Zach Bjorge

Road Trip

My son sat silently in the passenger seat of the pick-up truck we’d “borrowed” from our dead neighbor. He stared straight ahead, but was probably seeing nothing. The mileposts increased in value as we headed toward Idaho Falls. We had only been on the road a couple of hours, but I’d already seen at least 400 cars littered along the interstate. There were signs of life in some as we came upon and passed them, but I was not about to stop. It wasn’t worth the risk. It was us or them. I never imagined I would have the capacity to think in such a way, but I believe that changed the moment I had to drive a kitchen knife into my suddenly insane wife’s heart to keep her from murdering our oldest child. Or maybe it had changed prior to that, like when I discovered the bodies of the other four children. Regardless, charity had become a death sentence. I looked back over at my son and caught the glint of tears running down his face. All I could manage from my position in the driver’s seat was to lay my hand on his shoulder. He turned his head toward the passenger window and stayed that way until we stopped.