Laurel's Journey

Laurel stepped out of the Devil's Backbone Agricultural Research Center, feeling the weight of the past few days lift ever so slightly. She unzipped the front pocket of her small backpack and pulled out her iPod, plugging in the headphones. Scrolling through her playlist, she selected a song that used to make her dance in her living room —" The Motto" by Drake featuring Lil Wayne. She kept the volume low, just enough to blend rhythm into the air but not drown out the sounds of potential danger.

As she walked, her hips swayed subtly, and her shoulders rolled in time with the music. She couldn't help but bob her head as she moved forward. "This is how you survive the apocalypse," she thought, a small smile on her face. "You dance through it."

Her mind wandered back to the events at the research center. Murphy, the scientist who'd held her captive, had been unsettling in his earnestness. There was no malicious glint in his eyes, just a desperate loneliness that had driven him to unacceptable extremes. When Reilly and Madison had shown up, it was as if fate had dealt her a winning hand at last. Together, they'd overpowered Murphy, ending his reign of misplaced friendship.

She chuckled softly as she remembered how Reilly had awkwardly flirted with her during their goodbyes. The way he'd looked at her, you'd think she was the last woman on Earth—which, given the circumstances, wasn't entirely impossible.

"Ah, Reilly," she mused. "Gotta love white boys who think the end of the world is a good time to shoot their shot."

As the beat of "The Motto" pulsed through her headphones, Laurel's eyes caught sight of a shambling group of infected ahead on the road. Her body tensed, the carefree sway of her hips coming to an abrupt halt. She assessed the situation; there were too many to confront without a weapon, and she didn't want to waste her energy running full tilt to evade them.

Quickly, Laurel veered off the road and into the woods, her eyes scanning the terrain for the best route to bypass the dangerous cluster. As she went through the dense foliage, Laurel spotted something partially buried under a heap of fallen leaves: a small, weather-beaten backpack. Her pulse quickened with a mix of anticipation and wariness as she approached. She kicked it gently with her foot first, ensuring it wasn't some kind of trap. When nothing happened, she bent down to unzip it.

Inside, she found a Swiss Army knife, a nearly full roll of duct tape, and a small first aid kit. A little further digging revealed a compact but sturdy rope. "Jackpot," she whispered to herself, her eyes lighting up. Each of these items could be a lifesaver in different scenarios. She quickly transferred the newfound goods into her own backpack.

Feeling a renewed sense of hope, Laurel zipped up her backpack and adjusted her headphones. The song had ended, so she chose Nicki Minaj to keep her company. With her new supplies securely in tow, she carefully returned toward the road, emerging a safe distance away from the group of infected she had spotted earlier.

As Nicki Minaj's "Super Bass" played in her ears, Laurel felt an extra bounce in her step. She continued down the road, her eyes ever-watchful, her senses keenly attuned to her surroundings. The landscape of central Colorado was at once harsh and beautiful, a fitting backdrop to a world that had become increasingly uncertain.

The day wore on, marked by eerie silence and tense vigilance. When the sun reached its zenith, Laurel decided it was time for a break. She found a secluded spot by the Blue River, just a few miles south of Silverthorne. Taking off her backpack, she pulled out some vegan snacks she had packed earlier—some dried fruit and a few nut bars. As she ate, her eyes lingered on the rippling water, and for a brief moment, the world felt almost normal.

Refreshed, Laurel resumed her journey. Several times, she spotted groups of infected on the road ahead, their slow, awkward movements an unsettling contrast to the natural beauty surrounding them. But each time, her instincts and her agile mind helped her find a way to avoid confrontation. Killing, even in these dire circumstances, wasn't something she was willing to make peace with.

By late afternoon, her eyes, skilled at scanning environments, picked out a house that looked relatively untouched by the chaos. It stood alone, bordered by trees that offered a curtain of privacy. Warily, she approached, circling around to make sure it was empty. Satisfied, she entered, locking the door behind her and using a heavy piece of furniture to barricade it further.

Climbing the stairs, she found a bedroom with a window that offered a view of the surrounding area. She sat there, pulling out her iPod and pausing the music. For the first time in days, she allowed herself to listen to the natural symphony of the night—the chirping of crickets, the distant hooting of an owl, and the subtle rustle of leaves in the wind.

When morning light streamed through the window, Laurel felt oddly rested. She reached into her backpack and pulled out more of her vegan rations, a small bag of granola and a banana. As she munched, she couldn't help but notice her pants felt a little looser around the waist.

"Who knew the zombie apocalypse would turn out to be the most effective diet I've ever been on?" she said with a chuckle. Not that she had ever been overly concerned about her weight. She loved herself just the way she was—full-figured and fabulous.

Laurel stepped back onto the road, her feet settling into a familiar rhythm. She had no particular destination in mind, no map to guide her. Yet, deep down, she felt a conviction that she belonged somewhere in this fractured world—and she'd know it when she got there.

The hours passed swiftly as she went through the winding Colorado roads framed by mountains and forests. Just past midday, she arrived at Sapphire Lake, a serene body of water that reflected the sky like a gemstone. She set her backpack down and pulled out the last of her food—just a small ziplock bag of mixed nuts and some dried cranberries. As she nibbled, a momentary concern flitted through her mind; she had maybe a day's worth of food left. She'd need to find more, and soon.

Just then, she heard it—laughter. Human laughter. Her eyes widened, and before she knew it, she had grabbed her backpack and darted into the cover of nearby trees. Her heart pounded as she peered out cautiously, watching as three figures approached the lake.

The first was a slender woman of medium height with features that hinted at a blend of Asian and Caucasian heritage. A rifle was strapped securely across her back, lending her an air of rugged self-assurance. Next to her walked a tall black man with cornrows and a mustache, carrying a picnic basket with ease. Beside them, he pushed a wheelchair containing a man who was notably smaller and thinner, his limbs almost frail. The shape of the wheelchair and the man's posture gave Laurel the impression that he had been its occupant for a long time.

The group chose a spot not far from where Laurel had been sitting. They laid out a blanket and began to set up a picnic, laughing and talking as they did so. It was a scene so ordinary, so blissfully normal, that for a moment, Laurel felt like a ghost—displaced in time, haunting the remnants of a world she used to know.

Laurel watched the trio from her hiding spot, a pang of jealousy surging within her as she observed their easy friendship. "Am I becoming like Murphy?" she pondered, "So desperate for human interaction that I'd consider capturing people?" The thought repulsed her, but it was a short-lived contemplation.

Suddenly, the atmosphere around the picnic-goers shifted from relaxed to frenetic. Their laughter cut off abruptly, replaced by expressions of sheer panic. The man in the wheelchair was choking.

His companions seemed paralyzed, unsure of what to do. Their eyes darted between each other and their struggling friend, whose face grew alarmingly blue.

Laurel hesitated. Every instinct told her she could help; her years in the medical field had trained her for such moments. But could she risk exposing herself to these unknown people? Could this be a trap?

Her eyes locked onto the young man's changing color, and any remaining doubt evaporated. She burst from her cover, rushing toward the trio. "Step back, I'm a nurse!" Laurel shouted.

The woman and man looked at her with apprehension and hope, torn between their instinctive wariness of this stranger and the desperate need to save their friend. With practiced hands, Laurel unbuckled the young man's restraints and carefully lifted him out of the wheelchair. She positioned herself behind him, modified her grip to account for his condition, and applied a gentle but firm pressure to execute a specialized Heimlich maneuver.

Seconds ticked by like hours, each moment heavy with the weight of life and death. Then, suddenly, a piece of fruit shot out of the young man's mouth, propelled by the force of Laurel's well-placed thrusts. He gasped for air, his face gradually regaining its natural hue as oxygen flooded his lungs. With a sigh of relief, Laurel lowered him back into his wheelchair.

Despite the residual strain on his face from the near-fatal choking incident, a grateful smile blossomed. "I'm Casey," he said, his voice still weak but tinged with relief. "This is Nate," he gestured to the black man, "and that's Dice," he pointed to the woman. "We've holed up in an abandoned factory not far from here. We're with a group called the River Dogs."

Laurel felt a mix of emotions wash over her—relief that she'd been able to help, caution at the mention of a group and surprise at what Casey said next.

"I feel like you belong with us," Casey said.