The Girl at the End of the World by Richard Levesque Page B

world without friends and family.
    Which made me wonder why I hadn’t killed myself, too.
    Honestly, the thought hadn’t occurred to me once since I’d left my house. I’d been too busy trying to figure out what I was going to do to stay alive to start pondering the possibility of bringing it all to an end.
    The suicides made me angry. The odds were that one of them, at least one of them, could have survived like I had, given me someone to talk to and make plans with. I know I was thinking just about myself then, not about the suffering or fear all these people had gone through before making their final decisions. But I’d had fear and suffering, too. My decisions had just been different.
    At any rate, they all smelled, and by the day I left the sporting goods store, I needed a respirator to keep it from getting to me. I suppose I would have gotten used to it before long, but I also worried about disease. I didn’t know what sorts of illnesses I could pick up from being around so many dead and decaying bodies, and I didn’t want to find out. That was another reason to get to the observatory. I’d still be around millions of dead people, thousands upon thousands of whom had died from things other than the fungus, but at least I’d be above most of them and maybe able to breathe a little easier. Still, I knew I couldn’t stay in the city forever; the observatory would just be my next step, one of many I’d have to make along the way, and all of them made on my own without any help or supervision.
    When I’d come here before with my family, the road had been lined with parked cars and mini-vans and SUVs. Now it was just about empty, a narrow strip of pavement winding its way up the hill with views of the city spreading about below me when I’d round some of the turns. There were a few cars to navigate around, and I told myself I could come back later and move them out of the road. At the top of the hill, the parking lot was also mostly empty—but only mostly, and I put on the brakes as soon as I hit the flat expanse of asphalt.
    I hadn’t been the only one to think of getting up above all the chaos. There were five cars parked here—all looking random and nothing to worry about. And there was also a medium-sized motor home, an old Winnebago, all angular and oxidized with no hubcaps but still the big “W” logo on the striped sides. It sat at the edge of the parking lot, not in any of the marked spots but rather blocking the road, its front tires up against the curb. Someone had parked it there with no regard for anyone else coming up the hill, and I knew that meant they’d been assuming no one would be coming—either because the occupants had gone a little crazy from the fungus pressing into their brains, or because they were immune like me and had set up their base camp here in the hills.
    I killed the little Honda’s engine and flipped down the kickstand. Climbing off, I slipped the straps of my backpack over the handlebars and carefully unfastened the bungee cord that held the bow and arrows to the fender. I wasn’t ready to shoot anyone with it, doubted I had good enough aim to even hit the side of the motor home if it came to that, but I was counting on anyone still inside the Winnebago not being willing to take a chance on my accuracy.
    Notching an arrow, I walked slowly toward the old camper, listening intently for any sign of life. Up here, all was silent, but a cool breeze blew up from the city, and it made enough noise to mask any sounds that might be coming from the motor home. I was approaching with the wind at my back, so if I made a noise, the breeze would carry the sound to anyone inside, but if they made a move I wouldn’t be likely to hear it. I should have stopped, backed away, and approached from the other side of the parking lot. But I was here now, and there were no signs of life yet, so I kept on, maybe a bit foolishly.
    Ten feet away from the hulking old camper, I stopped. Someone sat