There was only one town between where we were and Salt Lake City-- that is, there was only one abandoned town between those two points. That was Peter's idea. He didn't want to have a repeat of last time (and, I suspect, he was looking for a place where his rotting corpse would make the least impact).

It was for those reasons that we ended up in Salward, Utah. It was once a coal-mining town; it was now an abandoned, graffitied, and utterly destroyed collection of buildings and mineshafts. Lynette had us stop at the first place she saw with four walls and a roof. It probably helped that it looked like there were power lines hooked up there. (I wondered why a house that was supposedly abandoned in the early 1900s would have modern electricity. After a second of painful thought that only perpetuated the dull throbbing from all the times I hit my head on the tile, I decided that it was best to just roll with it for now.)

The house was tall and worn-down. In a way, it was like the setting of every dark academia enthusiast's wet dream. Ivy crawled up the cobblestone-brick walls; the windows were covered with dirt on one side and thick, velvety curtains on the other.

Out of all the houses in this ghost town, this was the only one we were inclined to stop at. The rest of them were made of old sun-bleached wood and either didn't have roofs or didn't have walls. There were broken bits of green and brown glass from abandoned and thrown beer bottles.

Lewis looked up at it by sticking his head out of the passenger door's window. He had changed over the course of the day. It was evident in the setting sun. His shirt was torn and blood-stained; his hands were shaking. More than anything, his expression looked tired and worn-out.

"Is it a chapel?" he asked. Only a trace of his trademark optimism remained.

Lynette shook her head. "Nope. The chapel's further down the road. I saw it on our way in-- it has stained glass windows."

"Is it... occupied?"

"Which one? The house or the chapel?"

"The house."

"Shouldn't be. This isn't a living ghost town, like the last one was, or the one down near Santaquin."

"None of us know what that is," Peter snapped. I clocked the blood caked on his arm and the ragged flesh around the bite. That had to sting like a son of a bitch. Despite Lynette's best attempts to bandage and disinfect it, there was only so much we could do when Peter habitually ripped the little gauze we had off of his wounds.

It was hard to tell if he was infected or not. It had been an hour or two since he was bitten and, so far, I hadn't seen any changes-- that is, except for his constant consumption of ginger ale. He had consumed about ten cans from the time we left the car dealership to the time we pulled into the gravel in front of this house. It was weird because he usually hated the stuff. There were times when, while we were planning little get-togethers for our dorm or to go to parties, where he would avoid ginger ale at all times. Ginger ale, he always said, was for old ladies and when you were sick. By the time we got to the house, he was refusing water, too. It was all ginger ale.

Lewis reported that the symptoms should have taken a few hours to set in but, really, it depended on the immune system of the person who was infected. It could take a while to set in. If Peter was infected, we knew that we were already toast. There was no point in putting on masks or facial coverings around him. We were already fucked.

"All right. Let's do this thing." Lynette slid out of the back seat and hoisted herself into the bed of the truck. We all followed her around to the back.

Lynette looked down at our wind-whipped and already-dirt-coated supplies and started pointing. "Let's start moving some of this shit in, guys! Peter, take one of the toilet paper four-packs. Only that. Pete-- Peter!"

Peter flipped her off with one hand and tried to pick up a case of water with the other. He couldn't lift it, though.

With a sigh and a shake of her head, Lynette repeated, "Toilet paper."

"Oh, fuck," he whispered loudly. Visibly feeling weak and shitty (it was written all over his face), he took the toilet paper and walked back around to the front of the truck.

"Now, we're not staying here for the whole night," Lynette said, as she moved the first aid kit out of the cab of the truck through the sliding back window, "so we don't need to bring in everything. Do we have a tarp?"

"Uh--" Lewis stammered. "I'm-- I'm not sure, actually."

"Yes!" Peter called. He was leaning against the hood or the grill or whatever the fuck the front of a truck is called. "It's under the case of ginger ale bottles. Speaking of-- can we bring some of that in, please?"

"That's a lot to be yelling, bud! But, yeah, we can do that." Lynette pulled a large, poorly-folded, and greasy blue tarp out from under a case of bottles and draped it gently over the side of the truck's bed.

Quickly, I took stock of everything we had in the truck's bed: a truly ludicrous amount of bottled drinks (water and soda alike), a chainsaw, everyone's clothes, both first aid kits, a box of surgical masks that Lewis found somewhere, some dried food and granola bars (plus other prepackaged swill), the pizza pan, and some other useless bullshit. I had already improvised something to hold the broken sword in. I made it out of Lewis's church belt, which he figured that he probably wasn't going to need anymore. I did it on the way over here, specifically so that I could have both hands free.

It was only natural that I would step up next, with my hands outstretched and willing to work. Lynette instructed me to take a case of water, then piled the bigger first aid kit from the Little Caesar's on top of it. To top it all off, she slung a bag of assorted clothes around my neck. I would have worn it like a cape, but I knew it would have choked me.

Eventually, we had everything Lynette thought we needed (plus toothbrushes, which she completely forgot about). Lynette set down her items (the chainsaw, the pizza pan, a few cleaning supplies, the giant bottle of soap, and a huge roll of brown paper towels) on the doorstep. With a few quick, deft movements of her hands, Lynette jimmied the door open.

Now more than ever, I was aware of how much Lynette did for us. Without her, the rest of us would be, at best, completely lost. At worst, we would be dead three times over. It had become increasingly evident that she was the most competent between us. There was nothing in my heart but pure gratitude for her.

It wasn't something that was isolated to today's events. I was once again reminded of her ability to take charge like she did, and like she had done for every single thing that needed doing. She was the only reason any of us ate vegetables, for God's sake! Do you know how hard it was to get Lewis to touch broccoli before Lynette got involved? Sure, it required a whole-ass soup that she had to teach him to make, but she got it done.

I don't say this to highlight all of the needless labor she has done for us. The truth is, we try to help her out in the same ways when we can. She doesn't exactly need it, though. We're happy to just do what she says.

The inside of the house was messy in a distinctly lived-in way. There was a pile of Stephen King and James Patterson paperbacks by an overstuffed armchair in the small living room. The mantle over the fireplace was covered with old family photos that looked like they were taken from the seventies to the late 2000s.

Further into the house, things continued along the same lines. Bare bulbs decorated the ceiling, with a few feet of space between them. There was a kitchen with a visible white fridge that was audibly whirring. I wasn't sure what was going on here, but this place definitely wasn't abandoned.

That thought was confirmed by a man emerging from the kitchen. He was brandishing a shotgun like it was his last defense. When he was us, he lowered it; there was something bewildered in his eyes, like he had just seen something that was simultaneously crazy and familiar.

I was sure that our appearances had something to do with his assessment of us. Here were four young adults (older teens, really) that were standing on his front step, each one visibly wounded, slightly-bandaged, and weighed down by both physical supplies and something more metaphysical than that. Was he supposed to see us as a threat? Was he supposed to lack compassion and open fire instead?

Needless to say, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding when he covered the gun.

His voice was gruff, absolute, and demanding. It clashed with his clean-shaven, pudgy face, and half-open velvety bathrobe. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Lewis was the one who answered, putting all of that good old-fashioned marching band respect. "We were looking for refuge, sir. We're sorry for intruding. If you'll allow it we'll leave you be."

"First question, too," the man with the gun demanded. "Answer the first question."

"We're a group of college students," Lynette offered, "and we're just trying to get to Salt Lake."

"The lake or the city?"

"The city-- sorry."

"Don't be." The man lowered the gun completely, pointing it at the floor now, instead of at our thighs. "You're not the first travelers who have come this way. Please, feel free to come in. I have plenty of room here. You can leave the weapons outside, though. You won't need them in here."

I nodded and decided that I would put mine in the truck after I set everything down.