The Sound of Your Own Wheels

[Casey the Undead†]

((Ian Valmont, continued from Dead End))

Ian didn't have a destination in mind when he set off, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd taken a wrong turn regardless. It'd been hours since he'd really seen anybody -- there were flashes of people, voices off in the distance, but Ian didn't approach them. He had nothing to defend himself with, and no reason to talk to anyone. He'd been hoping someone would follow him, but he figured that Kathryn and the others had gone a different way. He didn't know if they were dodging him intentionally, or if he was simply too far ahead for them to see. He didn't know if the next people he met would be nearly as friendly. He didn't know what time it was. He didn't know a lot of things.

He covered his eyes with the palm of his hand and glanced towards the sun. It was setting. Ian had spent the whole light of day wandering, alone. He felt twitchy. Aloneness was nothing new. He was alone often in Seattle, spray paint in hand. Street art was not something you did with a crowd; more than one person could draw attention, and Ian was never one for provoking the law. Being alone didn't deter or scare him, the way it would other kids. He could spend days on his own and be fine -- headphones in, exacto knife out, gas mask on. That was how Ian operated best.

But he didn't have any headphones, or stencils, or abandoned buildings to paint on. He didn't have the comfort of a street full of strangers not paying attention to him as they walked on by. He had a fast approaching night, and a couple of cherry bombs, and no one to watch his back after dark. If someone found him, if someone decided they wanted to be rid of him, he would be gone. The nerves of the nighttime were setting in. Where was he, even? Some point on the bike trail, he knew that much from his map. There were no buildings for shelter, though, no protection from the elements. He had felt a sunburn starting on the back of his neck hours past, and it was beginning to itch. More days like this, alone in the heat of the day with a dwindling water supply, and who was to say what would happen to him? Could you die of exposure out here? Dehydration for sure was a possibility, but Ian had been sipping from his water all day. Not gulps, nothing drastic, just enough to keep him sated. He couldn't waste what he had. Who knew how long this game would last?

Weeks, Ian thought, as he gazed out towards the empty path in front of him. Over two hundred kids taken. That first roll call of the dead had less than ten, didn't it? If every day hits ten that's still 20 days. Not enough food. Not enough water. And even if it spikes up, even if we rocket to 20 kids a day -- that's worse, in the long run, isn't it? Chances of winning get larger, chances of dying get larger. Not enough food. Not enough water.

He started down the path again.

As the sun vanished, Ian braced himself for the night. If he could get through it, if he could live one more day, then he would find people tomorrow. He was determined. Or he wouldn't. If he didn't find anyone by this time tomorrow, maybe he'd be used to the quiet. Maybe he'd be better adjusted to it. Wasn't that strategy? Just clinging to the edges of the map, no one finding him, waiting it out as his classmates knocked one another off?

His mind drifted. He saw himself crouched in the grass, away from a group of kids firing guns at each other. It was something out of a John Wayne movie, the blood not quite real enough, not quite present enough. People would forget about him, why not? Everyone was too concerned with themselves to think about him. He tugged at his wrist brace, the skin underneath is sticky with sweat. His classmates could kill each other, could fight and scream and have drama the likes of which no screenplay could ever capture. And Ian could watch from the shadows, silent and collected.

Tomorrow he would find people. Or he wouldn't. He couldn't figure out what the better option was. Silence couldn't really make people go crazy, could it? Maybe in fiction, yeah, but not in reality. People didn't need other people. What about hermits? People didn't need other people. Ian could go alone.

Over two hundred kids. What are the odds of never seeing another one? 20 days. Ration your food. Ration your water. 20 days and 200 kids. I'll see someone. Question is -- will they see me?

He stumbled over a rock. It didn't hurt, but Ian felt every second of it. He could feel every molecule of the rock against every molecule of his shoe. He could hear the scrape of rubber soles against nature. He could hear birds, and he could see every ray of sunshine. He was becoming hyper aware, and he couldn't figure if it was bad or good. He didn't feel any grief. Right now, at this very moment, someone he'd had a class with was getting shot by another person he'd had lunch with, and he couldn't feel anything but a small sense of relief. It wasn't him. He was alone on the bike path, and no one was shooting at him. He was alone. He was relieved.

What's happening to me?

He scratched at the sunburn on the back of his neck, relished in the sharp jolts of pain that went through him at the motion. He was peeling off dead skin with the blunt tips of his own fingernails. Peeling away the dirt of his old self, the kid who'd graffitied in Seattle, the kid who'd watched silent movies with his parents and who could make the best damn white chocolate macadamia nut cookie outside of a bakery. He was peeling away. Still Ian, always still Ian, but someone new, too. Someone hard to recognize, covered in dust from the bike path and carrying a pack of cherry bombs.

It was the second day, and when the sun came up tomorrow the kids who lived through it would all be reborn. Reborn every day, someone new, but still the same. Kids who could ignore death. Kids who could kill. Kids who could hide in the shadows, alone, and get by simply by pretending they didn't exist.

The sun set, and Ian kept walking. He would walk through the night, he decided, until he couldn't anymore. Walk until he had to sleep, and sleep until the first ray of dawn touched him. Alone. Alone.

He could do it all alone.

((Ian Valmont, continued elsewhere))