by Penn Gates
She tries the door of the town's only grocery store and finds it locked. She's been through most of the town, and with the exception of the police chief, it looks like everybody either left or died in their homes. She taps gently, then raps loudly. Just when she's decided to break open the door, a shadowy figure emerges from the back of the store and slowly makes its way toward the front. Her heart skips a beat. Another survivor. Then she realizes who it is.
“Mr. Forrest, it's Nix St Clair—Alvin’s granddaughter. Do you remember me?”
He peers through the smudged glass and mouths some words. For a second she thinks he's telling her to go away, and then she realizes he's saying 'jawbreakers'. She laughs out loud. Jawbreakers had, indeed, been her passion when she was 10. She'd teased Gramps for one every time they came into town.
The old man fumbles with the lock and slowly opens the door. “Hello, Nix. What are you doing in town by yourself?”
She steps through the door, which he immediately re-locks.
“I'm sorry to tell you that my grandfather died a couple of days ago.”
He stands silently for a second, absorbing the news. “Was it the virus?”
“No, no it wasn't. He had a series of strokes, I think.”
He pulls a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and blows his nose. “I wonder why neither of us got it?” he says to himself. “Everybody else around here got it.”
“Are you all right, Mr. Forrest? You're not alone here, are you?”
“Yes, alone,” he mutters. “All alone now.”
Nix thinks of Mrs. Forrest, a jolly rotund little woman, the dispenser of jawbreakers. It had been Mrs. Forrest who had helped Nix select the correct feminine protection products the summer she'd first had her period.
“I'm so sorry for your loss,” she says sincerely.
“Yes, yes,” he says, suddenly all business. “What can I get for you today, Nix?”
“Do you have any flour and sugar left? And coffee?”
He cocks his head. “Why wouldn't I have that?” he asks. “You know I pride myself on carrying a full range of foodstuffs.”
“I'm sure you still do,” Nix says soothingly. “I just thought maybe folks have been stocking up because of, you know, how things are these days.”
“What folks?” he asks, then scurries off. “How much flour and sugar do you need? Will a couple of bags of each do?"
“I'll take as much as you've got to spare,” Nix says.
“Oh I've got as much as you want. Nobody doing much shopping these days.”
Nix takes a five pound bag of flour from the old man’s blue-veined hands. “When's the last time someone came in?” she asks him gently.
“It's been awhile,” he says dreamily. “Let's see—the O'Dell's came in for disposable diapers a week ago. They were on their way up to the big school complex. You know, where they put all the schools together, out in the middle of nowhere." He shakes his head. “Never did understand that. We have a perfectly good elementary school right here in town and the kiddies could walk home for lunch. Now they have to have buses haul them out there.”
Nix sees that the only way to get information from the old man is to let him talk. With any luck he'll eventually tell her something that makes sense of a deserted town.
“I know, it seems a waste,” she says. “Did the O'Dell's have kids in school? Were they going to pick them up because the electricity went off, or what?”
“Oh no, it was the meeting place. The National Guard was coming to escort everybody to a temporary shelter, with food and medical care. “Most folks felt like it was safer to take their kids someplace that had some protection." He seems to refocus. “We heard rumors, you know, about what's been happening in the cities.”
This is going nowhere fast. She needs to focus on what supplies are most important. “I need aspirin and rubbing alcohol, bandaids. And batteries. All the batteries you got.”
“What size?”
“All of 'em.” Nix says. “Lots of things are going to be running on batteries for awhile—until the lights come back on.”
“I suppose—”
“Hey Mr. Forrest, I've got to go get my pickup truck. I'll be back in a couple of minutes, OK?”
He isn't listening any more, but at the moment he seems like his old self again, doing what he's done ten thousand times before. When he's finished, he turns to the old mechanical cash register he's stubbornly continued to use.
“Could you unlock the door first?” Nix asks. “I've got to get my truck.”
“Oh—oh sure. You said that, didn't you?" He shuffles over and pulls a chain from his pocket. There's a dozen keys, which he fumbles through, looking for the right one. “Here we are,” he mutters. “This should be the one.”
Nix turns and makes eye contact with him so she's sure he's paying attention. “Wait right here by the door. I'm only going as far as the curb to wave for my friend to bring the truck over. I'll be right here where you can see me, OK?”
He nods slowly, as if he's pondering what she's just said.
Nix darts into the street and waves frantically, hoping Michael is paying attention.
The headlights flash once, and Nix smiles. No moss grows on that kid. Michael drives quickly and pulls neatly to the curb.
“Got a bunch of stuff to load,” she says. “Do you think we can get some of it inside behind the seat? I still got a lot I want to get.”
“Women just love to shop,” Michael says and then laughs at the outraged look Nix throws him. “Ha! I knew that would make you mad,” he smirks.
“The old man is a little confused,” she tells him in a low voice. “Try not to confuse him more.”
“That'll be $79.95 today,” Mr Forrest tells her.
“Yes sir,” she says, reverting back to the manners instilled in her by Gramps, “And I guess I could pay you in cash, but cash is pretty useless the way things are now, don't you think?”
The old man looks confused. “But Nix, I can't just give you the stuff. I've got a business to run here.”
“I would never ask you to do that,” Nix says, trying for patience. “But I was thinking—maybe we could barter. I could bring in fresh milk and eggs from our farm. It would make a nice change from the canned stuff, don't you think? And when the families come back, they'll be needing milk for their kids.”
“Do you think they'll be coming back?” he asks. “I don't know. I just don't know.”
Nix makes a quick decision. “Listen, Mr. Forrest, why don't you come back to the farm with us? We have plenty of room.”
“Oh I couldn't do that. Couldn't leave my store, you know. And if you're right, when they come back, I'll need to be here. They'll need their groceries, just like they always have.”
“All right,” Nix says slowly. She isn't really sure she should leave the old man alone, but she doesn't see how she can make him come if he doesn't want to.
“Will you take the milk and eggs then, for this stuff?" She doesn't believe for a minute that anyone is coming back to Hamlin. It sounds like they're rounding people up. Maybe to keep them safe. Maybe to make sure they don't cause the kind of trouble already happening in the cities if things don't get back to normal soon. She's not proud that she's talking the old man into accepting food that will go bad quickly for food they can store for months, but her first priority has to be to those back at her farm.
When he doesn't respond, she takes the initiative. “You take care, Mr. Forrest. I'll be back in a few days with the milk and eggs. See you then.”
But he isn't listening. He's rearranging the bags of flour and sugar that he's already packed into cardboard boxes.
To Michael, she says, “I'm going over to that hardware store across the street. They have some lovely toys in the window and hopefully, a lot of fuel cans. And we still have to fill 'em all up at the gas station.”
“What's the hurry? It's early yet.”
“I want to get done and get out of here. This place is giving me th
e creeps.”
“You see a ghost?” Michael smirks.
“No—a corpse. And not fresh, either.”
Suddenly Michael looks a little queasy. “You think there's more?”
“I'd bet on it,” Nix says. “But we're not gonna worry about that today. Maybe when it's colder. A lot colder.”
“Better dig the holes before then,” Michael remarks. “No fun when the ground's frozen.”
“I'm thinking it's not going to be fun whatever the temperature,” Nix says. “Gotta go. See you in a few.”
It looks like Mr. Crider was stocking up on gas cans for winter. In the country, folks kept twenty or thirty gallons on hand in case they needed to use their generators. Nix wonders why people haven't just fired up the generators and stayed put. She wonders if there are farm people out there who won't leave their homes because of their livestock. Only time will tell. But one thing is for sure. Even in small towns like Hamlin, city people are more accustomed to some level of government taking care of the big problems.
There's a tap on the front window and Nix jumps before she sees that it's Michael. He sure didn't waste any time loading up.
“That old man is kind of spooky. I'm not sure he knows what's happening.”
“He knows,” Nix snaps. “He'd just rather pretend that it isn’t—at least for a few minutes at a time.”
As soon as they load a couple of generators and a few dozen gas cans, Nix jumps into the truck. “Perkins' gas station is right over there,” she says pointing. “Let's hope nobody has been there before us.”
Nix begins filling the first can. Thank God Perkins resisted replacing his hand crank pumps with new, electronic ones. His sons thought he was nuts, and maybe he was—last week. He sure seems clairvoyant this week, although Nix is pretty sure he didn't live to enjoy being right. She shivers.
“Hey Michael, how about getting away from the pump in case you have to fire. And keep an eye out. We've been here for hours, but this is the first time I've felt like I was being watched.”
Michael sits down on the curb and cradles his rifle. For a few minutes the only sound besides the wind, which is blowing in a cold front, is the trickle of gas into can after can.
“You about done, Nix?” Michael asks suddenly. “I could swear I saw a curtain move in that old house down the way. But I been staring at it for five minutes now and nothing else has twitched.”
“Yeah, this is the last one." Nix lifts one into the bed of the truck. “Christ these are heavy! Crap! I mean, uh, darn these are heavy. Each one of them weighs about 40 pounds." She glares at Michael. “By which I mean—help get these things into the truck before I get a hernia!”
Finally Nix climbs into the cab and sinks gratefully onto the seat. She wishes she could put her head back and nap all the way home, but she has to ride shotgun. Quite literally. She sets the shotgun across her lap, barrel pointing toward the door. Every couple of minutes she glances into the rear view mirror, but the road is deserted.
“My spidey sense is still tingling,” she complains.
“Your what?”
“Right,” she says. “You guys don't have your heads stuffed with all that superhero garbage. Forget it. It's just a reference to a comic book hero called Spider Man.”
Michael has that interested look again. “Tell me.”
Didn't I just say it was garbage?” Nix asks impatiently. “It's a bullshit story about a guy who gets bit by a radioactive spider and develops superpowers, like climbing up walls and shooting webs from his fingers to swing from building to building.”
“Well, I think it sounds great.”
Nix sighs.
Chapter 8
After dinner and before bedtime, everyone retreats to the parlor to read or play games. In the office, Nix puts her pen down and shoves the papers from in front of her. She's bored with making lists. She wonders if Martin will eventually forget such a thing as TV ever existed. How great would that be? A world without television. Good coming out of disaster. Historians even say the feudal system was destroyed because of the Black Plague. Hmm. Didn't I promise Michael I'd tell him all about that?
She forces herself to refocus on the task of prioritizing what needs to be done before the cold weather socks them in. What if they can't stockpile enough wood? No one here can fell that many trees with an axe and hack them into useable pieces. Which means she'll have to find a chainsaw—and more gas. They'll need hundreds of gallons of diesel fuel for the tractor, or they won't be able to grow fodder for next winter. What if there isn't enough fodder now to last the cattle until they can be turned out to pasture to graze on spring grass? The specter of cow-killing looms once again.
It would be so easy to assume that somehow the government is going to rescue them, and this uncertainty will be over soon. Then all this obsessing and worrying will have been useless—unless her aim is to drive herself crazy. She pushes back from the desk and stands. I'll go get Michael and give him a history lesson, she thinks.
She freezes at a noise, just on the edge of her hearing. She listens intently. Nothing. Then a scuffling sound. Another hog come a calling? Not likely, she thinks, as she strains to hear the noise again. This time, it has a distinctly human quality. She unsnaps the ever present shoulder holster and draws her weapon. She's into the kitchen before she thinks better of going outside without some backup.
She re-holsters her gun and tiptoes through the dark dining room to the parlor door. George has his nose in the Bible while Margaret looks enthralled by Black Beauty. The kids are playing one of the board games. But Michael isn't there.
A whisper behind her says, “I was out in the kitchen before. I heard it, too.”
Her pulse races but she wills herself not to show how successful he's been at sneaking up on her. This is a kid who will only respect those he perceives as fearless as he is.
“Go get your rifle,” she murmurs.
“Got it right here.”
The two of them return to the dark kitchen and stand listening intently. There are more noises, and they sound even more human than before.
“I want you to stay hidden on the porch,” Nix says under her breath. “Cover me, and if things get dicey, go sound the alarm.”
Michael opens his mouth to respond, then thinks better of it. Nix knows what he was going to say—What good will that do? Nobody in the house but a bunch of kids—and George.
They stare intently at each other for a second.
“Time to do it,” Nix hisses.
Michael grabs the knob and eases open the kitchen door. Nix slides through the shadows and gets into position. She hears the faint creak of the old floor boards as Michael settles behind a pile of firewood.
Nix aims the flashlight beam toward the bottom of the steps. There are whispers in the darkness, just beyond the reach of the light.
Nix raises her gun. “Get your asses out here where I can see you!” Nix yells. “I'm armed, and I will start shooting in your direction unless you show yourselves and state your business.”
There is frantic scuffling, then a tall figure steps into the light, and another, then two more.
“Is that all of you?” Nix asks loudly.
The largest of them nods. He seems to be seventeen or eighteen, Nix guesses, dressed in designer jeans, now filthy and much the worse for wear. He wears an insulated vest leaking white fluff from a tear in the fabric. His hair is greasy but looks like it's been professionally styled and highlighted with blonde streaks.
Nothing but grief here, Nix thinks. Aloud, she says, “State your name and business." She keeps her gun pointed in their direction. She wants them paralyzed with fright until she figures out what's going on—and if there are others still hiding in the dark.
“Jason,” he stutters. “Jason Whittaker. We’re lost and we need help.”
“You're not from around here, are you?” Nix snaps.
Jason shakes his head.
“I can tell. You look like you've never done a day's work i
n your life.”
She aims the light at the next closest figure. “Your turn—what’s your name?”
This one stands stupidly, blinking into the glare. His baggy shorts hang to his knees. A rapper logo on his oversize T-shirt orders, ‘Yo Bitch – Kneel!’ A knit cap is pulled down over his brow.
“Hey gangsta!” Nix yells. “I'm not gonna ask you again!”
“Freddie Krueger,” he quavers, his chin with its ridiculous dot of beard quivering with each syllable. He’s a nice-looking kid, but the wanna-be rapper shit makes him look like an idiot.
Nix notices the kid's legs are wrapped with rags. Attempt to stay warm, or zombie fashion statement? These days, who knew?
“Give me a straight answer, smart guy,” Nix barks, waving her gun. “Or I might do something I won’t be sorry for.”
A spot appears on the front of his shorts. He's shaking so hard now she can hear his teeth chatter.
“His name is Douglas Krueger!” Jason shouts. “Freddie is just his nickname because of the, you know, the slasher movies." He squints into the darkness, trying to see Nix's expression.
“That wasn't so hard, was it?” Nix says to the Krueger kid. “You could have done that all by yourself if you weren't crashin' so hard. When's the last time you doped up?”
“Two days ago,” Freddie mumbles, his chin resting on his chest.
“Jesus!” Nix says. “Why would I want to invite a junkie into my house?”
A tall, blonde girl steps forward, a slight figure clinging to her side, as if it might hide behind her if shooting starts. The blonde shades her eyes from the glare of the flashlight and says, “Because he could die out here if you don't!"
She disentangles herself, pushing the other figure back into the dark, and puts her hands on her hips. “We came here looking for help, not to be treated like criminals! Which we're not!”
“Shut up, princess,” Nix says through clenched teeth. “I didn't ask for your opinion. But since you put yourself in the spotlight, you can be next. What's your name?”
“Brittany,” the girl says defiantly.
Nix sighs. “Of course it is. What's your last name?”
