The Last Tribe by Brad Manuel

when the owner shuts the door and leaves the pet in the car.  He looked at
his watch, 7:30am.  He had two choices, stay in the car for the next 10 hours
using all of his water, or take a risk and walk in the daylight for the next 10
hours.  Maybe it was that part of him that was 14 and considered himself
immortal, or maybe it was the part of him that had grown up in the last two
months and realized he was the only person alive within 700 miles, but Greg left
the car.
    “Play time is over.  I have to get
up to Hanover, and daytime is the best time to travel.”  He spoke aloud, like
he did back in the dorms.  “I can do this.  I can see people coming in the day. 
I can see animals in the day.  I can avoid rocks and things that will twist my
ankles in the day.  Let’s go, Greg, time to move.” 
    Greg pulled out his map, saw an
exit about 20-25 miles up the highway, and started walking.  He stopped and ate
a can of cold soup at noon.  At 4:30 he stumbled off the highway and onto a
rural road along 93N.  He covered just ten miles of his route. 
    He found a combination general
store and gas station, pulled out his sleeping bag, and slept on the floor. 
The next morning he filled his water, grabbed what little food was available,
and hoped to make it at least fifteen miles by sunset.
    The highways of Northern
Massachusetts and New Hampshire are cut through mountains and valleys.  The
roads move up and down, winding around rivers and streams.  What a crow flies
in ten miles can take a New England highway twenty miles to connect the same
two points.  When Greg planned his trip, he did not realize how hard it was to
walk long distances in New England.  He assumed he could log 35-45 miles a day
and would be in Hanover by the end of his third day.  The late fall season
meant exposure to wind and cold, and Greg was not prepared for the up and down
aspect of the journey.  After two days of hard walking, he reset his daily goal
to 15 miles, but he never reached the goal.  He spent each morning mapping how
far he needed or wanted to go.  If he saw a house that was close to the mark,
he would stop for the night. At the end of his third day he was just 28 miles
away from Ms. Berry’s house, and still over 70 miles from Hanover.
    Greg found the trip to be slow and
hard going, and his number one challenge was staying hydrated.  He kept two
water bottles in the slots on his backpack.  When he finished the first bottle,
he stopped at the next exit to find a way to refill.  Sometimes he could get
water right away at a gas station or general store, but exits were further
apart as he went north, and stores were not immediately off the exit ramps. 
Keeping hydrated added time and effort and extra miles to his trek, but if he
stopped drinking water he felt weak and his head ached.  Greg might walk twenty
miles during the day, but only eight of those miles were towards his
destination. 
    Greg also needed food, and was
faced with the decision of carrying weight or relying on scavenging.  He opted
for scavenging. 
    The rapture was a devastating
disease, but it was custom built for survivors.  The earliest symptom was loss
of appetite.  Supermarkets were looted and emptied, but all the looting did was
transfer the food to houses where it sat uneaten.  Greg had early success
scavenging, but as he entered more rural areas, food was scarce to non-existent. 
    Despite the viscous, cold,
unappealing soup he found in cans at the homes where he squatted, Greg was so
ravenous he did not care what he ate.  One night he considered eating cat food
when it was the first and only thing he found in that evening’s home.  He
stayed in the ‘cat house’ and slept on a couch, but ventured next door and
found stale granola cereal.  The next morning he held the small can of cat
food, weighing it in his palm.  It was light, and would provide a quick meal
when he needed it.  Greg put the can on the table.  “I’m not there