red hill - jamie mcguire

Volkswagen, discussing their next move. Joy and Zoe had just come back out to the porch, Zoe with a
small packed bag hung over her shoulder. Walter and I had barely stepped out into the street when
gunshots rang out. We’d heard them in the distance every day, but this time they were closer. Much
closer. Soon after, an engine revving echoed through the quiet streets, and then a car came careening
down the main street from the highway, fishtailing out of control.
“Daddy!” Zoe yelled, just as the car T-boned mine, both crashing into the pumps.
A huge explosion accompanied by a big boom immediately took the place of the gas station. As
soon as the ball of fire traveled up into the atmosphere, the charred vehicles were visible only for a
moment before thick, black smoke and even more fire shot from where the pumps once were.
“What do we do” Joy said through the hands that covered her mouth.
The kids were still standing next to their car in shock, and my hands were on my head, my fingers
knotted in my hair. “No. No!” I yelled the second time, in complete disbelief. I knew my car was
gone, but with each passing second, the comprehension of everything that being without a car meant
became more real. We were trapped, unable to travel on foot, and worse, every infected lingering on
the highway would be enticed back into town by the explosion.
Just as that thought entered my head, I saw the first infected. One after another they stumbled down
the street, until the irregular pattern turned into groups, and then an army of undead, moving as one
unit, toward the street.
“Nathan” Miranda said, her expression frozen in fear at the sight. She reached inside of her car
and pulled out a rifle. The others did the same before slowly retreating to the porch, keeping their
eyes on the dirty, bloody parade.
“Move slow,” Walter warned quietly as he and I backed away from the street to the house. “Don’t
draw their attention over here.”
The kids were at least smart enough not to make any sudden movements. I glanced up at Zoe, who
was watching with a blank face like it was something she’d seen a hundred times before. As a kneejerk
reaction, I thought about discussing her lack of reaction at Zoe’s next therapy session, but there
would be no more counselors, or evaluations, or IEP plans.
It seemed that once we realized Zoe was not like other children our lives had been consumed with
meetings and doctor’s appointments, care plans and behavior management. Life was difficult enough
for those of us that could process stress and overstimulation normally. Even when we had what
seemed like limitless tools to help Zoe head off or navigate the meltdowns, life would never be easy
for her. A different panic emerged, one that we couldn’t run away from: Those things we took for
granted were no longer available. The recognition of that truth made a wave of dread wash over me.
Zoe thrived on routine, and she was without treatment during this decimation of everything familiar. A
plague that could last months, or years . . . or forever. Zoe would have to survive both.
“We could wait this out downstairs,” Walter said, pulling me back to the current problem. The
break in his voice signaled that not even he believed his words.
I gripped the bag in my hand, thankful I’d taken it from the car. “We can’t stay here, Walter. With
all of those things in town, it’s not safe.”
Joy’s eyes left me and settled on her husband, resigned. “Maybe it never was.”