Population: Katie

by Connor, Penelope

  Next, I begin the biggest challenge: deciding what kind of food to take. I walk slowly through each food aisle, adding and crossing out items on my list as I go until I have narrowed my selection down to things that are the most filling and the easiest to store. Protein and fruit bars rank high on the list. Cans are great in theory, but if you lose your can opener, they become a real hassle. They’re also hard to cart around in quantity, but are resilient to wear and tear. I add cans to the bottom of the list and decide to pack as many as I can into the car once everything else is in there.

  With my list complete, I decide that it’s probably time to go and get the car. On my way to the staff door, I pass back through the small makeup collection that the store offers. Thoughtful for a moment, I add eyeliner to the list. I take a step forward, then pause and adjust ‘eyeliner’ to ‘eyeliners.’ There’s just no way that I’m going to go through life without this stuff, apocalypse or not.

  I leave my backpack and the journal by the staff door and head outside with only a token amount of hesitation.

  The station wagon is exactly where I left it across the parking lot, and, luckily, in the time it’s taken me to complete the first stage of my city preparations, the Passives became bored of the vehicle and moved on to other parts of the parking lot. Walking towards the ancient station wagon, now fully illuminated by the sun, I can see that it is not in as good shape as I’d originally thought. The wooden panels are flaking chunks of what I assume is some sort of laminate onto the pavement below, and the green paint has chipped very badly around the wheel arches, causing some corrosion. I circle the car to find that the wheels themselves are okay, but the windows, coated in a thick layer of dust, have several chips and cracks. Upon closer inspection, the interior seems in decent shape, although the dusty carpet’s curling up around the edges.

  Pulling the keys from my pocket, I climb inside and start the engine. I pull the car around the side of the building, taking care not to hit the old man who’s still back there, and park near the staff door. I leave the keys in the ignition and return into the store to begin the arduous task of collecting and properly packing the supplies from my list.

  This takes a lot longer than I expect, and by the time I’ve wedged all of the doors of the car shut, I’m exhausted. I drag my feet through the store, arms hanging lifelessly at my side. At the moment, I remind myself of one of the Passives, although I’ve honestly seen some of them move around with more energy than I have right now.

  There’s one more thing that I need to do before I can leave, but it’s getting dark, so I opt to put it off until the morning.

  Chores done, I grab one of the empty fuel cans and make a quick trip outside to fill it. The Passives pay very little attention to me as I cross the parking lot at a medium pace, and even less on my way back to the store. Not having to worry about them anymore leaves my mind free to plan something I haven’t done in a long time.

  I make my way quickly back to home electronics, where I fill the generator with the fuel I have just collected, and start it up for the first time in months. From there, I begin climbing the shelving structure. I take a moment at the top to sit down and dangle my feet over the edge, surveying the store around me.

  I can feel a sort of tense nostalgia creeping through my body, making my heart ache and my fingertips tingle. It’s the same sense of loss that one might feel when faced with the reality of leaving a job you’ve had for a long time, or graduating high school. A part of you knows that moving forward is good, that it’s what you need, but another, momentarily louder part of you wants to stay behind. I acknowledge the feeling, and what it represents, then gently push it aside. No brooding for me. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to enjoy myself.

  I push myself to my feet and walk across the top of the aisle to the small entrance to Nerdvana, and hop down inside the little fort. The pillows break the short fall, familiar and comforting, and I lie on them for a moment before crawling across the space to the entertainment setup. The small table’s covered in snacks from the last time I was up here. I tear into them, start up the TV and game consoles, and dig through the pile of games. The first one I pick up involves finding weapons and vehicles, then killing as many zombies as possible.

  I remember this being a very popular game when the MegaMart was still a real store. We used to sell a ton of them to young men and teenage boys shopping with their parents. Some parents bought them too, I assume for their children, despite the rating advice on the box. I’m not sure why any parent would allow their child to play it. I wonder if the people who played games like this have fared better out there than the average person who wasn’t desensitized by excessive video game carnage. Would a beastly little boy with a lust for pretend violence be more likely to pick up a real gun and blow a hole into the monster that stalks his family? Will the world be populated primarily with avid gamers and fans of horror movies? Maybe those types will know better than to run up the stairs, or only shoot once, or walk towards the scary sounds.

  I think of all of the people involved in making games and movies of this nature, and of their assumed knowledge on the topic of theoretical apocalyptic situations. Maybe the people who wrote those zombie movies that endure, decade after decade, are holed up in some fancy underground bomb shelter with an endless supply of food, water, and the latest gaming console, living out the remainder of their natural lives with an ‘I told you so’ grin on their faces and video game controller dents in their thumbs.

  I look around at my current surroundings and have to laugh. Or maybe it’s all just dumb luck.

  When I’m tired of the games, I pop in the movie that I brought from my apartment, and arrange the pillows in a comfortable formation so that I lie facing the video screen. My stomach is already starting to ache from the snacks, but I don’t care. The plan is to stuff myself and watch lighthearted comedies until I fall into a blissful stupor. And for once, everything goes as planned.

  Chapter 6 – Digging a Hole

  I awake with a start the following morning, my sleep addled brain momentarily forgetting that I slept in Nerdvana, and confused by the odd lack of light in my surroundings. I’d turned the small lamp off at some point during the night and the TV is in some sort of standby mode, its screen dark despite that fact that I fell asleep while it was still playing. The only light around me comes from the small opening that leads up to the top of the aisle. I gather what’s left of the snacks back into the plastic bag and leave it on the side table, then climb out and down the side of the structure the same way I came up. Once again, I’m grateful that I’m not afraid of heights.

  There are a few little details to attend to before I can leave. I begin by turning off the generators, ending with one that powers the freezer in the deli. I pack as much as I can into two handheld coolers that I pulled from the camping section, paying little attention to what foods I like, and more to which foods fit better in the cooler. I stand the coolers on the small dolly that I used to pack the car the night before, head outside, and push the coolers into the front seat space. As an afterthought, I strap the dolly to the roof of the station wagon.

  From there, I head into the bathroom, so that I can change out of the fresh, durable clothes that I brought from my apartment, and into one of the dirty, poorly fitting outfits hanging on one of the stall doors. I head across the store into the hardware aisle, where I pick out a shovel and a tarp. On my way back to the staff door, I detour upstairs, grabbing the only remaining item on Dale’s nightstand, and a photo from the pile on Ted’s old desk. Taking them both back downstairs, I slide them into my pack, swing the pack onto my shoulder, and carry the shovel and tarp to the one part of the parking lot that I’ve been avoiding… the far corner where the lone tree stands.

  As I approach the tree, my pace slows, because I don’t know exactly what I’ll find there. All I know for sure is that I owe a debt, and I can’t leave town until I’ve settled it. I drop the shovel and my pack, then unfold the tarp and hold it up so
that I can’t see what’s directly in front of me. I walk around the tree, moving very slowly so that I can test out the ground before I step as I move blindly forward. I pause when the toe of my boot pushes against something soft, something that I don’t want to see.

  I lay out the tarp on top of Dale’s body, careful not to make contact as I do. He’s been out here for a while now, and I don’t want to ruin the happy memories that we made together by seeing him like this.

  Satisfied with the coverage the tarp provides, I pick up the shovel, find a nice spot in the grass, and begin to dig. Although the air is still a bit chilly, the ground’s soft enough to make slow, steady progress.

  I don’t know how big the hole needs to be, or how deep, so I dig until I’m exhausted, go inside, rest and eat, then come out and dig until I’m exhausted again.

  When it’s done, I stand the shovel against the tree, and walk over to Dale’s body. I carefully turn him over so that I can wrap him completely in the tarp, trying very hard not to think about the weight of him, or the texture under the thick tarp, focusing my thoughts on anything –absolutely anything – but what I’m actually doing.

  I drag the tarp, and, as carefully as I can, maneuver Dale’s body into the hole I’ve made. Panting from the exertion, I take a minute to catch my breath, then grab the shovel and methodically fill the hole with the dirt that I dug up. Even though I’ve filled a large portion of the hole, I seem to have just the right amount of dirt. Nothing ever goes back to just the way it started.

  When I’m finished, I jam the shovel deep in the dirt at the head of the grave, so that only the top of the spade and the wooden handle stick out, marking the spot. Grabbing my pack, I sit cross-legged on the ground and pull out the two items that I brought from upstairs.

  The first item is the photo. I hold it up and look at it for a long time before addressing it as though he could hear me.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell the photo. Maybe if I’d just gone with Dale to the city in the first place, then this might be our crusade, instead of just mine.

  This photo is a favorite. He looks happy and that’s the way I want to remember him.

  I realize for the first time that I am truly ready to move on. I need to. Somehow, the idea of staying here in Carnassey, whether in the store, or in my apartment, or anywhere else, seems ludicrous. There’s a whole world out there, and I need to find out what state it’s in. I need to know if there are people out there. I need to know if there’s hope, and with whom it rests. I need to find Bennett.

  The second item that I’ve pulled out of my bag is a pair of dog tags, each threaded onto a silver chain. I remember asking Dale about them once. He told me that they come in pairs so that if a soldier falls in the field, a comrade can leave one on the body for identification, and take the other with him back to a base, or wherever else it needs to go. For that reason, the tags are identical. They both state Dale’s name, rank, and a few other details. When I first met him, Dale wore them all the time, but after we were alone long enough in the store, he started leaving them on his nightstand. I guess at some point he stopped thinking of himself as a soldier. And even though I never asked him about that change, or how he felt about the military, I imagine that he would still want one of these to be taken to his father.

  I place the first chain back into my pack, then take the second one and wind it several times around the handle of the shovel. I place the photo against the spade, pinning it in place with a rock, then adjust the dog tag so that it sits just over the edge of the photo, creating a simple memorial. Right now, it’s all I can do.

  Back inside the MegaMart, I throw my soiled clothes into the nearest garbage can before heading straight into the bathrooms where my travelling clothes are waiting. I wash up, and then put on a pair of fitted, dark denim jeans and a couple of light colored tank tops. I wrap part of my left arm in a bandage that conceals my scars, and then pull on an oversized, long sleeved shirt made of gray jersey material. I slide back into my boots, and add the waist length leather jacket that I brought from the apartment. It’s a rich brown color, and very warm and very lightweight. It also has a pair of zippered pockets on the inside, which I’ve always found handy.

  I consider myself in the mirror, and then dig into my pack, pulling out my eyeliner. I add a fresh coat of the stuff, rimming my entire eye in a very thick, but fashionably smudged line. It’s a look that I took to in high school, and have always enjoyed, because it helps make me look older. Not older in the way that high school kids want to look like adults, but older as in, actually my age. When I was in high school, people thought I was in middle school, and as an adult, people still seem to think I’m in high school when I go out fresh faced.

  When I put the pencil back into my bag, I spot the silver dog tag, gleaming at me warmly.

  “We’re gonna find him,” I tell the chain, referring to Bennett. I slide it over my head and tuck it into my shirt, where it will stay safe. I look back into the mirror, now satisfied.

  With a deep breath, I turn and walk outside, dropping my pack into the passenger seat beside the coolers. Looking at the key to the staff door, I find myself unsure what to do with it. I should lock the door, as I don’t want the Passives to be able to find their way in, but I also don’t want anyone that finds this place to be locked out. Deciding on a compromise, I grab a roll of tape and a marker from the car and loosely secure the key to the door, right above the handle and in plain view. I use the marker to circle the key boldly, so that it will be easy to spot. I doubt the Passives are any good at problem solving, so I’m certain that this will keep my safe haven secure.

  I’m about to leave when another thought strikes me. I uncap the marker again and write on the door;

  To whom it may concern: this store is a great place to live. I lived here for a long time, and here are some things you should know.

  1. Never open the main doors.

  2. You can run the generators with fuel from the pumps.

  3. The toilets don’t flush. Figure it out.

  4. The cat lived here first, be respectful.

  5. DO NOT open the fridges – there’s plenty of food on the shelves.

  I look over my note with satisfaction, then add, ‘Love, Katie’ at the bottom. I toss the pen and tape back into my car, then climb into the driver’s seat. I adjust the mirrors, start it up, and begin the task of driving around the Passives.

  They are just as uncooperative today as they were yesterday when I brought the car here. It takes a while, but I eventually get the car out of the parking lot. I press down on the brakes, surveying the road ahead and the challenges that it poses.

  “It’s not too late to turn back,” I tell myself. Keeping one hand firmly on the wheel, I reach up with the other and grab hold of the chain around my neck, rubbing my thumb against the smooth surface of the tag. I can feel the subtle indents where the words are engraved.

  Looking up at the rearview mirror, I can see the MegaMart and the Passives reflected back at me. I tilt my head, allowing the lone tree to come into view at the end of the parking lot. Nodding my head, I drop the chain back into my shirt and adjust the mirror. I lift my foot off of the brake pedal and slide it over to the gas, pressing down gently.

  I let myself glance into the mirror one last time before I turn onto the highway, feeling as though one chapter of my life has closed, and another is beginning.

  “Goodbye.”

  Chapter 7 – The Road to Middleton

  The first hour of the drive is entirely uneventful and unnervingly quiet. The radio in the station wagon doesn’t work, which would probably matter more if there were radio stations available to pick up, but, somehow, this still bothers me. At least if there were tapes or something, I’d be able to listen to music, but there aren’t any, so I can’t. Instead of remaining silent and contemplative, I spend the better part of the hour singing loudly and entirely off key. It takes a while to think of any good songs, and even when I do, I find myself shrieking the chorus
, and then mumbling through a few more lines before moving onto a new song. Apparently, I don’t have much of a memory for lyrics when the music isn’t actually playing in the background. After a while I change my tactic from recalling existing songs to making up new ones, mostly about things around me.

  I’ve spent a solid five minutes singsonging about the blinking engine light and its possible implications when I pass a sign that informs me that I should keep on this road to reach Middleton. At my current speed, I calculate at least another hour and a half of driving. I had originally thought that the trip would take less than two hours, an assumption that I’d made based on the fact that I thought I’d be driving a lot faster. With no police to look out for, and no other traffic to contend with, it was a fair assumption. The station wagon, however, has other plans.

  The green beast makes awful groaning and creaking noises when I try to accelerate quickly or reach speeds in the range of the actual speed limit. Since I really don’t want to risk engine parts falling out in passive protest while I’m in the middle of nowhere, I end up driving well below the posted speed limit.

  My singing fades away as I notice a man at the side of the road, crawling around in the ditch in search of something that I can’t see. I slow down enough to take a good look at him and quickly assess that he is a Passive. He looks up at the car as I pass him, but in the rear view mirror I see him return to his task as soon as I am out of his immediate view.

  It occurs to me that he’s the first Passive that I’ve seen since I left. The first anyone that I have seen, actually. The vast emptiness is eerie. It’s as though there’s an invisible barrier between the small town and the city. Any uninfected person would probably deem it too far to bother with, especially when the prize at the end of the trek would only be Carnassey.

  The more I think about it, the more this lack of people – infected or otherwise – bothers me. It’s like they all know something… a scary secret about this road that I don’t know.