We had to retrace our steps for about an hour before we found a bridge healthy enough to allow us to cross over it. Matt's family lived across the river. We hoped for the best, but we were fairly certain he was dead.
Another hour of pedaling and we reached Matt's neighborhood. The devastation was not as bad here, which is to say, many buildings were still standing. There were no longer corpses in their final stages of decomposition on the front lawns, leaning eerily against the front windows of their houses, or resting on the steering wheels in their cars.
We were a few blocks away from the house. I thought I was going to have an anxiety attack. I knew we were going to break in the front door and find Matt dead, or his house burned down. I didn't want to see it. Perkins broke the silence that had reigned for hours. "I guess we know whose market this is," he said, pointing. At the end of a cul-de-sac, painted on the asphalt, was a giant CISCO.
"Wes," I said. It was going to take us days to reach Cincinnati. If we had any hope of reaching there, we absolutely had to find some food and water. We hadn't eaten or drank in nearly two days.
The butterflies grew more and more violent in my stomach. We turned down Matt's street. The houses, for the most part, were still standing. So was his. A little damaged, but in very good shape compared with what we'd seen. We got off our bikes and walked up to the porch. "Should we knock?" I asked.
Perkins was perturbed that I would even insinuate that they wouldn't be able to answer the door. "Of course we should knock." He gave the knocker on the door a few solid thumps.
No answer. Another few knocks. No answer. "Let's go around the back."
The concrete driveway looped around to the back of the house. We noticed a trail of blood across the concrete, faint at first, but stronger as it reached the house. I wanted to stop my feet, but couldn't, and knew I shouldn't. The back door was wide open. Perkins and I walked inside. "Matt?" I asked.
It was faint. "Hey."
I ran to the source of the noise, shoving through the kitchen door and making my way to the bedroom. There, at the end of the trail, on top of the bed, sprawled on his back, was a man much older than Matt.
"Who do you want? What do you want? Want to fucking kill me? Please."
Perkins spoke first. "Are you...Matt's dad?"
"Yeah." He turned on his side, let out a terrible cough, and gestured to the table, on which several containers of Crown Royal stood. "Gimme that."