Population: Katie

by Connor, Penelope

  The other ones were different though. The ones that had attacked Dale and I were fast, focused, and aggressive. If I close my eyes, I can still see them pushing through the passive ones, bearing down on us like a team of great whites stalking a pair of mackerel. It was hardly fair.

  I start a new column down the right side of the page, adding as many things as I can think of regarding the aggressive ones:

  * Fast.

  * Move with purpose and direction.

  * Extremely attracted to noise.

  * Act like the passive ones when they aren’t hunting.

  * Aggressive.

  I review my lists carefully. Everything I’ve written seems accurate enough. I wonder why some of them act differently - differently when they were hunting, at least. Because I remember that day, and it wasn’t until they got close to Dale that they were any different than the others. I saw the two of them suddenly spring to life, break away from the lulling crowd-

  Alright! I think to myself, clapping my hands together and shaking my head to clear it. The memories scatter away to the dark corners of my mind, clearing room for the here and now.

  I look back down at my two lists. I don’t know why, or how, or if it even means anything at all... but I definitely have two distinctly separate descriptions. I review both lists, choosing the last word from each and scribing it at the top of each page as a title. The left page reads, ‘Passives’ and the right ‘Aggressors.’

  Two enemies, I think. Well, three, if you count the General, which I decide I want to do. So, three enemies.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon, and most of the evening too, sitting on my favorite corner of the rooftop, the one from which I can just see the edge of town. I watch the Passives, and sketch a couple of them into the journal, spread out over two pages without any regard to composition or perspective. I notice that Ted is in the parking lot too. I thought that he would be farther away by now considering how long it has been since his untimely demise. I give Ted his own page in the journal, drawing him at first the way he appears now, then adding MegaMart paraphernalia to fuse him with the memory that I have of him from before this whole thing started. By the time I’m finished, he looks sort of like a public service ad trying to warn people away from demeaning minimum wage jobs. Like mine. My old job that is.

  I climb back down into the office, noticing a pile of pictures sitting on the desk, and walk over to them.

  I remember the day we took these. It was my 24th birthday, and Dale and I had found the instant print camera that Ted used to pass around at office parties. We spent the whole day running around the store, taking silly pictures, until we had used up all of the remaining photo sheets.

  I put down the journal and pick up the pile of photos, flipping through them slowly. I pause when I find my favorite picture. It’s the only one with both Dale and me where we’re actually smiling nicely, instead of making ridiculous faces at each other. I set down the rest of the pile and open up the first page of the journal. I pull out the letter written by Dr. Ashmore’s mother and set it down on the desk, then slide the picture of Dale and me into its place.

  No more lies, I tell myself. It’s not his anymore, now. I close the journal and grip it firmly in my hand. Now, it’s mine.

  Chapter 3 – Fuel

  The next morning I wake up curled in a tight little ball, my arms clutching desperately around my knees as though that could keep the warmth from escaping me. I slowly unfurl and find myself knotted up in my blankets like a turtle caught in a net. I push out against my restraints, eventually kicking the entire mass of blankets off of the lounge chair.

  My back is sore again, so it’s probably best that I stop using the chair. Maybe I can burrow into the giant display box that houses a couple dozen pillows, although if I can get myself caught up in a couple of blankets, who knows if I can trust the pillow box not to smother me in my sleep.

  I stand up and complete my morning stretching routine slowly. When I’m relatively loosened up, I peer over at my makeshift fire pit, and then poke one finger into the ashes that rest there. They’re cold, and I wonder when exactly my little fire gave up on me. Judging from the tension in my jaw that usually results from chattering my teeth all night, I guess that it was a while ago.

  I consider the generator again.

  Chances are that the weather will perk up in another day or two – it’s not like it ever stays cold around here for long, even in January – but I’m not sure that I want to simply wait it out. If it gets any colder, I might wake up missing toes and I like my toes. They’ve always done right by me, and it seems a bit selfish to risk them just because I’m afraid.

  I make my way to the bathroom to complete my morning cleaning rituals, then change into fresh clothes, and seek out breakfast. Wandering through the aisles with crackers in one hand and the box that they came out of in the other, I find myself pondering the fuel issue again.

  It’s not so much that I’m afraid... well, no, that’s a lie. I’m definitely afraid, but in this situation, that’s a perfectly prudent and rational feeling. After all, the pumps that are my only accessible source of fuel are located in the farthest corner of the parking lot. With the lot clear of cars and most of its carts, I can run over there pretty quick... but then I have to manually pump the fuel, and carry it back. The best time that Dale had ever made, back when fuel retrieval was his job, was just under three minutes. And he was stronger than I am, so carrying a full fuel can was considerably easier for him than it will be for me. That meant a compromise on my part.

  There are two possible options: either I can make twice as many trips with the fuel cans only half full each time, or I can fill the cans up and accept that it will take longer to haul them back.

  Either way, I’ll be taking a risk, once I factor in the dozens of infected people scattered throughout the parking lot. It will take a lot less than three minutes for them to converge at the edge of the parking lot and eat me.

  I roll my eyes again at my own wording. Okay, I concede to myself, they will not necessarily eat me. Just tear me to bits. Or maybe leave me in enough pieces to become one of them.

  I shiver at that thought and return my attention to the crackers for the moment. Once I have had my fill, I close the box and deposit it on the nearest shelf, then wander away from the aisles of food and towards the left half of the store.

  I begin at the front of the first aisle, which is home to the store’s many electronic offerings. There was a time, in my early days here with Dale, when we thought the generators would last forever. We set one up to power the fridge and freezer in the deli, where we’d stashed as much food as possible. Another was set up in the office, which had served as our bedroom of sorts at the time, powering small electronics of convenience, like my reading lamp, Dale’s clock, and the stereo that we both enjoyed. A third generator had been left beside the bathrooms, which I eventually dragged up to the Tops, and the last one had powered Nerdvana.

  Nerdvana was the name I had given to the utterly impractical – albeit thoroughly entertaining – getaway that Dale set up high above the ground level of the store. He had actually spent several days rearranging boxes, crates, and wooden flats into a sort of wall around the entire third level of one of the aisles in the home electronics portion of the store. Once the wall was built, I was given strict instructions to stay out, which ignited a furious curiosity inside of me that went unsatisfied for two days until he finally invited me up. Together, we climbed up to the fourth and topmost level of the aisle, and then hopped down through a small opening between the slats into the mysterious third level. I remember landing on a mountain of pillows, then laughing hysterically at the thought of Dale stealthily dragging the pillows up there without me noticing. Across from where I sat, there was a TV, a DVD player, several video gaming consoles, and one copy of every movie and game that the store sold. Speakers had been set up all around the little makeshift room, and there was even a small, low table with snacks and soft drinks
waiting to be enjoyed.

  The look on his face as he watched me take it all in made it clear that this, the unveiling, was his payoff for days of hard work. Seeing that wide, proud smile stuck on his face all day long was my payoff for waiting.

  We spent most of our evenings up there, cuddled up in front of the TV with a box of cookies, or a bag of licorice. It was our own private little tree fort, and of any part of the store, it was the one spot where I felt the least like a prisoner. It was the only place where I could let the outside world melt away completely and just pretend that life was safe and normal and good. It was a taste of what life might have been for us if we had met in different circumstances, and I loved it.

  Looking back, I wonder how much longer the generators might have lasted if Dale had not built Nerdvana, but it’s far too late to trade it back now, and even if I could, I wouldn’t.

  The store had sold generators, so there had originally been a surplus of them on hand. Every time one ran out of juice, we simply traded it out for a new one. However, it’s been some time since I’ve been able to use them frivolously. These days, it’s all I can do to keep myself warm and my food edible. When fuel began to run low, I prioritized the generator powering the freezer, and the one that powered my heater on the Tops. But now, the only one with any fuel left at all is the one powering the freezer, and I just can’t risk it running out. It strikes me suddenly as ironic that I am competing with the food for the generator for exactly opposite reasons. I need it to keep warm enough, and the freezer to keep cold enough. I sigh and continue walking slowly around the aisles.

  I’m two aisles further along my journey before my thoughts return to the fuel issue again.

  I’ll have to just go and get some, I decide concretely, squeezing my hands into determined fists. But I don’t need to go unprepared.

  At first I feel a bit like a lunatic as I dash to the sporting goods aisle and tear a pair of knee pads from their packaging, securing them around my legs. I’m pretty sure that I’ve lost it entirely as I do the same with a package of elbow pads, then wrist guards. By the time I strap on the skateboarding helmet, I decide that it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s no one to care if I’m going mad, and at this point, a little insanity will probably help me complete my task. Satisfied that I’m about as geared up as I can get with the supplies on hand, I decide to test out my makeshift armor. Balling my hands into fists again, I take a long step back, and then push off into a furious run down the aisle. Just as I break around the corner into the open center of the store, I dive to the ground in a furious tumble that has me bashing every pad I’m wearing against the ground before stumbling back up to my feet. I push on for a few steps further, and then stop to assess my test. The tiniest bit out of breath, I give myself a quick once over. Everything seems in order, I conclude. The gear is all still in place, and I don’t have a scratch on me. If it comes down to a chase out there, at least I know that I can use the only advantage I have – my small size and agility – without injuring or otherwise slowing myself down. I also feel just a little bit safer with the helmet providing a barrier between the infected ones and my brain.

  The fuel cans are exactly where we left them, near the large front doors of the building. I pick up two empty cans and carry them to the smaller and far less conspicuous staff entrance, which is located near the bathrooms. It’s a door that hasn’t been opened in some time, and using it means that I will have to travel around the side of the building before I can make a break for the fuel pumps. However, it’s also a much smaller door, and considerably easier to open and close. In addition, the hall that leads to the door is bordered with tall chain link fencing, so even if this is the worst idea ever, and I’m suddenly swarmed by the infected people and can’t get the door closed, I’ll be able to climb up to safety.

  Slowly, I remove the huge, wrought iron bar that secures the door, pull out the security pins, twist the dead bold, and finally, turn the handle. I push my weight against the door so that it will slide open as quietly as possible, peering out for any sign that this is, in fact, the worst idea ever. Seeing no immediate threat, I stick my head out the door and look around cautiously.

  In my immediate view, there is an elderly man walking with a distinct limp. I don’t think he’s noticed me yet, but I watch him for a minute just in case. He seems passive enough as he slowly – even more slowly than the average infected person – trucks along. He seems like a Passive, although it’s hard to tell really, since I know absolutely nothing about what makes the Aggressors so... aggressive.

  The elderly Passive is far enough away that I can probably get around to the front of the building without drawing his attention. I step outside, closing the door lightly behind me, and walk around to the corner of the building. In the shade, with no one to face but the Passive, I manage to keep my cool, but as the reality of having to step out into the light, into plain view of any infected person – passive or otherwise – creeps up on me, I feel my pulse quicken, and my breath shorten. I press my back and the palms of my wrist guard covered hands against the cool, stucco wall of the MegaMart and take a very long deep breath. The elderly Passive continues on his slow walk, still unaware of me. I let my breath out slowly, reminding myself that Dale used to do this on a regular basis. But at least, back then, fuel runs had been a team effort. Resisting the childish urge to close my eyes, I lean forward and angle myself to peek around the front of the building without completely detaching myself from the somehow comforting wall. There are just as many Passives – at least, I hope that they’re Passives – scattered around the parking lot as I had seen from the roof the day before.

  Don’t panic, I instruct myself sternly. I relax my breathing and will my heart beat to follow suit, with no notable success. I change tactics and clear my mind, then fill it with the mantra that Dale had made me repeat a million times in our last few days together: Run fast. Run far. Never look back. With a determination bordering on obsession, I push off from the wall, round the corner, and bolt across the parking lot as fast as I possibly can. The wind, nonexistent when I was still, now cuts across the side of my face, reminding me that, even in the daytime, there‘s a chill in the air. My feet fly across the pavement, bounding in large, strong steps that can’t be any broader unless I take to flying, or unless the Earth wavers a bit on the whole gravity thing. My arms swing from side to side, my right hand clutched tightly around the handle of the fuel can.

  By the time I reach the fuel pumps, my lungs are on fire, and my chest is protesting about the sudden exertion with great heaving breaths that I can hear in my ears. I ignore both body parts in favor of trying to steady my shaking hands enough to fill the fuel tank. The manual lever is stiff and heavy, and it takes all of my weight to push it down. I chance a glance over my shoulder. I’ve made good time, but haven’t gone unnoticed. The Passives that I ran past have begun turning in my direction, many slowly ambling toward the fuel pumps.

  Starting to panic, I stop when the can is about three quarters full, and try to screw the lid back on.

  They are getting closer.

  My fingers are almost numb with fear, and I fumble, dropping the cap and picking it up twice before finally securing it in place.

  They are getting closer.

  I lift the fuel can up to my chest and wrap both arms around it, then push out the fear and fill my mind instead with the mantra; Run fast. Run far. Never look back.

  My feet comply, and I bolt across the parking lot and around the side of the store without so much as a backward glance. I swing open the staff door and slam it shut the moment I’m inside the store. I lock the door behind me, set the fuel can down, then collapse to the floor. The sports gear protects my suddenly exhausted joints while the cool flooring grounds me in the moment.

  Success! I declare, enjoying the genuinely congratulatory tone of my inner voice.

  A part of me knows that I should probably go fill the other can, but I decide to rest first.

  Once my heart sl
ows back to a less concerning pace, I sit up and prepare myself for another run. I have my hand on the door when it occurs to me that I may have waited too long, giving them ample time to converge on the door. Dale used to do the runs fast, one can and then the next, until too many of the Passives had gathered. Then we would stop. I pull my hand back and think. There’s another small door near the loading dock at the back of the store. If they’re gathering on this side of the building, then that would give me more time to get to the pumps from the back of the store.

  With a shred more confidence, I head to the loading dock, open the door and peer outside. I walk to the side of the building and look out. The fuel pump is a lot further away this time, but there are no Passives near it.

  I dash across the lot, skid to a stop at the pumps, and begin filling the second can. My arms are tired, but I’m determined to make the trip count. A few Passives are beginning to approach the fuel pumps again.

  In my moment of distraction, the can almost overfills, but I catch it in time, twisting the lid back in place, then pick up the can and cradle it against my chest. Tired, I stand there for a moment and watch them. Three of the closest ones are heading in my general direction, but something’s different… no reaching arms, no snarling, snapping sounds, no hunt.

  I take a few steps to the side, away from the pumps, but they don’t correct their trajectory to follow me. I take a few more steps away, turn, and against all better judgment, begin walking back to the store.

  My path is as direct as possible, and I avoid getting too close, but it doesn’t seem to matter. One of them looks up when I kick a rock lightly with my boot, but makes no attempt to give chase. Instead, he simply turns away and continues walking.