Chapter 1 - GASOLINE

    

   I've been lying about my age for so long that I forgot how old I really am.

   It all began when I was about twelve I'm guessing. My family and I were living in one of the few trailer parks that still had a stable community. There were break-ins every week, if not every night, but it was the only choice we had because children my age weren't allowed inside government-created SafeZones. It was too risky. Complaining about it was selfish - just one fluke in the system and you could have a live zombie stuck inside a city with walls two stories tall. Besides, nobody really complained anymore anyways. The whole world was a nightmare.

   I still remember the first time I saw one. My father had his back pressed to the door, my mother handing him just about anything she could find to see if we could wedge the exit shut until help came. Though drops of sweat dripped down his cheek, his face showed no fear. Just pure frustration.
   He looked me between the eyes and said "I am going to do whatever it takes to get us inside a city."

   We traveled westwards for so many miserable months- sleeping in abandoned cars each night. We were told if we continue down the interstate, we might find a SafeZone that would allow me in. One morning I heard something rather unusual: the sound of engines roaring. It was impossible for cars to move on the highway; there were too many stationary ones blocking the way. however, these engines were loud- these vehicles were moving fast.
   My father threw off his shirt and waved it in the air.

   It was a gang of motorcyclists. It had never crossed our minds that motorcycles would be able to weave through the obstacles on the road. They stopped to greet us. They needed gas.

    Upon exchanging stories, we were handed a card. A man who sported a thick gray beard and a studded leather jacket told us about a Ramecha. There was a SafeZone no more than 100 miles north, and they would accept a kid my age. We were overjoyed. I watched our heroes as they stuck these strange pipe devices down the tanks of old cars to retrieve fuel for their bikes. I remember that one of them scruffed my hair as a goodbye, and I had been smiling cheek to cheek in awe and relief as we watched them disappear beyond the horizon. But the sounds of their engines had stirred the hungry children, lusting for a meal.

    The three of us were alone again. We fled, hopping inside a car. The engine would not start, and we knew that the bike gang had been a rare sight- there would be no more help for a long time.

    After an hour passed, my father darted out of the car and raced to another one. He managed to kill all the zombies by pinning them between vehicles, but had not succeeded without a grizzly bite on his arm.

   We were lucky enough to find another inhabited park along the way, and my father survived after suffering through a painful amputation. It's took many months for him to recover and many more until we decided to resume our journey to the SafeZone- except I had changed. I was taller, my jaw more angular and speckled with soft hairs. My mother joked that I would pass for an adult easier than I could pass for under 13, but it no longer became a joke when another group of people admitted that they too were on their way to Ramecha. Traveling in a larger group would make the journey much safer for us, and living in a city finally seemed possible again.
   The only way I could get in was if I lied about my age, so when we eventually arrived with the other group, that's what we did.

   All adults are required to be vaccinated, but the vaccines were proven to be ineffective on children.    An early vaccination meant that I would be penciled in the system as clear, and would never again have the opportunity to prevent the disease.
   It wasn't ideal, but it was too late by the time we reach the border's infirmary. I was trembling from the moment my father wrote me off as 19 to the second the nurse injected the needle in my skin.
   I would never be safe.

   Memories of life before the outbreak were dim until we moved into an apartment inside Central Ramecha. This place felt a lot like the town I used to live in. The only thing that was reminding me of the danger outside was the lie that got me in here; I was not allowed to go to school with other kids my age that had grown up inside of the safety zone – I was supposed to be several years past that kind of education. I join classes for other young adults that were willing to catch up, but it was obvious after just a few weeks of adult school that opportunities for citizens who missed their prime years of school were much more limited.

   Two years after our arrival I was offered a choice:
   Either I would have to find myself a paying job, or the Department of Safety would assign me one as a recruiter. I would leave the safety of Ramecha and join a team of other bodies who were currently useless to the system. We would travel around the abandoned roads of the state and hand out cards just like the one that the bike gang had given us.

   Upon this news I wondered whether or not the bikers where recruiters themselves, but after meeting some of the people who are already in this business, I knew they couldn't have been. The bikers were probably offered that card by a recruiter and denied- knowing that freedom was already ripe for their taking on the lifeless roads.
   Recruiters were all young and dumb; even though I was certain I was the youngest, I felt much more mature than some of the kids who are raised inside the SafeZone. They were all excited to finally leave the confines of the city when I knew they should be terrified. I was especially nervous, knowing that I wasn't properly vaccinated. Would I die if I was bitten, or would I turn? Which would be worse anyways?

   My mother gave me this journal when I told her my choice. We all knew it was dangerous, given that I was probably still a young teenager, but everyone knows that it's impossible to find a decent job in Ramecha. It seems there were only two professions left on our barren planet worth anything anymore. Food and produce dispensers were a difficult branch to join after the industry had become monopolized. Position openings were unheard of. Then there was becoming a doctor. Readily available? Yes... but who would let in a kid like me? I knew nothing of blood and bones except for the awful stench of it when it's fresh outside your lawn.

   We head out of the city tomorrow. Saying goodbye will be hard, but my parents have accepted that I've become an adult now. They've passed into that sighful, comforted state that parents come into when their children are no longer children anymore. Sometimes I feel like they're lying about their age too.

   One of the reasons I picked this fate was because we are going to be given motorcycles.

   The other newly drafted recruiters and I were all driven in a large tank to a motorcycle factory a few hours south of the border. Some people attempted to converse during the trip, but we were in the belly of the machine too loud for comprehension. It left us staring at one another- or at our feet- the whole time. I found myself staring at a girl sitting a few steps in front of me, though I politely tried not to. A lot of us were staring at her though. She looked like she was only sixteen years old, but she was bigger than all of us – well, heavier. She seem to take up two seats.
   I've been trying to catch glimpses of her strange shape, for she was such an outlier to the rest of our group. But then, as the tank jostled us over another car, I saw a lock of her hair shy behind her ear. Her face was miserable, and she quickly unhooked the brown curl so it could shade her eyes from us again. She knew we were watching.
   I should've done something more, but I spent the rest of the time giving disappointed looks to the others whom were still watching.

   The structure of our training was anything but organized. There were a couple old-timers among us who were hired to teach us how to survive the roads. They mostly taunted us, prying on whether or not we were tough enough for this job. I stood before the men respectfully as their voices took up all the peace in the cavernous warehouse. "This is a commitment. This is a service to Ramecha. Are you ready?" It all felt morbidly doomed. If I wasn't feeling ready, how could these giddy fools itching to receive guns be any more ready for this than me?
   Once they quit slandering our inexperience, we were given a few tips. It did feel slightly more preparing to be taught some tricks of the road. One of them was how to extract gasoline from abandoned vehicles. I was reminded of the day we were handed a Ramecha card by the bikers. "Wishing you a safe trip," he'd chuckled. The irony stung now. Just as the memory invaded my mind once more I heard an instructor say, "...and remember to set up camp a good distance from your bikes. The sound will attract the kiddos."

   We were asked who wanted to be in the return crew in case someone got injured. I thought about raising my hand, but two things made me stop:
   If someone was bitten, and I had to carry them on my bike there was a chance I could get infected.
  Secondly, I would've thought that more people would be open to the idea, but no one was volunteering. It was the way the man had said it; his tone was condescending, as if he'd asked who was scared enough to already want a free pass back to safety. I couldn't let myself be the weakest of this crew.
   Eventually there were some volunteers, but I wasn't one of them. Neither was the chubby girl. Her chin stuck forward firmly. I couldn't tell whether she was tense because she was determined to prove herself brave too, or maybe she was trying not to cry.

   It was early in the morning when they open the warehouse's main door. My whole body stung to see the pale light of open sky.

   We were to travel in groups of ten. The girl is in my group. That made the other nine of us nervous and frustrated. How far could we get with her on our team? We would be paid depending on the area we covered. Sure we were on bikes, but how many stops would we have to make because of her?

   A boy nudged my side with his elbow and joked, "well at least if we get hungry will have a meal for the next three weeks."
   I snickered under my breath as well. It couldn't hurt if she couldn't hear it.

   The keys to my bike were pressed into my palm, and for a moment I closed my eyes and pretended like something good was happening to me.