Sometimes, Trish has to remind herself that this-- this kind of quiet, still, almostย boredom-- is a gift. The hours have crawled by, tedium, as sheโs perched herself on the edge of the deck, binoculars in hand. Itโs not her leastย favorite security shift, but it doesnโt exactly get her blood flowing. Every half an hour, she and her buddy, Jen, they get to switch places, rotating forty-five degrees around the circular walkway for a different vantage point and, man, thatโs when the excitement really kicks in.
There are other details out across the town, she knows. Some are walking the perimeter. Some are stationed at the community checkpoints. Some are out patrolling further into the island. ( Those are her favorite shifts. ) But, mostly, they all find themselves uneventful. The perks of being on an island, she supposes. It severely limits the number of infected they have to handle.
The number of non-infected, too. Boats arenโt exactly plentiful anymore.
Glancing down at her watch, Trish notes the time before lifting binoculars back to her eyes and turning to look out over the coast and then the ocean beyond. Itโs humbling, really, when she thinks about it. All that blue. Peaceful. She wonders if the ocean knows whatโs happened-- how thoroughly humanity has ruined itself-- how--
Every muscle in her body is suddenly tense-- every nerve-ending alight. Anticipation beats quickly in her chest, and she leans forward, refocusing and--
โHoly shit.โ She canโt believe it.ย โBoat.โ Then, voice raised.ย โBoat!โ
Just there, up the coast at the next small jutting of empty shoreline outside town. A boat. A person.ย
Setting the binoculars down, Trish hurries back inside and down the stairs as quickly as possible. They need a team. They need to know whatโs going on, and whoโs out there.
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