Final Chance

Chapter 1 Travis biked south along what used to be Highway 101 in Oregon. He had the road to himself as the sun beat down, making sweat run down his back. He smiled at the wonderful landscape of trees to his left and the Pacific Ocean on his right. He forgot how long he’d been biking, and it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered since the N-Virus killed eighty-five percent or more of the world’s population in about one year. Devastating. He wondered why he survived. He often queried why he never caught the damned thing. Why was he alive, especially since Patrick, his husband, died from it? Maybe less than a week to get to his grandfather’s place just east of Bandon in southern Oregon. That would make it about June first. What would he find? Would Grandpa be alive? Grandma? Or Grandpa’s parents who lived with them? Anyone else in the tiny rural town? If fifteen percent of the three thousand population survived, that would leave four hundred fifty people, but if so, did they all stay there or move? He kept his mind busy as he kept pedaling. He knew his backpack with food bars was nearly empty, and he never learned about forest or native plants and such to live off of. What the hell, he lost thirty pounds since the N-Virus hit. Another few pounds wouldn’t matter. At least he had over a dozen gallons of water left in his little bike trailer. Then suddenly from the side, a large dog barked at him and chased Travis. He biked faster, but it was uphill. Four other dogs joined in, barking and chasing. Travis got to the top of a small hill and up-shifted into higher gears to gain speed. The dogs chased but quit barking, maybe to save energy. There was no doubt that if they caught him, Travis would be their dinner. He pedaled hard, and the sweat poured off. The dogs continued and fear flooded him, but he kept going. It would be painful to die from dozens of dog bites. They’d eat him alive. Then without warning, his mind shifted to Grandpa, and he suddenly knew in his heart he was alive. While Travis didn’t care if he lived or died, he wanted to see Grandpa. He shifted up another gear and pedaled hard, sucking in air. He glanced in the mirror, and he was pulling away from the dog pack. Another hill was approaching, and he downshifted for more speed to make the hill. As he started up the hill and the sun set, the dogs pulled off, standing, staring at him. He kept pedaling for fear they’d still pursue him. They could eat off of him for a few days, and that’s not how he wanted to die. He went on for another few miles and came to Florence. He remembered it, or what it used to be. Now it was vacant, and weeds grew everywhere. He slowed and looked around and noticed what used to be a gas station. He stopped and walked up. The front door was open. Walking inside with caution, he found nothing significant. Then he checked around a second time, this time focusing on things to eat or drink. He found a vending machine in the office, and with a crow bar from the work area, he forced into it and snacked on candy bars and old, stale cookies. There were two juice containers, and he finished them. He settled down in his sleeping bag, propped next to the closed front door. If anyone tried to enter, they’d literally have to get past him. Travis slept fitfully for the night, the usual event since Paul’s death. That pulled his energy plug. He got up with the first light, went outside to pee, finished food from the vending machine, and took off southbound. By car, it would be eighty miles to Bandon, maybe eighty-five to Grandpa’s place. He’d be there by nightfall if he kept pedaling at a good pace. He recalled growing up in Bandon, the tiny coastal town. It felt good, and Grandpa and Grandma lived just two miles east of town on their ten-acre plot of land in the forest. Travis loved visiting and spending the night as much as he could along with the summers. His parents were decent but not very loving, but he still mourned their deaths from the N-Virus. He got his loving genes from his grandparents, even if he was adopted by his parents. His grandparents spoiled him, but were a bit on the strict side, yet they were always loving. Even when Grandpa spanked Travis, he always held him tight and said he loved him and that he spanked him out of love so he would learn. As he pedaled, a small herd of deer crossed in front of him. He smiled, knowing with everyone gone or dead they didn’t have to worry about being hit by cars. He bet the deer population, and other animals, increased. Travis felt the Earth would be better off without humans walking on it, polluting it, destroying it. Earth would hopefully recover from the human infestation. He made good time and let his mind wander. He stopped for lunch and a nap and took off again. A warming chill rushed through him as he saw the sign for Bandon city limits. Only a few more miles to go. Then he passed a man whose age he couldn’t determine, walking south on the road. He wore a blank stare. Travis passed him, remembering the man he tried to help while still in Washington state. When Travis asked if he needed help, the man pulled a large knife and slashed. Travis held his bike as a shield, and after a minute, the guy wandered off. Travis pedaled off, fear gushing through him. He could have been killed. It wouldn’t bother him to die. He just wanted it to be quick. He turned right onto Rosa Road as the sun was setting, and he got an adrenaline rush. Only two more miles. He pedaled harder, anxious to get there. After one and a half miles, he turned left onto Windhurst Lane. The road was gravel and in bad shape. He slowed to avoid the potholes, but he finally turned left to his grandparents’ driveway. He biked the three hundred thirty-three feet and saw the house. He gasped at the prospect of seeing his grandparents again. There was a large greenhouse and plants in raised beds. They seemed to be doing well, and that had to mean his grandparents were still alive. Then a thought came to him. He heard of strangers taking over the homes of others. “Please, God, or whoever is up there, don’t let that be the case here.” Then a shot rang out. Very close. He spun to stare down the barrel of a semi-automatic handgun. “What the f**k are you doing on my property? Get out. You have three seconds. One, two—”