Out of ten survivors, no one had a phone. The heavyset Mexicana had lost hers with her carry-on bag, and the Beret's cell had slipped from the holster on his belt.
Hero suggested they return to the road. "We need to flag someone down."
Everyone agreed. No one asked about the burning. No one asked why they had survived. That would come later.
The bus had plowed a nice path through the boughs and the brush, a corridor walled in broken limbs. They hiked up the steep incline, and the heavyset Mexicana-Dylan had nicknamed her "Gorda"-had trouble breathing. She had to rest against a tree every so often, so the Mullet draped her arm over his shoulder and helped her carry the weight. Hero assisted the black girl. Her wrist had swollen purple.
Friday stayed close to Dylan and every now and again her arm brushed his flannel, as if she were gathering the guts to hold his hand. He appreciated her silence. Many of the others were complaining. Gorda always asked how much farther, and the Beret kept bitching about his cell phone. He had so many important numbers on there: family, friends, clients (he was a massage therapist)-he could never get them all back. The smaller Latina just sniveled, blubbered, and trudged along, pulling up the strap of her pink tank top, which was always sliding down.
Dylan focused on the birdsong and the chatter of insects that had finally returned to the forest, that industrious mill of sound. He wondered if he would see Minnie soon.
At the top, they filed through the hole in the guardrail. The Beret and the Mullet helped Gorda up the steep shoulder of gravel. She plopped on the rail and panted, fanning her black, sweat-stained shirt. "It's hot, too hot."
The others gathered on the opposite side of the hole, and Hero sat the black girl on the rail. Mr. Blazer stood off by himself, clutching his briefcase as if he might lose it.
Dylan caught his breath, holding his hurt ribs.
Several yards from where the bus had punched through, a blue car was parked. Its door stood open and dinging. The driver was nowhere to be seen.
"Excuse me," Mr. Blazer said, gazing at the road, "but where . . . where do you suppose all the cars went?"
Dylan hadn't noticed until now, but both the southbound and northbound lanes were empty. No semis, vans, or cars-unusually desolate for the Sexton Mountain pass. There had been little traffic this whole trip-Dylan had left three days into spring break, after the big rush-and the bus had crested the mountain alone. Except maybe for the blue car. The driver had probably seen the bus go off the road and had pulled over.
The Mullet turned to Hero. "What happened?"
Hero shook his head and then started uphill toward the car.
Eight.
"Hello?" Hero called as he approached the vehicle.
No answer.
He looked back and motioned for Mullet. "You too," he said, pointing at Dylan.
Dylan had a problem telling people no, especially when he was needed. Friday put a hand on his shoulder, as if to say it was all right, it was safe. The scar made her look ugly. What the hell did she know?
"Come on," Hero said, waving him on impatiently.
Dylan tried to lag behind, but Hero and the Mullet paced him. They approached the car cautiously, crunching gravel beneath their feet. The car door alarm dinged and dinged.
Hero called out again. Still no answer.
He crept to the door, the Mullet close behind. Dylan lingered near the bumper, trying to calm his breath and ease his bruised ribs. The car radiated heat, and the engine clicked and cooled, smelling of hot belts and oil. No one was in the car. A pine-shaped air freshener dangled from the rearview.
In a way, Dylan would have preferred if the others had died in the wreck. He didn't like people counting on him and would have been better off alone. Things would be easier that way. They'd be safer. And quieter. He hated to think like that, but he did.
Hero nudged the car door shut, not enough to silence the alarm, but enough to show Dylan what they had found.
On the road, just outside the white line, someone had left a pile of ashes. And a single hairy leg wearing a sandal. A cell phone glowed atop the remains.
"It's . . . it's like what happened in the bus," the Mullet observed.
No one had mentioned the burning since the crash, too shocked to contemplate it, too shocked to even introduce themselves. Dylan had assumed the burning was an isolated event, contained within the bus. He was wrong.
"What do you think . . . what do you think's causing it?" the Mullet asked.
Hero shook his head and stooped, reaching for the phone. "I'll call for help-"
"Wait," Dylan said.
Hero looked back at him, still stooping.
"It-might be contagious."
The Mullet looked at him for the first time, his brown eyebrows bushy and mussed. Dylan didn't like the needy tremble in the man's voice. "What, like a germ? Or like . . . or like a plague? Oh my God, you think it's a plague?"
Someone came out from behind the car: Shadow, bloody and holding a bottle of Jack Daniels. He smiled at Dylan. "I've never heard of a plague that burns people."
The Mullet whirled around.
Hero stood up, neglecting the cell phone. "You were on the bus," he said.
Shadow held up the alcohol. "Then you know why I needed a drink. Luckily Mr. Cinder here likes to drive under the influence. Had a stiff one in the center console, and this stuffed beneath his seat." He swigged from the bottle and sighed. Then he held it out to Hero. "Want some?"
"Did you see him?" Hero asked, pointing at the ashes. "Did you see the driver?"
Before Shadow could answer, the Mullet asked, "How do you know it's not a plague?"
Shadow shrugged. "Guess I'll find out soon enough," he said and took another swig.
"Do you have a cell phone?" Hero asked.
Shadow picked up the phone atop the ashes and blew off the dust. "It's roaming," he said. "Don't waste my minutes."
Hero reached for the phone despite Dylan's warning, but stopped when the Mullet said, "Someone's coming."
Hero stepped into the road and shielded his eyes against the sun. A red truck crested the mountain and meandered down around the sharp curves. Another car was close behind it. The Beret and a few other survivors cheered, and Hero waved his arms to flag down the truck.
As it turned onto the straightaway, smoke streamed from its window, as if the driver were smoking a cigarette out the crack.
Gorda screamed.
Hero looked back. So did Dylan.
"Oh my God!" the smaller Latina shrieked, backing away from Gorda. Everybody backed away. Mr. Blazer guarded his briefcase, looking ready to run.
Gorda held her jowls as gray plumes puffed from beneath her shirt. Her eye burst into yolk, which withered, crisped, and burned. She lurched toward the Beret, bawling for help, but he dodged her and kept his distance.
The truck grew louder. There was no one behind the wheel.
Nine.
"Look out!" Dylan yelled as the red truck veered.
"Shit!" Hero dove for the shoulder. The truck dragged him underneath. It kept going, but he rolled and flopped to a stop, arms twisted into a self-hug, pants ripped off, intestines trailing behind him.
The other survivors dodged the truck as it smashed through the guardrail, halting against a tree just down the bank.
Gorda fell to her knees in the middle of the freeway, screaming, on fire. The second car hit her. Mats of flesh and fat slapped the pavement, still sizzling. Little roadkills of hair and scalp smeared the road.
More vehicles started over the hill, most of them empty, though some drivers were still bursting behind the wheel.
Cars crashed into the center divider. They crashed through the guardrail and into each other, shattering glass, crunching metal. One van flipped and screeched on its side. Farther back, a semi rear-ended a Pinto, and the car exploded. A motorcycle flipped over a Bug.
Some vehicles kept coming. They growled. Their grilles shined like teeth.
Shadow pushed Dylan toward the blue car. "Get in!"
It didn't make sense. They should have run.
Shadow poked his side with the butterfly knife. "I said get in!" He opened the back door and shoved Dylan inside. The punk got behind the wheel, started the car, and left the Mullet behind.
The Beret had picked up the black girl and was crossing the freeway to the northbound lane, empty and safe. Friday and the Latina girl followed him, and Mr. Blazer stood on the other side of the guardrail, looking bewildered with windblown hair.
Shadow pulled up, rolled down his window, and yelled at Friday. "Want a lift?"
Latina got in on Dylan's side, and Friday went around, forcing Dylan into the middle. He tried not to touch Latina: she had been sitting with Gorda and might have contracted the disease.
Somehow, Mr. Blazer had snuck into the front seat. The Beret and the black girl started back toward the car, and the Mullet opened Latina's door to push his way in.
The runaway cars advanced.
"Sorry," Shadow said, "catch the next one."
"Wait, wait!"
Shadow peeled out, and the Mullet fell.
"Oh my God!" Latina cried as he tumbled behind. Her door clapped shut by itself.
Dylan and Friday looked back. The Beret stopped next to the Mullet and stared after them, still holding the girl.
Latina slapped Shadow's shoulders and head. "You asshole! You can't! You can't leave them!"
But it was too late. The cars wiped them out, and Shadow turned the bend.
Ten.
Latina kept screaming and beating Shadow from behind. She hurt Dylan's ears. He couldn't think. And he couldn't stop seeing the car as it buckled the Beret at the knees, as he dropped the black girl and bounced beneath the wheels. He needed to puke but couldn't.
Shadow reached back and twisted Latina's fingers. "This little piggy gets broken," he said, "unless it goes wee, wee, wee, all the way home."
"Fuck you!" Latina curled against her door and nursed her hand, crying.
In the front, Mr. Blazer folded his hands on his briefcase and cleared his throat. Everyone else was quiet.
Friday put a hand on Dylan's shoulder and gave him a concerned look, as if to check that he was okay. He concentrated on the sound of the car, trying to envelop himself, trying to shut himself in.
Before college, before his sacred cubicle, he used to lock himself in the bathroom and read Aesop's Fables. He was nine years old and lived with his mom in a studio apartment. The bathroom was no bigger than a closet, armored in flagstone facade, small, private, and safe, the only place to hide.
His father badgered him about it one day during one of his visits: "Why do you read in the bathroom, Dylan? Why don't you read in the front room?" His dad blamed the dust from his mother's sculpting, but it was his mother: she talked to herself when she sculpted. Voices always reminded Dylan that there were people out there-a whole world of people, and he had to take part. That alone scared him.
Hearing Latina cry, he knew he should have helped the Beret and the black girl, should have stopped Shadow, should have confronted him. He focused harder on the engine noises but couldn't get inside; his cubicle was locked.
"Well look at this," Shadow said. "Must be rush hour."
The Rogue Valley lay below them, nestled in foothills, mountains, and forests of oak, evergreen, and madrone. Wrecks clogged both lanes of I-5 into the horizon. Black and gray pillars of smoke poured from under countless hoods. People scrambled around like ants, some of them fire ants.
"Oh my God," Latina said, "what's happening?"
No one answered. No one knew.
Shadow entered the labyrinth of wrecks and careened through the obstacles. Mr. Blazer clutched the handle above his door, trapping his case beneath one hand. Dylan bounced off Friday and Latina like a pinball. He wished Friday had sat in the middle. He didn't like brushing against the other girl.
The vehicles thickened as they neared the bottom of the mountain. Shadow had to drive on the shoulder, yet he barely slowed. Latina scolded him for going so fast. He ignored her. Then a burning man jumped out in front of them, and Shadow hit him.
The man tumbled over the hood and crunched the windshield. Latina screamed. Mr. Blazer gasped and sat back. As Shadow swerved around a crumpled Isuzu truck, the burning man slid off, leaving black and gray smears on the paint.
More burners jumped out. Shadow tried to dodge them, but he sideswiped a jeep's rear bumper. He jerked the car back onto the path, lurching over suicides, smashing into others and tossing them aside.