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</div><br/><br/>Life had been different more than a year ago, maybe three now, perhaps five. It was easy to lose track of time when one’s days consisted of the same events on repeat. The simplicity that lay in visiting the market to replenish groceries now lay in rifling through pantries in abandoned houses. Restaurants and cafes had long since served customers. The buildings now lay to waste, their stock and supply pilfered by the very individuals who were either on payroll or enjoyed the dishes made by these establishments.<br/><br/>Nothing was sacred. Nothing was safe.<br/><br/>Caelan McHugh had attended college in this very city. His move from Connecticut had been questioned by his parents, family, and friends. Life had been good to him in New England. The McHugh family owned and operated one of the largest orchards in the state. Their crops yielded enough produce to keep most of the Eastern seaboard supplied, if it came down to it. Why would Caelan want in Louisiana?<br/><br/>He wondered that now and often, as he traversed the state on his own. Caelan had stayed in the southern state after graduating from Tulane. The pain from his absence from the McHugh family business had long since subsided and Caelan finally felt free. He vowed not to return to Connecticut until he was called upon. Until it was his turn to take over, if that responsibility were to ever be set upon his shoulders. Caelan had older siblings, devoted brothers and sisters who wouldn’t turn away as he had.<br/><br/>That decision had been made years ago. One year before the outbreak. That was the time allotted to him. Nearly 365 days of freedom before the world, rife with sickness, fell to its knees, abandoning its people and the way of life to which everyone had grown accustomed. Now he was stuck in this decrepit city, tucked away in his hole in the wall apartment until he could head north to Connecticut.<br/><br/>Caelan stayed in New Orleans through the initial onslaught. He had no other option. The airports were shut down for fear the sickness would spread between cities and states. The government had thought they could contain it at first, hoping to use biological warfare for population control. Release a simple virus into a first world country. Little did they know how quickly it would infect the entire planet.<br/><br/>After the initial and succeeding waves had passed, and the world’s population settled into its routine of simply doing anything to survive, life became easier. Life became predictable in its unpredictability.<br/><br/>He rode out of the city, southeast towards the neighborhoods and marshes just outside of New Orleans. The people here were different than the few that remained in the city. They were more guarded, taking every precaution to guard their own. He rarely saw them, but he knew they were there. Peeking between their shades, watching him from behind their windows and through the peepholes of their doors. Caelan kept his attention towards himself and the stretch of road before him. It was safer that way. He didn’t mean them any trouble and he wasn’t in the mood to stir up anything of his own.<br/><br/>Eventually, the houses melted away, replaced with cypress trees and the stink of the marsh. He slowed his bike, clicking down a few gears with his boot. The machine puttered down a dirt road, the only sound aside from the soothing call of swamp birds. Caelan parked his bike before reaching the small shack, lifting his helmet from his head. He set it down on the seat and approached the house.<br/><br/>Caelan rode away some hours later, his pockets heavy with tobacco. The woman there was sweet, the only grandmother figure he had known in quite some time. He sat with her every few days, listening to her memories and tales of when she was a young girl. In exchange, she sent the blond away with a metal tin of homegrown perique - tobacco grown exclusively in Louisiana.<br/><br/>Tobacco was king. Tobacco, liquor, marijuana, cocaine. Anything at all that was considered to dull the senses enough to make this unfortunate life worth anything. Money had long since become insignificant. With the closing of the banks and the government, paper was worthless unless it could be smoked.<br/><br/>He was a little over thirty minutes outside of the perimeter of New Orleans when his bike began to wobble. Caelan stared down at the thing between his thighs, as if the damn beast could speak to him. He slowed to a stop before something worse could happen. The last thing he needed was to be tossed from the bike. Caelan doubted the mythicized cannibals around these parts would spare him. He nudged the kickstand down with his boot and swung his leg over, untying his helmet in the process.<br/><br/>Caelan set his helmet on the dirt and squatted beside the engine. Everything looked right as rain, in his opinion. He knew it had to do with the suspension or the tires, with the way the thing quivered. Still, it didn’t hurt to survey the machinery in its entirety while he was up close and personal. Caelan settled back on his feet and rounded the bike like a bird circling his prey. That was when he found the offending object. A single shard of glass sticking out from the rubber like a sore thumb.<br/><br/>“Fuck.” He ran his hand through his blond curls and scrubbed his hand over his face. Caelan again squatted beside, squeezing the rubber between his fingers. The air had all but gone from the chamber, released by the abandoned piece of trash that had found purchase in the tire. He grasped the shard delicately, brow furrowed as he worked to ease it free without causing more damage and without slicing his own skin. Medical care was nearly impossible to come by and Caelan didn’t have much by way of a first aid kit. He tossed the glass into the grass - a broken piece of a beer bottle - and sat back on his heels. It seemed that he stared at the tire for hours, the sun baking the seat of his bike.<br/><br/>His attention was drawn back by the sound of a rumbling engine. Caelan could tell it was an older vehicle without glancing up, and when he did, he wished that he hadn’t. The truck was coming from his right, almost having snuck up on him had the vehicle not been so loud. He settled his attention back on his bike and willed the truck to pass. Caelan held his breath, staring at the metal of his own engine while the truck rolled by in his peripheral. He fought the impulse to glance up, struggling to mind his own business as the sun reddened the back of his neck. It was human nature to be nosey, but mankind had long since turned towards monstrosity and Caelan wasn’t going to lose his life over a curiosity.<br/><br/>To his dismay, the truck tires crunched over the gravel as it turned around a few yards down and returned to him. Caelan felt the hair on his arms bristle as he heard the thick accent of a Cajun man addressing him, his attention garnered by the broken down bike standing guard between them.<br/><br/>“There is no spare.” Caelan responded. What - did he have an underside to this thing that he didn’t know about? Where on Earth would he be able to hide a spare tire? Unless it was in his own jeans, Caelan was out of answers. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and then used it to shield his eyes. He dared to look up at the man, squinting as he stood. “I was just getting ready to walk it back to the city. Thank you for your concern.” Caelan plucked his helmet from the ground and nodded to the man.<br/><br/><div class="bbCodeSpoiler">
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