Chapter 9

Two days of fishing with no luck left me eating through my supplies quicker than I thought. Rationing didn’t go as planned. Squirrels announced my presence with every step, but my rocks never struck. They didn’t even have the decency to pretend I scared them.

The ponds were empty, and I had no experience hunting. Although it was risky, I would need to scour the villages from now on. Highway exits in the mountains didn’t always lead to a town. Some connected to county routes without nothing for 30 miles or more.

I stepped through a shallow stream, enjoying my new boots, and hiked through the forest for another hour before I came to a ramp that looked promising. I didn’t see any signs for towns, but signs were rare anyway. Unfortunately, right before I reached the exit, a noise like fireworks in the distance went off, and so did the alert in my helmet.

A hill blocked my line of sight, but seven pops in succession told me everything I needed to know.

I darted across the ramp and climbed through the mess of fallen trees and boulders. The hill wasn’t tall, but rugged ledges and cracks made the trip difficult. By the time I reached the top, the workout left my body covered in sweat, and my mind had a hard time processing the view below.

The scabs were at war—with themselves.

Scabs converted two rest stops—one southbound and one northbound on the highway—into bases and fought like rival gangs claiming territory. If two sides were fighting over territory, then they made hiding easier. While they killed each other, I could slip by, going unnoticed. But if they were fighting over resources, I’d have to worry about their range and numbers. They’d comb through every part of the forest and strip it bare, eventually finding me.

Sadly, we never learned how scabs organized outside of handlers controlling those that lost their minds. It was unclear how they communicated, and nobody knew how sentient they were after a full soul collapse. But communicated well enough for the handlers below to create an army.

Concussive booms like a cannon echoed through the mountains. The hilltop was bare, and I didn’t want them to spot me, so I sat in a hollowed area of the rock face. Scabs postured, attacked, and fell back while pops from gunfire ringed in the distance. My lenses didn’t have a way to magnify vision, but I estimated at least one hundred scabs—the largest group I had seen since the cities fell.

When newscasters first reported on the abnormalities, doctors called it Acute Essence Disorder. There was always a period of adjustment after a breach, so nobody questioned them. It changed to Chronic Essence Syndrome by spring, and news broke that soul collapse was the culprit, but scientists were confident in a cure.

In late June, the first visible symptoms appeared. A skin condition termed Soul Collapse Abscessing.

A bright light, then a burst of flames, temporarily blinded me. Two seconds later, a shockwave knocked small stones from the ledge, and a blast of warm air washed over my body. Once the cloud of smoke and dust cleared, the cause became apparent. A scab lit a tanker on fire, and it exploded. Parts of the burning rest area flew into the forest, setting the dry sticks and leaves ablaze.

The suicide attack was brutal, with each scab that caught fire transforming into a running torch. Even then, the scabs didn’t stop, and they raged on through the pain. It was almost as if they had no survival instincts and only cared for destruction.

After reports of violent behavior leaked to the public, anyone with a skin blemish became the target of vigilante attacks. People panicked and hid their loved ones. Sadly, those decisions backfired. Many died when their family members lost their minds. On August 16th, just over a year ago, the government passed the first of their quarantine mandates. A month later, the roundups and euthanizations began. Cities went up in flames, like the firestorm near me.

The blaze spread rapidly, eating through the forest like a wild beast. I needed to run. The flames didn’t reach the other side of the highway, so if I crossed quickly enough and escaped the area, I wouldn’t die as a pile of ash. I jumped from the ledge and landed 10 feet below, then rolled to a stop. I had no time to stroll down the gentle side of the hill.

In the distance, the scabs howled and almost sounded human again. I could understand the mindless scabs creating a wildfire, but the handlers had to realize the consequences. Not that I was against them blowing each other up. Far too many survived, anyway. Like they thrived in the mayhem.

Even before the fifth breach opened, society was on the verge of collapse. CES afflicted ten percent of the population, with the US home to 35 million. The government couldn’t handle those numbers. Life became miserable. I still remembered the shrieks in my dorm and the bodies in the stairwell.

They deserved better, and so did the scabs who were no longer screaming. We all did.

The noise died down, but the flames continued to spread. Apparently, sealed containers like the tanker made excellent bombs, even if the gas was old. I sprinted to the median and stopped when a bullet sparked on the pavement less than 50 feet away. I couldn’t tell if it came from a wild shot or if someone spotted me. A single shot wouldn’t kill me, but injuries were getting harder to deal with. Without enough food, recovery slowed.