YOUSEF

Yousef Erkan pushed his legs back against the couch's armrest, carefully drawing Indy's eyes on his sketchbook. But the little mutt kept moving his head, never laying still whenever there was a bump on the road, or the other guys kept passing by the narrow aisle, expecting the food to be dropped on his nose, only to be met with disappointment. Once he was sure the golden eyes looked good, he went to sketch Indy's cape, planning to finish the details later that night.

Indy, The Super-Puppy, Yousef thought, smiling. The best superhero in the world.

Yousef already sketched him flying in the air, fighting hordes of vectors and honchos, and had drawn at least three sketches since they left Colby where Indy was saving people around the world. He never planned to show it to the other guys since they would probably think it was stupid, a waste of time instead of looking for resources, cleaning guns, or learning how to use a knife. Bren had taught him the past few weeks: where to slice and stab, where to stand, and taking someone down. It was a steep learning curve, and Yousef never considered himself a good fighter.

Not even a good fighter, he mused, finishing the sketch for the cape.

Yousef admitted he resented Bren slightly during those "training" days, which mainly consisted of getting beaten up when Bren would show him his signature moves. Then, Bren forgot to mention most of them were jiu-jitsu, and his legs and feet were on fire after each session, having neither the reach nor the flexibility that Bren expected of him. Seriously, how does he expect me to bend that far back and not break my spinal column? Is he insane?

It usually ended with Yousef laying in bed for two days, groaning, and taking some Advil to lessen the pain on his legs and buttocks. No pain, no gain. Isn't that what they tell you? Yousef shrugged. He couldn't forget the nightmares he would have trying to grapple a man slathered in olive oil and failing miserably to take him down while he laughed maniacally.

As much as Yousef didn't like to admit, he felt a little jealous of Alfie doing better than him. Out of the eight, they were the only two who weren't exceptional fighters, and now Yousef had been relegated to the bottom rung of that ladder. Perhaps he should have tried harder, but fighting was never his backbone, years of his parents drilling into him that violence does not solve problems had that effect on him.

But violence was the only language to survive in this world. To run was to die, and there was no more room left for me to go.

Except drawing. That was an escape, more so now than it was before. Even when he was a child, Yousef had always loved sketching: the buildings around Fort Wayne, the houses in his neighborhood, the birds, the trees, the school, his friends, and even the things he imagined or what he had seen on TV. When his mother found out, she threw a fit and admonished him constantly not to do it again since drawing Allah's creation, Subhanahu wa ta'ala, glorious and venerated is He, was considered haram, so was forbidden. She had thrown all his drawings out, fearing the angels would not come to their home as Allah would know of his sins.

If not for Balian, his oldest brother, sneaking sketchbooks he bought secretly from the store, he would have spiraled into depression.

Ana and baba had only known what büyükbaba and büyükanne had taught them. It is better to understand them than hate, Sef, for there is too much hate in this country, Balian would say. They wanted to keep home close, remind themselves where they came from, and never forget. Too many white men want to get rid of us and who we are after those towers fell.

Yousef tried what his brother did, follow their parents' teachings, but it was before Balian would leave them for a woman who was a nonbeliever, and he had never seen his brother for the next ten years after. Even his parents refused to acknowledge he even existed.

Yousef was the third son of four brothers, and Mesut, his second oldest brother, would then call him a bad Muslim for not following the way. Yousef resented many things his parents had taught him and that were considered haram after Balian left. He was trapped between two cultures to honor his homeland's roots or live his life in the land he had always known since birth.

In kindergarten, he never participated in art classes, for his mother had told his teacher what was forbidden in their culture. The only thing he loved was calligraphy, for it was closer to art as he could get, and he liked to think his teacher, Mrs. Norris, pitied him for it. When he learned he could draw inanimate objects—as they were not considered haram—he poured hours upon hours to train his fingers in drawing the perfect lines and measurements of houses and buildings, one of the reasons why he was to attend Architecture School and Design in Columbia before everything went into the gutter.

He had grown to resent his parents' friends and relatives within their little Muslim community in Fort Wayne, seeing how the other children were allowed many things that were haram—girlfriends & boyfriends, cursing that would make his mother blush madly, listening to music, toys, owned pets, and most of all, had been allowed to do as they pleased like going to high school parties and wore what they want. His parents were stricter and followed Hadith, which were Prophet Muhammad's sayings, peace be upon him, to the letter, and they would say his constant disrespect of them was also haram, and if they were back in their country, they would not let this slide.

Yousef would constantly remind them that Turkey was seven thousand miles away, and since he was born in America, he was American. He could still feel the sting where his mother had slapped him. Still, he tried to do good, honor his parents, followed what they told him, and prayed with his utmost abilities—To be a good son and a good Muslim. Not until he met Luke in sophomore year when things changed when he was forbidden to associate with him, for he had fornicated with men. He didn't know why that was bad. Luke was a good friend, a popular guy in school, a good person, one of the few who was kind to him after the other Muslims begrudged him for "rebelling" against the faith, and the other kids in school rarely interacted with him due to him looking different. After he was friends with Luke, everyone in school "gets" him. He became fast friends with Mormons, gays, and even those popular girls he had only watched from afar, even dated one in secret behind his parents' back.

When he went to Columbia as a freshman and was introduced to the big city's diverse cultures, his parents' teachings and forbidden things slowly slipped away. He was free to do what he pleased, far away from his parents' reach, and so he indulged in it—drank alcohol, met girls he liked, took art classes he missed when he was young, ate food that was forbidden and joins in different cultures and practices he had never encountered. He reunited with Balian, who now lived in Chicago, married to the same woman he eloped with, and had two daughters—Yousef's very own nieces—though he never asked why he left, just glad that he got to see him again and his family.

Home was both heaven and hell, and yet Yousef still missed it. Like all families, they had all their ups and downs, and he terribly wished they were all safe and sound.

And now the world turned different, where monsters roamed free with gusto and haunted the living, killed his friends, and all Yousef could muster was return to the faith he had abandoned long ago. It was the only thing he had left of home.

Yousef put his sketchbook down and shoved it inside his bag when suddenly, Cora lurched upward, metal crunching against the plow as it barreled through, but the RV's size was outmatched. It was worse than the previous ones Haskell had run over, although they had been inching closer to the populated areas, so they're bound to encounter more clogged-up roads. Yousef looked out of the window and saw a motorcycle thrown back to the ditch as they passed. Haskell spat a curse as Cora skidded to a stop.

"What now? Why are we stopping?" shouted Pete.

Haskell shifted on his seat. "Um, we got a problem. A big one."

* * *

Highway Route 22 was jam-packed with vehicles, most of which were abandoned, but some still had people camping inside their cabin—families and children, the old and the young, and everyone in between, seemingly lost in the obstacle in front of them. It was clear the military wasn't letting anyone inside Harrisburg. There must be hundreds of people just waiting on the road, camping near the clearing on the right, or from the low hill to the left, waiting for the soldiers blockading up ahead. They had made the Route 433 overpass into a makeshift wall of wood, metal, guns, and wires. No one could drive around them, let alone take the chance to climb through or around it.

It was then Yousef noticed that a small crowd had gathered close to the overpass gates, begging to be let in, parading their kids on their shoulders for sympathy, some outright praying in the open as if a god-fearing soldier would take pity on them.

At least they parked half of the cars to the side, Yousef mused. He gleaned that everyone was still hoping the military would magically open those gates, and they would use the narrow pavement to drive on like a parade. I doubt that's ever going to happen. They were all sitting ducks when the horde eventually arrived, especially the ones mowing through Sunbury and Northumberland yesterday. Now, how long would they get here? Without rest, probably in two days.

It gave Yousef. A major case of Deja Vu. It had only been a few months since he saw the same thing outside of Albany, only this wasn't as bad as the latter. Back then, camps had turned into makeshift slums, and crime was rampant. He was glad they avoided that by camping further away.

"It seems like we're not the only one who isn't so into Reclamation Day," Peter said, studying the people far ahead, where some already gave them odd and curious looks. Yousef shifted when he spotted some were brandishing makeshift weapons like axes and baseball bats with barbed wires, and a couple of groups had hunting rifles slung around their shoulders and revolvers on their hip.

Pete peered through the binoculars. "I see...uh...at least a platoon up there on the overpass, probably forty or fifty soldiers guarding it."

"They're forming a perimeter so that the city doesn't get flooded with both refugees and vectors." Bren determined.

"Sounds like a recipe for disaster," Yousef said. And would add to their numbers if they got infected once Reclamation Day begins. He didn't even want to think about them being part of those numbers.

Bren turned to him and smiled. "Bingo."

Yousef smiled back, happy to contribute to the discussion.

The CB radio crackled to life. "Hey, what's the holdup?" Logan's voice came out from the Honda Civic behind them.

Haskell picked it up. "We're just figuring it out. We'll get back to you."

"Alright, man. Copy."

"Shit!" Pete exclaimed suddenly.

"What? What's wrong?" Bren asked, concerned.

"Er, see those loose gravel up ahead with the burnt cars and debris? That's the rest of the fucking highway. They bombed it, fucking scorched earth the bitch, probably a hundred feet wide, so no vehicle can just drive through their flimsy barricades."

"I'll drive Cora through them and see what's up," Haskell said confidently.

Bren placed his hand on his shoulder and shook his head. "Nah. We'll get stuck. And if you kept driving through these cars like candy, the RV wouldn't run even if you're Jesus."

"And into their line of fire," Pete added. "I'm not planning on sporting a dozen holes on my chest."

Haskell shrugged. "Eh. Better than being beaten and eaten alive by a dozen monsters."

"So, what are we going to do?' Yousef asked. If Bren suggested walking, Yousef would never have it in him to do that. Deep down, he knew it. Harrisburg was a big city. Just a few minutes ago, they passed the city's welcome sign, population sixty thousand, and that wasn't even counting the towns and Burroughs that made up the metro area. There must be three hundred thousand people within the city limits, most of whom were probably evacuated, but it was still a lot of ground to cover to get to one of the three bridges found in the middle of downtown.

He shuddered to think what they would do if those bridges were gone, too. Head south again down to Highspire or Wrightville? Cross into Maryland? But then, they'd be closer to Washington DC and Baltimore, and he wondered about the vectors multiplying there by the thousands. Yousef now saw why Bren was agitated these past few days when they kept getting pushed south.

His thoughts were interrupted when two helicopters flew side-by-side over the highway, and everyone looked up. Haskell muttered something about two CH-47s transporting troops in. Reclamation Day was two days away, and then the so-called Delaware campaign would begin. More and more soldiers would be pouring into Harrisburg every hour.

Would they even let us cross the bridges? Yousef pondered.

Haskell parked Cora on an opening to the right, though they debated whether to stay or not. No one wanted to be boxed in when more people eventually come up behind them. But Bren decided they should wait for an hour and ask around, listen to what people had heard, and how dangerous Harrisburg had become.

"We're playing this cool," Bren said. "I don't want to draw too much attention."

Haskell scoffed. "Too late for that." He then massaged the dashboard. "I know my beautiful baby stands out anywhere. Don't you, Cora?"

Alfie barked a laugh from behind, earning him a scowl from Haskell. "That's too weird, man," Alfie commented. "When was the last time you got laid?"

"Shut up," Haskell hissed.

"Settle down, boys," Bren hushed. "Everyone, guard our shit. Peter, Haskell, and I are going to talk to people. Wear your tactical vest and carry the pistols just in case, but don't let it scare anyone. Every suburban mom and pops abandoned their white picket fences to get here for safety."

Haskell shook his head. "Can't be less safe than that camp over the clearing. Seriously. They're like grazing cattle."

Yousef shivered. Now that Haskell mentioned it, he couldn't pry the image out of his head every time he glanced at the fields and over those low hills, the bobbing heads walking around on the tall grass, basking under the summer sun, ignorant of the wave of death coming for them. Yes. Like cattle waiting for the slaughter.

Yousef watched Bren, Haskell, and Pete dressed up. They had an uncanny resemblance to the Alphas back in Colby in the way they dressed in those camo jackets and tactical vests, and often, Yousef found himself looking away, reminded of what the Alphas had put him through—the never-ending night of taunting, beating, and scare tactics. They're dead now, Yousef. They're gone, he thought like a mantra. Bren took care of that.

Yousef let out a heavy breath as the others left, Bren going up the hill while Pete and Haskell took the clearing. Yousef decided to stay outside under Cora's shadow because the RV became a hotbox in the sweltering heat. Yesterday, it was raining, and now it seemed like it never happened.

Alfie had an umbrella out, said something about not getting skin cancer since he reckoned we could still die from it, apocalypse or not, and passed around sunscreen for everyone. Yousef took it and slathered it around his arms and face since there was nothing left to do but wait until the others got back. Miguel suddenly bumped him on the shoulders.

"Keep an eye out," Miguel said, though his posture was calm as if he was just chilling under a typical sunny day in the park with the family. "Don't look around. The hounds are circling."

It was instinct, and Yousef did what he was told not to do. Immediately, he saw two men with rifles coming down the hill, hands in their pockets, whispering to each other, pretending to have a conversation. At the same time, their gaze occasionally found themselves on the RV. One guy about his age from another group made the mistake of pointing up the roof, and Yousef reckoned he must be talking about their solar panels and rain catchers. Two women waved at them from the clearing, and Logan waved back. They were inviting him down to join them from their gestures, but Logan merely shook his head and shared a look with Miguel, knowing what was up. He didn't notice that Jun already had his knife strapped and his bow and arrow unslung, though he walked around as if he was just casually strolling.

It never occurred to Yousef that some of these people had probably camped out here for days without electricity and scarce resources, and here they were, plopped in the middle of it like the Cornucopia in the Hunger Games. Yousef had no intention to become a fucking tribute. Then, he felt Miguel behind him, cold metal grazing his palm, and he quickly realized it was the butt of a revolver.

"Keep it behind you. Just in case," Miguel said. He slung the AR-15 around his shoulders and approached the two men walking toward them with a massive smile on his face. "Good morning, friend!" He greeted enthusiastically. Logan sidled a couple of feet behind Miguel, attentive.

Alfie and Yousef shared a concerned look, but they remained where they stood, guarding the doorway into the RV. Alfie eventually decided to close it, shoving the umbrella inside before shutting the door, obstructing anyone's view of the interior. Jun, however, kept to the periphery, watching the other gawking crowd.

"Good morning," the man on the left said, his voice strained, calculating. "Nice rig you got there."

Miguel scratched his chin. "Oh? You think so? It does the work, I guess. Noisy and slow, but does the work, nonetheless. It got us here, am I right?"

"Right."

Yousef realized the two men must be twins. They looked like in their early twenties, the same height at six feet and nimble, dark skin, clean-shaven, though the one who spoke had grown his hair an inch longer than the buzz cut that the other sported.

"They letting anybody through?" Miguel asked.

The man shook his head. "Not since the announcement, apparently. They closed that off fast. We only arrived yesterday with a few folks, but people had been out here for days."

Miguel nodded. "How many people are here?"

"Ohh...about...a thousand, I'll say? But that's probably not accurate. There are more folks camped out by the river."

"And no one tried to swim across?"

"The army is camped out on the other side, too. They shoot anyone who even gets a hundred feet into the water. There are some attempts, but...now you can find them floating on the Chesapeake Bay. Even at night, they shoot anyone trying to sneak in. We guessed it's night vision goggles."

"Seems like."

"Where you guys from?" The other twin suddenly spoke up. His brother winced slightly, but Yousef caught it. He was not pleased.

"New York City," Miguel said.