the entire state, occasionally branching with capillaries. The state looked a little like a health textbook illustration of a diseased lung. The first few days that he and Patrick had spent on the road, traveling the switchbacks that dived and webbed through the mountains, Michael had sometimes tried to gauge the contours of the hills around him against the charted elevations on the map. He’d peered close to the paper, as if he might spot his miniature self on it, glowing like a radar dot on a video game map-screen.
Now, though, he just looked at the handful of larger towns plotted along the interstates.
The Bellow let loose another bay. Michael hummed, thought about turning on the CD player, then remembered how sick of “Ron’s GOOD OL’ COUNTRY Mix” he was.
And soon he confirmed what he’d already guessed: Coalmount wasn’t on this map. The map lines converged on the capital city, but he was somewhere out in the uncharted gray. With the woods and the switchback roads and the trailers. Still. He had no idea where he was—and no idea how to find an interstate road to the Charleston Safe Zone and The End.
Well, he thought, there go my vacation plans.
The Bellow staggered over a cinder block and found its footing again, now about thirty yards away, continuing toward him as Michael went back to his journal. He wrote:
Day 22
No one in forest. Smoke in the sky yesterday = from lightning probably :(
Camped near river last night. Kanawha? Not labeled.
In one hunting shed: Backpack/protein bars. Yum.
Last nite, way way more Bellows. 80+? Why? Never grouped together B4. One-time deal? (Plz?)
Fire EXTREMELY good on Bellows. Hate it. Theory about light/eyes = w00t. (Note: let Bub know Game Master confirms! It’s not their skin—it’s the eyes.)
Don’t know where we are. River nearby—Kanawha? Will keep heading south.
Don’t want to stay outside after last night. Thought it wld be fun for Bub. Actually: just cold. And uhhh not fun.
4 Atipax left . . .
Michael lifted his Sharpie, staring at that last note. For a second, he was surprised by a stitch of an anxiety inside.
He added:
P.S. I am an awesome shot ;)
P.P.S. BUT SRSLY: AWESOME.
The Bellow reached the fence, bouncing back a little when it struck. The creature looked down, blankly puzzled.
Michael chuckled.
The Bellow raised a thin, nightgowned arm; the arm sliced downward; the wood blasted apart in a burst of shards.
C’mon over, Grandma, I’ve got something to tell you.
Patrick’s snoring hitched again, and this time, he woke up.
Michael checked his watch, cranked down his window a bit.
Seven, six, five . . .
“Hey, newb,” he said to the Bellow just paces away.
The Bellow replied: “NEEEEEWWW—”
Three, two . . .
“Good morning,” Michael said, and the first shafts of the dawn slit bright and pink over the trees, glimmering the snow and windshield dust on their dashboard. The sunshine struck the Bellow’s eyes: the creature collapsed on its knees, and its roar became a roar of pain.
Michael nodded, satisfied, slapping the dome light off as he put the car in drive.
“Michael?” Patrick said.
“Yeah?” Michael answered.
“Mornin’,” yawned Patrick, stretching upright. “What we doing today?”
CHAPTER THREE
They were a couple hours into the day before the twisting, rutted road brought them to the town called Coalmount. Michael opened Patrick’s door, did a butler bow, and told Patrick his butt crack was showing as he stepped out.
Then Michael climbed over the hood and glassed the new town with his binoculars from the roof of the station wagon.
“Michael?” called Patrick.
“Yeah?” Michael replied, smiling at the routine.
“Nothing,” said Patrick.
The town might call itself Coalmount, yeah, but no offense, ol’ buddy, but you look sliiiightly like every other coal town ever. Michael scoped the dozen or so buildings on the main street, all of them brick and stout. He noted, not for the first time, that the only structure that looked less than thirty years old was an office building labeled SOUTHERN WEST VIRGINIA COAL AND NATURAL GAS.
“How many Rs are in ‘Faris’?” called Patrick from behind the car.
“Why?”
“I think I spelled it wrong in the snow.”
“Oh.”
“With my pee,” Patrick said.
“Yeah, I got that the first time,” Michael laughed.
He looked back through the binocs, tracing up the length of the main drag. A statue of a coal miner stood in what, if you were feeling just ridiculously generous, you could call the town square. The miner statue carried a pickax, but its face had been either carved or blasted away.
Power poles plastered with Safe Zone flyers (he made a mental note to check if