obviously smart. I mean, he speaks three languages fluently, but he mostly talks about movies and TV shows.

Logan generally keeps to himself. He’s an Army brat and moves around a lot, so maybe not good at making friends? Tall with lanky shoulder-length hair, so I thought he was a stoner, but I could be wrong. He obviously works out because, well, muscles. Really nice muscles.

Zane is hard to sum up. Straight dark hair that falls across his blue eyes. Dimples that make me stare like an idiot. Kind of like that actor on Vampire Diaries that I’ve been watching for the past few years. He gives me a strange feeling when we talk, like he thinks a lot more than he says. He’s kind and helpful but not in obvious ways. He just glides in and does things without being told and then he goes right back to what he was doing. What’s that about?


Day 4. It’s totally quiet on the trail. No music, no TV, no phone. Can’t even text Skye and Maren. So boring here that even writing in a journal seems interesting. Preston and Judy read everything we write (seriously? when??). Preston is going to start helping us “process” our thoughts starting tomorrow. So . . . there’s that humiliation to look forward to.

We did lessons on stuff they called navigation and orienteering, or just “nav.” Reading topographical, aka “topo” maps, using a compass, remembering shapes and markers in the land around us, judging directions and time by the sun. Useless stuff like that. I mean, we’ve all got GPS on our phones, right? (If they would let us have our phones.)


Day 5. The staff focused on more “outdoor living” skills. (For the record, I refuse to ever get into outdoor living.)

Agh! They teach us stuff and then make us practice. Like we’re little kids taking piano lessons. When they test us at a skill, Dale always asks, “Can you do that?” in kind of a drill sergeant voice. I learned fast to just answer “I can do that.” Because if we don’t say it, Dale makes us practice again about 20 bajillion times. So no thanks. From now on, “I can do that.” Even if I can’t.

There are only four girls in our group including me.

Ava is an airhead, but I like her. Not everyone can be brilliant like me. She’s fourteen and nice—maybe too nice. Marco told me her parents sent her on a CT expedition because some jerkfaces at school convinced her to steal test answers for them. She got caught, of course. She has a pretty voice and wants to sing as a pro. Maybe she and Bridger should put together a band.

Isabel is such a Goody Two Shoes I don’t know how she got sent here. Saint Isabel does everything the counselors tell her to without complaining. I don’t trust people who are too good. They’re usually judgy as hell.

Shaylee is LDS like Bridger, but they never met before this trip. She’s my age but does acting, dances ballet, plays flute and piccolo, blah blah blah. Oh, and writes poetry. Give me a break. What is it with these LDS kids and “The Arts”? I just added her to the pop band in my mind with Bridger and Ava.

Last: I’m me. My parents are IP attorneys and they’re always away. Even though a TV practically raised me, I’ve made straight A’s since middle school. No tutors. Just me. But that didn’t seem to warrant my parents’ attention, so I developed an unhealthy interest in murder scenes and decided to be a forensic scientist. CSI stuff. Instead of worrying, my parents arranged for me to watch some autopsies in person. Huh. Turns out I can handle seeing real dead people, so that works out. Yay, me. The parents didn’t even notice I was rebelling, so I cranked it up a notch. Started raiding the liquor cabinet regularly, then bought Adderall from school friends to keep my grades up. Brilliant, right? Eventually (better late than never) my parents caught on, and here I am.


Day 6. Almost every day Dale finds a time to say, “That’s what adventuring is all about: solving problems.” (Or you can insert traveling or navigating or cooking or getting along in place of “adventuring.”) So apparently everything is all about solving problems.

Dale: Can you solve problems?

Me: I can do that.

Hah. We’ll see.


Day 7. Hike. Sweat. Learn to act as a team. Sing. Hey, I’m not half-bad at this singing stuff. Maybe I’ll learn to play bass and join the rock band. In my head, I’ve named it Cat-hole Daze.


Days 8-14. Blah blah blah. You get the idea.


II

Dale


When I trained to become a CanyonTrek counselor, they supposedly prepared me for any emergency situation—which meant I’d taken a first-aid course and sat through PowerPoint presentations on various scenarios.

Fifteen days into our three-week adventure, Judy, Preston, and I had made some progress filing the rough edges off our teen adventurers. The most drama I expected was minor personality clashes, blisters and scrapes, inadvertent dehydration, wishing for the comforts of technology, or missing their families. Most of them had begun to appreciate what they had in their homelife.

I never expected Preston to get bitten by a rattlesnake.

In late June, Utah’s canyon country was getting hot, and our by-the-book counselor decided to wear shorts, low-cut socks, and trail-runners for comfort, leaving his legs exposed from knee to ankle. Preston took the lead, enjoying the morning vistas, while the rest of us followed by twos and threes, with Judy at the middle of the group and me bringing up the rear with Noah.

Preoccupied by the view, Preston didn’t see the rattlesnake sunning itself on the red rocks. The snake did see Preston, though, and was so startled that it bit him on the calf. His yelp was high-pitched, like a girl getting free tickets to a Taylor Swift concert.

Zane bounded forward as the rattlesnake slithered into a wide crack between the rocks. “Shit, that’s a big one!”

“Language,” Judy shouted automatically, running toward our colleague faster than I thought she could move.

Noah assured me he was fine, so I ran to the front of the group.

Preston collapsed to the ground, sagging onto his overlarge backpack. “It attacked me! See where I’m bleeding? Oh, it hurts.”

Judy instantly dropped next to Preston.

As I arrived, I glanced at Zane. “Did you see what it was?”

Before he could answer, Ava, the most delicate of our girls, answered helpfully. “It was a snake!”

“It bit me!” Preston said, although we had already established that.

“I’m pretty sure it was a rattler,” Zane said. “I saw the diamond patterns on its back. But it could have been a gopher snake.”

“It wasn’t a fucking gopher snake!” Preston cried.

“Language!” Judy snapped. She had shucked her backpack and was frantically opening the zippered compartment to get the first-aid pack and snakebite kit.

I slung my pack off as well.

Not at all squeamish, Ophelia knelt beside Preston, wiped away a trickle of blood, and turned his leg to expose the bite marks. Two neat little punctures, with the skin around them already starting to swell.

Zane investigated the crack in the rock where the snake had disappeared.

Bridger joined him and poked at it with his trekking pole. “Want me to get the snake out, just to make sure?”

“No!” both Judy and I said.

“Can’t risk two snake bites,” I added. “Treat Preston on the assumption that it was a rattlesnake.”

Noah ran up to stand near Bridger and Zane, breathing hard.

Ophelia frowned. “But aren’t rattlesnakes rare out here?”

“Somewhat,” Noah agreed, trying to get a look at the snake in the crack. “Statistically, injuries by bee sting are way more common. And only about five people have died from snakebite in Utah in the whole past century.”

“So this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing?” Ava asked.

“Sure,” Noah answered. “I’d say this definitely qualifies as a special event.”

“I’m not feeling exactly special,” Preston said. “This is really starting to burn and it feels like needles are stabbing me!”

“I think I see the snake!” Bridger said.

Marco came up behind Zane and Bridger. “Hey, I’m pretty sure rattlesnakes are protected under Utah law.”

I opened my pack and dug down to the bottom to get out the emergency sat phone we affectionately called “the bat signal.” Out here in the Canyonlands wilderness, not even within the boundaries of the national park, a mobile phone wouldn’t get a signal at all, but CanyonTrek—“safety is our number one priority for the protection, comfort, and education of our young adventurers”—assigned one expensive satellite phone per group, and I carried it.

We were just over two-thirds of the way into our trip, so I knew our exact location: as far from help as we could possibly be. Fortunately, out of caution and common sense, we had filed our route map in the Moab offices. With one call I should be able to summon a search-and-rescue helicopter team. CanyonTrek was a card-carrying member of Utah Search and Rescue Assistance, so the rescue team would come in like the cavalry. I knew the admins carried pricey insurance and made regular donations to USARA in case some troubled teen went off the trail and broke an ankle.

I switched on the sat phone and waited while it searched the sky for a signal. The bars danced and blipped. Apparently, the satellites were shy today.

Meanwhile, Judy deployed our snakebite kit. Her brows were drawn together, her gaze intense as used a plastic disposable razor to scrape the fine hair off Preston’s leg around the bite marks. “Next we clean.”

“I can do that,” Ophelia said, opening the sterile alcohol wipes, and lightly swabbed away the blood and dirt from the area.

“Now for the handy extractor pump,” Judy said. She pulled out a plastic tube like a large syringe, fitted a suction cap on the end, and positioned it near Preston’s leg.

“Snakes,” Marco quoted. “Why did it have to be snakes?”

Preston glowered at him. “This is not a stupid movie. I can feel the venom working.”

“When you panic, your pulse races,” Judy said. “And that just spreads the poison around—so calm down. Somebody sing Kumbaya, okay?”

I thought she was being sarcastic, but Ava took Judy’s words to heart. Sitting behind Preston, Ava put a hand on his arm and sang softly. Shaylee stood close by and hummed along.

Noah approached and looked over Judy’s shoulder, as if this were one of one of their lessons. She pressed the extractor against the lower of the punctures, but Noah grabbed the syringe away from the wound. “That’s the old way. It’s not how they treat snake bites anymore.”

Judy gave him a shrewd look. “This has been SOP—standard operating procedure—for as long as I can remember.”

Noah shook his head. “No tourniquets. No cutting. No sucking.”

“Really?” Ava sounded disappointed.

“Why listen to him? He’s just a kid,” Preston objected. “Read the instructions in the kit!”

“How’d you hear about the changes?” Judy asked Noah.

Ophelia spoke up. “His aunt’s a veterinarian, remember? He knows endless mind-numbing details about animals and medicine.”

While they went back and forth, Isabel, the quiet girl, got out Preston’s water bottle and gave him a few careful sips.

Just then, my sat phone locked onto a signal, and I punched the preprogrammed number for CanyonTrek HQ. It rang eleven times without being answered. “So much for emergency preparedness.” I was starting to sweat myself.

Several of the teens looked at me with concern. I hit redial, and the bat signal rang seven more times before someone finally picked up.

“Thank god!” I said. “This is Dale from Group One. We’ve got an emergency situation. Preston got bitten by a rattlesnake. Please send the rescue chopper immediately.” They would acquire our location from the bat signal’s built-in GPS so I didn’t waste time giving directions. “I’ll get our group to an open area and set out some signal flags.”

Over the phone, I could hear shouts and havoc. Maybe they were having a rowdy party at CT headquarters.

The answer I got was not at all what I expected. A strained, feminine voice shouted in my ear, “Who is this? Where are you? Can you send help?”

I was pretty sure it was Desiree, the office manager, but I’d never heard her sound so ragged.

“This is Dale—and you’re mixed up. I called you for help. I need an urgent medical evac for a snake-bite victim.”

“Snake bite?” Desiree’s voice rose with hysteria. “A snake bite! Are you crazy? That’s the least of our problems.” Something was definitely wrong. Desiree was usually so poised and cheerful.

“Can you put Bob on?” I said. “This is an emergency.”

“Stay where you are,” she said. “You’re better off.” It sounded like total chaos around her.

Her voice came through so loud over the sat phone that our whole group could hear her. “Moab is overrun! The epidemic spread. People from the big cities, trying to escape that virus a couple weeks ago? They swarmed out here and brought it with them! They’re going crazy!” In the background I heard shouts, furniture being knocked over, a great crash, and the distinct crack of gunfire.

“Oh god, they smashed right through the door!”

“What is going on over there?” I said, pressing the bat signal to my ear.

“Bob!” Desiree screamed. I heard more gunshots, splintering wood, shattering glass, simultaneous yells. When I heard Desiree’s voice again, it was a hopeless wail that abruptly changed to shrieks of agony. The phone fell to the floor with a clunk, and then I couldn’t tell what the sounds were: Some kind of scuffling. Panting. Wet noises . . . 

My throat went dry. What could I do? The students around me were staring, puzzled, and not nearly as terrified as I thought they should be. I switched off the bat signal.

Judy looked up from the snake bite wound. “Are they coming? What did they say?”

I tucked the bat signal back inside my pack. “I think we’re on our own.”

While Judy reread the instructions with the snakebite kit, Noah rattled off a list at break-neck speed. “Step one, move a safe distance away from the snake. Step two, have the victim rest on the ground. To slow the spread of venom, keep the bite at or below heart-level and keep the victim still and calm. Step three, get medical help as soon as possible. Antivenom is the primary treatment.”

“Which we don’t have.” Judy said, looking at me. “I guess we can’t count on anyone coming to help, huh?”

I shook my head. “Sounds like folks in Moab are worse off than we are. So what comes next?”

Noah continued with his list, as if it were a first-aid spelling bee. We covered the snakebite wound with a clean, dry dressing, even used a Sharpie to outline the discolored area and write the time, so we could track the spread of the damage. Preston groaned.

Noah finished, “Step eight, if medical help can’t reach the victim, do not wait: take the victim to medical assistance. Left untreated, damage may be permanent or fatal.”

“That sucks,” Logan said.

“Sucking is obsolete,” Noah said.

“No undoing a snake bite,” Marco observed. “You need antivenom. It’s a race against time.”

“That’s it then,” said Zane. “We take Preston somewhere that has real medical help.”

“It’s always something.” Judy set her jaw. “We’ll handle it.”

“That’s what CanyonTrek is about: learning to solve problems,” I repeated.

Sweat stood out on Preston’s forehead and he didn’t seem to be following the conversation. “You’re just going to leave the venom in me?”

“Whatever’s necessary to get you help, buddy, that’s what we’ll do,” I said, starting to choke up. How often had I been annoyed with Preston, taking him for granted instead of treating him like my friend? I gave myself a mental kick. No time to agonize about my feelings. We had to get going.

Ophelia got out a roll of stretchy white bandage.

I pulled out the topo map and unfolded it on the rocks. Logan, who had proven excellent at map-reading came up beside me and Bridger joined us a moment later. I showed them the area we had been exploring and the trail of faint dots, which indicated a mere “suggested route” marked by occasional rock cairns. We were in the deepest desert wilds with the darkest night skies and the greatest solitude. Also the farthest from help.

“Now I know where we are,” muttered Bridger. “We’re screwed. That’s where.”

Logan gave a soft laugh, but did not let himself be distracted. “Judging by the terrain, we must be here.” He pointed to the map and traced the faint dots.

“Good. I agree,” I said. “That means it’s about five miles total from here to these four-wheel-drive roads.” I ran a finger from our position to our first goal. “We have to move Preston. With some help, he should be able to walk on his injured leg. Camping’s free-range on BLM lands, so let’s hope we find somebody with a vehicle.”

“No helicopter?” Preston moaned leaning against a rock while Ophelia and Judy finished securing the bandage around his calf. “Shouldn’t I just lie here and rest?”

“Pfft,” Shaylee said. “You told us we couldn’t stop and rest just because we were tired.”

“You weren’t bit by a rattlesnake!” Preston said. “Damn kids are so spoiled!”

I frowned at him, because this certainly wasn’t Preston’s usual philosophy of how to deal with reluctant young people. “You could stay here,” I agreed, “but since there’s no helicopter coming, it’ll take forever to bring help. We may arrive too late. If we get you to those Jeep roads, you’ll be better off.” It wasn’t exactly ideal, but we were SOL regarding the speedy rescue we’d expected in an emergency.

I was haunted by what I had heard on the sat phone. None of it made sense. I put away the map in my heavy backpack and zipped up the saddlebags. “Okay everyone. We’ve got to move out. Empty Preston’s pack and distribute the items amongst yourselves. No telling what we might need.”

While several of the kids darted off for hygiene breaks, very careful to watch for snakes, Zane and Ophelia emptied Preston’s backpack and distributed the weight evenly among the hikers. Judy helped Preston lace his hiking boot. “We want to support your foot, but not too tight. That thing’s going to swell like a sonofabitch,” she said, then caught herself. “Language, sorry.”

Ava and Judy helped Preston to his feet. He looked wan but determined to hobble. Judy offered him the option of using her sturdy trekking pole in addition to his own, like crutches.

“We can make a human crutch,” Logan said. “You put one arm around my neck and my arm goes around your back. We’ll need someone to help from the other side.”

“I can do that,” Marco said.

Preston agreed, so the young men put on their packs and supported him, one on either side. “Okay, let’s blow this joint,” he said.

Feeling the urgency, I set off, raising an arm to get everyone’s attention. “This’ll be tough, but necessary. Today we keep up a fast, steady pace, eat some miles. I believe you can do it. We need medical help for Preston, so let’s get out to where we can be found.”

The whole group murmured their agreement. No complaints. They understood the seriousness.

Before long, the hike turned arduous, although the map rated it as “easy.” Up to that point, the days had been pleasant enough, with highs around eighty degrees. Today, Mother Nature chose to throw ninety degrees at us.

We wound our way through the slickrock, yucca, and saltbush, disappointed that we couldn’t take the time just to enjoy the alien-looking hoodoos, red rock mounds striped with white frosting. This area had always held a primeval wonder for me, but now it felt like a nightmare landscape.

Finally, when we found the four-wheel-drive road, I realized that the term “road” was gracious and optimistic. The red powdery soil was punctuated by boulders, ruts, and deep washouts. On the bright side, I could see tire tracks, so someone had driven here since the previous rain . . . whenever that was. We were forty miles from a paved highway, but we knew the way out.

By late afternoon, Preston was getting more and more miserable, his face gray and sweaty, his lips drawn back in pain. He finally insisted that we rest. Leaning on a rust-colored boulder and propping up his foot, he fumbled with the bandage.

Judy clucked her tongue. “Better leave it alone. That sucker is swelling up.”

“I want to see,” Preston said and unwound the fabric to expose his leg—angry red and swollen, with scarlet lines tracing up past his knee. “Oh, this is bad. I’m going to die of a snake bite! This is ridiculous.”

“Wrap it up again,” I said. “Keep it clean, and let’s get going. We’ll find somebody.”

Marco patted Preston’s shoulder. “Bro, in the words of the philosopher Dory, ‘just keep swimming.’”

The sun was low on the western horizon and the temperature was already beginning to cool, mercifully. “We can make a few more miles down the road before nightfall.” I tried to sound hopeful. “If someone is camping out here, we’ll see the lights or the fire.”

Preston groaned. “Great, we can roast marshmallows.”

Two students chuckled despite the seriousness of the situation.

Marco tried to stay upbeat. “Come on, champ. Never give up. Never surrender.”

We moved down the 4WD road, and within an hour we crossed a low swell, and I could see across the desert ahead. I was overjoyed to see a battered recreational vehicle parked off the road in one of the makeshift distributed campsites. “There, Preston! See, I told you.”

“Woohoo!” Ophelia said. “First time I’ve ever been thrilled to see a Winnebago. We’re usually stuck behind one on a slow mountain road.”

We moved forward with a target now and with hope, plodding along, each of us taking turns shouting, trying to get the attention of the campers. “Hello!” I shouted. “We need help.”

“Help,” Shaylee cried.

Isabel and Ava added their voices, and soon we were a chorus. No one stirred in or around the RV, though. Perhaps the people had gone backpacking somewhere and left their campsite for a while.

In a low voice Judy asked me, “What do we do if no one’s home?”

“Break in and take what we need.” I mentally estimated a 50/50 chance that at least one of these teens knew how to hotwire a vehicle.

“Help!” Zane yelled toward the RV. Then he, Marco, Noah, and Logan bellowed greetings and pleas for help, trying to outdo each other, while Preston cringed at the noise.

As we hiked closer and the late afternoon shadows grew longer, we heard faint noises inside the Winnebago, beyond the curtained windows. The flimsy door swung open.

“Help!” we yelled again.

We were close enough to the campsite that I could make out something on the ground—was it a person? It was. A body, actually. Or what was left of one. A large portion of the skin and muscles had been ripped away in ragged chunks.

The two figures that emerged from the RV no longer appeared fully human. They had pale, blotchy skin, wild hair, blood-smeared faces. And they were naked.

That was when the shit really hit the fan.


III

Dale


The two sickly things that lurched out of the Winnebago came at us fast. Their bodies were discolored, and we could see far too much of their skin, as if they had shambled out of a nudist colony for leprosy patients. They made wild, inhuman, and hungry sounds.

The hope of the RV, the campsite—any sign of life at all in the vast empty desert—juiced Preston with adrenaline. Always annoyingly optimistic, he ignored the warning signs. While the rest of us hesitated, he broke away from Zane and Logan and lurched forward, waving his arms. “Help! I’ve been bitten by a snake. We need to get to a doctor.”

He certainly drew their attention. Both of the things were male, embarrassingly so. Even without clothes or weapons, they had clutching hands and menacing teeth—and they weren’t afraid to use them.

The older male charged Preston and drove him to the ground. The counselor fell hard on his back and cried out, “My leg!”

Working his jaws, the scarecrowish creature pinned Preston down and bit into his face, before using skeletal hands to tear at his throat and chest. Each wound drew a wordless shriek from Preston. The sound of it was appalling, almost inhuman.

Backing up toward me, Ava screamed, and several of the others decided that was the appropriate response.

Everything happened so fast. The second creature came at us, wild and moaning. It launched itself toward me, eyes blazing, hands outstretched. Its ragged nails clawed at the space between us, reaching toward me. I swung my trekking pole so hard it made a whistling sound in the air. I was just trying to batter away the grasping hands, but I brought it down so hard, the fingers snapped like hollow sticks.

Finished killing Preston, the first attacker turned and ran straight into our group.

Zane wielded his walking stick like a tae kwon do master. Logan and Marco waded in, while Noah, Bridger, Ava, and Isabel clustered together, raising their makeshift weapons.

“Och. This is like Night of the Living Dead!” Ophelia blurted.

Hearing her, Marco called out, “Original George Romero version, or the remake?”

“Can’t go wrong with George Romero,” Ophelia answered, dodging the thing that had killed Preston.

I kept fighting away at the ghoulish man who was trying to rip my throat out. I whacked again with my walking stick, this time with more practice, more confidence, and more urgency. I struck my attacker full in the eye, and he didn’t even flinch. After all, what was one more wound or gash on his already ravaged body?

Ophelia swung her walking stick, still jabbering in her fangirl fascination. “Now, the Return of the Living Dead movies were funny.” She whacked at the older creature, Preston’s murderer. Blood streamed from the hideous mouth down to his chest. “That’s where we got used to the idea that zombies eat brains.” To my surprise, Ophelia did not look fazed.

My attacker continued to flail and scrabble, for some reason fixated on me, even though there were plenty of other choice morsels around. At least three of the kids had bolted off into the desert. Good call.

Zane smashed the first creature and yelled for Ophelia to run. She made a break for it, but her diseased attacker sprang forward and clutched her overstuffed backpack, clawing and ripping, as if it were filled with internal organs rather than pack food. She tried to get loose.

I stumbled on something and tripped backward, instinctively rolling to the side, so I wasn’t like a turtle turned upside down with my heavy pack. I saw that I had tripped over the gnawed, stripped remains of a third person—the bloody body I had seen from a distance. Wisps of long hair clinging to the skull implied it was an older woman.

I kicked out, knocked the attacker back, and lurched to my feet. As he came at me again, I extended my trekking pole and jabbed as hard as I could with the pointed metal end. I stabbed him right through the neck, like a gladiator with a spear. I shoved again and again, until the point came out the thing’s back and blood spouted out. I twisted and wrenched, realizing that my pole was now stuck in the body. The attacker flailed, then collapsed. His snapping jaws slowed as he died.

All the screaming confused the details of what was going on, but the loud gunshot was unmistakable, then a second one. Expecting another attack, I turned, only to see Judy holding a pistol in a cool firing stance, like an Old West gunfighter at high noon.

My jaw dropped.

The older thing attacking Ophelia’s backpack gurgled and let go so suddenly that Ophelia lurched forward and landed on her hands and knees. The creature staggered sideways, fell, and rolled face down on the ground with two gunshot wounds in his back.

“Och!” Ophelia brushed gravel from her hands, and Zane helped her to her feet. They scrambled away from the dead corpse, or whatever you call it. Ophelia blinked in surprise. “I guess you don’t have to shoot these things in the head to kill them. So, not real zombies.”

I wrenched my bloody trekking pole from the neck of my own attacker. “Whatever works,” I said.

“What the hell was that all about?” gasped Bridger, then reconsidered. “What the fuck was that?”

Judy didn’t correct him for his language, although it shocked me, especially coming from one of our straightlaced Mormon kids. Ava, Noah and Shaylee had rushed over to Preston to give first aid, but he lay unmoving, his face and throat ripped open.

“He’s dead,” Ava groaned. “They killed him!”

Tilting his head to study Preston, Noah said with odd inappropriateness, “Well, at least he didn’t die from the snake bite.”

“I may put that in my journal tonight,” Ophelia said. She looked over at me and Judy. “Do we still have to do our journals?”

Neither of us answered.

Judy still held her pistol, then slowly lowered the weapon, visibly winding down.

“We aren’t supposed to have guns,” I said. “CT’s pretty strict about that.”

She gave me a withering look. “Not supposed to.” She sniffed. “I signed a contract to protect these kids. It’s a Glock 21, .45 caliber. But CT also says that counselors must be prepared for any circumstances.”

“You kidding me? Even from a zombie invasion?”

Judy shrugged.

“Och. Please don’t,” Ophelia said. “Don’t say zombies. It doesn’t feel appropriate to me—so trite, so fictional. These were real. Are we sure what they really are? What if we called them living dead—LDs for short?”

I looked over at the murdered counselor. “Preston didn’t like to use terms that made people uncomfortable. Something about being politically correct.”

Ophelia nodded. Turning abruptly, she went over to Preston’s body, sat beside him, and took his bloody hand.

Judy strode toward the Winnebago. “Preston would also have wanted us to understand what’s happening and take stock of our resources.”

The vehicle’s flimsy door had flapped shut. She yanked it open and stepped into the RV, cautiously extending her pistol. “Nobody’s home. And nobody’s housecleaning, either.”

As I followed Judy inside, I could tell that the Winnebago had never been nice, but now it was a disaster, a combination of hoarder and homeless camp under a bridge. Cans of beans, chili, and soup had been pried open somehow, scooped out—with bare fingers, I assumed—and strewn on the floor. Ramen noodle packets had been crunched and devoured, sometimes with half the plastic wrapper.

“Guess they don’t just eat brains,” I said. “Oh, that’s right, they aren’t ‘zombies.’”

Tucked on a shelf beside the small cupboard, I found two copies of the Salt Lake Tribune. I pulled them out, unfolding the front pages.

“Jackpot,” I said, showing Judy.

By now, several of the teens had ventured into the RV with us. Others milled around the campsite. Zane was apparently standing guard in case more of the living dead marched across the open desert.

I read the lead story out loud about a viral epidemic that had surged through the nation’s largest cities and soon spread to Salt Lake City. Even smaller areas like Moab suffered unexpected outbreaks, as people fled the cities to isolate themselves from the virus, bringing it with them. I thought of Desiree screaming over the sat phone, and the sound of gunfire at CanyonTrek HQ.

Beside me, Judy shook her head. “This is messed up.”

“Hey, look,” said Marco. He held up a couple of postcards from the windowsill by the Formica dinette table. “They were going to mail these when they got to the Needles Outpost.” He squinted to make out the handwriting. “I think they were an older couple, Linda and Frank, and their son Owen. A couple of weeks ago when people started getting sick, they drove out here to hole up. Frank thought the desert was the best place. They were going to get more supplies from the Needles Outpost before it was too late.” Marco shook his head. “The last line says, ‘Owen isn’t feeling well.’”

I glanced out the open door of the RV. “I guess he got worse.”

The mangled body outside must have been Linda. Now we knew who our two attackers were.

Noah came through the door, ignoring everyone, and said, “You probably want these.” He handed me a set of keys with a metal fob marked Winnebago and ducked back out the door.

A plan was coming together in my mind. I looked around at the mess inside the RV. In addition to eating most of mom, Frank and Owen had ransacked the Winnebago’s supplies. But our group still had a week’s worth of pack food—two weeks if we stretched it, since CT always overplanned. I remembered complaining a few times about the extra weight in emergency supplies. The old me was an idiot. Now I don’t mind at all.

The rest of our teen wards clustered around the door looking in.

What could I say after all we had just been through?

I took a deep breath and spread my arms. “Now we have a vehicle.”

Ophelia Journal

Day X. I’ve lost track. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Hi Preston. This one’s for you, even though we don’t have to journal today. See, I’m still doing my assignments.

I stayed by you for a long time today and said a lot of bad words. A bit inappropriate, but I know you wouldn’t have minded.

I can’t believe you’re gone. Dead. And what an awful way to die. You were really nice, except toward the end and that was really the snakebite’s fault. Sorry you went through so much pain.

I don’t know what happens now. Wherever you are, I want you to know that I won’t forget you, no matter what. I don’t think any of us ever will.


IV

Dale


In the aftermath at the campsite, we took care of clearing out and cleaning the Winnebago with plenty of Windex and Pine-Sol and using up a jumbo bottle of hand sanitizer. Everyone read the newspaper stories, so we were up to speed on the end of the world—at least out here. Many of the larger cities were still intact, but hospitals were overwhelmed. The Salt Lake Tribune didn’t give us the answers we really needed, though—like what the hell we should do now.

We pitched camp as usual to sleep outside—no one was ready to take advantage of the RV yet. In the morning we took turns digging graves, not much more than uneven divots in the rocky ground. We needed to bury Preston, and it seemed appropriate to do the same for whatever was left of Linda, Frank, and Owen. This part definitely wasn’t in the CT manual. In the end, we wrapped the bodies in old blankets we found in the RV, put them in the shallow trenches, and piled rocks on top of them.

As the students picked up the heavy stones for the cairns, Ophelia called, “Watch out for snakes. They can kill you just as dead as the LDs.”

Next to her, Zane raised his eyebrows. “LDs?”

The two of them were spending a lot of time together. She smiled. “Yeah, it’s short for living deads.”

“Why not call them zombies?” asked Noah.

“Because they’re not exactly dead and rotting. You saw them—they’re diseased. It’s a virus, a plague.”

“They were naked,” Shaylee said.

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “After all we went through, that’s what you noticed?”

“Well, they were really naked,” she said.

“LDs?” Bridger frowned. “Sounds like LDS.”

“Not meant as an insult,” I said. “We just need something to call them.”

“Exactly,” Ophelia said. “Especially if a whole herd of LDs comes shambling across the desert to get us. It’d be stupid to waste time arguing about terminology.”

“Why would we? You’re the only person who objects to calling them zombies,” Logan observed. Before Ophelia could answer, he raised his hands in surrender. “Never mind. I’m not objecting. LDs it is.”

“Pfft,” Shaylee said.

Several of our group turned nervously, shading their eyes to look across the expanse of hoodoos and red rocks, the rills of canyons, as if scanning for LDs.

“I have to get home,” Isabel said.

“We all do.” I assured her. I wanted to offer hope, but should I? So far the bat signal hadn’t been able to reach anyone who could help us. It was a bad sign for civilization. “We’ll find out just what’s going on in the world. Meanwhile, it’s tight but we can all fit inside the Winnebago. We can go somewhere.”

My announcement was greeted with genuine cheers.

I climbed into the driver’s seat, took a deep breath, uttered a prayer to any higher power that might be listening, and turned the key.

The engine started right up. It puttered a little, one of the pistons firing erratically, but it seemed to run fine. My joy lasted only a moment, though. I was dismayed to see that the fuel light was on. “Great. They came all the way out here and were about to run out of gas.”

Judy leaned in the window, concerned. “Highway 191 is about forty miles, and another fifteen or so to Monticello.” Monticello was a small farming community that had a few amenities—gas station, general store, cafes.

Who knew how long the fuel light had been on, or how much remained in the tank? I shook my head. “Not sure we’d make it that far.”

Logan came forward holding a map and plopped himself down on the passenger seat beside me. “That Needles Outpost thing isn’t very far, though. It’s on the park-access road.”

I felt a glimmer of hope. I’d been there once, a campground, gas station, cutesy tourist teepees, souvenir shop, and general store on private land just outside the boundary to Canyonlands National Park. “That might do it. We can at least fuel up there, stockpile supplies. No telling how long we might have to stay out here in the desert keeping our distance from people with the virus.”

“But I’ve got to go home,” Logan said. “What if my family is in the middle of this? They may need help.”

“Mine too,” said Ava.

Noah echoed the sentiment.

“It’s a safe bet that they’re all in the middle of it,” Judy said, “and there’s nothing you can do to help. Sorry, kids, but they’d want you to stay safe, and the safest place is out here with us.”

“Tell that to Preston,” Ophelia said.

“Everybody climb in,” I said, conscious that the engine was gulping fuel every second I left it running. “We’ll get to the Needles Outpost and figure out what to do from there. Maybe they’ll have a more recent newspaper.”

Leaving the four fresh graves behind, including our lost counselor, everyone piled into the RV. The teens argued over seats. Logan called shotgun, but Judy overruled him, shooed him away, and swung herself into the passenger seat beside me. “You good at maneuvering on four-wheel-drive roads?”

“That’s not the question so much as is the Winnebago good on them?” I said. “We know it got this far.” As we moved away from the nightmarish campsite, twenty-five miles an hour seemed like reckless speed. We rattled over washboard ridges, hit potholes, swerved around boulders. I was amazed the big recreational vehicle had made it out here, but Frank, Owen, and Linda must have really been determined. I kept glancing at the fuel light.

Right now I could have been in a conference room at my software company headquarters or reading over budget documents, or flying to a trade conference. After my early retirement, I’d stashed my savings and lived on a minimal budget. Spending my days walking around slickrock country had seemed like the perfect idea. I wasn’t prepared for anything like this!

And yet if I had been at my normal job, I would surely be in a worse situation now. Our software engineers worked hard, lived in the office, put in ridiculous hours, but were never obsessive about personal hygiene. The epidemic would surely have raged through the offices, and employees-turned-LDs would have torn through the cubicles, smashed computer terminals, and eaten their coworkers in favor of the stale donuts left in the breakroom. I remembered my ex-wife saying that my midlife crisis was going to kill me. But maybe it was the only thing that had kept me alive.

The Winnebago bounced and rattled along the rough road for nearly an hour. I was sweating about the fuel, and my neck and shoulders were stiff with tension, but at least they had been toughened from carrying a heavy backpack. The students tried to play games to distract themselves. Sometimes they bickered, other times they fell into a nervous silence.

We saw smoke, and I slowed down to see another campsite on an offshoot pullout. A small pop-up camper and a tent had been set on fire and actually flipped on its side.

“I don’t see any LDs around,” Zane said. “Should we have a look?”

“Don’t stop,” Judy said. “Just get to the outpost.”

I agreed.

After what felt like forever, we finally left the jeep road and hit the patched and pitted access road that dead-ended into the national park. The feeling of tires humming on actual asphalt was heaven.

The engine began to putter and cough more, and I recognized the signs of a near-empty gas tank. “We’re on fumes,” I announced.

I knew we would make it, though, when we saw the turnoff for the Needles Outpost. I pulled down the road surrounded by desert scrub and rock formations, the type of scenery postcards and tourist brochures are made out of. A rustic wooden sign said Needles Outpost, as if it had been carved by some old pioneer.

The campground seemed sparsely populated: a handful of RVs interspersed with white teepees, a few parked vans, a dozen miscellaneous tents.

“Look, there’s people!” Shaylee said. “We’re saved.”

Something set off my alarm bells. Figures moved aimlessly around. Then I noticed that a couple of tents were torn and collapsed, the windows on a van were smashed open, the sliding side door yanked off its tracks. The figures that emerged from some recreational vehicles were pale skinned, blotchy, and naked.

“No!” Ava said in a plaintive voice.

“They’re LDs,” Ophelia confirmed.

I glanced at the fuel gauge, then ahead to the general store and its line of gas pumps. The Needles Outpost store was a single large building, set away from the main campground. I hoped we’d have enough time.

“No choice. We’ve got to do this.” I accelerated toward the gas pumps. “Soon as I pull up, break into the same teams we used this morning. Can you do that?”

A chorus of voices behind me said, “I can do that.”

“Good. We’ve got several things to do. This is what teamwork is all about: solving problems. Team one, with Judy: work the pumps and fill us up with gas. Team two, stand watch and fight off any LDs that come close. Team three, you’re with me. We have to get inside the general store, load up with as much food and supplies as we can possibly grab.”

“Don’t forget toilet paper,” said Logan.

Gasping on its last fumes, the Winnebago pulled into the Outpost.

Judy looked at me and said, “This is going to be fun.”


V

Dale


Even though we saw jerky, uncertain figures in the campground, the general store and outpost building looked quiet and abandoned. That could be a good thing or a bad thing.

The outpost building had mirrorlike solar panels on the roof, and three large sausage-shaped propane tanks sat in the rear of the building. I pulled the Winnebago up to the bank of gas pumps, choosing one in the open on the opposite side of the general store.

Judy looked around with the thousand-mile stare of a battle-hardened veteran. “You could get closer.”

“I want some room for movement,” I said. “Just in case LDs come boiling out of that trading post, too.” The thought of a horde of cannibalistic zombies surging out of the souvenir shop in new T-shirts and chintzy dude-ranch hats almost made me smile. Almost.

“Good thinking,” Judy said with a curt nod.

Figures were starting to move in from the group campsites and the cute teepees. “Ready teams?” I said. “Get in and out as fast as we can. Be flexible. This is a fluid situation.”

“Mmm, fluids,” Shaylee said. “We need to grab some soda, too.”

“We’ll need to grab some of those camper propane tanks for the Winnebago,” Logan said, pointing to a rack of stubby tanks on the side wall of the store. “You know, to heat up our Ramen noodles and Chef Boyardee.”

Chef BAD? I hoped the apocalypse wasn’t quite that bad yet. “Ophelia, Zane, Shaylee—you’re with me in the general store to grab supplies. Judy, you’ve got Ava, Logan, and Noah to fill the gas and grab propane. Bridger, Marco, Isabel, take your hiking sticks or whatever you need and guard the perimeter. Keep watch.”

“Can I keep watch from inside the RV?” asked Isabel in a quavering voice.

“I know it’s hard, but I need you with your team,” I said. “Remember how we said this experience would teach you survival skills? I expect you all to survive, damn it.”

Marco’s eyes widened, and he nodded. “I can do that.” Several of the others echoed his words.

Zane popped open the Winnebago’s door, and we rushed out all at once. The fresh, hot air struck me, making me realize how close and stinky the inside of the RV had been.

“Ooh look. They have showers,” Ava said, pointing toward a side building.

A sigh of longing rippled through the group, and I felt it, too. We had more than two weeks of sweat and trail dirt on us.

“No time,” I replied. “Better grungy than dead.”

“Yeah, it’s a tough choice, but . . . ” Zane turned his cocky grin toward Ophelia. I’d seen the two flirting with each other.

Judy headed to the gas pump with Ava and Noah, while Logan ran to the rack of small propane tanks. The three guards fanned out, looking nervous—the most skittish sentry ring I’d ever seen, but I couldn’t blame them.

We ran to the trading post. The operating hours were conveniently listed, but the glass doors were locked, the interior dark.

“They’re not open,” Shaylee said in dismay.

Ophelia pointed to the hours posted on the door. “According to this, they should be.”

“That could be a good thing. Maybe it means the store hasn’t been ransacked by LDs,” I said.

Shaylee rattled the door, as if a few more attempts might magically open the outpost for business. She made a pfft of annoyance.

Ophelia pressed her face to the glass and shaded her eyes to peer inside. “Nothing moving in there,” she said. “But I see potato chips . . . and they have a special on Cherry Coke.”

“We’ve got to get inside,” Zane said. Before any of us noticed what he was doing, he picked up a decorative rock and smashed it into one of the thick glass doors, producing a hole surrounded by pointed shards and spiderweb cracks. “Now it’s ready for customers.”

Ophelia scowled at Zane. “Och. Couldn’t you have found a side window? LDs probably aren’t good at getting through windows. But with the front door broken—what if we need to barricade ourselves inside against an army of living dead?”

“Oh.” Zane looked crestfallen, not just because of what he’d done, but because of Ophelia’s disappointment.

“You probably don’t watch enough movies,” Ophelia grumbled.

I pushed a loose fragment of glass away to clear the hole and reached inside to click open the deadbolt. “Let’s go.”

“Isn’t this stealing?” Shaylee said sounding uneasy.

It wasn’t anywhere in the CT playbook, but I wasn’t going to argue. “Desperate times,” I said. “We’ll pay for any damages later, when things go back to normal. But we need supplies now.”

At the gas pumps, Judy had yanked up one of the nozzles and tried all the buttons. Ava removed the gas cap from the RV. Logan had a camper propane tank in each hand and was lugging them from the rack to the Winnebago.

I entered the dark general store. “Hello?” I called out. “Anybody here? We need help.”

My words echoed among the well-stocked metal shelves and displays. I was relieved to see that other scavengers hadn’t already taken everything.

“Okay, quick, grab what you can,” I said. “This might need to last us for a long time.” Saying this gave me a chill. Since Preston’s snake bite, we had been reacting from gut instinct, not thinking more than an hour or two ahead. Now I was planning for a crisis that might last for weeks or even months. I was acknowledging that we would not simply be met at the pickup point by Bob in a CT van that would take these kids back to clean clothes and showers, then into the appreciative arms of their families. That wasn’t going to happen.

“Cherry Coke or regular?” Ophelia called out. “They’re both on sale.”

“Cherry,” said Zane.

“Decaf,” said Shaylee, then made a pfft sound. “No—make mine regular after all.”

I glanced outside, where gaunt, hungry-looking figures were moving closer. I counted maybe twenty LDs coming in from the campground, all naked. Strange. Had they come here to “get back to nature,” or was nudity a thing that all LDs did?

Bridger, Noah, and Isabel had spread out beyond the RV, holding their hiking sticks. Bridger had picked up some egg-sized rocks and crouched, ready to throw them.

With jerky awkward movements the LDs came closer. Yup. Might turn out very much like a scene from Night of the Living Dead, and my mind made no distinction between the original, the remake, or even the spinoffs.

In frustration, Judy slammed her hand against the metal side of the gas pump. She sent Ava on an urgent dash back to the general store. I met her at the door, suddenly struck by the possibility that the gas pumps might not be working at all. “What’s wrong?”

Ava was out of breath and panted for a few seconds before saying, “Judy needs your credit card. Hers was declined.”

I fished out my wallet, pulled my Visa from its slot, and handed it over. As Ava ran back to Judy with my card, I yelled toward the gas pumps, “Helluva time not to pay your monthly minimum!”

Judy spread her hands in apology.

I ducked back into the shadowy store. The lack of lighting must have been intentional, because the outpost was solar powered and off the grid.

Zane and Ophelia had shopping carts, while Shaylee carried a basket, running up and down the rows. Ophelia started with candy and chips.

“Get the cool ranch ones,” Zane said. “Way better than chile verde.”

“Roger. Also getting all kinds of cookies,” Ophelia said.

“Remember, this is survival,” I called to them, “not snack time. Think nutrition. We need protein.”

“I found the Spam and Vienna sausages!” Shaylee said. “Ooh, and Slim Jims.”

I shrugged “That’s definitely closer.” I checked outside again.

Judy was pumping gas now, filling the Winnebago’s tank. Ava had gathered several large red gas cans and was filling them at another pump.

“Better hurry,” Noah yelled. “They’re getting closer.”

“Gas doesn’t pump itself,” Judy said. “It takes as long as it takes.” She looked around warily, and I saw that her Glock was now holstered at her side. Good.

Dozens of LDs were swarming from the campground, as if someone had rung the dinner bell. The Needles Outpost campground must have been pretty full, and I imagined plenty of people had come here to avoid the viral apocalypse. Of course, it only took one bad zombie to infect the whole barrel.

Inside the store, I grabbed a shopping cart and threw in protein bars, electrolyte drinks, and bottled water. I made the mistake of thinking this was all going smoothly.

That’s when I heard the distinctive click and ratchet of a shotgun slide being racked, followed by the clink of something small hitting the floor. We all froze. I turned toward the noise and saw a gray-bearded man in a plaid shirt and bib overalls. He pointed a shotgun at me, then swung it around to aim at the kids. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my store?”

With a clank, Ophelia dropped a can of chili on the floor. “Uh, shopping?”

I raised my hands. “We just needed supplies.”

“Can’t you see we’re closed?” His face was drawn and his eyes wary as he stepped closer. “And you smashed my damn door!”

He must have locked himself inside the outpost for days, hiding in the dark so the LDs wouldn’t notice him.

“My name is Dale,” I said, consciously using a calm, friendly voice. A Preston voice. “I’m here with a group of CanyonTrek students. We were out in the BLM lands at the edge of the Needles, and came back to . . . all this.”

“How do I know you’re not infected?” the old man demanded.

Shaylee made a pfft sound. “How? We’ve been out in the middle of nowhere.”

I slowly reached for my pants pocket. “Look, we’re not stealing. I can pay for everything. We just need to load up our RV and get back into the desert to wait this thing out.” I slid out my wallet, opened it, and saw the empty slot where my credit card usually was. I opened the cash section and pulled out a couple of twenties. Normally I carried more . . . but who needs cash on a Needles backpacking trip?

Judy shouted from outside. “Dale, speed it up! We’ve got company.” Through the open doors I saw her hand the gas pump to Logan. “Finish this,” she said and stalked off, pulling her pistol.

Ava filled up another red gas can, returned the hose to the pump, and frantically screwed on the caps.

“Well, now you caught the attention of the campers,” the old man snorted. “Nothing worse than dissatisfied campers.”

The LDs were rushing toward the Winnebago now. Marco and Isabel swung their trekking poles back and forth, driving a few of the diseased victims back. Bridger hurled stones, smacking one LD in the center of her forehead.

Judy strode up beside him, raised her Glock, and fired with a loud crack. She shot the nearest pale and bloody figure in the center of his naked chest.

“Dale, I did not bring enough bullets for the Alamo here!”

I pleaded with the old man. “Look, we have to get out of here. If you think you’re safe, stay.” I reached a decision and blurted out. “Or you’re welcome to come with us and get far away . . . but you’ve got to run now.”

“Name’s Wendell,” he said, lowering the shotgun. “And I’ll give us some elbow room.” He slipped past us and rushed out the door.

I yelled at the three kids in the store. “Come on, all of you. Take what you can and get back to the RV.”

Zane and Ophelia ran up and down the aisles with their shopping carts rattling, while Shaylee set her overfull basket by the door and grabbed a new one. I added all the emergency supplies I could grab to my cart. As I passed the cash register, I swept a pile of batteries in with the mix and trundled out to the RV.

Logan hooked the gas nozzle back in place on the pump and whirled to screw the cap back on the tank.

Wendell stepped next to Judy and discharged his shotgun with a loud boom. The buckshot dispersed wide enough to blast two of the oncoming LDs and knock them flat.

“Back into the Winnebago, everybody!” I yelled. They didn’t need to be told twice.

Wendell chambered another round, ejecting the spent shell, and shot again.

I leaped into the driver’s seat, jammed the keys into the ignition. Judy fired her Glock twice more, and then the rest of our group piled aboard the RV. Wendell followed them into the back, while Judy hopped in through the passenger door.

“Don’t worry, I got your credit card, Dale,” said Ava with earnest diligence.

“Thank you,” I replied and started the engine.

“Did anyone get toilet paper?” Logan asked.

Pfft,” Shaylee said, slapping her forehead, at the same time as Ophelia said, “Aargh!” and Zane said, “Uh-oh!”

“Not going back,” Judy said sternly.

The big RV rolled forward not much faster than the living dead could shamble. I stomped on the accelerator. The Winnebago was a workhorse, slow and heavy, but it did pick up speed, eventually. I was glad we’d used one of the outer gas pumps, because the behemoth couldn’t maneuver in tight quarters. I swung a wide U-turn.

Wendell was trying to situate himself on one of the seats in back.

“You might just have to hold on,” Ophelia told him.

About ten LDs that must have wandered over from the campground blocked the exit road.

“Crap!” Zane said. “Can you dodge them?”

“Is there another road out?” I barked at Wendell.

“Only one road in and one road out,” he said. “Never been a problem before.”

“Straight through it is,” I muttered. No point in trying to dodge any LDs. I accelerated toward the bottleneck that limited our escape. I braced myself, gripping the steering wheel.

Shaylee screamed, “Look out!”

“Don’t worry, they’ll jump out of the way,” I said, not believing it for a moment.

They didn’t. The Winnebago struck a few LDs, scattered the rest, and kept going even as we felt a sickening bump under our tires.

“Just a pothole,” Judy said. “Nothing to worry about.”

I raced along the bumpy, patched road.

“Just a pothole,” I agreed.


VI

Dale


We were home free. More or less. Our RV had a full gas tank and a couple of spare cans. We had food. We had water. We had propane. And we had no idea where to go.

“I want to get home,” Shaylee said.

“Forget Moab, just head straight up to Salt Lake,” Bridger piped up from the back. “My family’s there.” He looked around at the other eight students. “Most of our families are there, right?”

“I miss them.” Marco’s voice cracked. “I never thought I’d say it . . . ”

Into a rising chorus of excited voices and worried demands, Wendell spoke. “That’s the least safe place to be right now! I watched the TV until most of the stations went off. Salt Lake is burning. There’s a virus spreading. Hospitals are overflowing with flu patients. On top of that, those infected things are everywhere.”

“We call them LDs,” Ava said, trying to be helpful. “It stands for ‘living dead.’”

“You can’t know what’s happening everywhere,” Zane insisted. “We should see for ourselves.”

“What I do know is this: driving toward an infected city is the opposite of wise,” the old man said. His shoulders sagged. I could see him in the rearview mirror. “Five days ago my wife took the truck in to Monticello to get our monthly delivery. She called to tell me our delivery didn’t come, and there were riots in the streets. How? There’s only a couple thousand people in the whole town, and none of them are the rioting type. She said ‘Don’t come anywhere near town—it’s not safe.’ That was when the call got cut off, and phone service has been down ever since.” His voice wavered on the verge of weeping. “Next day, a young couple with a baby stopped here for gas. They came from Monticello, said there were stark-naked people and fires and murders all over town. They escaped. My wife never came back. And I know damn well what’s happening out there.”

I turned on the radio and scrolled through the stations, getting mostly static except for, oddly, a station that blared brassy Mexican music and another with a vehement preacher railing about the end times. I switched it off.

“It’s probably going to get worse before it gets better,” I said.

My heart felt heavy for these teens. They were participants in CT because their parents thought they needed behavior modification, boot-camp counselors to toughen them up and straighten them out. Before our three-week expedition, Judy, Preston, and I had met with all of the parents and learned about the home situations so we could understand the special problems these kids might pose. Some of the parents probably just wanted to breathe a sigh of relief at getting the unruly teens out of their hair. Ava had naively thought she was coming to a summer camp.

I’d been through this before. The parents expected miracles from a few days out in the canyonlands hiking and tent camping. They wanted us counselors to force an epiphany, make their almost-adult sons or daughters appreciate the things they had, learn a new work ethic, develop respect and civility. All in three weeks or less. We did accomplish some of those things. Their nightly journals were a good tool to help us assess their progress, but it wasn’t magic.

These kids all wanted to go back home, because most of their problems paled in comparison to a deadly epidemic. But having heard Desiree on the sat phone, I could guess what had happened at CanyonTrek HQ in Moab . . . and maybe all of Moab. We’d read the papers, and we knew what to expect in Salt Lake. These kids couldn’t go home. They couldn’t help.

As I maneuvered the Winnebago along the narrow winding road through the red rock desert, I said, “I think we should stay here on the BLM lands for a while. We’ve got food and supplies. We have our packs and tents. The smartest thing is to wait this out, and I’ll keep trying to reach someone who can tell us when it’s safe.”

“That’s what we need to do,” said Wendell. “Plenty of places to get lost out here. We could hunker down.”

“That’s my vote, too,” said Judy, “so it’s unanimous.”

“Hey, we didn’t get a vote!” Ophelia and Zane chimed in at the same time.

“This isn’t a democracy,” I said. “It’s an oligarchy.” I paused for a second then said, “Look it up.”

“There’s no dictionary,” the kids grumbled, and, “We should have a say.”

I took a turnoff and left the pavement for another dirt road. A brown Forest Service sign with white letters said OVERLOOK 15 MILES. It seemed a good place to start, to get a feel for where we were.

The road was rough, and its washboard surface rattled our teeth. If Preston were still alive, he probably would have started a group song, like “ninety-nine bottles of soda on the wall.” As it was, most of the young people sat in confusion and sadness, trying to absorb what was happening. The RV gave us countless options of where to camp. There were plenty of firepits and open parking areas, no traffic that we could see.

“I made a promise to keep all of you safe,” I said to the group.

Judy nodded. “Me too. I just wish I’d managed to pick up more rounds for my Glock.”

After the long rattling drive I finally pulled the Winnebago to a stop at the abandoned, nameless overlook. From a high point on the edge of a mesa, it offered a view out across an endless wonderland of hoodoos, rust red pinnacles, and deep-cut canyons.

We all climbed out.

“I found a picnic table!” Isabel said.

I drank in the desert scenery, using it to find a tiny speck of calm deep inside me. Even in a world with a spreading epidemic, upheavals in society, and living dead roaming the streets, I felt a sense of satisfaction. I was taking care of the people I was responsible for. We were safe. For now.

Looking at the landscape, I said to myself, “One hell of a place to lose a cow.”

Standing nearby, Ophelia flashed me an odd smile. “But maybe a good place to lose the LDs.”

I drew in a deep breath of the warm, dry desert air and nodded slowly. “I agree.”

Ophelia Journal

Day 1. I’m starting over. I’m not who I was a few weeks ago.

So this is for me.

Sounds corny, but this is true: We morphed into a family of sorts, with a mom, dad, grandpa, and nine kids. Well, except for one thing. None of us are kids anymore.

Life is harder than before. Gritty. Back-breaking. We all have jobs every day—guard duty, cooking, foraging, inventing, sanitation. There’s no choice. We don’t argue about it. Who else would do the work?

We solve problems, pretty much around the clock.

Me? I wait, and hope for a future when I can maybe see my parents again. Meanwhile, I’ll live the life that I have, not the one I wish for.

I can do that.


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