It is time. After too many weeks to keep track of he called and gave me the place to go. I hustle the still sleepy children out of our tan, two-story, split-level home and, glancing around at the boarded up houses lined up on the other side of the road, I get them into the back seats of the van. I get into the front and pull out of the driveway quickly. As we drive along the long winding roads of the neighborhood there are squeals of excitement and pointing through the windows when we pass the park where our family used to go on the weekends to play. The swingsets empty now swaying softly in the wind. I smile to myself as I slow down for the red light ahead, a reminder of the past. The stoplight soon changes to green and the crosswalk sign flickers signaling pedestrians to walk, but the white stripes on the pavement remain empty, not a soul in sight.
The drive continues for hours, interspersed with singing, sleeping, bickering, and the increasingly often question of “Are we there yet?” from the back seat. The scenery changes from suburban neighborhoods to empty farmlands, the fields left untended turned wild. The fields are broken by  ransacked old homes that are being reclaimed by nature. As dusk approaches I pull off the main road and follow a dirt road just far enough to no longer be able to see the highway. I pull our blankets out of the back and tucking the children in, I kiss them goodnight before settling into the front seat.
Once they are fast asleep, I take out my battered phone and dial his number, praying that there will be an answer. The second time the phone picks up, and a voice I can barely recognize answers. “Is everything okay? Where are you?”
I answer, relieved, “Yes.” Then more assuredly, “Yes. We just stopped for the night. We should be there by mid-day tomorrow.”
I hear the static-y sound of a breath being let out.
“How are things going..?” I ask cautiously.
“It’s better, safer.. They screen carefully.” I hear a faint beeping and then cursing. “My battery is almost dead.. Promise you will be careful and keep them safe?”
“Of course..”
I can hear more beeping and then, “I’ve missed you..”
Smiling to myself, I whisper, “I miss you too. I’ll see you soon I promise.”
It is quiet for a moment before, “Goodbye, sweetheart.”
I start to reply “Goo-” but the line clicks dead. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the headrest, sighing. The silence seems impossibly deeper now, not a sound from outside. Not even a cricket.

? ? ? ? ? ?

I startle awake to heavy rain hammering on the roof of the van and thunder rolling overhead, the children slowly waking up as the dark sky flashes with lightning striking through the clouds. I move into the back of van, clambering over the front seat. Sitting down, both children curl up against my sides. When they fall back asleep, the rain lulling them again after a hour or so, I extract myself and turn their wrists over gently, checking. I hold my breath as I look for the telltale dots, relieved when I see nothing.

Leaving the children to sleep, I start the van and pull out back onto the main road.

They promised a way to protect yourself from the pollution. It was most popular in the cities, where you could not go outside without masks. The genetic enhancement was given to people using a vector of a supposedly attenuated virus. All of the parents at the schools were given a presentation. It was formal, clinical. They claimed it was the miracle we had been waiting for.  People were accepting, did not question. That perhaps was the scariest thing--that they could not imagine it being worse.  With a waitlist of weeks, and the richest able to pay to get it first, it was a miracle for a week. People running outside, enjoying the freedom, even if it was only in the ability to walk down the dingy street without a mask, until the flu set in.  I remember him calling just a few days after the genetic enhancement had been released. He said to stay inside, that there were rumors of an accident. It had been moved too fast through the testing and was dangerous. The panic in his voice was the most terrifying though. It was 24/7 then, on every T.V. station, stay inside, keep yourself safe, it was highly virulent and spread through both the air and physical contact. They were constantly reminding people to check themselves for dots, a sign of the disease.

People panicked, some scattered, some isolated themselves in their homes. After a month there was almost no one left. The streets were left barren and empty, sometimes in the middle of the night the radio would come back through. The first time it was a warning about looting, fires raging through cities with not enough people left to contain them.

It was chaos.

I am jolted out of the past by the cries of children wanting food, parking in a dusty small lot just off the road where a Scenic View sign is accompanied by small information boards explaining how the valley was created. After I check that all is quiet around us the children jump out and run around in the dust enjoying the cleaner air up away from civilization, not stopping until the promise of a breakfast is realized.

Once they have eaten, we pause to enjoy the view, I read the dingy signs to them, explaining how glaciers carved the valley thousands and thousands of years ago. The sky above the valley is almost clear, the sun shining through the pollution, a lucky sight. However, their interest is not in the valley nor the sun; the children want to get back on the road. They are eager to see their father.

? ? ? ? ? ?

Time drags on here, days seem like weeks as people can do nothing but waiting and trying to survive.  We can do nothing but wait, other survivors trickle in and the rations run out.

I wander past the pavillion with its wooden posts and forest green roof where they are passing out food, past the rows of cabins, RVs, and battered tents all filled with people, all waiting. The makeshift metal fence rises up in front of me, marking the entrance to the grounds. Outside there are tents set up to house the new arrivals. Men stand at the gate, some with guns they have brought with them, but more with makeshift weapons. They stand stiffly with their backs to the campground, conveying the tension everyone felt. I call out to them, asking, praying as I do that the answer will be yes. I ask if anyone has arrived, a woman and two young children. One of the men turns and looks at me, pity flickers across his face as he shakes his head.
I turn and rest my back against the wall, sliding down to the ground and hanging my head. It has been weeks. It should have taken them three days, five at the most. No calls, no answered calls, nothing. I’ve filled up her voicemail in the past week, just calling to hear her voice on the answering machine. Still there is nothing.