Family

by Matthew Costello

  Then a nod.

  “Okay, Mom.”

  As if asking her to empty the dishwasher.

  And then before Christie could change her mind, Kate ran out of the storeroom, her gun jutting out of the back of her belt.

  No need for me to remind her to bring the gun, Christie thought.

  Simon kept his head buried in the open hole.

  “It stinks down here,” he said, always one with the report for whatever unusual smells they ever encountered.

  Something so funny about him.

  Simon’s nose reports!

  And with seconds seeming like minutes, they waited for Kate to come back.

  CHAPTER 18

  Down the Rabbit Hole

  “Hang on tight, Simon. Take the steps slowly.”

  Kate held the flashlight above the opening, pointed down into the basement area. Now the rank smell from below filled the storeroom.

  What would they find down there?

  Simon faded into the shadows, the flashlight only making just the top of his head visible.

  Christie watched him turn around.

  “I can’t see a thing!”

  Then Kate turned to her. “Okay, Mom—going down,”

  Christie nodded. She turned and looked at the window at the back. Already the patch of gloomy light that it admitted was dimming, the afternoon growing late, the late winter night ready to reclaim this hamlet.

  And she thought: We can’t stay here too long. Not when it turns dark.

  She watched Kate jam the flashlight in her jeans pocket, good and deep. Then her daughter stretched down with one leg, feeling for that first step.

  A nod indicating that she found it.

  Christie watched Kate as she started down and, without the light pointing the way, it was as if she was stepping into utter darkness, the blackest of black holes.

  Christie wanted to say to her: Come back up. Forget this whole thing. There can’t be anything down there.

  Or whatever is down there… has to be rotten, useless.

  But in those seconds, her daughter’s head disappeared into the darkness.

  “Okay, Mom I'm down and—”

  She turned on the flashlight, and in the glow Christie could now see Simon and Kate's faces.

  “Good,” she said. “Just a quick look, guys. Then we better go.”

  Christie looked over her shoulder.

  She had been so absorbed looking down, peering into the hole that was swallowing her kids, that she became unaware of the store, the world outside.

  For a few minutes, the universe had become just this opening to the basement the ladder down.

  A glance behind her.

  It was quiet out there.

  She thought: Everyone must have really left this village...

  A total ghost town.

  And when she turned back to the opening, the light and her kids had moved away…

  *

  Until she heard their voices, suddenly… excited.

  “Mom!”

  Kate.

  Then Simon— even louder. “Mom—we found something!”

  So frustrating to hear their voices and not be able to see.

  “What is it?”

  She still couldn't see them, but she heard a ripping noise.

  Cardboard being torn.

  “Some boxes,” Kate said. “Just a few and—”

  Then Simon: “Wow!”

  What is it?

  And Christie only hoped that maybe—just maybe—they had found something good, something that could help…

  Dare she think it?

  “Cans of food!” Simon yelled.

  “There's peas, Mom!” Kate added.

  “And—what’s this?—soup! Tomato soup.”

  “And chicken soup!”

  How is that even possible? Christie wondered.

  Those things had become so incredibly rare, with various food substitutes replacing so many things that had suddenly become like gold.

  Unless… someone—the guy who ran the store—hid them away here, a little cache for when things turned bad.

  Except—what happened to him?

  Did people break in, storm the place, do something to the guy who owned this tiny market?

  His secret dying with him.

  And now—by some miracle—she… her kids… got it.

  Christie tried to think…what to do, how to do it… though the excitement of the discovery felt overwhelming.

  “Okay, Kate—how many boxes?”

  She waited.

  A bit of disappointment in her daughter's voice.

  “Only four, Mom. A couple dozen cans in each, I guess.”

  Okay, she thought. Not a lot. But enough for their journey. Certainly more real food than they had eaten in a long time.

  Then the next question: “Can you lift the boxes?”

  Because what good would it do if they can’t get them up and out? Have to tediously pass single cans up?

  If I could get down there, maybe I could lift a box.

  But were her kids strong enough?

  She waited.

  Then: “Mom—Simon and I can lift one up… I think we can get them up the ladder, one at a time.”

  “Great, Kate. Just have to get it close to me, then I can help pull it up.”

  Then, thinking ahead… Out to the car, in the trunk, maybe with minutes left before night falls.

  “Just hurry,” she said, then realizing that she shouldn’t really rush them. “As much as you can, okay?”

  “Okay, Mom. We’re starting.”

  And Christie thought, as she heard the kids struggle with the box, my wonderful strong kids.

  So good, so powerful.

  And this: how the love she had for them was so overpowering.

  She heard them start moving up the ladder.

  *

  They nearly let the first box slip from their fingers, such an awkward move going up together, the heavy box held tight.

  Easy, Christie thought.

  But keeping any words to herself.

  Then, she saw Simon in the lead, coming up slowly, walking backward on the old wooden ladder, hands locked on one end of a box while below, Kate did the harder work of constantly pushing it up.

  And soon as she could, Christie put her gun to the side, away from the hole and grabbed at the corners of the box, easing the weight off her daughter, then sliding the box to the floor of the storeroom.

  Without a nod, Simon turned around and went back to his sister and the next box.

  Christie feeling useless in the job the kids were doing.

  Then another box appeared, Simon's arms outstretched. And when she looked at his grim face she could see what a massive effort this was for him.

  She hurried to pull that box up.

  Then—in minutes, time seeming to crawl a bit longer for each recovery, the third box.

  Until that too had been slid out onto the stone storeroom floor—and only one left to go.

  Christie's heart racing, lost to this moment that could mean life and death for them on the road.

  Lost to only that thought…

  When she became aware of something else.

  Her mind pulled back, a strange feeling at the back of her neck. Hairs on end.

  She heard a grunt.

  A low, rumbling… grunt.

  Somebody had entered the store, making a noise.

  Another grunt, now closer.

  Until, she had an awareness that felt ancient, making her kids, the boxes, the hole—all vanish.

  No, not someone.

  Some thing….

  CHAPTER 19

  The Attack

  Then she saw it.

  A shape in the doorway to the back storeroom.

  Impossible to make out.

  So little light.

  It paused there, and for a while Christie hoped it was just someone also looking for food, or even—God—a Can Head.

  But then, she knew it wa
sn’t.

  The shape bobbed its massive head, with the only clear part visible, its eyes reflecting the dull glow from the scant light here.

  The shape of the head—clearly the primal shape of bear.

  Christie felt frozen, more than she had in any moment since her nightmare began months ago.

  She looked left. Her gun placed carefully on the floor, a yard away. Close. But still feet away.

  Her kids’ guns—even farther away.

  “Mom, we’re almost there,” Simon bellowed.

  The bear raised its head at the sound, a big snort, as if sniffing at the words, the scent.

  Then a deeper growl.

  And Christie had this devastating thought, Everyone’s hungry. There’s so little food these days, and, and…

  What would a hungry bear do?

  Then, with her still being frozen, the bear took a quick hop. Not a cautious step, but a sudden gamboling lope that closed the distance between them by half.

  “Mom, come on, give us a hand!”

  She wanted to tell her son to be quiet. But what would the bear do if she said anything, made any noise?

  She had read of people having bear encounters, as close as New Jersey. Close calls, while people put out the garbage, or opened a backdoor on a chilly night and something stood there, waiting.

  She tried to remember what those articles—always seeming so crazy, so unbelievable—said about what to do.

  What to do.

  And outside of a few things she remembered… like bears really have no interest in you, and, and… always back up slowly if you see one, she drew a blank.

  Should she look at those eyes, or was that bad?

  Should she make noise or stay stock still?

  Should I make a quick stretch for the gun?

  It wasn’t that far away.

  Could she get it, get the goddamned safety off, and fire… before the bear got to her?

  The animal didn’t seem that big. Maybe not full grown.

  The bear tilted his head.

  Now, after that bouncy jump in her direction, walking down an aisle toward her, it seemed slow, steady… cautious.

  A bear hungry enough to—what?—wake up from some winter sleep, and go hunting?

  No, she thought.

  Not this.

  Not after all they have survived.

  “Mom!”

  And now the bear was close enough that it reacted to her son’s voice.

  This time—the growl was big, deep, throaty, and the bear close enough that she could see in its open black maw, the canine teeth catching the light.

  She remembered something else from all those stories, stories that seemed that they came from another planet.

  Bears are fast.

  Can’t outrun them. Can’t out-climb them.

  “Simon,” she said, had to say.

  Then, “Don’t come out. Go back down, Simon. Now.”

  She kept her voice steady, thinking that might not prompt the bear to do anything quick.

  To do whatever its primal brain was telling it.

  With the bear closer, her gun seemed even farther away, the distance of the two about the same.

  But when she spoke, she immediately realized that she shouldn’t have said anything, because two terrible things happened.

  And for a moment, all Christie could do was watch.

  First, Simon again.

  So loudly.

  “Mom, we did it ourselves.”

  And without turning around, not taking her eyes off the black bear, Christie knew her son had come out of the dark hole, still unaware of this danger.

  But then, the bear reared up on two legs, its paws outstretched in a bow as if it could encircle whatever was in front of it, then dig in with giant claws.

  And it roared—crazed, angry—or maybe excited that now there were two people here.

  Christie wanted to tell Simon to turn around, go back down, jump the hell down if he had to.

  But now, with the quickest of sideways glances, she saw her son had turned into a statue, standing so still as this lumbering beast—taller than her now, no cub, jaw opening and shutting again and again, as if anticipation—started right for her son.

  And Christie thought, No.

  The thought focusing her entire body in service to one goal.

  To race to the gun while the bear—distracted, focused, moving—might not turn to her as she bolted for her gun.

  And as she did, she saw Simon back away, then move fast, but still no challenger for the lightning-quick bear who was ready to pin him to the ground in seconds.

  But Christie—having fired her gun some many times, so much that it had become an extension of her own body—grabbed it off the floor, flicked the safety.

  And with barely any time to aim, fired into darkness, at the black shape below the one window at the back of the storeroom.

  She couldn’t see her son.

  So—even as she pulled the trigger once, then again, then again—the shots thunderously loud in here—she couldn’t be sure that her sweet, brave boy wasn’t in the line of fire.

  She was about to fire again, when she realized that at the back wall of the storeroom, everything had turned still.

  Kate had crawled out of the hole, head snapping from Christie then back to the wall, to the bear.

  Then Kate—somehow able to move, somehow able to act—ran over and pulled her brother from that corner where wall met floor.

  Christie could barely watch.

  The bear’s left paw lay on her son as Kate tugged and pulled.

  Then, suddenly alert, Christie ran over and helped.

  To see: her son breathing, his eyes wide. His face dotted with blood.

  The bear’s blood.

  Together, she and Kate encircled him, holding him tight as could be.

  And with the dead bear at their feet, they stayed that way for moments, her breathing returning to normal, as if they were all breathing with one set of lungs.

  Christie thought, how terrifying for Simon?

  How will we ever go on, how can we—

  But when he spoke, she remembered that her son had changed. After everything they had experienced, everything he had done, her son had shown himself resilient, strong, and brave.

  And his first words now echoed that.

  “Mom, that was great shooting!”

  Another squeeze from Christie.

  Kate looked at her, dumbfounded as well, but said nothing.

  “You-you okay?” Christie asked.

  “Yeah, I mean, I didn’t even know what was happening until it knocked me down. Hit my head against the wall…”

  He rubbed his head.

  And Christie thought, after all this, she’d take a bump, a bruise on her son’s head.

  Easily.

  CHAPTER 20

  Night

  Christie watched her kids carry the boxes to the car outside, ignoring the giant dead animal in the corner looking like a prop from a movie.

  Simon, amazingly, seemed unfazed by what happened.

  As for me, Christie thought, it’s all I can do to stop shaking.

  But she also thought, not for the first time, that she needed to be as strong as they were.

  And when the boxes were in the trunk, Kate turned to her. “Anything else?”

  And there was. Something Christy thought they needed… not for tonight, but tomorrow.

  “Yes. Let’s take a garden hose.”

  Kate look confused. “Really? What for?”

  Christie looked around.

  The streets dark now. A few lights were on, so some of this “hamlet” was still getting electricity. But she also saw that most of the lights were out.

  With most of the stores and shops burned out, electricity didn’t matter.

  “Some of these cars here, the ones that aren’t wrecks… they may have gas in them. We can use the hose as siphon, get that gas out.”

  “And you know how to do that?”
Simon asked.

  Christie smiled at that. “Sure. I know how to siphon. But no, Simon, I’ve never siphoned gas out of gas tank. Anyway, we can try it in the morning.”

  “I’ll get one,” her son said.

  And in that moment when they were alone, Kate asked, “Mom, what are we going to do tonight?”

  That was a question Christie had asked herself.

  Can’t go driving in the night; Kate has to be wiped anyway.

  So what to do?

  And Christie said: “I think… we can drive around. Look for a house, some place intact. With lights. We get in, stay there for the night.”

  In the reflected glow of the nearest streetlight, Kate’s face didn’t seem so sure. But after a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.

  Then Simon came running back with a big coil of green hose.

  “Got it!” he said.

  And they were ready to go.

  As Kate took the car slowly up and down the streets of the hamlet, Christie looked at the houses.

  Most of the ones they passed were dark. They could still have power, but then, even if they were abandoned, there should be a light on somewhere.

  Other houses were ruins, as if they had been bombed decades ago and were now nothing but a collapsed roof, with black, charred timbers jutting up to the darkening sky.

  What happened here? she wondered.

  It looked as if a battle had taken place. And then a thought that made her stomach tight.

  Had it been a war between people and Can Heads?

  Or…

  Or…

  The people against themselves as well.

  When panic set in, when food got low, when neighbor turned against neighbor.

  The story seemed written in the ruined homes.

  “Mom, seeing anything?” Kate said.

  Though the hamlet was small, Kate drove slowly, and Christie could hear the fatigue in her daughter’s voice.

  Once they passed a house that had a single light bulb on at the doorway.

  But that light revealed the smashed picture windows, and Christie could make out burned out holes on the roof.

  This hunt—prowling up and down the residential streets of the town, hitting cul de sacs, turning around—seemed hopeless.

  One good thing: They had seen no Can Heads.

  Maybe they too had left when everyone else did.

  When your food supply moves… you move with it.