by Jim Heskett
Instead, Dave closed his eyes.
“What are you doing?” Hector said. “I demand you open your eyes and look at me.”
“No,” Dave said as he dropped to his knees and then went prone. He laced his hands behind his head. “If you want me to get arrested, then go ahead. I’ve been arrested before, I know the drill. I’ll be right here when the cops come.” This was a risky plan. Would be just as likely for Hector to put a bullet in his back.
“Get up.”
“No, I’m going to stay right here.”
And Hector fell for it. He stepped right in front of Dave, who grabbed Hector’s ankle and pulled with all his might. Hector went backward and the gun discharged. Without the silencer, the sound was deafening.
Dave launched himself on top of Hector and punched him in the nose. With a startled yelp, Hector dropped the gun.
A pair of hands grasped at the back of Dave’s jeans. As he felt himself being lifted into the air, he managed to snatch the gun off the ground. He pointed the gun over his shoulder and fired into the air. This blast, only a few inches away from his ear, was so loud it made his head spin.
He fell forward to the ground, then twisted onto his back. Both of Castillo’s men were lying on the ground, but still alive. Hector must have shot the other one when he fell.
Hector. Dave looked around, but the man was gone. Then, he caught sight of a figure running through the dark campsite. Dave raised the pistol, but he was too far away.
Dave sat up, his head pounding and his ears ringing. The world was strangely quiet compared to the symphony of white noise inside his head.
He looked at Mitchell, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air on dry land. Dave scooted across the dirt to his business associate.
Mitchell looked up into Dave’s eyes but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to because the confusion and terror on his face said all it needed to say.
“Isabelle,” Dave said. “Where is she?”
Mitch dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys, gripping them in his hand. Then a rasp escaped his lips and he fell silent.
Dave got to his feet and the world wobbled around him. His heartbeat pulsed all through his body. He bent back over and stared at the car keys in Mitchell’s hand, then picked them up.
Why had Mitchell taken out his keys? Was he going to drive Dave to where Isabelle was?
He stumbled across the lot toward Mitchell’s Buick, frantically searching his brain for places Mitchell might have stashed her.
A sound came from the trunk. A muffled sound, then a bump. Someone was in the trunk. Dave tried to sift through the keys to find one to open the trunk, but his brain kept throbbing and his hands shook.
Finally, he separated the right key and jabbed it into the trunk key slot. He twisted it, lifted the trunk, and there was his sweet Isabelle, with duct tape around her ankles, wrists, and mouth.
He dropped the gun on the ground and leaned into the trunk. Her eyes went wide as she mumbled against the duct tape. He freed her hands and ankles, then yanked the strip from her mouth.
“Baby, we have to go. We have to go now, there’s no time to explain any of this.”
Then it was daytime. Light filled the night sky to the south, first white, then red, matching the sound of a dozen explosions rattling like firecrackers on the fourth of July.
Blender in a Backpack
(AFTER THE FALL)
At the corner of Congress and Woodward, Quentin looked at the remainder of the St. Edward’s campus and realized what name they should have been using all along. Had to tell his friend.
He tapped Barry on the shoulder. “Dude. Not scavengers. Treasure hunters.”
Barry leaned against the thick trunk of a maple tree, wiped his brow, then took a sip of water from a dented Nalgene bottle. “I like it. Texas Treasure Hunters. Think the copyright office is still open in Washington? We should get some t-shirts printed up, like, today.”
“I’m not sure if we need the Texas part. I get the alliteration, but if Texas doesn’t really exist now, not sure if we want to use that brand.”
Barry adjusted his backpack, the contents clanking as he moved. He dug into his pocket and produced a joint wrapped in a plastic baggie. He held out his hand, because Quentin had the lighter. “Hush your mouth, child. Texas always was, and always will be.”
Quentin laughed and passed the lighter to his friend. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a trail of smoke leading from somewhere on campus. He pointed. “Check it out. Smoke.”
Barry sparked the joint and craned his neck to follow Quentin’s finger. “You’re thinking we should go see what it is?”
Quentin thought about the last time they’d wandered some place they shouldn’t have, and instinctively touched the hunting knife strapped to his thigh. He checked the sun, now blazing overhead. “Naw, not if we want to get to UT by supper-time. Best stay on Congress all the way up there. No dilly-dallying.”
“You’re the dilly-dallyer. If you want to keep on, then we keep on.”
They ignored the smoke and returned to their path up Congress street. Quentin figured the fire probably came from a cooking experiment gone wrong. Usually did. Without a fire department, the flames could blaze for hours and take half of Austin with it, so that was one more reason to get to the north side of the river as soon as possible.
The afternoon heat pelted them and Quentin wished he hadn’t loaded up with so much stuff during their last scavenge. Sometimes, a blender seems like a great find, but not when you have to carry it for miles in hundred-degree heat.
Normally, on this side of town, they might have to worry about someone throwing up a garbage wall and demanding toll to pass. Cigarettes, weed, or hard liquor were the usual payment required. But since the tornado had taken out the primary residence of the local chapter of the Eighteeners, life had been much quieter.
“Did you say something about brands before?” Barry said.
“Yep. The Texas brand. Texas Treasure Hunters doesn’t mean anything more than Atlantis Treasure Hunters. The United States itself hasn’t existed for… two, three years now?”
Barry stepped over a man in the street, maybe passed out, maybe dead. He didn’t stink like a decaying person, but he could still be fresh. “So how’s that marketing degree working out for you, college boy?”
Quentin swept his arms in a circle. “Someday, all of this will be fixed. We’ll have internet and cell phones and cable TV again. When that happens, people in the United States of Quentin are going to need product strategy guidance. I’ll be ready and waiting to lead them.”
“United States of Quentin, huh? Got a nice ring to it.”
“See? I know a butt-load about branding. But I won’t be here though, I’ll have a cabin somewhere high up in the rocky mountains.”
“Reach for the stars.”
At Oltorf street, they paused to catch their breath and enjoy a couple minutes of shade on the bench of a sheltered bus stop. They both eyed the grocery store on the corner. Its windows had been busted out. Four cars occupied the parking lot, and two men slept in the ample shade of a Hummer. Newspapers covered their bodies.
“Want to check out the H-E-B?” Barry said.
“Naw, I don’t think so.”
“You worried about those nappers over there?”
“Not really. But my backpack is practically overflowing, dude. And, to be honest, I don’t like all those windows being busted.”
Barry scoffed. “Half the city has busted-out windows.”
“Yeah, I know, but there’s something about that place I don’t like.”
“Well, far be it from me to contradict your juju,” Barry said, “but let me paint you a picture. The windows are busted out, sure. All the dry goods and housewares and steak knives and spices and all that shit are all gone. Have been forever, so there're no surprises there. Anyone comes along, takes a peak inside, they’re going to see nothing but empty shelves. Then they move on.�
�
“So if there’s no treasure to hunt, why are you trying to convince me to get in there?”
Barry stood and faced Quentin, commanding his attention. “Because it’s the back rooms where the goodies are. Manager’s offices. Employee break rooms. Places where people don’t think to go explore. Trust me, I worked at a Whole Foods for two years and I know the kind of stuff you can find if you know where to look.”
Quentin took a pouch of tobacco from his backpack and rolled a cigarette. “When did you work at a grocery store?”
“High school. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because that’s all ancient history. Maybe there’s nothing in there, maybe there is. It’s worth a shot to check it out.”
Quentin lit the cigarette and took a harsh pull from the dry and aging tobacco. Barry seemed so intent to explore, but Quentin wanted to talk this through. “Nobody knows where the Eighteeners are now, right?”
“Right.”
“So, a busted out grocery store is exactly the kind of place they would hole-up.”
Barry slumped back onto the bench next to his friend. “Still seems worth it, to me. If they’re inside, we’ll know right away and we just bolt up out of there.”
Quentin traced his fingers along a carving in the bench. The words read Five Suns of Bullshit. The five suns part sounded familiar, but he didn’t know from where. “I don’t know about this.”
“But I do, so trust me.”
Quentin snuffed the nasty cigarette under his boot. Needed to quit the damn things, anyway. “Alright, fine, if it’ll get you to shut up about it.”
***
Quentin kept a careful eye on the two sleeping men as they crossed the parking lot. They were both wearing long pants and jackets. Must have been sweltering under all those clothes, but hadn’t he always seen homeless people overdressed? Maybe when all you had was what you could carry with you, you’d get used to it. Funny to think of those ragged sleeping men as homeless, because he and Barry weren’t any better off, to tell the truth.
He adjusted his backpack and put a hand on his hunting knife when they approached the front doors. A river of broken glass surrounded the entrance.
When Quentin stopped, Barry stopped. “You okay?” Barry said. “Because I can hold your purse if you need to go tinkle before we actually enter the store.”
Quentin flipped his middle finger at Barry, who laughed in reply.
“I’m fine,” Quentin said. “No sense in not being careful, that’s all.”
Quentin stepped across glass, crunching under his boot. He crossed the frame of the former entrance and let his eyes adjust to the dim light inside the grocery store. In front, a line of self-checkout registers, and beyond them, a never-ending procession of shelves, most of them empty. He squinted at an aisle between them that led to nothingness, looking for movement. Seemed still.
Barry walked in and sniffed. “Do you smell something like bacon?”
“Dude, I can’t remember the last time I had bacon,” Quentin said.
“Yeah, I’m fucking with you. Sure would be nice, though. Pulled pork with shredded cheddar and bacon, slathered with hot sauce.”
Quentin felt his stomach rumble and he caught up with Barry. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something that hadn’t come from a package or they’d killed on their own. “Stop, please. I can’t take it. We’ll be lucky to find some crackers in here.”
Past the first row of shelves, Quentin noticed some that weren’t empty. He picked through one that mostly contained hand-towels, spatulas, and other kitchen accessories. A wooden spatula could be made into a decent spike, but these were all plastic. “This is all shit.”
“I told you it would be. Let’s not waste our time out here with this junk. The offices are probably along the back wall.”
Quentin dropped a spatula on the floor and followed Barry down the aisles. He turned to look at the entrance, the only source of light in the store. Walking away from the light and into the darkness made his skin crawl, but that’s where Barry was headed, so he didn’t have much choice.
“So,” Barry said, “You know that guy who hangs out at the bridge sometimes, the crazy-hairy one they call Wolf?”
“Sure.”
“He told me that some guy at UT fixed up a radio. Got a broadcast all the way from Canada. Some chick up there is like the only news station going.”
“Some random Canadian chick? I call bullshit on that.”
The store was getting darker as they approached the back. “No, it’s for real,” Barry said.
“Did you hear this broadcast?”
“Not exactly,” Barry said. “But the guy said she was talking about all kinds of crazy shit going on out there now. Like some woman built a giant barricade in Chicago and is keeping half the city hostage. And they know who the people are who tried to take over the government; the ones who started all this.”
Quentin stopped walking. “Who knows?”
“Huh?”
“Who knows who the people are that did this to us?”
Barry shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s some guy named Laverne or something. He was the governor of New York or some shit like that. But now he’s fled to Brazil, which was apparently outside the range of all the catastrophe. I guess it’s all bikinis and margaritas down there still.”
Barry came to stop, and Quentin bumped into him. They were in almost complete darkness.
“You still got that lighter?” Quentin said.
Barry fumbled in his pocket for it then flicked it. He gasped. “Holy shit, would you look at this.”
He tapped his foot against something on the ground, then knelt next to it. A gas lantern.
Quentin picked up the red lantern and twisted it in his hands. Looked good, but he wasn’t sure about adding in gas. He still had a small amount in a flask in the backpack, but if he added it to the lantern and couldn’t get the thing working, they probably couldn’t return it to the flask.
“What are you waiting for?” Barry said.
“Thinking about wasting gas.”
“Shit or get off the pot, son.” Barry dug a hand into Quentin’s backpack, having made the decision for him.
Quentin didn’t argue, because they did need light, but the gas was such a rare commodity. Almost too valuable to use. But everything had become too valuable to use.
Barry poured a little into the lantern and twisted the knob, then sparked the lighter. It lit immediately. “How about that?” he said as the area around them came to life. They were at the back of the store, with shelves bolted to walls. Mostly shoes on the shelves. In front of them was a set of double doors.
Barry carried the lantern over to the shoes and dug through a few pairs. “Sandals, sandals… I’m not seeing anything in a size eleven, which is just my luck.”
Quentin looked back at the store entrance, and the light from outside was a tiny rectangle at the end of his sight. They did have a portable light now, but also being this far away from the entrance made him uneasy. No way of knowing if the back of the store had another exit, and those Eighteener gang bangers could still be hiding in the darkness.
Barry pressed open one of the double doors, peered inside, then waved Quentin on.
Quentin had no choice but to follow Barry and the light. They entered what looked like a long hallway, although there was no way to be sure how long. Or what was out there in the dark.
“You okay?” Barry said.
Quentin had a sudden craving for one of his home-rolled dry tobacco cigarettes. “Fine, why do you ask?”
“It’s just that I can hear you breathing. Seriously, we’re okay. There’s no reason to go all horror-movie panic chick on me.”
“Dude, I said I’m fine.”
“Okay then,” Barry said as he eased the lantern left and right. He tried the door on the left side of the hallway, but it was locked. Held up the lantern to a sign that read STORAGE. Sucked his teeth for a few seconds.
“What are you thinkin
g?” Quentin said.
“Probably not much in there. Cleaning products, maybe a mop and a broom. Not sure what all we could get for that.”
“If there’s ammonia or bleach, that’d be good to have. Remember that guy at the Guadalupe Bazaar? He was willing to trade anything for a cupful of bleach.”
Barry rubbed a hand over his chin. “Let’s keep it in mind on our way out. I’m thinking there’s bigger fish once we find the manager’s office.”
Barry pressed on, waving the lantern close to every door they passed. Most of them were unmarked, so he didn’t even bother. Barry seemed to have his sights set on a particular score, almost as if he knew where he was headed.
Finally, after checking a dozen doors, they came to one marked MANAGER. Barry tried the door, and it was locked. No surprise there. He passed the lantern to Quentin and slipped a set of hex keys from his pocket, and started trying different sizes in the lock. Barry had proved himself more than capable at breaking locks, which hadn’t ever been Quentin’s strong suit.
As Barry fumbled around with the lock, Quentin noticed something strange about the door. The metal plate that read MANAGER on the door was slightly askew. He held the lantern close to it and noticed that it also was a little bent.
It hadn’t always been on this door.
Quentin turned and walked toward the door across the hall.
“Hey,” Barry said. “I kinda need the light if I’m going to do this, you know?”
“Wait a second,” Quentin said. He held the lantern up to the door and saw the residue of adhesive in a spot that roughly equaled the placement of the sign on the other. “That’s not the manager’s office. This one is.”
Barry walked over and examined the residue. “Hot damn, son. I think you’re right. Tricky sign-switching bastards are no match for Quentin’s big brain.” He reached out and twisted the knob, but this time, it wasn’t locked.
“Wait,” Quentin said. “Why isn’t this one locked?”
