The Survivalist - 02 by Arthur Bradley

swell.”
    “Aren’t you going to help me?”
    “Nope.”
    She pulled on it again, leaning back with everything she had. The boot started to slide off.
    “I’m getting it,” she said with a tone of excitement.
    “Goodie.”
    The boot finally came off, and, like the man had promised, there was a small color photo inside. It showed a smiling little girl blowing out five candles on a birthday cake. Samantha flipped the picture over. On the back side, an address was written in blue ink.
    “She lives in Salamanca, New York.”
    He shook his head in disbelief.
    “What? You know where that is?”
    “You could say that.”
    She raised her eyebrows waiting for more.
    “My ex-wife lives on a farm less than ten miles from there.”
    “Hmm,” she said, leaving the rest of her sentence unspoken.
    “Life’s full of coincidences.”
    “Yeah, but ten miles?”
    “Just put it in your pocket, Saint Jude.”
    “Who?”
    “Patron saint of lost causes.”
    Samantha looked at the photo one last time and then slid it and the note into her back pocket. She walked back to Tanner and sat down next to him.
    “My mom says that we should listen to the little voice in our head.”
    “I suppose.”
    “What’s yours saying right now?”
    He thought about it a moment.
    “It’s saying that I should get you home before we’re both killed like that poor fool.”
    “Right,” she said, hardly hearing him. “Do you want to know what mine’s saying?”
    “No.”
    “It’s saying that we’re going to be together for a while longer.”
    “Fine, but we’re not going to New York.”
    “Okay.”
    “I mean it.”
    “Okay.” A shadow of something in the street passed in front of the doorway. “Someone’s out there,” she said, nudging him.
    “Just people looking for supplies. No different than us.”
    “Then why are they out at night?”
    “I don’t know. Afraid of a sunburn?”
    She didn’t laugh.
    “I wish you had your shotgun,” she said, sliding a little closer. She pointed to the 12-gauge. “That’s a good gun.”
    “What are you complaining about? This is a fine rifle.” Tanner held up the Savage. “It could probably hit a fly at fifty yards.”
    “I’m not worried about flies.” She paused. “Not unless they’re gigantic flies looking to vomit on our heads.”
    “What?”
    “Flies throw up on what they want to eat. It helps to turn their food into liquid so they can slurp it up through their snouts.”
    “I swear you make up half of what you say just to freak me out.”
    “It’s true,” she said. “I learned it in science class. You know, you should have gone to school. You learn a lot there.”
    “Hey,” he said, bumping her lightly with his shoulder. “What if I told you I used to be a college professor?”
    She looked up at him, searching his face for clues. His grin was all she needed.
    “Where’d you teach?” she asked. “At the College of Convicted Felons?”
    They both laughed, putting aside for the moment their worries about virus-infected monsters, murderous agents, and giant head-slurping flies to simply enjoy one another’s company.

    Tanner and Samantha sat in the store until it was so dark that they could barely see one another’s face. When he was confident they wouldn’t easily be spotted on the street, Tanner stepped up to the broken doors and peered out. A thick fog had rolled in, and only the shine of a full moon offered any illumination. Samantha had been right. There were a few shadowed forms moving along the streets, but no one seemed to notice them standing in the doorway. He motioned for her to follow him.
    As they stepped out of the store, Tanner suddenly realized that finding their way back to the Jeep was going to be more difficult than he had first thought. They had run only a few blocks, but that was in the daytime. Now, with darkness and fog shrouding everything, the small street looked more like the road to Mordor. Streetlamps stood like towering tree Ents, and