by Harley Tate
Tracy stood still, listening. “Do you all hear anything?”
“No. And I can’t even see my fingers.”
Tucker flicked on a small flashlight. “The whole place is gonna be pretty dark. We’ll have to use flashlights.”
Tracy nodded. She didn’t like the idea of broadcasting their locations to anyone else in the store, but what choice did they have? She clicked hers on. “You two stay here while I go check out the warehouse floor. Don’t move unless you hear me shout.”
Before either one could argue, Tracy set off, flashlight beam bouncing across the linoleum as she made her way to the main floor entrance. She flicked the light off as she neared the door.
Please let no one be here. Please.
After a deep breath, Tracy inched the door open.
No noise. No light. Thank goodness.
She scanned the warehouse three times before turning and calling for Brianna and Tucker. “It’s clear. Let’s go.”
Two flashlight beams appeared and in moments, the kids were by her side.
“There should be carts just outside the door. I say we each grab one and load it up.”
“Good idea.” Tracy led the way and sure enough, Tucker was right about the carts. She pulled three out of the stacked line. “All right. We meet back here in thirty minutes.”
Tracy watched the light beams of Brianna and Tucker’s flashlights disappear in different directions before heading for the far corner of the store. The front left cart wheel wobbled on every revolution, causing the cart to shimmy for a moment. Tracy concentrated on keeping it headed straight as she walked down the dark aisles.
With every step, she passed another example of American consumerism. Comforters. Dishes. Kids’ ride-on toys. Microwaves. Tracy snorted at that one. Half the store would be worthless now: all the electronics that would never turn on, movies that would never be watched, CDs never to be listened to again.
A display of car windshield wipers caught her eye and Tracy turned the cart down the aisle. Halfway down, she found what she was looking for. Gas cans. Bright red plastic cans sat one after another in neat rows, biggest on the bottom, smallest on the top. Tracy grabbed two large and two medium and placed them in her cart.
To the left hung siphon pumps and spigots and Tracy grabbed one of each. Without working gas pumps, they would need to siphon gas soon. On down the aisle and Tracy piled the cart full of cans of instant fix-a-flat, a rooftop cargo carrier, and other random car supplies.
In the next aisle, she paused, eyes wide as she stared at the racks stuffed with car batteries. For the first time since leaving the house she thought of Walter. Her husband would know which batteries went with which type of car and whether they could use them for anything else.
She thought back to her physics classes so many years ago. A battery could light a fire, power small electrics…hell if it could start a car, it could do a million other things. Without another delay, Tracy loaded the bottom of the cart with as many batteries as would fit. They might not get a chance to come back.
After exhausting automotive, Tracy hit the fishing section, grabbing poles and tackle boxes and an assortment of bait and lures. They could drive to Folsom Lake and fish if they had to. She’d taken Madison there as a kid. It wouldn’t be fished clean for a while.
Then there was the tiny survival section with everything from commando saws to paracord bundles to stormproof matches and water filtration. Tracy piled it all in the cart until small items were tumbling off the sides.
A week ago and Tracy would have been shocked at her own behavior. This was theft, plain and simple. But what did it matter? Four days without power and not a word from the government. Not a single broadcast over the radio or knock on her front door.
Joe was right: life as they knew it was over. No one would be coming to help. Tracy shined the flashlight down the aisle before turning the cart around. Like a lumbering beast with too heavy of a load, it groaned beneath the weight of supplies.
As she gave it another push, Tracy cocked her head. What was that? A wave of apprehension shivered through her. Was that a voice?
Tracy clicked off her flashlight and snuck behind the end cap, leaving her cart in the middle of the aisle. She couldn’t be more than five aisles from Brianna, sporting goods the only category between camping and ammunition.
Creeping on silent feet, Tracy worked that way, feeling with her hands in front of her for the next end cap. She strained to listen past the quiet and hear once more the noise that raised the hair on her arms.
There.
A voice. She was certain. Man or woman, she couldn’t tell. They were either all the way across the store or whispering nearby.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Counting backward did little to stem the rising thud of her heart inside her chest. The terror, now too familiar, of strangers. Visions of the burglars from Wanda’s apartment complex filled her mind. She still doubted her decision.
Pulling the trigger—killing those men—seemed like the only way out. But what if she was wrong? What if she had acted too fast and taken a life too soon? Was her humanity already hanging by a thread?
Would the thin line connecting Tracy to her old life snap in the middle of a dark Walmart, her cart full of stolen goods stashed a few aisles back?
With shaky fingers, Tracy wiped a grimy sheen of sweat off her brow before forcing her lungs to fill with air. The shotgun from Joe’s apartment suddenly felt like a lead weight slung over her shoulder, a grim reminder of the future and her part in it.
She wouldn’t become someone else. Not today. They had enough supplies back home to last a while. Finding Brianna and Tucker and getting out before anyone spotted them was key. The stuff she had collected could stay behind.
Tracy eased around the corner, the faint light from the front of the store filtering in a straight shot down the next aisle, lighting up the silhouettes of two people fifty feet away. One look at the wide stance and broad shoulders of each person and Tracy knew she had found a pair of strangers.
She just hoped they made it out before the interlopers found them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WALTER
Forest of Northern California
7:00 p.m.
The sun set too damn fast around here. With the tree cover, Walter couldn’t see more than five feet in front of his face. It seemed every step he took, the trees crept closer, obscuring his sight and forcing him and Drew too close to the clearing.
He eased beyond the last layer of trees and held up his hand in a fist. He didn’t know if Drew could even see him at this point, but he had to try. If anyone was going to brave walking up to a cabin weaponless and exposed, it would be him. Drew would get himself shot before he took five steps.
With night coming on fast, Walter didn’t waste time assessing the perimeter or watching from a safe distance away. He guessed the useable light, or what passed for it at the moment, would only last another few minutes.
Standing with the forest to his back he made the only sensible choice. He strode toward the cabin, head held high, body relaxed. In eight paces he reached the front steps, planting his feet one after another until he stood in front of the door.
His heavy knock echoed through the woods.
“What are you doing?” Drew’s hissed question came from the dark just beyond the porch.
“What does it look like?” Walter knocked again. “I’m seeing if anyone is home.”
Drew’s head appeared around the side of the building, a darker round mass barely distinguishable from the emptiness beyond. “Whoever’s inside could shoot you.”
“If they wanted to, I’d be dead already. We both would be.” Walter took a step back and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello? Is anyone home? We’re stranded and need some help. Hello?”
“I thought we were supposed to be all stealthy and crap. Not barge right up and shout.” Drew climbed the stairs at last, stopping beside Walter. “Why teach me hand s
ignals if we’re just going to knock on the front door?”
Walter exhaled. “I didn’t realize how dark it would get, or how quickly. It’s been a while since I’ve been out in the woods.” He moved toward the window beside the door, stopping when his forehead almost brushed the glass. “We lost any ability to scope the place out when we lost the light. Walking up to the front door was the only other option.”
They weren’t on a covert mission with night vision goggles and flak jackets and M-16s with ACOG scopes. For all the training Walter possessed, he was also a middle-aged man with tired feet, aching muscles, and the need for a night’s rest. Not that he would tell Drew any of that.
His co-pilot fidgeted beside him, bouncing back and forth on his feet as he glanced at the dark surrounding them and then back at the cabin. “I don’t think anyone’s home.”
Walter crouched down in front of the mat. “Probably not.” He ran his fingers under the edge, searching. When he came up empty, he stood and did the same with the top of the door frame and the windows, but still nothing. He frowned. There had to be a spare key somewhere.
“Can you walk up the driveway to grab our stuff? I’ll find a way in.”
“Why don’t you just break the window?”
“Have a little respect, man. Someone owns this place.”
Drew scoffed. “You didn’t care about the rental car. You stripped that thing to the metal rivets holding it all together. Why the sudden conscience?”
Walter turned to face Drew. He couldn’t see more than his shadow in the dark. “My conscience has been here the whole time. The rental car ran out of gas. It’s no good to anyone in the middle of nowhere with no gas in it. The rental car company is never going to be in business again.”
Drew began to interrupt, but Walter spoke over him. “This place is someone’s home. It might be a vacation spot or a survival cabin or the main place someone lives. But regardless, it might be the only thing standing between the owner and death. I’m not going to ruin that.”
“Seems to me survival is an all or nothing enterprise, Walt. Either we are or we aren’t. Picking and choosing who we steal from and who we hurt doesn’t make much sense.”
Walter ran his hand down his face. “I haven’t abandoned my moral compass because the power is out, Drew. I still give a damn about my fellow man.”
His co-pilot snorted. “Tell that to the thugs we left behind in Eugene.”
“They were trying to steal from us!”
“How are we any different?” Drew turned, a shadow blending into the night, and walked down the porch steps. “I’ll go get the bags, but if you haven’t found a way in by the time I get back, I’m breaking a window.”
Walter stood there, staring as Drew walked up the middle of the dirt and gravel driveway, his receding figure a contrast to the pale ground beneath his feet. Was Drew right? Were they no better than those two men who demanded everything they had?
No. They weren’t the same. Walter had defended himself from an obvious predator then. He wasn’t the aggressor in that situation; it was the man whose windpipe he crushed who attacked first.
Walter only had better skills and a hard punch.
He shook off his doubt. The world was changing from civilized to wild. When he attacked those men in Eugene, he knew they wouldn’t give up without a show of force. But the cabin he stood in front of wasn’t a man out to rob him. It was shelter and rest. Recovery and a chance to plan.
Taking his time and respecting the owner was the least he could do. Until humanity and common decency became liabilities one hundred percent of the time, Walter would use his best judgment. Today, they still applied.
Placing his palms beneath the window frame, Walter pushed, hoping it wasn’t locked, but the window didn’t budge. Damn it. There had to be an easy way in somehow.
He strode around the side of the cabin, assessing the options. Another window sat high on the side and Walter didn’t waste any time. With his hands gripped on the rough log wall, fingers digging into the grooves for purchase, he hauled himself up. Two feet off the ground and he could test the window.
The groaning sound of wood on wood as it moved might as well have been the opening chord of Walter’s favorite song. With a few more shoves, the window opened enough for him to fit inside.
Using the sill as leverage, Walter hoisted himself up and shoved his upper body through the gap. The smell of wood and dust hit his nostrils, confirming no one was home. The place must not have been aired out in months.
He dragged the rest of his body through and landed in a heap on the wood floor. A cloud of dust bloomed around him and Walter covered his mouth to keep from sucking in a lungful.
As he stood, Drew’s voice sounded from the front. “Are you in yet or do I need to find a rock?”
Walter hustled up to the front door, banging into a coffee table and almost knocking over a chair on the way. “I found a way in. Hold on.”
He managed to unlock the door and swung it wide.
His duffel hit him smack in the chest. “Good, because these bags are heavy and I need a break.”
Drew eased past him and flopped on the single couch, sending another cloud of dust into the air. His hacking cough made Walter smile.
“I forgot to tell you the place needed a good cleaning. Sorry.”
“No you’re not.” Drew chuckled as he stretched out and kicked his shoes off. “Damn, this feels good.”
Walter bent to fish his flashlight from his bag and turned it on before shutting and locking the cabin door. “Don’t get too comfortable until we check the place out. If we need to leave in a hurry, we should be ready.”
Drew groaned. “Speak for yourself, but I’m not going anywhere. The place would have to be on fire, flooding, and under attack before you could peel me off this lumpy couch.”
Walter smiled. “You were pretty quick to run back in Eugene.”
“That’s before I walked five hundred miles.” Drew leaned back and launched into song, his voice cracking and off-key as he belted out the lyrics to “I’m Gonna Be.”
“Good thing we aren’t hunting tonight. You’ve probably scared off everything from rabbits to feral cats with that screeching.”
Drew sang even louder when he hit the part about waking up next to a woman and Walter thought about his wife.
Tracy needed him. Madison, his daughter, needed him. Part of him wanted to push on, to not stop until he fell at the doorstep of their house in Sacramento.
But what good would that do? How could he help them exhausted and hungry? He needed his wits and strength to be an asset. As Drew kept on singing, Walter surveyed the cabin. They weren’t five hundred miles from home, but they still had a few days’ worth of walking ahead.
His flashlight beam bounced over a dry sink and cabinets, a table for two with turned legs and faded black paint, and a cot nestled in the far corner. The place wasn’t much, but it was warm and dry.
A lantern on the counter caught his eye and Walter reached for it. A small butane fuel cartridge ran the light and he shook it with a smile. One flick of the switch and a couple pumps of the starter and the cabin turned from a black hole to a dim glow.
Things were looking up. One night there and they would come up with a plan. They didn’t have a choice.
Walter walked over to the cabinets and tugged open the first one. His eyes lit up in surprise. We’ve come to the right place.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MADISON
Sloane Residence
8:00 p.m.
“Where are they? They should have been home hours ago.” Madison paced in the kitchen, fingers twining around each other as she fidgeted and worried. I never should have let them leave without me.
With one hand, she tugged her hair back off her face and looped it into a loose bun. It was still damp from the shower Wanda managed to rig up in the backyard. Who knew a five-gallon bucket and some old plastic tubing could be so handy?
But even the soap and wat
er didn’t wash away Madison’s worry. Her mother, Brianna, and Tucker wouldn’t be out after dark unless something happened. She knew it.
“Your mom said they had to stop somewhere first, right? Maybe it took longer than they thought.”
Madison paused long enough to cast a glance at Peyton. “You think so?”
“It’s as good a theory as any.” He ran a hand towel over his wet hair to rub it dry. “I don’t know how clean I am after using the same water you all did to shower, but at least I got wet.”
“Even dirty water gets the stink off.”
“Does it?” Peyton lifted his arm to smell his armpit. He scowled. “If you say so. But deodorant works a hell of a lot better.”
Madison stopped to peer out the front window for the fiftieth time since she wandered into the living room. “What if one of them is hurt? What if they ran into someone else? What if other people already broke into Walmart? They might need our help.”
Peyton perched on the arm of the sofa. “Your mom asked us to stay here. She wouldn’t have done that if it wasn’t important.”
Madison crossed her arms. “She did that to keep me safe.”
“That’s not the only reason.” Peyton motioned to the baseball bat sitting by the front door. “Don’t forget about our visitor the other day. Bill could come back anytime and you and I both know he’s armed.”
“You don’t really think he’d attack us, do you? Everyone in the neighborhood knows him. He would never get away with it!”
“Are you sure? Have you seen the police since that idiot in the park tried to arrest us? I haven’t.”
Madison frowned. “No. But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Or that they won’t be coming through here.”
“The police have other things to worry about besides a middle-class neighborhood in a good part of town. Think about it. Between what your mom said she heard and that guy who fought with the cop in the park, it sounds like there’s riots all over downtown. If that’s true, the police already have their hands full.”
