grimaced while digging a Mylar blanket out of her bag. “I had to cut them off.”
“You need to cover up.”
Nodding, she ripped a blanket in half and wrapped the length around her legs. Another sheet of mylar hung from her waist like a skirt. “They ate him. Your footwear benefactor.”
“Let’s go.”
The major glanced at the dark spot on the carpet where the shoe donor had been before picking up her bag. “Hardware store?”
Vrain nodded and led the way. The Danavas had opened the dumpster. Flames danced high, scenting the air with a mixture of pungent chemicals, melted plastic and overly ripe garbage. “They learn fast.” Fast enough to see life underneath Mylar blankets or open a walk-in freezer?
The major pulled on the door of the hardware store. The metal frame rattled but didn’t give.
Reaching through a broken window, Vrain twisted the deadbolt then pushed the door open. The cash register lay in pieces on the floor. A bright yellow back to school sign dangled from one chain in the center of the store. The looters had been here but their actions hadn’t been as frenzied.
“Not much call for nuts and bolts on Judgement Day.”
The major shrugged as they passed another row of half empty shelves. “Look! Backpacks!” She turned right and ripped three black ones off the hooks.
Vrain set his bags on the floor near hers. “I’ll check for glass.” Without waiting for her response, he picked his way down the center aisle. Broken glass crunched under his feet. He flicked on his flashlight and swept it over the room. There wasn’t a pane of glass left. Even the plexiglass was cracked. At least they had a plan B. Vrain spotlighted the aisle signs. Safety glasses were displayed on the second endcap. He switched off the light, cleared the endcap and dumped his find on the floor near the major.
“No glass?” She threw a pink backpack at his gut while filling the last black one with solid fuel pellets, waterproof matches, Sterno, flares and heat packs.
“Looks like they discovered the advantage of glass before we did.” Vrain exchanged his glasses for a pair of plastic goggles, handed the major a set then scooped the rest into the pink bag. He piggybacked two backpacks then worked them on underneath his makeshift poncho.
After adjusting her own load, the major patted his hump. “Ready Quasimodo?”
They exited the store. Gray Danavas soared in the moonlight as he and the major picked their way back to the ice cream store. Vrain ignored the corpses gathered in piles along the street, like wheat after harvest. As soon as they reached the Armory, they would use the emergency broadcast system to tell everyone how to hide from the demons.
Hide.
The idea festered like an open sore. From the top of the food chain to the bottom all in the span of four months. Still if the Mylar blankets and plastic goggles helped them to survive the peak of the harvest, it might also work tomorrow night and the one after.
For the first time in forever, Vrain felt hope for a tomorrow. He appreciated that, so would the people in the freezer. Hell, they might actually be able to reach the Armory and who knew, maybe even use the hideaway as a base to venture forth and rescue more people. Vrain threaded his way between groups of Danavas. “Let’s not keep Granny and the others waiting.”
Thank you for purchasing a copy of 2012: Winter Harvest. If you have time, I’d appreciate a review of what you liked and didn’t like. And if you’d think this would make a great full length novel.
If you’re interested I have a scifi horror short story available:
https://www.lindaandrews.net/id16.html
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About the Author:
Linda Andrews lives in Phoenix, Arizona with her husband, three children and a menagerie of domesticated animals. While she started writing a decade ago, she always used her stories to escape the redundancy of her day job as a scientist and never thought to actually combine her love of fiction and science. DOH! After that Homer Simpson moment, she allowed the two halves of her brain to talk to each other. The journeys she’s embarked on since then are dark, twisted and occasionally violent, but never predictable. If you’ve loved one of her most demented creations so far, she’d love to hear from you at lindaandrews at lindaandrews dot net
2012: Winter Harvest Page 5
