They decided to leave the school. Their classmates were filing into the gym, watched by teachers and officials and adults that didn’t know what was happening or what to do. One of the administrators tried to stop the girls, but they refused to enter into what they called imminent death. They knew that one leak of death into the gym would result in everyone’s death, and so they decided to venture into the dry and desolate canyons easy to reach by foot. Cars were stopped on the roads. Everyone was running in and out of houses, sirens were wailing and policemen were on every corner, rushing civilians into large buildings where they promised they’d keep watch. When the doors were shut the girls watched the policemen drive away. Armed with scissors and a penknife, the three of them took to the dusty road winding into the canyon. It was hot. There was a bottle of water between the three of them. Abby didn’t drink any out of discipline, but Claire and Makayla finished the bottle within the hour. It was warm and did little to clear the dust in their throats. The first day they didn’t come across anything, and their scissors and blade remained clean. They stopped in thick patches of shade to rest, watching the sun move across the sky as it always had; it was a symbol of consistency and they had trouble adapting to the change around them. Perhaps if they went deep enough into the canyon, they thought, they would be okay. They were far enough from the roads by sunset to rest easily, without fear and without suspicion. When they were lying curled up together, they each thought of the people they missed. They were lonely, but they didn’t mention it to one another. They accepted the circumstances.
The next morning was quiet. Claire suggested going somewhere denser, cooler, somewhere with water. Abby refused. If they went back onto the main road they would either be contained or killed, and neither sounded appealing. So they swallowed as much saliva as they could and continued to walk. The dust under their feet blurred. Their skin cracked and turned pink and peeled. It was painful. They didn’t mention it. There was a dead man on the side of the road. His insides spilled out onto the ground. A thermos of water was strapped to his waist and they took it, splitting it evenly among them and leaving a little bit at the bottom. Abby took responsibility for it. They all wondered, staring at the man, how desperate they were for food. Eventually Makayla told them they should keep walking, and they left him to be swallowed by the earth. The path grew narrow and thorns cut their flesh, thick scarlet beads of blood dotting the ground. They ignored it. Claire was particularly fascinated with the thick drops of blood emerging from her skin. She walked slower, watching them appear and fall and appear again. She ripped the sleeve of her shirt and wrapped the cuts. The path lifted and they reached the top of a small hill. The tall grass scratched them. It was dry and crunched under their feet. They stopped for awhile at the top. The silhouettes of the mountains drifted in and out of focus as clouds shifted across the sky. Below them they could see cars, frozen on the roads. There were no people. In the distance Makayla saw a tank. She watched it crawl over the streets. If it was shooting she couldn’t tell. The world was dead.