Ping - From the Apocalypse by Susan Lowry

picking up the boy’s thoughts — or maybe, she just hadn’t been listening.
    Frustrated when she heard the familiar answer from his mother, she hung up and was about to call back when the boy made himself perfectly clear. He could not talk over his phone! Something was preventing him from doing so. She wondered what it could be, and then, it was suddenly clear to her — telepathy was the only form of communication of which he was capable.
     

Chapter Twelve
    The Journey Begins
    ( March 20th, Year One, PA)
     
    Kate stood at the front door gazing around the neighbourhood for a moment, taking it in for the last time. Patches of snow lingered beneath the trees but the roads were finally clear.
    “ I hope we know what we’re doing Snowy,” she muttered. “If our luck holds out we should make it far enough before the next storm. I sure miss the weather channel.”
    He stopped nibbling on the framed painting above the dining-room table and chirped loudly. She didn’t care about the frame, couldn’t bring it with her anyway. If ever she did return, it probably wouldn’t be for a very long while. She sighed and gently shut the door.
    Her future could not be more unpredictable than it was at that moment. Her nerves were frayed. She nudged her index finger against Snowy’s chest and he obediently hopped on, allowing her to put him back in his cage which she had already placed by the entranceway ready to take him out to the car.
    “It’s going to be a long drive ,” she said, draping a small blanket over the cage. She went out to the car to make a final check of all the things she’d stuffed in the trunk and piled in the back: some casual clothes, blankets, candles, matches, flashlights, food, water and a first-aid kit.
    S till in the house was her large shoulder bag, stuffed with items she would probably never use, but, there was no telling what might come in handy in an emergency and she figured it was better to be safe than sorry. In it she had also put Wendy’s gun, which she’d finally found beneath the woman’s pillow.
    She carried the cage outside and put it on the seat. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she told Snowy, gently shutting the passenger door.
    Then, back in the house, she walked slowly through each room, opening cupboards and drawers, visiting everything for the last time. Eventually she found herself in Jon’s office by their books, running her fingers along the spines and reading the titles. She finally flipped through some of his papers, sighed, and stepped through the door.
    It was time. S he walked through the living room to the back of the house, pushed the patio door open and gazed into the yard. The ground had been too frozen to dig a grave for Jon — though she’d given it a valiant try; waiting around for it to thaw made no sense at all. She gazed over to his coffin of blankets where the snow was indented with muddy boot-prints — her shovel still leaning against the maple tree.
    It had been a warm spring day when they’d first met in the coffee-shop downtown. She’d been on her way inside, and just leaving, he’d held the door for her. Sitting down with her biscotti and tea she’d noticed him peering in through the window while supposedly waiting for the bus — the stop was just outside. After a few minutes he’d come back in and sat down at the table beside her, sipping his coffee and flirting with her. Six months later they were married.
    “Goodbye Jon, ” she whispered and then sadly slid the door shut, pushing down the latch. She stared at the handle for a moment, shook her head at her silliness for locking it, and turned away.
    T he scent of pine needles drifted in the warm air as she closed the front door, stood on her porch, and finally continued down the steps to the car. Snowy perched quietly in his covered cage beside her as they backed down the driveway. There was nothing left here for her, but, somewhere in Texas — determined by his area code — a boy needed