Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The radio signal is faint, but I can still hear the announcers voice through the static. I close my eyes and imagine him standing there in front of me- I know this isn't a live newscast. This announcement started transmitting three months ago and had repeated itself on every frequency in the state four times a day since.

I will never forget hearing it for the first time. I was driving in my beat up old Honda- an attempt by my parents to make up for the years of not being there. It would take a lot more than a heavily used pile of garbage to do that. It hadn't helped me win over friends or gain popularity points at Neah-Kah-Nie High School, but I had become famous for the plume of exhaust trailing me out of the parking lot after class each day.

It was raining. When people think of the northwest they think of rain as coming down sideways, flooding your basement, and cute girls in rain boots. The coast was nothing like that- where I lived it was a constant gray mist so thick you couldn't see across the harbor kind of rain that clung to your clothes. It was a rain so persistent that it permeated even the sturdiest raincoats. I loved it though, loved driving the misty highways that wound through the mountains east of town. The windshield wipers kept steady rhythm as i drove south on the main highway that cut through our small coastal town of Nehalem. I was rounding the third curve past the city heading home from school when the radio cut out. Noises similar to those we would hear when a tsunami warning was sent out via the local news station started sounding and were followed by an announcement-"Citizens of the Northwestern Region of the united states, this is not a test of the Emergency Alert System. The United States government has announced the immediate quarantine of the following states: Washington, Oregon, Idaho..." I pulled over, the rest of the announcement a buzz in the back of my head. It had happened. The CDC and WHO, acronyms I had never heard of before the first outbreak, had told us everything had been contained on Manhattan.

From our small town nestled in the Cascade mountains of the Oregon Coast, we had watched in horror from afar as the initial Manhattan outbreak slowly slipped out of the controlled hands of authorities and into chaos. In an attempt to quench the outbreak, bridges had been destroyed, tunnels full of fleeing citizens flooded, and about the half of the population of the island had been left behind. Those abandoned who were not already infected lasted about a month before they were overrun.

"We encourage you to gather what supplies you can, find your families, and await further instruction from your local authorities." The faint signal fades and I am left listening to a throbbing buzz of static. I cant believe it has only been three months since the broadcast. I think of the unprecedented traffic in the hours and days following the announcement. My siblings and I watched from our porch as thousands poured down from the north following highway 101 south. Out of gas, many were forced to abandon their cars, turning highways into a clogged mess of broken down automobiles. It was better to walk anyways- You had a greater chance of sneaking past the army at the border if you were on foot.

I look up from the cracked dashboard and notice the sun is nearing the tops of the evergreens, their shadows growing longer on the road ahead of me, and I know I must stop my search and return home. With nobody on the roads and no traffic signals to obey anymore, I weave down the old familiar highway and through town with ease, passing dads shop along the way.

My dad was a strong man and took pride in the small shop that his tan muscular hands had built from the ground up. As a kid I loved going to the grungy brick building in the middle of town and learning at his side. I would hand him the tools he would shout out for from under the chassis of an old sea-worn pickup from the wharf or would help detail the interior of the mayor's wife's Cadillac. Over the years he taught me his trade. By the time I had turned 15 I had learned to completely assemble an engine. My dad's small business quickly grew and we saw less and less of him. My mom called his successful business his wife and children. My Honda had been abandoned at the shop by a family that couldn't pay for repairs. By that time, my love for the shop and its smells of grease and transmission fluid had turned to loathing. The shop has stolen my dad from us.

I pull off the highway and start up the long gravel driveway winding up the mountain through the forest. After  minutes of mounting uneasiness, I pull up to the house. To my relief everything appears untouched- Still safe. 

My dad had built our house. My earliest memories are those of me sitting on the concrete slab that he had poured for the house's foundation and watching him work away on the framework high above me. My parents both grew up in Portland and had met their senior year in high school. I can't remember much of their earlier years- the spark that brought them together had faded around the time my youngest brother was born. Hearing their story never seemed important. I'd imagine my mom was drawn to the boisterous native american boy with his dark complexion, oval face, strong jaw line, and slicked back hair. My dad wore his hair the same way every day of his life- Slicked back on top and drawn up into a long thick braid that ran down to the middle of his back. We had all inherited my moms curly brown hair and lighter complexion.

After graduating high school, my parents had moved out to the coast. My dad was hired as a deckhand down at the wharf and my mom made souvenirs from random items found on her long walks along the sand. I was born a short time later. They named me James, after my mom's dad. I had never met him. With his new family and increased wages as first mate, my dad bought an acre of land outside of town and built our house. I remember looking out of our front window and watching my parents on the porch swing. They were so happy then. The house was my fathers gift to my mom. The single story cedar shingled house had very few of the large windows like most coastal homes. Looking up at our lot from the road below, it almost appeared camouflaged into the trees behind it. My dad had built on the side of the mountain just high enough to look over the evergreens. The highway could be seen below. Beyond that the ocean extended to the horizon.

Looking over the old home, I am suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude as I realize what I owe my dad- My knowledge of cars and this house. Those two things have kept me alive these last three months. 

Have kept us alive.