Gas stations, chain restaurants, and a dry cleaner lined the road, while in the center of town was a squat strip mall, complete with coin laundry, coffee shop, nail salon, barber, used books, and the all-important grocery store. Looters had shattered the grocery store’s front window, leaving broken glass glittering in the parking lot. Looking past the entrance, I could see whoever trashed the place had done a thorough job of cleaning it out. Not much point in searching for leftovers. I glanced around to see if there were any cars nearby. A nineties-model Mercedes with flat tires was the only vehicle in sight.

“How much you wanna bet there’s a maintenance ladder around back?” I asked.

“No bet,” Mike said. He drove to the service entrance and followed a narrow strip of gravel behind the building. The lane widened into a flat loading area. Mike parked next to one of several service ladders.

“Not much of a lock,” Mike said. A metal security grate covered the ladder, held shut by a cheap bronze padlock. I grabbed a crowbar from the back of the Humvee and levered it off. While I worked, Sophia appeared with Mike’s tent and bedroll and kissed him on the cheek. “Sleep well, Dad,” she said. “See you this afternoon.”

She grabbed my arm and started pulling me away. Mike said, “Where are you two going?”

“We’ll be on the roof of that gas station over there,” she replied. “Keep your radio handy.”

Mike looked like he was about argue, then let it go with a sigh, looking deflated. “Fine. Just keep it down over there. Don’t want to draw any infected.”

“Okay, Dad.”

I kept my mouth shut and followed.

While Sophia was settling in, I retrieved an empty five-gallon fuel can from the Humvee and checked the abandoned Mercedes’ tank. To my delight, not only was it a diesel, but there were just over four gallons left. I thought about how long it had been since the Outbreak and wondered how much longer it would be before what limited quantities of salvageable fuel were left lying around went bad. The prospect of walking to Colorado Springs appealed not at all.

After stowing the fuel, I went back to Sophia and lay down with her in the tent. A simple kiss became two, then three, and the next thing I knew we were tearing each other’s clothes off, skin hot, hands exploring.

There are few things more awkward than two people trying to undress one another in a pup tent, but somehow we managed. There was a lot of pulling and cursing and pauses to kiss whatever portion of skin one of us happened to expose on the other. Then came the clutching, and thrusting, and gasping, and heavy breathing, and Sophia’s white teeth biting down on her lower lip.

We tried to be quiet. We really did.

*****

Later, as Sophia drifted to sleep next to me, I lay awake, ears straining.

A few hours passed. I heard nothing but birds, insects, and the breathing sound of the wind against our tent. I thought about Mike on the other rooftop, alone, and wondered if he was thinking of his wife, and if so, was he remembering the good times, or the bad?

I tried to imagine what would preoccupy my thoughts if Sophia were far away, unreachable, and putting my mind in that place, I knew I would remember the arguments, the harsh words, the digs we took at each other. For Mike’s sake, I hoped he had enough good memories to outweigh the bad.

It is easy to be impatient with someone when they are close to you. When you can reach out and touch them, and hear their voice, and apologize for whatever stupid thing you did or said. But distance creates perspective, and when that distance is eternal, there is no salve for the regret of loved ones taken for granted.

Memories stirred of my father, and Lauren, and Blake, and I clenched my fists to keep my hands from trembling. That way held nothing but pain, regret, and sorrow, and its path ended at a cliff. Once over it, no matter how much I clutched and scrambled, there would be no coming back. So instead, I closed my eyes and focused on the immense black nothing in front of me, wondering if it was the last thing they saw before the end. If the empty dark was what waited for us all, the answer to the great mystery of life after death, the idea people had been debating and philosophizing and fighting wars over for millennia. Maybe the answer had been staring us in the face all along, every time we closed our eyes. I wondered, when my time came, if my family would be there waiting with hands outstretched to lead me home.

Sophia stirred beside me, turned over onto her side. I opened my eyes and sat up a little, the light filtering through the tent’s canopy chasing away dark thoughts. The pain faded somewhat, diluted by the soft warm body next to me. I moved closer and draped an arm around her, listening to her sigh contentedly as I pulled her close.

Plenty of time to mourn later, I told myself. For now, hold it together.

Just past midday, I slept.

*****

The next night was more of the same. About five miles from I-40 we turned left and traveled cross-country toward Highway 24, staying well away from the interstate. The scars left over from the horrors we had witnessed on I-35 and I-20 were still fresh, and none of us were willing to bet I-40 was any better.

During the transit, I thought of how I had always imagined Colorado as a wonderland of soaring mountains, sweeping valleys, verdant forests, and flower-covered fields dotted with crystal blue lakes. That was what I had always seen in pictures, magazines, and on television—America’s version of the Bavarian Alps. But the reality was far different from the idyllic setting I had dreamed up in my mind. The region we traveled over was mostly flat with the occasional lifts, saddles, and long, sloping basins.

When we could, we traveled on roads. When we couldn’t, we relied on the Humvee’s off-road capabilities. On four separate occasions, we got stuck and had to drive over wooden planks after digging our way free of wet, clinging mud. Out of frustration, I asked Mike why it was so fucking damp around here despite the lack of rain.

“We’re in a saddle,” Mike said. “A damned big one. Starts back there at 287 and goes clear to the foothills that way.” He pointed east. “The water runoff between flows down here, smack dab the middle.”

“So we’re basically standing in the bottom of a giant drainage ditch.”

“Pretty much.”

“Fantastic.”

At just after four ‘o clock in the morning, I drove the Humvee over a rise and could see the flat expanse of Highway 24 a couple of miles below. “Not much farther now,” I said.

“You see the highway?” Mike asked.

“Yep.”

Sophia let out a sleepy little whoop from the back. Grinning, I angled around a stand of trees and made for the road.

The trip down the hill went smoothly, the dry dirt at higher elevation providing better traction. I glanced at the fuel gauge nervously, thinking about the last two gallons in the back and worried it would not be enough. I voiced my concerns to Mike.

“Just keep driving for now,” he said. “Get a few miles down the highway, then we’ll see what we can scrounge up. Worst case, we’ll pull over somewhere and stash this thing. Go the rest of the way on foot and come back for our stuff later.”

I couldn’t think of a better plan, so I nodded.

When we reached the highway, Mike checked the map under an LED light and declared we were just over sixty miles from Colorado Springs. There was no way our fuel would hold up that long, but I could see no cars close by. All around us was mile after mile of flat, empty grassland. If it had been daylight, I would have seen the toothy line of the Rockies in the distance, but my NVGs could not reach that far.

So we drove on, the needle lowering inexorably toward empty, wheels picking up speed on the unobstructed highway. I eased the Humvee up to thirty-five and let it stay there, figuring it was the point of greatest fuel efficiency. We made it a little over fifteen miles before the engine began to sputter and cough. Thankfully, I could make out the shape of a few buildings ahead and the unmistakable outline of a tractor-trailer.