Archive of Our Own

The best that could be said of the apocalypse was that the end came quickly. Maybe it could have been better or easier on mankind. But it also could have been much, much worse. For what little comfort that was to those that died. The few who survived had other concerns.

***

Thirteen hundred miles stood between Dr. Rodney McKay and his destination in the mountains to the west. Rodney estimated it would take three or four weeks of walking to cross that distance if he could keep to his current pace. Unfortunately, he thought sourly, detouring around another tree, that wasn't very likely. Not with the way his journey had gone so far.

Speaking aloud, Rodney continued this morning's commentary on the local flora. “Betulaceae, commonly known as the Birch Family. Includes Alder, Birch and Beech. Characterized by their pale, thin bark. Noted for their medicinal properties but the pollen is a major allergen.” In a fit of eco-consciousness, he'd once purchased a set of sheets made from beech. They had been the softest sheets he'd ever owned.

Rodney reached out to run his fingers against the peeling trunk of another tree. It flaked away under his hands, leaving a thin coating of crumbled bark behind. Shaking out his hand in distaste, Rodney vigorously brushed it away against the side of his cargo pants. Continuing aloud, he commented, “Not to be confused with the Beech family comprised in part of Oak, Beech, and Chestnut. The American version of which is currently headed the way of the dodo due to the chestnut blight." A short laugh broke through at the thought of a fruit basket with ‘Welcome to the Club’ emblazoned on a card signed 'From the Dodos.'

Deciduous trees to dodos. Not bad but not his best. Bonus for the alliteration, though, he smugly decided.

If Rodney could find a suitable car, he could cut the trip down to a week, nine days at the most even taking into account the impassibility of the interstate highways. He'd begun this trip with a purloined military transport. Unfortunately, when it had become obvious he wasn’t going to be able to get a car within 25 kilometers of the American border, he'd simply parked it along the side of the highway, left the keys in the ignition and walked the rest of the way across the bridge into America. At the time he'd been struck by the vaguely altruistic thought that someone, somewhere might appreciate a clean, gassed, body-free, all-terrain vehicle waiting for them on their way north. Now he wondered if, years from now, he might still find it there should he ever return, a little dustier but in all other ways as he’d left it.

After crossing the border, Rodney had meant to replace his SUV with a military vehicle from one of the abandoned road blocks south of Buffalo. Instead, he’d been forced from the road almost as soon as he'd passed the city limits. The carrion smell had proved too much for him. And after passing through the improvised graveyard made up of cars and people, Rodney hadn’t been particularly interested in vetting abandoned vehicles.

“Why would you make sitting in the traffic jam from hell your last act in life?” he grumbled to himself, ducking below a low hanging branch.

His best guess was that they had been trying to outrun the sickness. Or perhaps they had thought that they’d get better away from the epicenters. Not that they’d accomplished either goal. He certainly hadn’t seen or heard of anyone getting better once they were sick. As far as Rodney knew, you either never got it or you died. And so far, the only known example of the first scenario appeared to be him.

Stopping for a moment in the middle of a small open area, Rodney pulled out a handkerchief emblazoned with a blue and white panther emblem and dragged it across his brow and down his neck. The cloth, like most of his clothes at this point, had been picked up in supply raids as he moved through towns on his way south and west. His old clothes – khakis, button downs, and loafers meant for the modern urban life – hadn't lasted through the first week. Even his jeans had frayed quickly from constant use and lack of modern cleaning facilities. Rodney hadn’t quite gotten the hang of hand washing.

He had replaced his sneakers first with heavy walking shoes taken from a men's store. Then he found cargo pants and an all weather jacket inside one of those large outdoor places. So far he'd stubbornly held on to his graphic tees and plaid shirts but he'd taken more socks, a pair of henleys, and the handkerchief at a Target a hundred miles back. Post-apocalypse, everyone lived the high life of disposable, luxury goods.

Rodney pushed off with a sigh and continued down a small, shallow slope. “Rose. Members include the Hawthorn, Crabapple, and Cherry. Bears fruit of the not orange variety with tons of vitamin C.” Important in fighting off scurvy, which was suddenly more of a concern than it would have otherwise been.

Beyond the comfort issue, the largest problem with all this walking was that Rodney was not particularly adept at orienteering. He knew and could find the cardinal directions, of course, but crossing the country on foot in an efficient manner required a bit more than knowing that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. Without the clear direction provided by highways and road signs, Rodney had wandered off his planned route.

In an emergency, he supposed he could still determine his location via the GPS satellites that still rotated above him. Although, the effort was hardly worth the use of power when he could just continue along in this general direction until he ran into a large town or a highway or, at the very least, ran out of trees. Besides, his tablet was rationed down to twenty minutes a day, ten minutes at mid-morning and ten minutes when he stopped for the night. The solar recharger he’d jury rigged wasn’t enough to repower the tablet any quicker than that. He had to prioritize and of utmost importance was that he ensure that the beacon he was following was still there, pulsing warm and bright somewhere to the west.

“Fucking trees,” Rodney snarled at nothing in particular.

Why did Pennsylvania have so many trees? You'd think they had missed the industrial revolution in its entirety. Although maybe he was in Ohio now. It’s not like they posted signs along the border through the woods to warn people when they crossed from one arbitrary geographical location to the next.

“Ohio.” He decided for himself. It’s Ohio. And if it wasn’t, well, it was now - prerogative of being the last to care. Maybe he should just call it all Canada and be done with it. Rodney chuckled to himself. The War of 1812 revisited and won without a shot fired.

Topping another of the ubiquitous small rises that had punctuated his last few days of travel, Rodney hitched his shoulder to resettle his pack in a more comfortable position. He picked a new reference point along the western horizon, calculating degrees of distance from the sun, and trudged on. If he was sitting in a car right now, not only would he be out of the seemingly endless monotony of the trees and much closer to the beacon but he’d be less sweaty. He didn't even want to contemplate how he smelled at this point.

For all that he was warm now, he knew tonight he’d be worrying about the cold and how much body heat he was losing. The past few mornings he’d woken to frost on the ground. He’d grabbed a hat and thin gloves from the last roadside store he'd passed but he didn't see that it was helping after dark.

The American military had once done a study that found that as much as half of a person’s body heat could be lost through the head. “Of course, if you stick people in a freezer, covered from neck to toe, they’re going to lose body heat from their head!” he snapped at no one in particular. “Where else would someone lose it from? Their nicely insulated ass?”

The ragged growl seemed to agree with him.

“You’d think someone somewhere would have mentioned that flaw in their testing," he continued as he stomped through the underbrush, crunching leaves and sticks and other forest ground things that he didn't want to name. "Maybe we’re expecting too much of the military.”

This time, the answering snarl brought him up short and the world around him snapped into focus again like falling out of hyperspace. Or at least, the George Lucas and Gene Roddenberry-indoctrinated version of falling out of hyperspace. One moment, monotonous streak of forest brown and red and orange and the steady thud of his feet, and the next, clear three dimensional surround sound including the growling, which seemed to be coming from just over the small ridge in front of him.

Rodney froze, trying to decide between making a run for it and desperately trying to climb the nearest tree. He doubted he was any better at tree climbing then orienteering but he had enough adrenaline flooding his system that he might surprise himself. Except that as he frantically ran through options another part of his brain noted that the sound didn't seem to actually be getting any closer and nothing lethal was currently in sight.

He inched forward, sliding one foot in front of the other through dead leaves until he could see over the small rise. He ended up looking at nothing but a reverse slope and more trees. The growl was continuous now, rising in pitch and punctuated by short snarls. Louder, but that didn't change the fact that all that Rodney saw was the gentle downward incline of the lea side of the hill.

Bracing his hand on a nearby tree, Rodney went up on his toes, trying to get another inch to improve his view. With a kick, his brain resolved the illusion, and suddenly he was staring not along a short hillside but down into a shadowed sinkhole at a very unhappy wolf.

Rodney's heels hit the ground with a jarring thunk. The wolf bared its teeth and snarled.

The mid-day sun shone down into part of the hole but left a large portion in shadow. Only the head and shoulders of the wolf stood out, illuminated. The rest of him seemed to be tucked under an overhang, hidden from sight. What Rodney could see was impressive in a pathetic sort of way.

The wolf was black, or a mottled approximation thereof. What sun there was picked out the rich brown of his undercoat along the shoulders and below his ears where it wasn’t matted down with clay. His front legs and deep chest were covered in thick clay, half baked dry in some spots and still wet in others. Rodney had stepped in enough muck to lament the lack of radiant solar heat under the tree canopy. It had to be even more of an issue in a sink hole.

The wolf was also big. Bigger then he’d imagined wolves to be. Rodney wasn’t sure if that was because, if asked to imagine a wolf, he might have pictured a slightly rangier version of a large dog or maybe that this animal really was bigger than average.

“No real scale for comparison, huh?” he murmured as he took a few tentative steps closer. The wolf let loose with another coughing snarl.

Rodney dismissed it with a sharp flick of the wrist. “Yes, well, thank you. I’m sure you’re very intimidating when you’re not half dead.” Even in the less than perfect light, Rodney could see how the wolf's coat lay too close to bone. It was far too thin. It had to have been in the hole for a while, although Rodney wasn’t an expert on how long it took a wolf to starve.

“Three minutes, three hours, three days, three weeks. Air, exposure, water, food.” Rodney listed out loud as he examined the wolf and the sinkhole. But maybe that only applied to humans. And assuming the wolf had been well fed and free from illness before he ended up in the hole. Not to mention that Rodney didn’t know what the average mass of a healthy wolf was supposed to be to start with.

The wolf continued its low rumble, a sound that seemed to vibrate through its tight skin and fur of raised hackles. The wolf hadn’t let up the noise for at least as long as Rodney had been paying attention.

“Don’t you need to breathe?” Rodney edged a bit closer to the sinkhole, peering down in consternation at the animal.

In response, the wolf sprang forward on stiff legs, hopping up a few inches and bringing his paws down in front of him with a solid thump. The whole thing was punctuated with the snap of teeth.

Even from his obviously superior and safe vantage point, Rodney flinched back. “Oh, yes, very impressive,” he snarked back, automatically covering for his display of fear. “I can see how far that sort of thing has gotten you.”

And it was clear that the wolf had been trying unsuccessfully to get himself out of the sinkhole. The inner walls had crumbled away at a uniform height – as tall as a leaping wolf's paws could reach he supposed – creating an overhang that extended straight up another meter vertically before reaching the forest floor. Two full grown men, one standing on the other’s shoulders, would have had trouble escaping the pit.

“Soft clay. Probably recently saturated with rain.” The wolf growled right back, as if to rebuke Rodney for stating the self-evident. “Well, yes, sinkhole. And you didn’t think to stop while you were ahead, did you?”

Sharp teeth snapped again in angry retort. This time Rodney didn't retreat but rather folded his arms across his chest and belligerently responded. “Don’t snap at me! It’s not my fault you were stupid enough to fall into a sinkhole! Obviously, had you half a brain, you wouldn’t be in that mess to begin with.”

Rodney had avoided such pitfalls, both literal and not, so far but there weren't any guarantees. These days the stupidest mistake could kill you. Just take that idiot who had gotten himself shut in a freezer. Rodney had been scared half to death by the contorted, blue-tinged form when he’d opened the door in search of provisions. That poor bastard was why Rodney had stopped looking for food stored in back rooms.

He started to edge around the arc of the pit, one eye on the wolf, one eye on the ground. He didn't trust the earth not to cave in more, not with the dramatic evidence to his right.

“Here lies Dr. Rodney McKay. Unacknowledged genius. Survived the end of the world. Stupidly, fell in a hole and got eaten by a wolf.” Rodney muttered to himself.

Not that there was anyone left to write his epitaph, let alone bury his gnawed on bones.

The wolf had gone quiet now. A glance down showed that he had turned to follow Rodney’s progress around the sinkhole. The change in position meant that the fur on the wolf's hind legs and tail glinted in the sun while his face was shadowed. The slightly demonic glint of his eyes from the gloom caused Rodney to stumble over an imaginary rock. He forced himself to look away and watch where he was going.

Reaching the far side, Rodney nodded stiffly at the wolf or to himself or both, not that it really mattered, and took off at a quick pace away from the pit. He still had hours of walking ahead of him today. Maybe if he was very lucky he'd stumble on a large road and confound his expectations.

He only made it a hundred yards before his feet halted seemingly all of their own.

For a moment he stared blankly at his worn walking shoes. He would need to find actual boots before long given the toll walking across the Ohio Valley had taken on them. And by his calculations he had something like two point six million more steps to go. He really should get on with that. Instead, he turned and walked back toward the trapped wolf.

Two point six million plus forty more now that he'd backtracked. Eighty additional steps as a result of this little detour.

At the bottom of the hole, the wolf now rested in the small patch of sun, curled nose to tail. He didn’t even seem to care that Rodney had crept back to the edge of his prison.

“Do you know, you’re the first living mammal, I’ve seen in almost a week?” he asked. The wolf’s ears twitched back and forth, catching the sound of his voice, he supposed. Golden eyes fixed on him but the animal didn’t rise again. His growl rumbled upward.

“Yes, I hear you. And believe me; I am very much aware of how painfully you could kill me, thank you.” Rodney shrugged off his pack and leaned it against a convenient tree root a safe distance away before continuing on as if he'd never been interrupted. “I’ve heard birds, of course."

And sometimes other things passing by in the dark. But, he hasn’t seen anything in person since that farm a half day’s walk south of Lake Erie. The old barn had sheltered one very sick cow and Rodney hadn’t been able to force himself to stay in that barn over night no matter how wet he'd gotten in the rain. It had been a stark reminder that people weren't the only victims of the Fever.

“There’s only so much a man can take.” Rodney whispered to himself as he scanned the hillside, thinking. He had survived the end of the world with his sanity intact. Sort of. Given a loose definition of sanity. And this was stupid. Stupid on a scale previously unknown and certainly never exhibited by one Doctor Rodney McKay.

Except that here was a wolf. Mostly dead, but also still alive. And that was a rare and precious thing these days. Or so it seemed to Rodney.

“Look. I understand that you’re hungry and you’re wild and nature is red in tooth and all that but I would really appreciate it if you didn’t eat me,” he told the wolf as he made his way back around the sinkhole. The thick branch Rodney was aiming for had fallen some time ago if the mossy growth was anything to go by. It had fallen uphill of the sinkhole and looked to be long enough and thick enough to hold a skinny, half starved wolf, provided he could get the right leverage to tip it down into the hole.

The wolf continued to growl and edged to his feet. His gaze followed Rodney as he walked.

“Not that I expect you to understand but I could just leave you there, you know. It’s not as if you’re going anywhere on your own." Rodney spoke absently as he examined the fallen limb. If he stood down hill, with the sinkhole between him and the branch, he could both take advantage of gravity and very conveniently be on the total opposite side of the hole when the wolf made it out.

Rodney detoured to his pack to get some rope and then went over to the tree branch. A few quick movements and he had tied one end of the rope over and under the thickest part right above where it split. The smaller branches would provide more stability if they landed at the bottom of the pit rather than hung on the lip. Playing the rope out carefully, he made his way down slope until he was once again below the sinkhole, with the line suspended over it.

“I could be one of the very last humans, you know. A prime specimen of an endangered species.” Rodney set his feet firmly and leaned back to take up the slack in the rope. What he wouldn’t give for a winch or block and tackle. “And I’m obviously going out of my way here--” The first solid tug on the line shook the tree limb with a rattle of dead branches but didn’t move it any closer to the hole. The wolf must still be paying attention because the rough growls and snarls continued in counterpoint to Rodney’s panted stream of conversation.

“– to save your mostly starved ass --”

Rodney threw himself backward, yanking on the line. This time the tree branch slid a satisfying few meters along the slope to balance precariously on the lip of the sinkhole. He heaved again and for a moment it fought gravity, then gave way. There was a shower of rocks and horrendous crunch punctuated by a pained yip from the pit below as the branch slid into the hole.

“– so don’t eat me?” Rodney finished with a questioning note from where he’d fallen backwards to the forest floor.

Before he could climb to his feet to see if he’d accidentally crushed the wolf in his efforts to free him, there was the sound of mad scrabbling from the pit. The wolf emerged in an inelegant sprawl of fur, his hind legs slipping on the lip of the hole. Which looked none too stable given the recent scouring by the branch and the weight of a new furry addition. As if he sensed the danger, the wolf executed an undignified hopping-crawl to pull clear and up to the crest of the rise where Rodney had stood looking down and caught sight of him not a half hour ago.

Rodney stared up at the wolf for a long moment wondering what he was going to do if the wolf decided to eat him. The forest floor was cool beneath his palms and he could feel his ass becoming uncomfortably damp. He had a brief, startling image of himself meeting an undignified end as he slipped and struggled to stand in some parody of slapstick comedy, while the wolf stalked him like a Saturday morning cartoon character.

The wolf, though, didn't move to approach him. Instead it stared back, teeth bared and sides bellowing with panted breath but otherwise silent. Then with a coughing snarl, he streaked away into the woods, leaving Rodney still sitting amid the leaf litter.

“Stupid fucking dog!” he half shouted back at the wolf, an adrenaline rush boosting his voice into an undignified, high register.

Alone once again, Rodney picked himself up, feet indeed slipping for a moment, and brushed the worst of the leaf litter off. Reaching for his pack he reoriented himself and started walking again. Two point six million steps left give or take. In his mind’s eye, the beacon he was following pulsed a warm, reassuring blue somewhere beyond the trees.

***

In John Sheppard's considered opinion, airport terminals were their own special brand of hell. He’d been to some of the most unforgiving environments in the world, including one or two war zones that were probably as close as man could get to creating hell on Earth and yet, nothing grated quite like a public airline terminal full of delayed passengers.

John opened his eyes a crack to take in the crush of people filling the gate area. Nothing had improved since the last time he'd bothered to check, so he closed his eyes again and tried for the millionth time that day to find a comfortable position in the small leather slung chair. The chair refused to cooperate with his efforts to ease his tired back.

He'd been travelling now for over 24 hours and had arrived in Atlanta just before lunch. It was pushing on ten o’clock at night now. A long layover in a crowded terminal was not how he’d wanted to spend his first night back in the States in over eighteen months. Not that his battle raw nerves would have let him sleep even in an empty terminal but he certainly couldn’t rest with the sheer number of angry people milling about.

John's plane was scheduled to board on time but apparently a storm system had gone through one of the hub cities earlier in the day while he was still flying over the Atlantic and pushed everyone else into a mad scramble for later flights. The result being overbooked planes and people waiting on standby for the last departure of the day back up the East Coast, which coincidentally was John's. Their sullen discontent pressed down on him, and he slumped even further into the uncomfortable seat.

Whenever possible, John avoided flying commercial – he hated everything from the security checks down to the hard little seats spaced across the terminal – by taking military flights. Not that he ever got to pilot those hops from the comfortable seats in the cockpit but what they lacked in cabin comforts, they more than made up for in hassle free transport. He'd taken military planes from his forward base all the way into Germany but then he'd had to switch over to commercial airlines. Flying home on emergency leave meant that he didn't have the flexibility of waiting on Transcom's schedule.

John's eyes snapped open fully as a heavy bag dragged his feet sideways, nearly causing him to sprawl on the floor. The dickhead pulling his rolling case down the cramped aisle between seats didn't even offer him a second glance as he continued on. John silently snarled at his retreating back. The group of people arranged around their laptops and phones, tethered to the outlet beneath John's chair, grumbled. The long afternoon had sapped everyone of the energy necessary to create a scene. Besides, a confrontation might mean giving up their current spot within reach of the outlet. Forcing himself to calm down, John ran a rough hand over his jaw, obliterating his curled lip and resettled himself.

A sudden piercing squawk from the intercom echoed through the terminal. His hands immediately darted to his temple, pressing in. The endless drone of the intercom asking people to check in or report to the service desk had tipped John’s exhaustion over into a full blown tension headache within an hour of sitting down. As a result, his hearing had been spiking all afternoon. Now it felt as if his fingers might be the only thing keeping his brain from cracking his skull into a hundred smaller pieces.

A ragged cheer went up as the Gate Attendant finally announced boarding for Delta 1138: Atlanta to Washington DC – Reagan National Airport.

Wincing in pain, John unfolded himself from the tiny chair and stretched out his back. Snagging his duffle, he wove through the sudden crush at the gate and made his way over to the coffee shop. He could board in the second wave but he preferred to wait until the last boarding call. Not only would it cut down on the frustration of boarding behind the inevitable idiot who didn’t think that the carry on size limit applied to them but he really wasn't looking forward to squeezing himself into his middle of the row seat.

"What can I get you, sir?" Even the overwhelming bitter scent of coffee couldn’t disguise the barista’s tiredness. She smelled exhausted. John could only imagine the shit she’d probably had had to deal with this afternoon from irate travelers. Offering a small smile, he requested a bottle of water and paid with a five. He left the change in the anemic looking tip jar and received a tired but genuine smile in return.

"Thank you."

He killed some time at the newsstand and made a trip to the restroom before finally getting in line to board the plane. As he passed by the counter, John was happy to note that the asshole with the all important job who had tortured the entire gate with his overloud complaints all afternoon was stuck at the service desk arguing over a seat. Maybe there was a small measure of justice in the world.

A quick scan of his ID and boarding pass later, and John was striding down the tunnel towards the plane. Catching up with the stragglers at the plane door, he idly traced the seals with his eyes, looking for tears. Not that it was his plane but some instincts you couldn't suppress. John forced himself not to reach out and touch.

“Colonel Sheppard?”

John looked up at the flight attendant greeting passengers as they boarded. There were two attendants claiming carry-on bags as the last of the passengers made their way onto the plane, checking them at the door. The man who had called John's name was trying his best to maintain the sunny, anything I can do to help, attitude of all flight attendants but John could see the cracks beginning to show in his too tight smile. His name badge read 'Mark' in bold white lettering.

“Yes?” John asked, hoping there wasn't an issue with the flight. He wasn't in uniform but the flight manifest would have given him away even if his military ID hadn't. If they were going to ask for assistance with the asshole back up the ramp, John was very certainly going to kill the man.

Mark motioned him forward while his partner stepped in behind John to divest the small group after him of their rolling bags. He led the way into the cabin and stopped three rows in at an empty set of two first class seats. Mark waved him in towards the window with a tired smile.

“Sir, we’d like to offer you a seat in First Class this evening.”

John blinked a moment, offering an automatic polite refusal before his brain really kicked in and registered the offer. “Really, it’s okay. I’m fine. But thank you.”

Mark smiled a little more genuinely. “Row 29, middle seat, right?” he asked, nodding towards John’s boarding pass. It was one of the last few rows at the rear of the plane, behind the wings and prime territory for the whine of the 747’s massive engines. John could feel the pressure in his temples go up just imagining take off.

“Please sir, with the Airline’s compliments and gratitude for your service.”

John looked back towards the crowded rear of the plane, trying to make his tired brain make a decision.

The attendant leaned forward to share a bit of insight with a conspiratorial whisper. “Seat 30B? A cranky four year-old with a cold and no intentions of sleeping. The dad in 30A seems to have dosed up on the Nyquil for the same cold and is probably a walking zombie by now. Mom appears to be all right but definitely at her wits end.” The last was delivered with a sly smile and nod towards the rear of the plane. A family of three filled the row behind an open middle seat that was no doubt John's. The father already had his head resting against the window and an obviously overtired toddler hung from one of the seat backs, crying.

A rough snort of laughter escaped John’s tired control. “Walking zombie, huh?” he said, “In that case...”

Mark smiled again and took John’s bag to stow it with the crews' carry-ons. “Enjoy your flight, sir.”

“Thank you.” John replied with a tired smile.

Turning sideways, John slid into the row and settled into the generous seat. He pulled down the window shade and reached up to flick off the two reading lights for the row. Ignoring the last of the passengers filing in, he finally forced himself to slip over into an exhausted sleep.

He slept straight through take off, the entire two hour flight, and the landing at National. It was the last truly restful sleep he managed for weeks.

***

One of the disappointing things about the apocalypse – and don’t get him started on the many, many, there were – was that Rodney wasn’t suddenly any better at camping then he had been at age fourteen. That was the year he’d contracted mono during final exams and rather than going to math camp (the planned reward for spending the entire Spring shepherding his sister to and from dance class three afternoons a week), Rodney had spent the summer at the lake house with his parents, tucked against the box fan, too sick and ill-tempered to do more than doze through the hot days and sticky nights.

His father had spent those summer months preparing his journal article for peer review but his mom had played cards with Rodney and brought him comic books to read and cool, iced tea to sooth his throat. The television signal was snow and nothing else, but there was a VCR and for every musical his mom made him watch, she’d then put in “War of the Worlds” or “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” or another sci-fi classic.

By the last week of August, Rodney had been on the mend and feeling restless and agitated. This improvement in constitution perversely had made him more hostile in dealing with his parents. That summer he’d begun to truly hone his biting sarcasm into a weapon and that, on top of the sullen nastiness that only a sick teenager could call upon, had driven his mother to finally thrown up her hands and demand that his father take him out somewhere and not come back until after she didn’t want to kill him in his sleep. His father had carefully put away his journals, gathered the gear, and taken Rodney down to the lakefront for a night camped out.

Rodney had refused to participate in the entire endeavor out of spite, not that his father had asked him for more than to lend a hand holding the tent poles or to pass over the mallet. Instead he had watched sourly as his father dug a fire pit and laid out the wood, pitched the tent, and unrolled the sleeping bags, refusing to respond to any conversational overtures.

But what Rodney remembers most about the whole trip was later that night, after his father had fallen asleep. Rodney had lain awake restless. After weeks of only being conscious a few hours at a time, his body had forgotten how to sleep through the night. Rather than lie in the stifling dark of the tent and hope he could relax into dreams, he’d rolled out of the sleeping bag and crawled carefully over his father into the night.

When Rodney had emerged from the tent onto the cool sand, night had transformed the lakefront into something unearthly. His father had carefully tamped out the fire before they had crawled into their tent. The new moon had no light to cast. There had been little to see but Rodney could remember the sound of the water lapping at the odd sandy, mixed soil beach and unidentifiable noises across the water. For a barely teenaged Rodney, it had all been frighteningly surreal. Almost enough to drive him back into the tent until he saw the captivating spangled night sky.

That night Venus had shown bright and pure and for the first time ever he had been able to see the Queen sitting on her throne low in the sky. In Rodney’s memory, it seemed as if there were more stars in that summer sky than in all the multiverse. He had stood on the sand, head thrown back and watched until vertigo made him fold down to the ground in search of a tether to reality.

Sometimes when Rodney recalls that night, he wonders if he had steeled himself and stood still a moment longer, if perhaps his feet might have broken free of the Earth and spun him out into the stars. Rodney doesn’t remember falling asleep later or packing up to return to the cabin or anything else from the remainder of that summer. But, to this day, he clearly remembers that night sky.

After the Fever, Rodney found himself reflecting more and more on that night, although not because of the stars. He wished he’d paid more attention to how his father had had set up a campsite. Rodney also wondered where his father had learned to survive the great outdoors. Had Rodney’s grandfather taught him or had he and Rodney’s mother once been camping enthusiasts? His father had died years ago, long before the Fever had wiped out the rest of the world, but it was only now that Rodney felt the ache of questions that would never be answered.

This evening, Rodney’s attempt at a fire had cooperated long enough for him to heat some water for coffee and to reconstitute his freeze-dried meal. It wasn’t the most appetizing of dinners but the package expiration date was five years from now. These days, grocery shelves in deserted towns looked more like displays for science experiments than displays of edible food.

Settling down on a convenient rock he’d chosen as this evening’s exciting accommodations, Rodney reached over for his tablet. The nightly ritual of booting up and checking the signal was both the best and worst part of his day. He would sit each night by the fire and endure the interminable minutes before the tablet displayed its bright blue startup screen, then switched to the map, strong blue pulse of the mystery beacon still his only destination.

Rodney doesn’t know what the beacon is but it requires a lot of power. Anything that powerful that was still running had to be interesting. Maybe there were people. Maybe not. At the very least there was a power source off the local grid. Rodney hadn’t even noticed the beacon until after the North American power grid had collapsed and left everything silent. It was only then, sitting in his Toronto apartment, alone and wondering what to do next, that Rodney had become aware of the anomaly.

Maybe it had been there all along or maybe it had started up recently. Either way, it was a mystery and that was enough for Rodney. It’s not like there are a lot of choices these days.

Tonight when he reached for his pack to check the beacon, his pack and tablet weren’t where he expected them to be. Casting about, Rodney eventually stood to check the area next to the pile of kindling. He vaguely remembered digging through the pack earlier looking for the mini saw chain that made fire wood so much easier to manage. A glance over confirmed his vague memory but brought with it a surprise visitor.

Golden eyes studied him from the cover of the far trees.

“Come back to say thank you, have you?” Rodney forced through his tight throat. Because, really, what other wolf would be sitting across the fire staring at him but the half starved creature from the sinkhole?

“Well, I could say better late than never but I’d much rather you just went away.”

In response, the wolf inched closer, nose extended into the firelight. It seemed the animal had managed to get rid of the worst of the clay in the intervening hours. His pelt was a uniform matte black in the shifting firelight. Up close he was even bigger than he had seemed in the hole. And his teeth were very much in evidence as he chuffed out a breath.

“Oh, no, no, no!” Rodney declared, hands coming up and feet retreating toward the trees as the wolf advanced around the fire pit. “There is nothing for you here! Go!” Rodney snatched up his dinner plate and pulled it close into his chest as if he could really protect it from a vicious, hungry wolf by the width of his forearm.

The shouting didn’t seem to affect the wolf at all, but Rodney's attempts to hide his dinner brought those eyes around to the food the wolf had scented. The wolf was clearly interested, although whether that was because he hadn’t found anything when Rodney helped him escape or just because it was food and it was there, Rodney couldn’t guess.

For a moment the wolf and the man stared at each other. The night seemed to rapidly cool around them.

“Really. You don’t want this.” Rodney tried, a bit breathlessly. “I’m sure there are rabbits or foxes or something that are much tastier. Warm and uh,” Rodney stumbled over the torrent of words, “bloody?”

The images that brought to mind were definitely not in line with where Rodney was hoping this half conversation went. It reminded him too much of that brief moment this afternoon when he had been sure the wolf was going to attack him.

“Except not like me! I’m not at all good to eat!” he admonished the animal.

For a long moment the animal stared at him, as if weighing its options. Then the wolf opened his jaws and lunged forward with a short growl.

Rodney, quite manfully he would later assure himself, screamed in fear and curled up tight against a closely situated tree. But there was no sudden wash of pain from sharp teeth. Instead, he blinked his eyes open to see the wolf standing back on the other side of the fire. Rodney’s pack had been dragged next to the wolf, its contents now spilling across the ground. Tossed carelessly into the dirt by wolf’s front paws lay the tablet, wrapped in its neoprene protective case.

The thought of losing his pack or tablet galvanized Rodney as nothing had in a long, long time. In an instant he was away from the tree, bending to drop the plate on the large rock he’d been using as a seat and grabbing a branch from the meager pile of firewood. He waved the branch threateningly at the wolf but didn’t advance on him.

“Hey!” Rodney yelled in what he hoped was an intimidating manner. A few swipes with the branch pulled the wolf’s eyes but it didn’t make any move to leave its prize.

Upping the ante, Rodney stooped down and picked up a rock in his off hand, lobbing it awkwardly in the wolf’s direction. The animal didn’t even flinch. Rodney switched the branch to his other hand and picked up another rock. This one hit just to the right of the wolf but the animal still seemed unimpressed.

Rodney began to stomp closer, trying to make as much noise as possible while making as little actual progress towards the wolf as he could. The wolf didn't move no matter how hard Rodney brought his boots down into the leaf litter. Instead, with what could only be described as a sly smile, the wolf lowered his head, gripped Rodney’s tablet firmly in his jaws, turned, and then disappeared into the woods with a flash of his tail and hindquarters.

Rodney stood stupidly for a moment feeling strangely as if he’d just been given the wolf equivalent of the finger. Then he was after the animal, stumbling through the moon washed woods, barely able to keep track of it in the dark. Oddly enough, the wolf didn’t seem to be trying too hard to escape. The wolf led Rodney around in circles through trees, crossing back and forth over the near-by stream, soaking Rodney’s feet and pants a little more thoroughly each time.

If Rodney hadn’t known it was impossible, he would have said the animal was taunting him.

“Fucking overgrown dog!” he cursed at the animal as he struggled along after it. “This is not a game!” Rodney was in better shape now than before he began his trek, but his ribs still began to ache and his breath came more and more sharply as the chase drew out. No matter how he tried, he didn’t seem to be gaining on the animal.

Before Rodney could contemplate more drastic measures, the wolf disappeared entirely and Rodney was forced to come to a painful halt against a tree trunk.

“Oh, God.” he moaned. He needed that tablet. It had taken days to configure it to track the signal. He’d spent at least that long boosting the wireless reception and finessing the settings into picking up the fading satellites. Beyond that, the tablet was his only means of gauging progress towards his goal. He had an idea of where he was going, of course, but who knew if the signal would still be there when he next found a town where he could scavenge new electronics?

“I am so screwed. So very, very screwed.” With a tired thump, he let his head fall back into the tree trunk, gazing stupidly into the night. Right at his tablet case, stuffed into the crook of the tree opposite him.

“What the fuck?” he snarled, overwhelmed for a moment with a wave of anger and gratitude and other emotions he wouldn’t name.

Rodney stomped over to the tree and looked up at his prize. The case had been wedged into the split where the trunk branched about three meters up. Just out of reach but not so far that Rodney couldn’t get it down with a little effort. One pinched hand and a twisted ankle from a misplaced foot and he was back on the ground, tablet in hand.

Rodney anxiously yanked the zipper down and pulled out the computer. His hand trembled slightly as he thumbed on the power. A wash of blue and the irritating welcome tone greeted him. Rodney rubbed absently at his chest, his lungs and heart going overtime before resuming their normal rhythm. Never had he been happier to hear Windows booting up.

Nothing appeared damaged. The case wasn't even worse for wear after its little adventure. Satisfied with his initial assessment, Rodney looked up. He, strangely enough, found his camp still visible through the trees as he turned to orient himself. Another weird thing to add to the growing list.

As he trudged through the stream for the umpteenth time that night, he couldn’t help but mull over the whole stupid affair. The whole thing felt wrong to Rodney. Or, not wrong, but impossibly weird. The wolf never should have approached him or his fire in the first place. Let alone have the mental capacity to play a strange amalgamation of tag and hide and seek in the middle of the woods with a man. From the ‘chase’ to the tree, Rodney felt as if he was missing something – some key piece of data that would make sense of the whole night.

By the time he got back to his warm fire, tablet in hand, he had almost gotten over his anger at the wolf given the strangeness of the whole encounter. Sitting down, Rodney glanced back at the tablet. The screen now showed the beacon still going strong. One thing that had gone right this evening. Thank you to whatever deities still looked over the last of mankind.

Halfway around the fire, mind elsewhere, his foot connected with something. A solid kick sent it skittering across the forest floor. Just barely keeping himself upright, Rodney’s irate gaze fell on his dinner tray.

It had been licked clean.

***

The wake of John Patrick Sheppard II, patriarch of Sheppard Industries, was filled with people John doesn’t know but hates nonetheless. He and his father hadn’t gotten along well in the past few years, or really since he’d decided to join the military, but he'd loved the old man. And right about now it felt as if John was the only one who might be here out of love rather than duty. The flock of people occupying the front hall certainly gave the impression of putting in an appearance at a required social event rather than paying Patrick Sheppard any last respects.

“Stop glaring, John.”

The barely audible growl came from just to his right where his brother David stood. John didn’t bother looking over. He wasn’t glaring. Perhaps he was looking a little harder than he would normally look but he had gotten out of the habit of disguising his gaze. His visual acuity was a field asset that had saved his life and the life of his men. The fact that John’s blatant disregard for his father’s cardinal rules of business and survival pissed off Dave was just a bonus.

John offered a closed lipped, thin smile as the next man in line stepped forward. Not because Dave would call him on anything more but because if he didn’t, he was sure the flash of teeth would be accompanied with a snarl. His hand was taken in a sweaty handshake and rote words of condolences offered. John nodded stiffly and passed the man forward to Dave, who took his hand in a far more congenial manner that invited a thump on the shoulder from the man.

“My sympathies for your loss, Dave.”

“Thank you, Robert.” Dave replied, shaking the man’s hand. From the corner of his eye, John could see the same subdued smile that Dave had graced everyone with so far. Dave deftly handed the man off to his wife, Karen, who stood next to him, for a brief hug and another murmured exchange.

“I wouldn’t have to glare if people would stop offering me insincere condolences.” John growled with the barest nod towards keeping his voice down. The next man in line smelled of adrenaline and greed. It was the scent of boardroom talks and gentlemen’s club dinner deals. This time he deliberately did glare. The man smartly moved right over to Dave, skipping John entirely.

Before the next couple could approach, Dave reached over to John and placed a hand on his shoulder, turning them to face the sidewall. Karen stepped forward smoothly to accept an insincere hug and kiss on the cheek from a woman in a sharp suit and reptile heels. John didn’t even need his nose to tell that she wasn’t feeling the least bit sorry for their loss.

“This is not the time for this, John.” Dave was angry but trying to maintain his composure. For a white-hot moment, John hated him for his ability to pretend. The hair on the back of his neck rose in response.

“Forgive me, Dave, if I’m having a little bit of trouble here. I haven’t had six months to come to terms with Dad’s impending death.”

John hadn’t kept in close contact with his Dad or Dave but he hadn’t been refusing their calls. Even in a war zone, communications got through, as was evidenced by the fact that John was here for the funeral. And yet, no one had seen fit to tell him about his father’s health issues.

“What would you have me do, John?” Dave grit out. “Like I told you, it wasn’t my decision.”

Last night, an anonymous car and driver had been waiting for John outside the airport. By the time he had gotten to the house, it was half past two in the morning. John had had just enough energy to get the story from Dave before he slammed up to the guest room and collapsed. The argument was still brewing.

John pulled away with a sharp jerk. “Fuck you, Dave.”

Dave looked like he wanted to argue but knowing he wouldn’t abandon his ‘duties’ to follow him, John made his escape through the adjacent dinning room and out onto the patio. He needed a drink but baring that perhaps fresh air would help.

John stalked over to the low stonewall dividing the patio from the lawn. “Fuck.” He cursed to himself. John roughly dragged a hand over his face. Dave was right. This really wasn’t the time or place but he couldn’t seem to get a handle on the anger knocking about inside of him. It was the type of anger that made his teeth itch and required a punching bag or a bar fight, neither of which were to be had here. Maybe he’d go for a run after it got dark.

“Colonel Sheppard?”

John’s attention was brought around to the three men in casual suits approaching from the side of the house. There was something about them that seemed out of place. They were walking with the stiff legged gait of men who didn’t belong. Fuck but John was messed up if he hadn’t noticed them before they’d called out to him. John blew a noisy breath out through his nose, trying to dislodge the scents of perfume and entitlement.

“Yeah?” John replied shortly. Not in uniform, but the haircuts and bearing marked them as military.

The man who had spoken seemed more interested in his surroundings then John. He kept looking around as if expecting something. His eyes would land on John for a moment or two before they’d be off roaming again across the yard, back to the French doors from the dinning room, off to the side door, then out to the drive before circling back to John and starting the whole cycle over.

The other two men had eyes for John alone. They stood slightly behind the first, tense and ready. Unless he missed his guess at least one of them was Special Forces. All three were trying not to draw attention to themselves while clearly here for some specific purpose.

The first man spoke again. “Sir, I’m afraid we need you to come with us.”

John stared hard at the man, at a loss for how to process the inappropriateness of that request. There was no way the men could have missed the fact that this was a wake. He finally settled for a gruff, “I’m on emergency leave.” He took a step to the right intending to head back inside but tweedle dee and tweedle dum moved to block his path.

“Yes, Sir, we know, but your leave has been revoked. We need you to come with us immediately.” One of the goons he’d pegged as Special Forces looked around quickly before taking a few steps closer toward John. He didn’t reach out for him but John definitely felt the infringement on his personal space.

The instinctive urge to respond violently surprised him in its strength. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the men and the situation. Something was most certainly not right here.

John stepped back against the stone balustrade. “My father,” John began unsure how he was going to finish that sentence. My father is dead. My father is being buried tomorrow. My father is waiting for me to say goodbye.

“Immediately. Sir.” The last was tacked on as a nod to rank, not out of any further pretense of politeness. The two men who hadn’t spoken were proven to be most certainly operators as they stepped forward and reached to grip his arms between shoulder and elbow. John could have extricated himself, but not without making a scene.

The spokesmen for their little party fixed John with a hard stare.

Whatever was going on, they weren’t interested in giving John a choice. Nodding his head once, he gave in. He would just have to explain to Dave when he got back from sorting this out.

“Lead on, gentlemen.”

***

Rodney wasn’t sure what he should do about his new shadow. It wasn’t anything rational or predictable about the entire thing – the two worse insults he could levy on a problem.

Contrary to the whispers of his outclassed colleagues, Rodney considered himself a bit of a Renaissance man and he had studied enough behavior science and zoology to realize that this wolf was behaving in a most decidedly atypical manner. Obviously it was smart but what Rodney had observed since the wolf reappeared last week went far beyond basic problem solving. He could swear the animal was deliberately and with measured forethought, interacting with him. Which obviously couldn’t be true.

And yet.

The day after the wolf had lured him from camp in order to steal his food, Rodney had studiously kept his pack with him at all times. He even slept with it settled tightly on his back. He’d woken to find that the wolf had crept close enough during the night to gnaw through the bottom and reach some of the packed jerky. When he noticed the hole and the theft, Rodney had stomped about the camp, hurling insults at the top of his lungs. The wolf had watched his antics from a safe distance. But then, once Rodney had packed up and gotten moving, the wolf had disappeared into the forest as if he’d never been there at all.

The next evening, Rodney suspended the pack from a tree before going to sleep. He’d woken to the sound of claws on wood. While he’d still been untangling himself from his sleeping bag, the wolf had deliberately shredded the rope where it was tied to the tree branch and released the pack. In a flash he’d made off with the remaining beef jerky and Rodney was left to rant again at a pair of glowing eyes set back in the woods.

The following night, Rodney had been sure his preparations had been foolproof. He had been proven wrong again. And so it continued, night after night. Rodney would spend the day thinking up elaborate means of hiding or securing his pack. When he woke, the pack would be on the ground again in the middle of the campsite.

At this point, there wasn’t even any dry food left in the pack to tempt the wolf. The damn animal just seemed to be doing it for fun. For his part, the wolf had taken to sitting just within sight but out of throwing range, panting open mouthed from exhilaration at his latest trick, seeming to enjoy listening to Rodney rant.

He paced Rodney during the day. Rodney would sometimes catch a glimpse of the dark fur off to his right or left, following him through the thinning trees and across the more and more prevalent fields. Even with the increase in meadows, he had yet to actually catch the wolf. Although if the wolf continued this game, he’d follow Rodney right into the open flatlands of mid-America.

Did wolves inhabit the prairie, he wondered, or just coyotes? He couldn’t recall ever hearing of wolves in Kansas but the animals were top predators and that might be more a result of farmers with shotguns than a dislike of open spaces. Either way, it certainly didn’t appear as if this wolf cared for wolfish norms. And Rodney was starting not to care either. He knew the dangers of anthropomorphism, but he'd been alone for long enough that he was seriously beginning to question if the plague had made animals smarter. Or maybe they had been smart all along and had just decided to stop disguising the fact. Rodney had read a story like that once.

Not that he could test historical behavior at this point but he had been thinking about how to set up a series of tests to rigorously explore the intelligence of the animal. He was even careful not to talk about it out loud, just in case the wolf understood. It wasn’t paranoia if the animal could follow your muttered planning.

Before that though, Rodney needed to make a stop. Not only was he running low on food stuffs as a result of his nightly visitor but he needed to find a sturdier pack and perhaps a warmer sleeping bag. While he was at it, he could use a new battery pack. And if while he was getting the essentials, he happened upon a sturdy canister and a couple lengths of wire to enact his most recent plan for a wolf proof food storage device slash intelligence test, well, all the better.

According to the information he’d been able to get off the internet before everything had finally gone down, there should be a trucking depot located in one of the towns along this ridge. It should have a good run of warehouses and storage lots that had served as a hub for big box stores and groceries in the surrounding region. With any luck he would find everything he was looking for with very little trouble.

He didn’t want to be in the town any longer than the bare minimum of time he needed to scavenge. The vast emptiness of the concrete and glass buildings had been more than Rodney could bear as he’d made his way through Buffalo. At that point there had still been fires and Rodney’s nightmares for weeks later had starred dark alleys and burned out cars. The countryside had been much easier on his nerves and Rodney was going to avoid cities until he had no choice.

So, soon there would be a supply run. He didn’t expect the wolf to follow him, but he planned to be back in the thinning tree line as quickly as possible. And then they’d be on their way west again. He still couldn't pinpoint the exact location of the beacon, but they were getting close. Changes in the electronic signature didn't lie.

Rodney would focus on that and not on why the thought of a day without his companion caused his chest to ache.

***

The minute hand of John’s watch moved to hover over the eleven. Five minutes 'til two, day three. John stilled his bouncing knee. There was no point to this if he was going to give it away with nervous ticks before it even began. He forced himself to remain still, seated on the edge of his bed with his head bowed contemplating his hands. Just a man bored with days of captivity.

The room was configured as an isolation ward. It contained one medical bed, one utilitarian sink and one small shower and toilet in a cubby with no door. Everything was white – the tile to the ceramic sink to the walls. The only variation came from black cameras protected by steel mesh, mounted in the high corners of the room. There were no windows and only the one door, which was obviously meant to keep him and anything he’d brought with him inside the room.

And they were very obviously afraid of something he’d brought with him being transmissible. The door had been set with a negative pressure seal, and every person who walked into the room wore a containment suit with their own air supply. The only condition that John was aware of having was nothing that could be caught but the fact that they were worried, worried John.

One fifty-seven.

He’d strapped on the silver plated antique watch, the one his grandfather had given him when he’d turned thirteen, the morning of his father’s wake. His own heavy duty military issue digital watch was still on his dresser back at his father’s – Dave’s – house. The manual sweep of hands around the face had become his only form of entertainment.

The first day he’d been here, they’d stripped him of his suit and provided thin scrub pants and a tee shirt in its stead. Since closing the door that first day, every hour on the hour, someone appeared to take a vial or two of his blood. They'd also collected skin samples, hair samples, and various fluid samples that might have been awkward if John hadn’t been so busy quietly losing his mind.

John’s father had been very thorough in teaching John how to control his instinctual responses during medical exams, although he had probably never intended John to use the skill under such circumstances. It was a skill that had served John well in his military career. John had been through year after year of military physicals without abnormal results. The Air Force had even gone so far as to take DNA samples for body identification purposes. And John had nearly walked out of boot camp over that one. But not one test had ever resulted in a red flag.

John had never quite managed to desensitize himself to the testing. No matter how many times everything came back normal, John still felt that adrenaline rush of relief. But this time the testing was more intense. Every day that passed ratcheted John’s stress levels another factor higher. It was as if they were determined to find something. Something important enough to pull him away from emergency leave and isolate him for days on end.

Something they couldn’t – or wouldn’t – share with him.

So he was stuck waiting. Every time he saw a nurse he asked the same questions. But the only responses he got were requests for patience and assurances that a doctor would be in to see him and everything would be explained.

The watch hands swept over to one fifty-nine.

He heard the air lock across the room engage. Right on time. In another moment the door would open and the women who served as his evening nurse would step in.

The first night, John had realized the moment the door closed that he was not going to be released any time soon. Hell, he wasn’t even sure where he was. The vehicle that tweedle dee and dum had ushered him into had had tinted windows. His view of their trip was obscured and they’d entered the facility through an underground garage. With the heavy military presence he’d caught glimpses of as he was shown to his room, chances were he was either on base or at one of the many shadow agency facilities dotting the Washington metro area. Not that guesses about where to locate him on a map helped.

First he’d asked politely. That had quickly given way to angry demands. Then he yelled. By the third day, John had graduated to uncooperative silence and the nurses had given up on the placating gestures. Everyone ignored him, taking their samples and bringing in food with the bare minimum of interaction. That was the day that they first held him down to collect spinal fluid samples. It was like he wasn't even human any longer.

John had held onto himself by the slimmest of margins through that procedure. When they’d finally let him go and left him alone again, he’d begun planning.

The seal on the door popped and a small nurse shuffled into the room. John allowed his eyes to wander to the right to observe the suited figure but otherwise didn’t move.

The afternoon nurse pushed in a small medical tray on wheels but there was no lunch. After his morning meal and blood donation, the morning nurse had told him that a biopsy was scheduled for the following morning and that that would be his last meal for twenty-four hours; pre-surgery only water was allowed. The man hadn’t seemed very apologetic.

The woman nurse who saw to him between lunch and late evening moved to his side and firmly took his arm. He watched her face through the clear mask. She never once looked him in the eye – all of her attention was focused on her task.

Blood pressure. Temperature. He allowed himself to be manipulated and opened his mouth without prompting. But beneath his scrub pants, the large muscles of his thighs kept trying to seize up. He forced them to relax again. He had to be patient.

The nurse took an alcohol swab and prepped the port taped to his elbow. The port had gone in as soon as he’d arrived. That alone should have clued him in. Reaching back, she pulled a syringe from the rolling tray and uncapped it. He waited until she reached for his arm to steady his elbow before making his play.

John exploded into movement. Launching from the bedside, he forced her to fall back, unbalanced. Grabbing her right arm with his left, he wrenched her forward, tipping her further off balance and sending her wind-milling into him. He heard a muffled cry come from inside the suit as she was forced back into him. He had surprised her and perhaps hurt her, although not badly.

With his right hand he twisted the syringe from her grasp. He stepped into her body and used his hip and his grip on her arm to flip her around so that she was captured back to front by his body and arm. The moon suit made the whole thing awkward. A fellow soldier would have had him on the floor in a moment, but he’d chosen the afternoon nurse for just this reason. She was the smallest of his attendants and didn't move like she'd had self-defense training.

John spun the syringe in his hand and slashed her forearm with the needle. Not enough to do serious damage. He could have driven it into the back of her neck if that was his intention. All he wanted was to get her attention. Staring straight at the closest camera he bared his teeth in a feral grin. More importantly he wanted to get their attention.

The nurse reacted to the swipe with a howling shriek that pushed its way past the Plexiglas mask and exploded through the room. John was so startled by the response that he nearly lost his grip on her.

He looked down at her captured arm expecting to see serious damage. It was nothing more than the barest of scratches, though. Just enough contact to bead blood in a thin line where the needle had ripped through protective layers. From her reaction, you’d have thought John had stabbed her in the gut. She crumpled within the cage of his arms like a puppet with all its strings suddenly cut. John stumbled back a step. Impossibly the screaming continued to rise in volume and pitch. Long heart rending howls that went on and on as if she’d gone insane.

Shocked John backed into the corner of the room, bare feet suddenly cold and sweat slick on the white tile. The door lock spun and men in isolation suits rushed into the room. They set up a perimeter between John and the door, then pulled the unresisting nurse to her feet and ushered her out of the room. Her sobs never once abated. They didn't try to approach John. They seemed terrified of coming too close, even though they were armed with automatic weapons compared to his needle. As soon as the nurse was out, they backed out after her, leaving John alone again.

John stood for a long moment, breathing hard, trying to arrange what had just happened into some semblance of order. That had not gone as he’d expected. And now he was feeling guilty about harming that nurse. It was a scratch. It had probably already sealed itself and wouldn’t even need a band-aid. But for some reason he felt as if maybe she’d have been better off if he’d snapped her neck.

He needed to find out what the hell was going on and he needed to do it soon. Otherwise, his confinement might be the least of his concerns in this place. He had always thought that if he ever had to make the choice between his life and the ultimate defense, that it would be on the battlefield where at least he’d have a chance to get away. But there wasn’t a lot he could do against sealed steel doors and constant surveillance.

John ran an unsteady hand over his neck and then stepped away from the wall. Moving to the center of the room, he turned in a small circle, facing each camera for a moment.

“I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but let me be very clear,” he addressed his unseen audience. “I will not be donating any more blood or piss or cheek cells until someone tells me what in the hell is going on. And if you want a piece of my brain, you’re going to need to bring a gun in here, shoot me in the head and scrape it off the wall.”

John glared at the last camera. “I want to see a doctor. And I want to know what the hell is going on.”

Then he settled down to wait.

***

According to the last sign, the town Rodney needed was three quarters of a mile further up the road. He wasn’t quite sure how the wolf had figured out Rodney's plan, but he obviously knew something was up. Rodney could see his dark shape off to the right, paralleling Rodney’s path from underneath the tree cover. It was the closest he had seen the wolf during daylight.

Running through his grocery list again, Rodney kept one eye on the road and one on the shadow of the wolf. “Non-perishable food packs, batteries, new water bottle.”

Just in front of him, the road dipped down into a cleared valley filled with buildings typical of a small town. It would have been all quaint and picturesque except for the military blockade sitting abandoned across the road just behind the ‘Welcome to Parkersburg’ sign.

Rodney ran his hand under the strap across his left shoulder and tried to resettle it into a new position. “New pack.” He amended the list. He’d repaired this backpack too many times since meeting the wolf and he wasn’t much of a seamstress to begin with. “Maybe a new sleeping bag.”

Rodney paused at the welcome sign, steadying himself with one hand on the sign while the other dug between the back of his foot and the heel of his shoe. He could feel some irritant but nothing seemed out of place. With a grunt, he let his foot drop and straightened. Glancing back over his shoulder, Rodney noted that the wolf had stopped too. It stood still in the tall grass the bordered the tree line, watching but not advancing.

Rodney felt suddenly exposed and alone under the morning sun.

“Are you coming?” He yelled back at the animal. Days and miles ago, Rodney had thrown common sense and rationality to the wind. He'd taken to speaking to the wolf as if it was one of his less than stupid but not quite smart colleagues. It listened and understood. There was no reason not to talk to it.

At the sound of his voice, the wolf’s ears pricked forward. It took a step to the side, made a quick turn, and then settled back to its original position.

“Fine!” Rodney snarled. He turned and contemplated the roadblock for a minute. It must have been built to keep cars away from the town, and relied on soldiers to repel people on foot. Rodney wouldn’t even need to climb anything to get through. One foot in front of the other, Rodney advanced into the maze of vehicles and jersey walls.

He ignored anything and everything except the ground directly in front of him, concentrating on pavement as he threaded a path through the concrete barriers and military vehicles. There were a lot of dead here. Hidden in the cars, tucked between the jersey walls, rolled beneath the high wheels of the vehicles. He could smell death, far too familiar, but there was no sign of the haphazard chaos that was the hallmark of the walking sick. These men and women hadn’t been wandering about in a fevered haze to finally stumble and die where they fell. There were only soldiers here and they had died with weapons in hand, manning their post.

Rodney had become acclimatized to bodies and blood, more than he'd ever imagined he could. His stomach still did a sick roll when he caught sight of the shocked face of a betrayed soldier out of the corner of his eye.

“Why don’t you just wait there?” Rodney called back as he scurried into clear road on the other side of the last vehicle. “I’ll probably be back this way. Not that it matters to me if you’re here.”

That was a lie. It wasn’t as if the wolf could call him on it, though.

From behind him there was a heavy thump and the screech of metal. The sound easily took ten years off of Rodney’s life. He whipped about, preparing to run or yell or hide or due whatever else necessary.

On top of one of the military transports, the wolf now stood gazing down at him.

“Stupid fucking dog!” Rodney yelled. Relief made his tone breathless but he managed a satisfying amount of volume.

The wolf regarded him guilelessly. With deliberate care he flopped down onto his belly. The sway of the canvas roof created a small depression, hiding all but his nose muzzle and ears, still turned in Rodney’s direction.

“Yes, fine, whatever,” Rodney snapped and resumed his walk toward the town. Rodney wasn’t sure if it was real or his imagination, but he could have sworn he heard a soft mournful keening follow him.

While on the ridge late yesterday, Rodney had mapped his destination out in his head. The warehouses were on the south edge of town. He needed to go ten or eleven blocks in and then turn left. Counting streets gave Rodney something to concentrate on other than his surroundings. There was something infinitely creepy about these abandoned places. It wasn’t that this part of town had seen violence or looting – the exact opposite actually. There were no broken windows or burned out cars or abandoned belongings in view. The street was clean and well kept and entirely empty. Just as orderly as if Rodney had arrived months earlier, except that cars would have piled up behind him, honking, as he walked down the center of a major road. And there would have been people, on sidewalks, in buildings, in the cars, instead of this deserted absence.

He couldn’t help the prickle of goose flesh across his neck. No cars. That was unique in Rodney’s experience. Even the small highway Rodney had followed into the town had its fair share of abandoned vehicles. But here there was nothing.

The sound of his footfalls was perversely muffled and dead in the late morning air. He found himself wishing for a breeze or something to stir the tails of his shirt and bring life to the street. There was something off about this whole town. Even knowing that he was alone, Rodney could swear that he was being watched.

“Suck it up, McKay.” Rodney grimaced at the harsh sound of his voice breaking the silence. He would gather supplies and then he could leave. His steady steps had brought him too far into the town to turn back regardless of the oppressive sense of foreboding. The warehouses rose in front of him, far closer than the blockade and his wolf.

Rodney stopped at the first promising-looking building. There was no point in being picky. The door sported a new, heavy-duty lock, but that was normal. People had gone to great lengths to protect their property once the rioting had begun. Rodney had gotten quite adept at picking locks.

The first warehouse and the one next to it were a bust: lumber and machine parts. The third appeared to be empty. The fourth, however, contained rows and rows of boxes. Even more promising was the logo for a household goods store emblazoned on the wall just inside the door way. In very short order, Rodney had located a new pack and was in the process of filing it with items.

“Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my warehouse?”

Rodney jerked up straight from his half crouch. He barely missed braining himself on the shelf above.

“I. What?” For the first time in weeks, Rodney found himself looking at another living person. Or the dark outline of what he assumed was a living person. Rodney had rigged a lantern from a flash light and a couple bits of reflective metal to illuminate his shopping trip. It gave off just enough light to create an uneven circle of about three meters. At the edge of the radius, Rodney just made out the glint of a gun barrel. He thrust his hands into the air, dropping the laptop peripheral that had caught his eye.

A man by the sound of his voice held the gun. And whoever he was, he deliberately chose to stay outside of the circle of light. For a profound moment, Rodney was couldn't marshal any words to respond.

“I asked what the hell you were doing here!” the voice barked again from the dark.

The implied ‘idiot’ at the end of the sentence was enough to snap Rodney’s brain back on line. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m scavenging, and if you didn’t want people to enter ‘your’ warehouse, a sign on the door might help. 'Property of crazy person with a gun' would have sufficed!”

Rodney had no idea what he was supposed to be doing with his hands so he settled for waving them at shoulder height, enough of a nod to surrendering but still allowing him to bleed away the sudden rush of adrenaline crashing through his system.

For a moment, the guy across from him was quiet. Rodney wondered if he was really going to end his spectacular post apocalyptic run shot dead between shelves of electronics. Dead in a stupid warehouse in a small town in nowhere America. Then came a rusty laugh and the gun barrel lowered out of sight.

“I could’ve at that. I guess I thought there wasn’t much call for me to warn people off since there aren't any people left.” The voice seemed friendly enough now, but Rodney wasn’t sure he wanted to trust it after being introduced at the muzzle of a gun.

“Well there are,” Rodney huffed, awkwardly smoothing his sweaty hands down his pant legs. “Besides an assumption like that is the height of stupidity. What are the chances that you’re the only one to survive the apocalypse?”

This was exactly the argument Rodney had been having with himself over the past few weeks. Not that the man needed to know. It sounded much more plausible when spoken aloud to another human being.

A snort answered him and then there was the sound of retreating feet.

“Come on, then.”

At a loss for another option, Rodney grabbed his bag and followed.

Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows of the building on the asphalt parking lot. Rodney’s new companion was tall, dark haired, and solidly built. He resembled nothing so much as one of those backwoodsmen who'd appeared on all the cable channels while hunting crocodiles or looking for gold or piloting fishing boats. Rodney had never watched the damn things but you couldn’t get away from the commercials.

“Name’s John. John Smith.” The man held out his right hand in an invitation for a handshake. His gun was tucked into the crook of his left arm – on display but not currently threatening anyone.

Rodney nodded but didn’t move forward to take his hand.

“Dr. McKay. Rodney,” he supplied then added as an afterthought, “Not medicine.”

“Huh.” The other man said, looking mildly put out but interested nonetheless. “Dinner?”

Rodney blinked at him, brain trying to work through the abbreviated conversation. “I, uh, have some freeze dried meat but you kind of interrupted my grocery shopping.”

The man grinned at him revealing two rows of perfectly straight, white teeth. “I have something better than that.” He turned and started to walk off.

Rodney knew this wasn’t one of his brightest ideas but watching another person walk away was suddenly threatening to cave in his chest. Three hundred and twelve million people lived in the US only last month, and there was barely a single one he could stand to associate with. But here and now, this lone man with his far from scintillating conversation was better than dinner with every Nobel laureate because, miracle of miracles, he was still alive. Unwilling to let that get away, Rodney swung up his pack and followed.

***

Almost sixteen hours tick by on John's watch before anyone enters John’s room. This time it's a doctor in a white lab coat. He pushed a cart with a TV and DVD player, a dinner tray balanced precariously on top of the whole thing. The planned biopsy was apparently off the schedule.

John rose and placed the bed between him and the doctor. The man wasn't armed but then again, neither was John and he could do plenty of damage if he wanted to.

The man ignored John, wheeling the cart into one corner where an empty outlet sits along the wall. He plugged the electronics in and then rescued the tray from its perch. The doctor turned and placed the food on the far edge of the bed. It was a hamburger and the smell of the greasy, hot fries made John’s stomach rumble.

He didn't reach for it, though.

John evaluated the man before him. For the first time since he was taken, John was confronted with someone who wasn’t dressed in a moon suit. In fact, the doctor wasn't wearing even a mask or gloves. He’s a nondescript man. Neither tall nor short. Neither thin nor heavy set. His hair colored somewhere between dirty blond and going grey and his skin had the unhealthy pallor of someone who's been working more hours than not. He's the kind of person John has met before a hundred times a day and never remembered.

His tired eyes, though, demand attention in a way John cannot ignore.

“I’m Doctor Allen Penn. I hear you have questions.” The man made the statement seem mild, as if he’d just stepped out for coffee and missed a phone message.

John felt himself stiffen at the tone. His hands curled loosely at his sides before John raised his arms to fold across his chest. He tried to tamp down on the impulse to hit something. Had his anger been a tangible thing it would have choked him. “Yeah. For five days. Nice of you to make time for me.” John’s voice was a little rough but the sarcasm comes across clear and strong.

The doctor stared at him for a long moment then pulled a remote from his pocket and queued up the DVD. The screen switched from the blue of no signal to a picture of an older woman and a man standing on a beach. They were both smiling at the camera. “This is Anna Kreel and her husband Harry. Two weeks ago they were in Hawaii celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary.”

John looked between the image and the doctor, not following. Dr. Penn pressed a button and the image switched to a shot of young boy, probably just into his early teens. A candid shot, taken with a camera phone, capturing him in a moment of laughter, soda dribbling down his chin. “This is Danny Enoch. He watched the Kreel’s two dogs while they were gone. He was a neighbor’s child and ran errands for them like when the Kreels couldn’t make it out of the house.”

The image switched again.

“This is Judy Compton and her two kids, Charlotte and Samuel. They were in Oakland visiting the ocean over summer break.”

A sharp glance from the doctor forestalled John’s interruption. He kept flipping through pictures, one person, three, a family, a business man. All of the people were connected to the ones shown before in some way. Sometimes a family member, sometimes a co-worker, and sometimes just a chance meeting. Ten people, fifteen people, twenty people and then the image cycled to a family of three.

“This is Robert, Stella, and Howie. Robert worked for Coca Cola in Atlanta but Stella grew up in Fairfax. She met Robert at George Washington University where he was studying for his business degree. After they were married he got a job in Georgia, where Howie was born. They were on their way to visit her parents in Silver Spring.” John felt his stomach go cold. These faces he knows. Of course, when the flight attendant had pointed them out, they had seemed much less healthy. It was the family from Row 30.

“They, along with you, two hundred and eighty one other passengers and crew, flew in to National five days ago on Delta 1138. You are the only one who was on that flight that is still alive.”

John’s stomach dropped to his feet. He sat down hard, legs collapsing underneath him. The doctor switched off the TV but doesn’t approach. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his lab coat and stared hard at John.

“We don’t know where it started, but so far the mortality rate is over 99%. Everyone who gets it dies. You are, literally, the only reason we’re not classifying it as 100% lethal.” His voice was clear and steady. “It has blown through every single treatment we’ve thrown at it. Antibiotics. Antivirals. Anti-inflammatories. No one gets better. Nothing even slows it down.”

John was going to throw up.

Dr. Penn continued on. “It appears to be transmissible through both airborne and waterborne means. It is highly communicable. And nothing we’ve found stops it.”

John’s head hurt. A disease like this wasn’t possible. Nature didn’t engineer such things. There was always some saving grace. There was no evolutionary advantage to an organism that lethal.

“Except for you, John.” And here the man paused as if to ensure he had John’s attention. Like that would be a potential issue. “You don’t even seem to catch the damn thing. Hell, we’ve injected it into you on three separate occasions and it’s like it was never there. No antibodies, no immune response. Nothing.”

John stared at the man, horrified. Dr. Penn stared back, refusing to look away.

They had deliberately given the damn thing to him.

A deep growl rolled out of his throat. The doctor didn’t even flinch. He held his gaze steady and determined, a man faced with an impossible situation who was going to do what he had to do because there was no other choice. How fucking bad was it that a doctor who had sworn to do no harm felt that that was a justifiable avenue of research?

“You’re special, John. And if we don’t find out why? In two weeks, it won’t matter because you’re going to be the last man on Earth.”

John missed the Doctor’s exit, caught up in his head. When the nurse comes in John mutely offers his arm and doesn’t ask any more questions.

He let the hamburger get cold on the foot of the bed.

***

Rodney followed close behind as John – thinking of him as Mr. Smith seemed ludicrous – led him through empty side streets and into a residential area.

Unlike downtown, the signs of hurried packing and the craziness of the epidemic were clearly visible here. Random furniture sat along driveways, littering once cookie cutter suburban lawns. Here and there a curtain fluttered from inside a broken window. The useless clutter of modern life spilled from half open garage doors.

They passed more than one abandoned vehicle. Rodney tried not to look at what might be inside any of them.

Eventually, they turned down a secluded cul-de-sac and Rodney paused. The houses sat back from the road in a small gully, a meandering stream of asphalt connecting them. At one point, mature trees had shaded the houses but only charred trunks remained. All but one of the houses below had burned down to their foundations. The lone standing house stood in the center of this circle of destruction.

John headed down the short slope toward the single remaining residence. For a long moment Rodney stood at the street curb debating whether he should turn and walk away. Of course, that was the moment John turned back and adjusted his grip on the long barreled gun.

“Dinner. Then back on the road.” Rodney murmured to himself as he started down towards John. The man couldn’t have heard him, yet the failing light cast a sinister air to his smile.

The house turned out to be startlingly domestic. So much so that Rodney began to question his uneasiness on the trip here. Good solid furniture and the decorative touches that made a home soothed his rattled nerves. The cold beer John offered him also helped.

“How?” he asked, accepting the cold bottle with relish. The brand didn’t even matter because it was cold enough to form condensation on the slick glass. He'd taken cold drinks too much for granted before.

John smiled again. “Generator. Although I have plans to set up a solar panel or two and a wind turbine.”

“Well, obviously. Petroleum stockpiles aren’t going to last more than a year or so, even if you can find an uncontaminated, sealed source.” Rodney nodded as he brought the bottle to his lips.

The cold slide of beer down his throat was heaven. Before he realized it, he had finished off the bottle and was accepting another. John seared fresh meat in a skillet on the gas stove. While he cooked, Rodney told John a little about his trip down from Canada and his experiences on the road. He didn't mention the wolf. Not that that lead to a lack of conversational subjects. Over ham and cut greens and red beans and rice, he started to talk about his plans for a comfortable life once he'd settled down.

“Most people don’t realize that you don’t need solar panels to turn solar power into electricity. There are hundreds of ways to capture solar energy.” Rodney punctuated his statement with an open handed slap of the table. “Solar panels are just a way to integrate the power into modern energy grids. But given the space and the materials you can set up something much more reliable that is much easier to fix then repairing solar voltaics.”

John nodded his head and offered the plate of ham again. Rodney hesitated a moment. Prepared meat was a luxury now.

“Go ahead. There’s enough.”

That was all the encouragement Rodney needed to spear another piece.

“Where did you get ham?” he asked as he chewed.

“Raided some freezers before the power cut out.” John offered easily.

“Huh. I should have thought of that but I didn’t want to run into any sick people. I guess the local grid lasted a bit longer out here than in the larger cities?” He scraped his fork across the surface of the plate, gathering the last of the red sauce from the beans and rice.

John grunted and asked a question about storing power in batteries.

“Well, only if you want to do it wrong,” Rodney offered in scathing reply. The subsequent diatribe on energy storage lasted through the end of dinner and another beer. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Rodney felt mellow and happy.

When he had to excuse himself to use the toilet, he was pleasantly surprised to be directed to the main floor bath. A bucket in the tub provided water to flush and for a quick wash with patterned soap in a dish. It looked like it had been bought with the expectation that no one would ever use it. Very suburban.

On his way back toward the kitchen, Rodney paused to look at the pictures hanging on the walls. There was a young boy posed with a soccer ball and a net. An older boy lounged on the couch in the living room with an expression of annoyance on his face. And there were family pictures of a middle aged man, hair sliding into grey, with his arms around the boys and a plump, soft woman. What there weren’t though, were pictures of John.

Rodney felt his gut twist around the food as his good mood evaporated, replaced by the same sense of wrongness that had dogged him all day. It didn’t mean anything he tried to reassure himself. Rodney himself was a scavenger and understood the need for security. Hell, if it weren't for the beacon, he would have probably found a place in the lake country and would even now be welcoming strays with food and conversation.

All the same, he should be going.

Re-entering the kitchen, Rodney clapped his hands together, drawing John’s attention from a far window. “Hey, so, thank you but I should head out. I don’t want to keep you up.” The last fell flat as John’s gaze focused on him.

“You should stay.” It was less of a question and more of a statement.

“Um. No, really. Thanks but I--”

“You should stay.” John stood to his full height, filling more of the kitchen than Rodney had realized was physically possible. His eyes held Rodney’s for a long moment then slid to his left, where he’d left the rifle standing next to the back door.

Rodney swallowed. This was bad. Very bad. Stupid bad. Following the man and then talking through dinner about his plans. Pride comes to bite him in the ass. Again. You would think with the end of the world would have changed his luck some.

He took a step back towards the hall, hand reaching back for the pack resting on the counter by the kitchen door. “I, uh,” Rodney wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Not that it mattered. The almost words caught in his throat.

John took a mirror step towards him, gaze intent. Rodney figured if he was lucky he’d make it out the front door first. He would be an easy target, even in the darkness, in the clearing surrounding the house. John probably burned the other houses and trees for just that purpose, Rodney's cynical side suddenly chimed in. He hoped that whoever had lived on this street had been long gone before John arrived.

The sound of a cocked gun stopped Rodney a few steps short of the hall door. For the second time that day, Rodney faced the barrel of a weapon. If nothing else, if – when – he made it out of this situation, he was going to find a gun and an instruction manual and teach himself how to shoot. It couldn’t be that difficult if every second person in America had learned once upon a time.

“You can’t possibly want to shoot me,” Rodney stated. He was surprised to note that his voice stayed even.

John smiled. “Not particularly, but then again, I’m pretty sure I can keep it from being fatal.”

Rodney was at a loss over that. John smiled down the length of the gun, still looking friendly. As if he thought, once this unpleasant business of shooting Rodney was taken care of, they would be the best of friends.

A sharp, vicious growl broke their stalemate.

Rodney’s gaze swung to the glass French doors that must open into the back yard. John kept the gun aimed at Rodney but looked toward the door as well.

Outside, night had fallen. Lamp-bright eyes floated in the dark beyond the door. For a moment Rodney was thrown back into the primal fear of the wolf, legacy of generations of stories. It was the fear of the wild that only men knew.

John swung about and charged into the night before Rodney could get his bearings. As he opened the door, he palmed the frame and the green expanse of the yard flooded with harsh sodium light. The brightness revealed a scene directly from one of those cable survival shows. An all-terrain vehicle was parked beside the house, half hidden by a tarp. Stacked barrels created neat rows of storage lining the side yard. And to the far right, game animals hung in various states of preparation from wooden frames.

Rodney had seconds to take this in before John stood framed in the open doorway rifle aimed the rifle at the wolf. Rodney's wolf. He could see the wolf over John’s shoulder, his solid form braced in the center of the yard, clearly illuminated. He was magnificent, all roused fur and snarling mouth. Rodney was sure in any other moment his wolf could have taken on the world, but this wasn’t that moment. If the wildlife hung in the yard was any indication, John was a skilled marksman.

The first shot was so close it seemed to pass through the wolf but by some miracle, the animal dodged to the right at the last instant. A small puff of dirt and matching snarls from John and Rodney’s wolf accompanied the loud crack of the rifle. John re-sighted along the barrel.

The wolf had somehow advanced a few precious feet in his agile leap. Rodney was sure all that meant was that John wouldn't miss the second time. And still the wolf snarled and snapped, all fur and fury. The stupid animal was going to be killed.

“Don’t!” Rodney yelled breaking through the paralysis of the moment.

Moving at last, Rodney launched himself at John, knocking them both into the dirt of the yard before a second shot could be fired. Enraged, John was on his feet and clubbing Rodney with the butt of the rifle before he could right himself from his sprawl. Rodney’s world exploded in black and red as his sight faded for an instant and blood pounded behind his suddenly closed eyelids. He didn't know what direction the ground was let alone how to protect himself from the next blow.

Later, Rodney would consider this all for the best, because it was in that moment that his wolf attacked. Through his wavering vision, he saw John stagger to the side as a hundred plus pounds of lean muscle, sharp claws, and rending teeth barreled into him. The man had no chance. The wolf was everywhere, clawing and ripping. John got his hands up, curled to protect himself against the attack and the wolf retreated and darted in on the other, unprotected side. The hellish mix of screams and snarls was all Rodney could hear.

Rodney knew he wasn’t a brave man but he didn’t count himself as squeamish or a coward. Still this was more reality than he was prepared to deal with right now. Unable to watch the vicious mauling in front of him, Rodney curled his arms over his head and buried his face between his knees.

After a long, terrifying interval, silence fell.

Slowly pulling up his head, Rodney traced the dirt at his feet with wary eyes. He expanded his view outward in an arc that studiously skirted the newly created pool of reddened mud. John had lost and Rodney didn’t need to see what was left. Instead, his eyes focused on the wolf.

His wolf rested a couple hundred feet away, belly to the ground and head turned into the dirt. He didn’t appear to be injured and seemed to be cleaning his muzzle. The position made him as small and non-threatening as an animal that had just savaged a man to death could be. The wolf paused a moment to look at Rodney. A low whine drifted across the now-quiet lawn. The damn thing seemed to be worried about him.

Rodney sucked in a harsh breath. It broke against his throat and turned into a rasping laugh. Dropping his face back into his hands, Rodney laughed so hard there might have been tears, although he would never admit it. Hysteria had never been so comforting.

In the end, Rodney had to get up if for no other reason then he didn’t want to be in this yard with what was left of that man for a moment longer. He was cold and shocky and needed to get out of there.

He forced himself to stay just long enough to retrieve his pack and sort through John’s supplies. He avoided the fresh food and instead took all of the dry provisions that fit into his bag. He wanted to avoid the drying racks if at all possible. There were more than a few wolf pelts stacked with the deer and rabbit and foxes. His gut gave a nauseating roll at the thought. He forced his focus back on the supplies but kept finding his gaze drawn back to his wolf. He was still lying in the dirt but his head was up and tracking Rodney’s movements.

Before he left, Rodney contemplated taking the ATV but passed. He didn’t want to try to teach himself the mechanics of it at night, and he wanted as few reminders of this day as possible. He walked away from it all, leaving the lights on and the man shaped lump in the dirt. Which may have twitched a time or two. The wolf didn’t seem inclined to do anything more about it and time would take care of it, he supposed. What was one more body amid all the other dead?

They didn’t camp that night. Rodney didn’t even slow down long enough to boot up and check the signal. For the first time since he had set out, he had no interest in taking time to reassure himself that the signal still waited for him. It was dark, but he could follow the road out of town and that would do for now. Nothing would bother him with the wolf stalking just a few meters ahead.

It was mid afternoon before his tired body forced him to stop. Rodney started up the fire by rote, pulled out dried provisions, and set water to boil. Just beyond camp, the wolf collapsed onto a patch of grass, for once uninterested in Rodney’s attempts to cook. Every time Rodney looked over, the wolf was either rolling himself vigorously in the dry grass or grooming his fur with his teeth.

Once the freeze dried stew had been rehydrated and heated, Rodney dumped the entire mess onto his one plate. He set it down on the ground on the other side of the fire, closer to the wolf. Turning, he walked back over to his pack, laid out his bedding and settled down onto the ground.

“Eat,” he said. The wolf rolled his head to look at Rodney but didn’t stir from the loll he’d finally adopted.

“It’s for you. I don’t want it,” Rodney tried again.

The wolf continued to regard him, either not understanding or just uninterested.

Rodney propelled himself to his feet with an explosive exhalation. “Look you stupid animal,” he yelled while advancing on the wolf. “I know you have to be hungry! And I know you’ll eat this – you’ve stolen it from me. So get off your boney ass and get over here and eat!” He ended with hands outstretched, one pointing at the plate and the other open to the wolf.

The wolf sat up at Rodney’s display of temper but didn’t move forward.

Rodney swung his arms in a wide arc encompassing the wolf and the food. “Yes, yes. Food.” Turning, he went back to the fire and his bed roll. “Don’t get used to it,” he called over his shoulder, pretending to ignore the wolf as he slunk toward plate.

Rather than watch the wolf eat, and perhaps scare him off, Rodney busied himself with his rant. “You must be suicidal and I don’t know why I’m encouraging you at all.” His hand created arcs in the air as he berated the wolf for his stupidity at thinking he stood a chance against a gun and a man-of-the-wild.

The wolf began to clean off the plate, one eye on Rodney and his flailing arms and the other on the food. It was gone long before Rodney was done with his scolding.

“Don’t know what the hell kind of wolf you are anyway, saving people from crazy survivalists. How can that be a good choice natural selection wise? People are bad for wolves, even I know this. And, yes, it worked out for you this time but you can’t expect that--”

Rodney ground to a halt as the wolf stalked over, stiff legged. It was the closest he’d ever been to Rodney. Unsure of what to do, Rodney froze, his hands held aloft. Eyes locked on Rodney's, the wolf extended his muzzle forward and closed his jaws around one of Rodney’s hands. Rodney’s lungs and heart crashed to a halt at the slight pressure.

For a long moment, the wolf stood face to face with the Rodney, hand gripped in his jaw with just enough force to keep Rodney from removing it.

Rodney stared at the animal, at a loss for words. The wolf stared back.

Tentatively, Rodney pulled his hand to the left to dislodge the animal. The wolf’s head followed him, jaws firm. A tug to the right produced the same result.

“Oh, yes, this is obviously the best way to show your gratitude, rip off my hand.” The comment was far from full volume but the wolf’s lips pulled back to reveal more teeth in a startling approximation of a grin. A low rumble rolled out from his chest in perfect counterpoint to Rodney’s statement.

“I need that hand! I gave you food. You’d think that would be enough.” Rodney shook his hand back and forth, increasing force and volume. The wolf held on, low rumbling growl more of a crooning then a warning.

“Dumb dog!” Rodney snorted.

Taking a deep breath, he started back on his interrupted rant. The wolf grinned and rumbled along.

***

Well, it seems as if the flu season may be starting a bit early in Washington this year. Local area hospitals are reporting a minor increase in patients complaining of flu-like symptoms. According to the Center for Disease Control, the influenza virus is unpredictable. It's not unheard of for there to be a mini-flu season in the late summer or early fall. The good news is, though, that those of you suffering now should be immune to the flu during the peak season in December and January. If you're feeling ill, doctors recommend you stay home and get plenty of rest unless the symptoms become severe.

Dr. Penn hadn’t left John with the television but a nurse had returned with a radio. At first, John had listened to music – anything to break up the monotony of testing and waiting. The only news he heard was during rush hour when all the stations ran news and traffic. It was unseasonably warm for late August and training camp was going well for the Redskins. John was more of a Dallas fan but nobody was talking about the flu.

John could almost believe that the lack of news meant progress in finding a cure. Except John’s cynical side noted that the absence of reporting was probably more a result of media handling by the government than a reflection of some pleasant reality. The grim faces on his attendants didn’t inspire hope either. Dr. Penn hadn’t returned.

Turning now to local news, area hospitals are still seeing increased instances of ER visits as a result of the flu. While the flu is generally not dangerous, some people, such as the elderly, young children, and people with compromised immune systems, may be at risk for serious complications. Area emergency rooms are asking that unless you are having shortness of breath or other severe symptoms, please stay home. If you are sick, it's always good practice to cover you nose and mouth when sneezing, ensure you thoroughly wash your hands and contact surfaces, and try to limit contact with healthy individuals.

At first it was a bit of a joke. The media reported on the flu and local talk show hosts ribbed their listeners about their ‘delicate constitutions.’ Radio broadcasters reminded people to wash their hands and not to sneeze on other people. The majority of coverage was still dedicated to upcoming elections and polarized politics. John couldn’t bring himself to care. On the front line they talked about the war and the politicians back home but in the end they’d been sent to do a job and they were doing it.

Turning now to national news, the CDC is now tracking several flu outbreaks across the United States. Epicenters have been identified in New York, Los Angeles, Atlanta, and DC. Scientists with the CDC are working to identify the strain and produce a vaccine as quickly as possible. In Washington, the Office of Personnel Management has issued an Unscheduled Leave, Unscheduled Telework announcement, which allows Federal employees to take time off or work from home without prior approval. Area businesses are also reporting increased staff absenteeism due to illness.

By the time people started to realize that this was more than a normal flu outbreak, the CDC was ready to step up and assure people that everything was fine. After all, the US had just last year seen major preparations for H1N1. Lather, rinse, and repeat for a new year and a new strain. John wasn’t sure how much good last year’s hype over the swine flu had done. People knew what to do and were keeping calm but even with area hospitals straining under the mass of patients, people still weren't taking the threat seriously. Bruce Springsteen had sold out National’s Park and the Nat’s were having a banner season. John couldn’t help but wonder how many people went to hear Born in the U.S.A. and came home sick.

Federal offices are closed to the public today as the area continues to struggle with this new flu virus. Emergency Employees are expected to arrive at work on time. Area hospitals note that they are close to capacity and emergency responders are reminding residents to not call 911 unless there is an immediate risk to life. The DC Metro Police are out in force to keep emergency lanes clear and emergency parking restrictions are in place. Local pharmacies and grocery stores are receiving stocks of over the counter medications and essentials as quickly as possible and the Mayor has asked people to be patient and understanding in this time of need.

John first asked to call Dave on day twelve of his confinement. No, that wasn’t true. He had asked all along. But on day twelve he stopped the nurse as she reached for his arm.

“Wait.”

She gave him a surprised look and backed out of reach. The nurses had given up on the moon suits after John had talked to Dr. Penn. John supposed there was no point if John’s body refused to harbor the virus. He'd never seen the nurse he’d injured again. He refused to think about what that meant.

“No, hey,” he reached out an empty hand to her, holding his other at shoulder height, palm out in a show of innocence. “I’m not refusing. I just have a request. I need to talk to my brother.”

The nurse stared for a long moment. “We can’t have anyone knowing--”

John rushed to assure her, “No, of course, I know that but--” Here John stumbled. “I missed our father's funeral. I don’t want him to think– That can’t be the thing he remembers about--” He swiped a hand across his face, cutting off the last words.

The nurse looked at him with understanding. “I’ll see what I can do.”

John offered her a small smile and his arm. “Thanks.”

The President declared a national state of emergency and closed all international borders today. Travel restrictions are in place and the FAA has closed airports to all but essential travel. The Director of FEMA will be speaking to the public at 2 PM to outline plans for addressing the emergency. At a minimum, we can expect that the National Guard will be mobilized to assist with logistical coordination of the response. Treatment centers will most likely be established in all major metropolitan areas. The CDC continues to work on developing a vaccine for the current illness, in close conjunction with sister agencies in Canada, Mexico, Europe and Japan. International health organizations are sharing knowledge and working jointly to meet the growing need for a unified medical response. The European Union, China, and Russia all declared national states of emergency late last week and the Canadian Prime Minister is expected to make a similar declaration shortly.

When things went to hell, they did so fast. Overnight, the radios seemed to go from no news to all news. Even if it was talking heads, government or not, speculating instead of reporting. The CDC continued to provide updates on their progress but each status report rephrased the one before it. Like Dadaists, they just rearranged the words. Everything stopped making sense. Pundits began to question the government response and call for additional measures. John was in the unique position of understanding that it was too late. It didn’t matter how many borders were closed or how many restrictions were placed on the population.

Restrictions were announced alongside the first reports of violence. Robberies in Columbia Heights, where the local Target had been raided over night. The National Guard was on hand to ensure that there was no repeat. Law enforcement had the men responsible in custody and they would be fully prosecuted. The news didn’t say if they were sick or what they had wanted. John was almost sure there was an electronics store in that building, plus a bank. No mention was made of either.

After last night’s collapse of the Algerian government following riots and civil unrest, a curfew has been imposed nation wide. The curfew expands on previous travel restrictions to prohibit all travel by vehicle and limit all other travel to the hours between 8 AM and 2 PM. Anyone on the streets or roads outside of these hours with be detained. In the District, FEMA is cycling through a four day rotating schedule: residents of each quadrant may travel to the FEMA response center at the Verizon Center between the hours of 8 AM and 2 PM on their designated day to obtain supplies. All other travel is prohibited. If residents cannot make it to the center, they should register with the emergency coordinator for their area and supplies with be provided to them.

John paced his room as the reports multiplied. There wasn’t a lot, or hell, anything else he could do. Violence was now being reported as commonplace, but John knew that he couldn’t be getting the full story. It seemed as if everyone was suffering but John worried most for his fellow men and women in uniform. They were the ones who had to point weapons at their friends and neighbors. They were the ones expected to enter sick houses and maintain the peace at response centers. They were probably sick themselves but served nonetheless. He tried very hard not to think about his unit overseas.

The death toll from the Pandemic continues to rise. Emergency officials now estimate seven out of ten Americans are sick or dead. International numbers are difficult to obtain but social media reports indicate that Europe's casualty numbers are similar, while Asia and Africa are worse due to population density and lack of services. It appears as if local communications grids have collapsed in much of South and Central America. Reports of uprisings cannot be verified. At this time, Greenland and Australia are also reporting mass casualties even with the emergency border closures that isolated their ports early in the pandemic. The President continues to issue statements but his location remains unknown.

On day seventeen, Dr. Penn arrived in the morning to take John’s blood. For a brief explosive moment, John thought perhaps they’d won.

“Tell me it’s good news, Doc!” John smiled, rolling off the bed where he’d been lying contemplating the ceiling. “You’ve found it?” The news had switched over to scheduled messages from local emergency officials and the President. In between there was only recorded information about local shelters.

Doctor Penn didn’t return the smile. Instead he looked haggard and pale from lack of sleep. He grimaced and pushed a hand through his unwashed hair. “No, Colonel.”

John felt his stomach clench. “Okay then. What’s next?” There had to be some reason for this visit. Maybe he was being moved to Atlanta. Maybe the CDC could find something.

“There isn’t.”

“Isn’t?” John was confused. “Isn’t what?”

The doctor’s hands were shaking. He stuffed them into his lab coat pockets.

“Isn’t anything else, John.” He walked over to the bed and sat down on the corner. Tugging a corner of the sheet out from under his thigh, he wiped his face and neck. John could see sweat rolling down his forehead.

“When the military brought you in, they dismissed everyone with families. Said we didn’t need the distraction. Oh, we had a link up to the CDC and ever other research facility so that we could collaborate but just a few of us are here.” He looked at John, gauging his reaction.

John looked back blankly, unsure what Penn expected from him.

The doctor continued. “Have you seen The Omega Man? No? Never mind. This facility was sealed. Nothing in or out. Even a cure would have been developed at a separate lab. The point of this one was to keep a pristine environment.” He man hunched into himself and wrapped an arm around his side. His breathing was rough and labored.

“Hey, hey.” John walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder, unsure what he could do to help. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

The heat radiating through the doctor’s shirt was unmistakable. Sick, John thought, shocked. It must have shown on his face because the doctor just quirked his lips into a sad little smile and nodded.

“You should go home, Colonel. No one’s left to stop you.”

“And you?” John asked. “What will you do?”

Penn offered a gruesome smile. “I’ll continue working until I can’t.”

Left without words, John sat and offered his arm. The doctor shook his head but reached for John’s arm. John briefly thought of telling him – showing him – what made him so different but at this point couldn’t see that it would do any good.

This is the Emergency Alert System. The President of the United States has declared a National Emergency and instituted Martial Law. All citizens are advised to remain in their homes. Emergency medical attention and supplies will be provided by local and national emergency response officials. Do not attempt to travel. This is the Emergency Alert System. The President of the United States has declared a National Emergency and instituted Martial Law. All citizens are advised to remain in their homes. Emergency medical attention and supplies will be provided by local and national emergency response officials. Do not attempt to travel. This is the Emergency Alert...

***

“And then he said that he had assumed that the speed of light was constant!” Rodney snorted in derision. “Constant!” The wolf offered a chuffed breath in agreement.

“I reminded him that the speed of light was only constant in a vacuum which this was not since he was breathing. And if something so fundamental had escaped his notice than maybe he shouldn’t be surprised when people called his intelligence into question.”

The wolf, Rodney had discovered, was just about the most perfect travelling companion ever. Never questioned. Never complained. He should have traded in his so-called colleagues for one years ago. Taking his eyes from the overgrown verge, Rodney spared him a quick glance.

Rodney could never quite get over the animal's size. Padding along to his right, the wolf's shoulder reached his waist. That must be over average height for his species. Not that Rodney was complaining. He felt safer traveling with the wolf than he had ever felt traveling alone. Even with the teeth currently on display through the panting muzzle.

Rodney looked up at the afternoon sky, trying to gauge the time. The sun beat down mercilessly. Just a week ago he had been ecstatic to leave the trees behind. The wide open plain before him had looked like a paradise in comparison. Oh, how wrong he had been.

"Maybe we should stop for a while," he told the wolf. "Next road sign we see, yeah?"

The cars abandoned in the roadside provided some shade, but Rodney wasn't keen on getting any closer. Abandoned cars stirred a cold pit in his stomach. "Besides," he assured them both, "the radiant heat from the concrete would cut any benefit from the shade."

He looked down again at the wolf, half expecting a nod of acceptance. The wolf sniffed once in his direction and then veered off into the shade of the line of stalled cars.

"Fine then!" Rodney called after him, refusing to follow. "Have I told you about Tuney's idiot theory on global warming?"

The grass along the roadside was overgrown and brittle. The thick groundcover tangled Rodney's feet in dense clumps. He shuddered at the thought of ticks and other blood sucking parasites sheltered among the dry stalks. He'd have to check for riders when they stopped for the night. If they were lucky, they'd find another rest stop with tables and awnings.

A sharp bark brought him to a sudden halt.

"What?!" He examined the cars, trying to locate the wolf among the shadows and shapes. The wolf tended to be a silent companion.

Another yip floated up from the cars behind him. Turning, Rodney took in the line of cars back up the road. No wolf to be seen.

Frowning Rodney raised his voice again. "You're going to need to give me something more than that, Lassie!" Timmy he was not.

There was a flash of fur and the wolf appeared on top of a blue station wagon about a kilometer back. Not stuck somewhere then. Rodney felt his breath whoosh out between his teeth in a sigh of relief. Who knows what hell lurked between those cars. Rodney’s all-too-active imagination was more than happy to offer up scenarios.

"Good job!" he offered sarcastically, his voice sharper than he had meant to be. "Can we go now?" It was hot and he was tired of yelling. Rodney ran a hand over his head to lift his sweat damp hair and cool his scalp a bit. He needed to put more sunscreen on when they stopped for a rest.

The wolf sat down on his hindquarters, his body language proclaiming deliberate intent.

Rodney stared for a moment and then turned on his heel. The wolf would come when Rodney got too far away. The wolf had been staying close ever since Parkersburg. Rodney didn't see that changing now, no matter what bug had bit his ass.

He started telling his story again, as if the wolf wasn't getting further and further behind. "So the matter bridge was set to draw energy--" A long, sharp-pitched howl interrupted him. Scowling, Rodney turned back, arms akimbo.

"Seriously?! Seriously?!"

The wolf lifted his nose to the sky and let loose with another undulating cry.

"Dear god, stop!" Rodney argued back. "I don't care! Really!" In response the wolf gave another series of yips and broken howls.

Hanging his head, Rodney reviewed his choices. He could stand here and argue. He could walk away and listen to the howling until the dumb animal gave up. Or he could walk back and see what the hell was the matter. The latter wasn't his preference, but it should make the beast stop with its caterwauling.

"Fine!" he growled himself. "Fine!" he yelled to make sure the animal got it. Resettling his back he huffed and stomped back to the wolf.

As he got closer, the animal jumped down and disappeared behind the cars again. Rodney followed and stopped when the wolf came back into his line of site. It was sitting by the back bumper, waiting.

"What?!" Rodney let out a bark of his own. He refused to go in there. Refused.

The wolf sat up and nosed at the back door before placing one paw on the bumper.

“No.” Rodney stated. “Absolutely not. Who knows what the hell is in there and just no.”

The wolf looked between the car and Rodney as if trying to decide what to do next.

“No. See, I understand, you want me to look at something and really, I don’t want to.” Rodney continued. “If you come out of there now, though, I’ll pull out the beef jerky and share it. Promise.”

The wolf trotted back over, slinking through shadows cast by the cars surrounding the station wagon. Rodney smiled and dropped his bag to root through its contents. He wasn’t even upset at the thought of losing the last of the jerky to the wolf’s bottomless gullet. If it got them moving again, it was an even trade.

The wolf snuck around him and knocked himself against Rodney’s knees. Rodney staggered a few steps forward.

“Hey! Stop!” Rodney yelled, arms pin-wheeling to keep his balance. The wolf did it again and Rodney staggered another few feet onto the cracked concrete of the road.

“I said, no!” He turned and hurriedly made his way back to the pack. The wolf started to howl again.

Reaching the grass once more, Rodney collapsed down and dropped his face between his knees. He couldn’t. He really couldn’t. He knew the sorts of things you found in cars and no. A warm body brushed against his hanging arms. Moving his hands, he found himself with his arms propped on the back of the wolf. It seemed more interested in Rodney’s face then the fact that Rodney was now leaning heavily on him. The wolf gave him a hard stare.

“I know, okay. I know.” There was probably something in that car that he could use. The wolf wouldn’t be making such a ruckus over an empty trunk. “But I can’t. There was Buffalo and I don’t know how else I can explain so that you understand but …” The mention of Buffalo brought dark memories to mind. His heart hammered in his chest. God, was he having a heart attack?

The wolf flicked its ears back and forth and pressed into Rodney. Closing his eyes, Rodney rested his forehead on the wolf’s shoulder. He felt his breathing begin to slow again as he concentrated on the scent of warm fur.

“Is it really that important?” he mumbled.

In response, the wolf shook himself free and trotted down the verge a few feet in the direction of their prior travel.

“Okay then,” said Rodney. He shouldered his back and started back down the road west.

***

John had known it was coming but that didn’t make it easier when Dr. Penn missed the third round of blood letting. Either he was too sick to make it to John's room or he was dead. Or maybe he had given up and gone home. Not that John truly believed that. Regardless of why no one was coming, if there wasn’t anyone to continue testing John then there wasn’t any reason for John to still be here. It was time to go home.

He had spoken to Dave last week when things had still been bad but not unredeemable. They hadn’t said anything important; the conversation was brief. John had told his brother he’d been recalled to duty. Dave hadn’t said anything, but John knew he must have seen the mobilizations by then and understood. Dave didn’t apologize for keeping his father’s illness from John, but he had asked John to come back to the house when he was free so that they could talk.

Lacking a better destination, that was John's plan.

Heart pounding, John approached the door of his isolation chamber, hoping it wasn't locked. With a shaking finger, he pressed the evacuation button the nurses used. Pressurized air hissed for a moment before the light switched from amber to green. Holding his breath, he pulled the handle. The door opened into an airlock.

John stepped forward and let the door close behind him. Air cycled again as he crossed to a second door. Pressing the button this time resulted in a stinging shower of water that smelled strongly of chemicals. When the light cycled to green, he tried the door. Again it opened, this time into a dressing room. John stripped off his soaking scrubs and used a rack of towels to dry off. Lockers lined one of the walls and a quick search turned up pants and a long sleeved tee shirt. None of the shoes fit but at least there were socks. It felt weird to wear heavy fabrics again.

The next door led to a bright hallway. He was at one end of the hall and only had one direction to go in. Making his way down the hall, he passed closed doors with no signs to indicate their purpose. All was silent save the light slap of John’s bare feet. At the end of the hall he found an intersection. A plaque pointed left toward Ward 3 and right toward the exit. John headed right.

The elevators appeared to be working but John decided to take the stairs instead. Another helpful sign pointed up with the word: Exit. John climbed. Judging by the numbering on each landing he was eight floors down. He shuddered at the thought of how long he'd been buried, unknowing, underground. At each level, he poked his head out into the hall to survey the situation. Levels seven through four were empty. The bodies started showing up on subfloor three. John checked floors two and one to be thorough, but he didn’t linger. The doors must have been locked at one point or he’d be stepping over bodies in the stairwell. Small favors.

When he reached the ground floor, he stepped out into another hallway. This one was also less than empty. Swallowing hard, John stepped around the bodies. Everything he saw indicated this was a hospital. It looked like one that had been through the end of the world.

John concentrated on getting outside. It was just past ten in the morning according to John’s watch. The sun shone through windows, warming the floor tile. At least John could easily navigate through the wreckage. Although he would have liked a few convenient shadows to hide the carnage.

Glass crunched under John’s feet half way across the lobby. Wincing, he made his way over to the wall and swept his feet clear. Small wounds dotted the pads of his feet but it didn’t look as if anything was deep. His feet left bright smears as he continued on more carefully.

The glass doors to the hospital were shattered. Jersey barriers sat in front of the empty frames. Beyond that, John stepped into a no man’s land of pockmarked asphalt. Then came another row of barriers, this time buttressed with military vehicles. Dead soldiers littered the ground around the vehicles. John yanked the collar of his shirt up over his nose and went searching for a gun and keys.

It took almost six hours to get back to the house in Great Falls. Not because of distance but because the roads were impassable for long stretches. Before he made it around the beltway, he had to give up the SUV for a small motorcycle. He took it from the side of the road and a man who no longer needed it. But even the bike couldn’t make it across the battleground that was the American Legion Bridge. It looked like the National Guard had placed explosives across all ten lanes of traffic. The bridge was still standing but the road surface had been so damaged that John could only make it across on foot. Georgetown Pike was a little clearer. Cars were everywhere but the smaller two-lane road hadn’t been a major evacuation route.

When John pulled up to the house in yet another stolen vehicle, the sun had set and darkness was almost complete. If he had been a little less tired or desperate, he might have paid more attention to the condition of the house. Later, John could never bring himself to remember what he found inside his childhood home. All he retained was the physical sensation of stumbling out the door into the dark yard, a howl of grief ripping out of his throat.

For the first time in more years then John could count, he gave in to the howling in the back of his mind. There no longer seemed to be a need not to. The plague had seen to that. So, John ran.

***

Rodney was dreaming. He knew it was a dream. He remembered setting up camp in an abandoned trailer park with the wolf. One of the trailers had had a hard top awning and a fire pit that Rodney had taken advantage of, grateful that he didn't have to begin from scratch. They had stopped early after walking through the sun all day and Rodney had made them both a hot meal to replace the calories they’d lost travelling through the heat. Then Rodney had rolled himself into his bag and closed his eyes to sleep. So yes, this was a dream. Even so, he knew that he wasn’t going to be able to wake up from this one, no matter how he tried.

He was back on the Rainbow Bridge. It had been nearly three weeks since the borders were closed. Rodney didn’t expect he would be opposed while crossing, or that there was much of anyone at all to keep him here, but he’d chosen the smaller of the bridges into America just in case. He’d had to leave his car back on the QEW. There were too many abandoned vehicles between there and the border blocking the route.

When Rodney had crossed the border weeks ago, it had been mid-day. A bright sun had thrown everything into stark relief. In the dream, even though he could see the sun high above, shadows veiled the road onto the bridge. The lanes on the bridge were darkened from the moment he passed under Canadian border toll plaza. No toonies necessary.

As dream-Rodney set foot on the bridge, he felt the ground sway beneath him. And with every step he took, the ground danced more and more until he had to fight to stay upright on asphalt that rolled like the ocean. He lurched forward, racing for the first of the stopped cars, knowing with dream-certainty that if he reached them, the road would calm.

But being between the cars wasn't any better, because Rodney knew what was in those cars. In the real world, far too many people had died in their cars and trucks and SUVs. In the dream world, not everyone was dead.

The shadows of the undead stalked Rodney from the corner of his eye but never face on. Not that they needed to approach when Rodney was going to walk right into something worse. There was a brightly painted minivan ahead, limned by the noon sun as everything else on that bridge should have been. Rodney knew what he would see when he reached it.

Rodney tried to turn himself towards the bridge railing with its open path to the other side. On that bright day weeks ago, he’d been too afraid to walk along the side with an open view of the water. Now in his dreams he couldn't force his feet onto a different path.

The van loomed ahead, swaying to and fro as if rocked by an unseen giant. Rodney felt his chest constrict. A strangled whine emerged from between his panting lips. “Faster. Faster.” he begged. His feet slowed even more as he drew even with the rear bumper. A bright car seat could be seen through the rear window.

“Please. Please, please, please.” Look anywhere. Stare at anything else. The car seat rocked and a strangled cry came from the car.

Rodney knew it was just the dream. There had been no crying, no rocking car, or jostling car seat. He knew because he’d succumbed to curiosity, wondering about the flutter of movement caused by open windows and a breeze. He'd regret forever that he'd given into the stupid primal urge.

This was a nightmare and as such, this time it would be worse. Rodney was powerless to stop himself from staring in through the window.

Her mother had strapped her in with a five point harness that there was no escaping no matter how she struggled. She wasn’t alive, but her small hands, dark and mottled, beat at the glass.

Rodney fell back, stomach heaving. Then he ran. Flew really, speeding between cars that rocked and swayed with bruised, bloody hands pressing against windows and windshields. Raced through the American border complex, past dead men with guns and dead soldiers stripped of uniforms and equipment by scavengers. Ran down concrete alleys and through neighborhoods of burned out houses surrounded by charred tree stumps. Ran as hard and as long as he could until he collided with a smiling face holding a gun and there were hands holding him down and a voice telling him to stay.

Rodney sat up with a choked cry, pushing the warm body off of him. It was real. Holy fuck, it was real. He needed to get up. But the man he pushed away wasn’t dead, wasn’t covered in huge weeping red tears where a wolf had almost ripped his head from his shoulders. The man struggling at his feet was instead waking up and pushing himself onto his hands and knees.

“Wolf!” Rodney screamed. “Wolf!” He dug at the ground looking for something, anything with which to protect himself. Why hadn’t he taken John’s gun or one of the million other guns he’d seen since? Why did he keep finding himself in these situations?

“What the hell?” The man asked in a hoarse voice. He rolled away and stumbled to his feet. In the dim light of the fire, he was tall and gaunt, dark hair mussed and standing on end. He was naked and stood as if he had just learned, limbs awkward and trembling beneath him. He looked as though he might topple over at any moment but his eyes were fixed on Rodney.

“Get the fuck away from me!” Rodney snarled, retreating in a tangle of sleeping bags and clothes. “The wolf will tear your throat out! He’s done it before!”

The man blinked and raised a hand to his face. For a moment he stared at it in something akin to horror before he looked back at Rodney. He took one hesitant step forward, reaching out.

“Don’t you dare!” Rodney hissed at him. He finally got his feet under him and rose to his full height. Surely he could hold off one naked man long enough for the wolf to appear. He brought his arms up and curled his hands into fists.

The man froze and then the most amazing thing happened. In place of the man, lean and moon pale in the firelight, was his wolf. It was as if the fabric of the world had warped for a moment and sucked in the man, leaving behind black fur and startled eyes. Everything hung silent and still for countless seconds. Then the wolf turned and ran, disappearing into the night.

“Holy fucking hell.” Rodney breathed out in one rushed breath. He collapsed on his ass and didn’t even feel the pain.

***

After escaping the suburbs, the wolf ran hard and fast. He couldn’t stop to rest while the memory of his confinement and loss remained so raw and near. He ran, nose to the wind, chest aching, feet pounding against the earth until the ground gave way beneath him.

The hole was a cold, wet cage. It seemed that it was to be his grave and the wolf was okay with that. Then late one afternoon, his hunger-dulled senses registered the sound of movement through the forest. The sound was different than the stealthy tread of a deer or the skitter of rodents. A man was talking and coming closer. With a low rumbling growl, the wolf focused his eyes on the east wall of the sinkhole, waiting for the man.

The man who freed him.

Again the wolf ran, although this time it was the cold scent of wet clay and broken roots that drove him forward. His trembling legs finally gave out beneath him in an empty field. He dropped in a sudden collapse that left him sprawled nose first in the tall grass. The scent of sun-warmed grass and dry earth followed him into his dreams. No warm fields or fall wind or even dark holes and sucking mud – the wolf dreamed of cold tile, a haggard man, and the bite of blood. He dreamed of alien cold places and an anger that fought with despair to hollow out his chest

He woke, hungry, as the last of the sun disappeared. Even starved for food, the wolf turned his nose to the wind and followed the scent of the man. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t understand the compelling need to follow. He tracked the man by sound through the day, not wanting to get close enough to catch his scent. At night, he found a dark hollow from which to watch the man eat, or play with his pack, or bed down.

After he was asleep, the wolf would slink into camp. The first night it was the food that pulled him in. But as the nights passed, the wolf found himself more interested in the man. Not that he didn’t still steal the food when he could but now it was more because it was the man’s then because the wolf was hungry. The wolf enjoyed mornings most of all. That was when the man would stumble from his bedding to discover the wolf's nighttime exploits. He stole bits of plastic and chewed through tarp ties to collapse the man's tent on top of him. He found myriad ways to drive the man to frenzy, silently laughing at the sound of his strident, angry tones.

Then the man had walked into a town and the wolf hadn’t known what to do. He tried to wait, but the smell of armored vehicles and weapons were too close to his dreams. He skirted the edge of the town, sniffing for the man's scent, trying to track his path through the buildings. His nose led him to a house not far from the edge of the town where the smell of burned trees was overlaid with blood and sickness. It set his teeth on edge.

The man’s raised voice brought the wolf into the yard. He sounded afraid and that fear ignited the wolf’s blood. He defended his pack and he won. And there was no question any more as to why they wolf followed.

Some nights when the man cried out in his sleep, the wolf crept close and lay beside him until he quieted. The wolf had his pack, even if it was an odd pack of two. He was content. And then it all went wrong.

***

Weeks ago, when it had become apparent that the Fever was going to win, Rodney had gotten roaring drunk on his last bottle of whiskey and done the math. Ninety-nine point nine nine percent fatality meant that some people, at least theoretically, lived. One American per ten square miles had survived according to his drunken calculations. Rodney had never even gotten sick. So, unless Rodney was unique – and even he wasn’t egotistical enough to claim that – then there had to be more people who were immune. That idea had pushed him on to the road and kept him going each day. The knowledge, the hope, he would find people. People like him.

For weeks, he had been sure that if he travelled far enough, he would find an enclave of people. Maybe a fortified town or a stadium or hell, even a prison, where people had survived. Rodney would be welcomed, perhaps not with open arms, but as a fellow human. And then he would prove himself an asset, his knowledge and skills ensuring him a place in this new society no matter how badly he'd fit in before the epidemic.

Instead he had travelled almost a thousand miles on foot through Southern Canada and the Ohio Valley and now into the plains of America and all he'd found was a single, crazy man. He'd walked through what had been one of the most densely populated areas of the northern hemisphere and hadn’t seen anyone. Hadn’t met another survivor. Worse, there were no signs, no broadcasts, no communications advertising the presence of the living.

His only destination was the beacon. The further Rodney went and the closer he got, the more it looked like he was alone.

Then he'd encountered the wolf. It couldn’t replace all that Rodney had lost, but it was a companion. It saved his life. It kept him sane. Kind of sane. Taking into account this new revelation.

The wolf – it – he – was human.

Sighing, Rodney packed up his camp and went back to the road. His head hurt from thinking about this bizarre situation. It taxed Rodney’s brain to imagine how a man who was also a wolf was possible. So he didn’t think about it really. All that mattered, now, was that Rodney had realized he didn't want to be alone. He wasn’t a tracker, and he didn't know how he'd find the wolf, but the beacon could wait a few days.

***

The wolf watched the man wander back down the same strip of road he’d examined all morning. This was the third day in a row that the man had come here. He started at the road and then headed off in what appeared to be an arbitrary direction. He crisscrossed the plain a days walk in each direction looking for something. Every day. All day.

Every now and then the man would stop and call out for the wolf but he didn’t respond. Things had changed and there was no going back. One couldn’t unlearn a truth. Perhaps hide it for a while but even then once it was revealed it could never be hidden again in the same way.

The man knew this truth. It was more than that though. The wolf now also remembered that he was more than just a wolf. Still, he was less than a man. Instead they both seemed to exist in this grey space beneath his fur, waiting. Waiting for Rodney to leave and the scale to tip. Waiting for the decision to be made for him.

But Rodney didn’t. And as every day passed it seemed more and more certain that Rodney wouldn’t. But that was a decision in and of itself, a weight on the scale in the other direction. Every day Rodney stayed was a day the wolf felt the pull to respond grow stronger.

The not-wolf within him pushed again, reaching for the man as he had from their first meeting. After the house, the not-wolf had gone silent and dark. This man had pulled that entity out of his retreat – had spoken to him since that first moment in the pit. It was that connection that had driven the wolf up and over the rise rather than lunging at the man’s throat in starved need. And it was that connection that kept the wolf here, watching, even now.

Out on the edge of the wolf’s vision, the man stopped his search and collapsed to the ground where he began to eat his midday meal. The not wolf pushed for the wolf to join him.

In the end, there was never really been any other choice, was there? All the wolf needed was pack, and even then he could survive alone if he must. The not-wolf needed more then that, though. The not-wolf needed other men and he was not going to let this one go.

The wolf stood and shook out his fur one last time. He had lived with that before and he could live with it again. Then he turned to sprint back to the road.

Reverting to human was painful in its awkwardness. Not since John was very young and still trying to master the change had he felt so ill-at-ease. This time, his human body felt strange and unnatural. It was as if John had gotten lost somewhere between what is and what was. As if his body had forgotten some vital connection of ligament to bone, leaving him unsteady at the core.

He’d chosen long ago who he was. Chosen to be John who was a wolf rather than a wolf who had once been John. It was a subtle but important distinction that he had to relearn today. As if the world changing so drastically had negated all his previous choices.

Maybe if hadn't met Rodney, this choice might have been different.

He forced himself to stay John, to stand on two feet. The wolf inside held him for a long moment and then slid aside. Weak-limbed, John reached out for the fence to steady himself. Here was as good a place as any to wait for Rodney.

***

Rodney could tell something was different when the road came back into view. The horizon was wrong. It appeared as if the abandoned fence post had grown a neighbor. Which was impossible, but stranger things had happened. Rodney blamed the setting sun for how long it took for him to realize the truth.

It was the wolf – as a man.

Rodney stumbled over his feet in surprise. Days of looking – wandering aimlessly – and now here he was. Standing on the side of the road, naked as the day he was born, waiting. Rodney wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch him or just stand and gape. Either way, he had a million questions to ask.

“Where do your clothes go?” Rodney blurted out as he came within talking distance. An inane question, but it wasn’t as if the wolf didn’t know what a blunt man he could be. “I mean, isn’t it inconvenient to end up naked all the time?”

The man stared at him, as if thrown by the question. “You could offer me a pair of pants and a shirt,” he replied at last. His voice was rough and had a whine to it, like his vocal cords had forgotten how to stretch around the sound of spoken words.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Rodney felt his face heating. He dropped his pack to the ground he and pulled out a pair of mostly clean cargo pants and a long sleeve tee shirt still in its package. With his gaze fixed on the man’s right shoulder, he offered the clothes.

The man took them and shook them out. He skimmed into the pants and broke open the plastic wrapped around the shirt next. He unfolded the shirt with a quick shake, the snap of the cloth making Rodney jump. The man grimaced in apology before tucking arms and head into the fabric, pulling it over his head and smoothing it down to his waist.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Rodney,” Rodney replied.

The man blinked at him again. Maybe the whole wolf thing left a person slow, Rodney thought with an inelegant, internal snort.

“My name.”

“Oh.” The man scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Smooth, John,” he muttered then glanced back up at Rodney. “John.”

Rodney flinched back at the sound of the name. John grimaced again, apparently making the same connection.

“John Sheppard,” he offered more fully.

This time, the snort didn’t stay only in Rodney’s head. “Shepherd?”

The man rolled his eyes, easily communicating that he’d heard it before.

“Not that kind.”

“Well. Yes. Anyhow. Does it matter?” Rodney continued. The awkwardness of the whole situation was becoming unbearable.

Sheppard – much better than John – shrugged and looked away across the road.

Rodney could tell how this would go. He'd never had an issue with talking through uncomfortable situations, so he continued: “Fine then. Sheppard. Look, I have a million questions and you seem less than inclined to share, so how about we just both agree that I’ll ask embarrassing questions about your other half. You'll ignore them, and we’ll both pretend that it is normal for you to sometimes be black furred and sharp fanged.”

Sheppard stared at Rodney as the words spilled from his mouth.

“I won’t ask about what happened to you when the flu hit and in exchange you won’t expect me to tell you anything about my plague-related past. We’ll travel together. You keep us from being eaten and work up to conversation, while I keep us on track and comment on your laconic nature. That way we’ll both stay alive and not insane from the solitude.” Sheppard’s eyes seemed hypnotized by the sway of Rodney’s hands, as Rodney punctuated his diatribe. He worked his jaw once or twice while Rodney continued.

“Maybe one day we’ll have an actual relationship where you act human and I don’t drive you off. What other choice is there these days?” Coming to an awkward stop, Rodney looked down and left avoiding John’s eyes. “Okay?” he asked, much less sure of himself.

A small smile pulled at Sheppard’s lips. “Okay,” he agreed.

Rodney looked up with a smile. Sheppard smiled back. The moment quickly turned awkward again. “Well. Then.” Rodney stated at a loss. “Okay.”

Before the silence could suck them in again, Sheppard pushed himself away from the fence and started off down the grassy verge parallel to the road. His bare feet disappeared in the grass but Rodney supposed it was better than walking on the hot asphalt.

Rodney swung his pack back unto his back and hurried the few yards to catch up with John. Before he could ask the next question or articulate his theory on the answer, Sheppard glanced sideways. He surprised Rodney by asking a question first. “I could never tell. Where are we going?”

Oh. That one was easy. Rodney pointed to a green highway sign up a head. It read: ‘Colorado Springs - 141 miles’

“There. See, there's a beacon. From what I can tell it’s somewhere in the mountains ahead of us. The closest large town is Colorado Springs, where I should be able to better triangulate the source. We can gear up too, because winter, and it’s suicidal to go tromping about mountains in the winter.”

John’s head was tucked down, intent on the path before him, but Rodney thought he saw a trace of a smile. An answering grin curved across his face.

***

The end of the world came quickly for most of mankind. This was perhaps of some comfort to those who lived those final days. For those lucky few who survived, it was learning that they were not alone that made it all bearable.