Tim and Kimberly were a nice couple in their mid-thirties who I’d seen around town a couple of times before we got to know each other while stuck at the MegaMart after Lockdown Day. While we waited, helpless, in the store, evacuations took place, their son taken away with them.
When it was finally safe for people to leave, the only ones standing were the Ims, Dale, and myself. Intent on finding their son, the couple had decided to head to Middleton.
I look down at my hand, still clutched around the doorknob. A part of me, a part not afraid to make itself known, doesn't want to push the door open, doesn't want to see what's become of my little apartment. Maybe the door’s not open because I left it that way, but because someone’s been in there. Lockdown would have prevented people from leaving the building, but not from leaving their individual apartments. How would it feel to see my possessions scattered around the floor, my bed turned over, the contents of my fridge spilled out after some careless and desperate individual had pillaged anything useful from my little abode. Maybe someone’s still in there, having hidden from the Gov during the evacuation, in the one apartment that would not be searched, as I’d already been removed from it. What if they were infected? What if they weren't?
I let go of the doorknob as though it had suddenly shocked me, my hand recoiling back to my chest defensively. I know, of course, that I'm panicking. I reach out and place my hand on the center of the door, pushing it open in one long, slow motion.
I step inside and take in the small, but open, space. From the doorway I can see my kitchen to the left, my living space over the counter, and my hastily made bed in the corner. I lean in and to the right to peek into my bathroom too. Everything is much worse than I imagined. Much worse - because it's all the same. Exactly as I left it, utterly unchanged, and overwhelmingly familiar and safe. A part of my mind clings suddenly to this place and as I step inside and close the door behind me, I’m not sure if I will ever be able to leave. I shed my protective gear, then walk over to my small couch and sit down stiffly, sinking into the cushions in the exact spot where I used to watch TV and read. I sit still, staring straight ahead for another moment, then, suddenly overwhelmed with... with everything… I turn and fling myself across the length of the couch, wrapping my arms around a pillow and, for a moment, lose myself entirely in my tears.
Chapter 5 – Frivolous
I lie there, even after I’ve composed myself, for a long time, just holding tightly to the pillow and staring up at the ceiling. At my ceiling. Being in my own apartment is... well, it’s just bizarre. And at the same time, it’s not bizarre at all. From here, it’s the MegaMart and my life there that seems strange and surreal.
Everything here’s so familiar, but in a completely different way than the store. I’ve been living in the store for so long, and grown so very accustomed to the way that life has been there. But here, in my apartment, everything’s mine, the way I like it, and exactly as I left it. The tea’s in the cupboard above the stove where my kettle permanently resides. I picked out all of the movies, and everything on the walls. The bed’s exactly as soft as it needs to be to give me a good night’s sleep, and every piece of clothing fits...
My eyes pop open as I remember my clothes. I jump up off of the couch and pull open my wardrobe. They’re all there - not that there was any reason for them not to be. I quickly locate my favorite jeans and a sweater, tear off my current outfit, and slip into clothes that are all mine.
I sigh, then begin scrutinizing each article in my modest collection with the criteria that Dale taught me once we were alone in the MegaMart.
The number one, most important thing about my clothing choices is that they offer durability.
The next is the comfort and fit of the article. All clothing should be comfortable because you don’t know how long you’ll be wearing it. Fit is critical as well, because clothes that are too loose can be a liability in a struggle or while evading an enemy.
Avoiding bright, attention-seeking colors is also a good idea, I decide, carefully sifting through my collection, identifying the most practical articles, and stuffing them into the backpack.
When I’m done, I grab a snack from the cupboard, a book from the nightstand, and then spend the rest of the day lounging and reading before finally curling up – for the first time in eight months – in my own bed.
The next morning, I wake up content and with none of the usual stiffness that accompanies my terrible sleeping habits at the MegaMart. Instead, my day begins with a cup of lukewarm tea, made from a bottle of water that was sitting on my counter. I sip at my tasteless tea and look through the cupboards. There are a few mismatched cans and boxes. I don’t dare open my fridge, having no recollection of what was in it when I left.
I ponder going through my neighbor’s cupboards to see if I can gather up more supplies and foodstuff. It wouldn’t be difficult, and given the circumstances, I bet they wouldn’t even mind.
This is, perhaps, the first time that I realize how lucky I’ve been to have the store at my disposal.
Here, I have a comfortable bed and my own clothes, and at the moment, it seems like enough. Staying here, in the apartment, seems very appealing. I could, conceivably, live here, and simply visit the MegaMart to pick up food when I need it. I could even bring a generator here and hook up my DVD player. It could power my toaster, my oven, my hairdryer, even my kettle. Yes, the apartment and the life that I could have here is sounding more and more appealing as I think of ways to better fortify my little fortress with everything I need to sustain a reasonably enjoyable life.
Finished with my tasteless tea-water, I lay back on my bed, tucking my hands under my head as I stare up at the ceiling. It’s not like I have any better options. No one’s coming for me. For all I know, no one’s even out there. I find that somewhat unlikely, based solely on the very simple assumption that there are just too many people. They must be out there, surviving, somewhere. Maybe there are even people who took other versions of the vaccine. Dr. Ashmore’s notes indicate that earlier versions he tested hadn’t worked out, but that doesn’t mean that other people weren’t working on the problem as well. For all I know, some form of V12 has been mass-produced and tons of other people are immune, like me. They could be marching back here right now. They could arrive tomorrow.
With that thought in mind, looting the neighboring apartments seems less appealing.
I roll over onto my side and direct my sightless stare at the far wall, giving the ceiling a break before I bore a hole through it with my eyes.
No, I tell myself. That’s not very likely. The part about people arriving tomorrow, anyway. But it is possible - in fact, likely - that someone else is working on a vaccine. There is hope. That, if nothing else, is a certainty. My mouth smiles, but my eyes remain fixed dully on the wall.
I think about the journal, and about Dr. Ashmore’s research, unorthodox and unethical as it may have been. I carry in my backpack the only record of the studies that he conducted. And I carry in my bloodstream the only vaccine that I know for certain works. A word, a small, but cruel word, flitters across my mind. A word that I’ve been avoiding since the first time Dale asked me to go with him to the city, and I said no: selfish.
Yeah, I think that about covers it right now. I’m being incredibly selfish. But it is for a good cause, isn’t it? What use is it - leaving the MegaMart, leaving Carnassey - just to die out there in the unknown? Then again, I muse, what good is it staying here? What exactly is the point of my life here? I exist for the sake of existing. I survive because I’ve got nothing better to do.
I think back to conversations with Dale, back when he was trying to convince me to go to Middleton with him. I can hear his voice in my head, passionate but patient, trying to reason with me.
I know you don’t want to go to the city, but I hope you change your mind. If we can find my dad and give him the journal, then maybe he can find us a way out of this.
Back when Dale had first been sent to Ca
rnassey to help with the evacuations, his father, an important colonel, had been stationed in Middleton. Now, I’m not holding on to the idea that he’s still there, a mere two hour drive away, but from there I should be able to locate him. To give him the journal.
Wait! My mind screeches, almost audibly, to a halt. Am I actually contemplating going to the city? The very thing I refused to do with Dale, so many months ago?
I let the question sink in slowly and am surprised at how quickly the answer comes back. Yes. I try to resist it at first, to search for the hesitation and fear that has kept me here all this time, but for once, it’s not there.
“I’m going to Middleton.” I say it aloud, as though voicing my decision might make it more real. “I’m going to find Bennett. I’m going to give him the journal.” I hesitate momentarily. “I’m going to leave tomorrow.”
That last one takes me by surprise.
Staying here is no better than going; no better than dying; no better than any other option. The store, the apartment, it’s all the same. I don’t want to continue existing, just to exist. I want a purpose. I need a mission. Dale wanted to include me in this, so now his mission will be mine. Take the journal to Colonel Bennett.
I’ll find him, wherever he may be in this world. I don’t even process the possibility that he may no longer be in this world. There is no failure option in my mission.
I’m halfway to the front door when a thought strikes me. I head back over to the living area, grab my favorite movie off the shelf, and stuff it into the backpack. I take one last look around the room to see if there’s anything else I should bring. Not seeing anything that I need, and knowing that the only personal token I want to bring with me is at the store, sitting on Dale’s old nightstand, I turn and head out the door.
I leave the apartment building and begin walking down the street, back towards the MegaMart at a fast pace. By the time I reach the main drag, it occurs to me that my journey to Middleton would be better travelled if I had a vehicle. Owning no car of my own, I decide to borrow one for the occasion. I side track off of the main road and onto a residential street. The first driveway contains an enormous truck with pedals I probably wouldn’t even be able to reach. The next two driveways are empty, and the one after that holds a brand new car that I somehow feel just a little bit too guilty to take. I cross to the other side of the street to try my luck over there and quickly spot a small, black tarp that catches my interest.
I want to get there fast, I muse as I pull back the tarp. Underneath is a flawless, black, dirt bike. I don’t have a large database of motorized vehicles in my head, but I know enough to let out a slow whistle as I inspect the shiny beast. I’ll bet I could get to the city in an hour and a half on this thing. If I take it though, I should really go back for the helmet and safety pads that I left in the apartment. I’ve no idea if they’d be any use in an actual accident, but not wearing them just seems needlessly reckless. It would be awfully embarrassing to survive the apocalypse only to meet my end because I didn’t bother to wear a helmet.
I drop my backpack on the spot and head for the house. The front door’s locked, but the side door from the garage is open, so I let myself in and quickly find two sets of keys. I grab them both and head back out to the driveway. The first set doesn’t seem to match, so I toss them beside my backpack and plug in the second set, revving up the engine.
“Oh yes!” I say excitedly. “This is perfect.” I swing one leg over the bike and push back the kickstand, balancing the bike on the spot while I arrange myself on it. I lift one leg onto the footrest on the side and wrap my hands even more tightly around the handles. Okay, this is probably the brakes, and this one is probably the gas... I twist the gas experimentally and whip forward onto the street. I panic and squeeze the brake. The bike screeches audibly to a stop, my entire body lurching forward in the process, pulling me a solid inch off of the seat before I plunk roughly back down on it.
“Okay... take two,” I announce to the empty street, and then try again, with similar results. I hurtle forward and brake violently in tiny bursts for about two minutes before I accept that motorbikes are not my thing. I step off the bike and walk it back to where I found it, pulling the keys out of the ignition, grabbing the other set, and bringing them both back inside. I can’t say why I thought that I could just pick up driving one of those things on the spot. It seems like everyone in the movies can just hop onto one in a desperate situation and fly to safety, or take part in a high-speed chase. They never show anyone actually learning to ride them. The only thing I seem to have accomplished today is giving myself mild whiplash.
Once inside the garage again, I notice the vehicle parked there. A long, old station wagon painted a dull green color with wooden paneling on the side. I look at the first set of keys – the ones that didn’t fit the bike – then back to the car. Leaning in through the open window of the station wagon, I shove the keys into the ignition and turn them experimentally.
Success! The car starts immediately with a loud roar before settling into a dull purr, awaiting further direction from me. I open the large garage door, grab my backpack, and hop into the car. This is probably a much better idea than the bike anyway.
Driving back to the MegaMart takes only a few minutes, but once I’m at the edge of the parking lot, I have to slow down because the Passives are scattered about everywhere and make no visible attempt to get out of my way. I honk my horn impatiently, as though each slowly moving creature represents a fellow car stuck in traffic, but all that accomplishes is attracting more of them.
“Move it!” I shout uselessly, rolling the car forward, nudging one of them with the bumper. The man I nudge turns slowly to the side and tries to move around the encroaching vehicle, but in the time it takes him to clear the car, two more have gathered curiously in front of it. I bang my head against the wheel and give up for now. Turning the engine off, I pocket the keys and leave the car where it is, walking the rest of the distance to the MegaMart. On my way, I spot the woman in blue, my old manager, Ted, and a few other Passives I recognize. It always seems to be the same players around here. Nothing much ever changes.
I walk up to Ted and jab him in the chest with one finger. “Why are you still here?” I demand. “You spent enough time in that place! Why don’t you go home? Or go find a nice park to live in?”
Ted does not respond, but simply bobs his head as he watches me address him. Then, having had enough of me, he turns and wanders off. They sure bore easily enough.
Once inside the MegaMart again, I immediately set out to find myself a decent lunch. As I turn down the first aisle, I find Kit Cat. Or rather, Kit Cat finds me. I pick up the cat and rest him in my arms while I continue my search for foodstuffs. The cat purrs and nuzzles at my arm contently.
“Oh, don’t tell me you missed me last night,” I say, rubbing under the cat’s chin as I walk. “You stay out half the time yourself, you know, and I never complain. And besides, I’m not gonna be here for much longer anyway. I’m going to Middleton; I’m going to find someone who’ll help us. Well, ‘us’ as in people, not ‘us’ as in you and me. You do just fine by yourself.”
The cat purrs in response, then gives my finger a few sandpaper licks.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I gesture around the vast store with one arm. “When I’m gone, Kit Cat, all this will be yours.”
The cat fidgets in my arms to indicate that it wants back down. I let him jump to the floor and watch as he wanders off before continuing my lunch mission.
Once I’m finished eating, I immediately begin preparations for the drive to Middleton. Sitting in one of the display lounge chairs, I fish around in my backpack for the journal and begin making a list of things I should bring with me. It’s hard to know what I’ll need as I have no way of knowing what awaits me in the city. But seeing as I like to be prepared, and my travelling companion is, indeed, a station wagon, it only seems prudent to pack as many things as I can, just in case. So I set t
o work on the list, starting with the few essentials that I can think of off the top of my head.
I begin a slow loop around the store, making a thorough list, as I go, of things to pack into the station wagon.
The list begins in the electronics section, where I find virtually nothing of interest. Office supplies are next. I add notebooks, pens, and scissors to my list. Some people may not consider then essentials, but I can’t imagine a world without them. And the scissors, I suppose, could be fastened to sticks as primitive weaponry. Or marshmallow-roasting apparatus... whichever.
In the next row, I add batteries and flashlights to the list. These will be very important. In the sporting goods aisle, I write down knee and elbow pads, and wrist guards. I still feel that they were a solid idea.
I move on through the rest of the non-food aisles quickly, adding only a few things to my list, including can openers and utility knives. There isn’t much of interest in the loading dock, except a pile of empty boxes that I can use to carry some of the things I’m bringing. From the center tables, I add several clothing items, pillows, and blankets to the list.
Possibly the most important section is the one closest to the bathrooms where all of the medical supplies and toiletries are stored. I add bandages, iodine, compression pads, disinfectant, pain relief pills, tampons, toothpaste, deodorant, and toilet paper to the list.
Population: Katie Page 5
