by James Sperl
Rule number two: always search the interiors of siphoned vehicles.
When the flatbed—and all of the food packed into it—was lost escaping from Travis, no one had fully grasped the impact such a reduction in food stores would have. At the time, the supplies were earmarked for four people. With Jon and his group's arrival, the number of hungry mouths had effectively doubled. Not a day later, Travis's crew had reduced the available food supply by more than half.
It went fast. Faster than anyone anticipated, despite rationing. Finding more became as important as finding fuel. At first, this wasn't a problem. In the weeks after all hell broke loose, before everyone realized the futility of continuing to try to turn a profit, a surprising number of stores remained open. Granted, they were usually guarded by armed local mercenaries, but at least people had a place to purchase goods, even if there wasn't much in the way of selection.
Staples were snapped up seemingly before they ever hit store shelves. Items like beans, rice, and pasta were always the first to go, along with soups, flour, sugar, and canned goods. That left less popular exotic selections—water chestnuts, bamboo shoots, hearts of palm, lychees—in abundant supply. They weren't anyone's first choice, but they filled bellies just the same. Quinoa and other ancient grains were plentiful and lined most of the stores' shelves that carried it. It was as if people didn't know what to do with them, so they left them alone. Andrew's voice resonated in Clarissa's head every time she came across a bag.
When people fled their homes, many had stocked their vehicles with whatever happened to be in their pantries at the time. Cereals, microwave popcorn, potato chips—everything was dumped into makeshift boxes and jammed into trunks. Once folks found themselves stranded and had to resort to walking, they carried only what they could from their paltry stores. In almost every instance, they left behind a small stash of food.
Clarissa took everything she found. It didn't matter what it was. Soup mixes, stale crackers, melted candy, opened jars of peanut butter—everything went into her loot sack. Beggars couldn't be choosers, as Maxwell used to say. She never truly understood the veracity of that idiom until she was forced to live it.
The searches often yielded more than just food. Sometimes Clarissa came across other necessities, such as left behind first-aid supplies, toothpaste, clothes, or shoes. Other times she found more frivolous items such as fashion or entertainment magazines and books (reading material!). Once, she even came across an iPad with sixty percent battery life remaining. She had never enjoyed playing Bejeweled more in her life.
Clarissa reached inside the Civic and popped the trunk. She skirted Andrew on her way to the rear of the car and heaved it open. There wasn't much. Just a family-sized bag of Tostitos, which would have been a real space hog, and two tubes of garlic-basil polenta. That was it. She tried to imagine the conversation that had taken place to whittle down the food choices to these three left-behind items.
“Bingo,” Andrew called out. Fuel gushed into the liter bottle in a steady stream. “I think we've got a winner.”
“Yeah?” Clarissa said, shutting the trunk. “That makes one of us.”
Andrew transferred the siphon tube to the first of three gas cans. “How're we looking out there?” he said.
Clarissa stood tall and scanned the immediate area. She saw Cesare and Rachel scamper from a car to a minivan and set down their gear. Past them in the far distance, Jon and Valentina were colored blobs. They cut into an aisle between cars where Clarissa lost sight of them. Everyone seemed fine, but that's not what Andrew was referring to. Turning from her friends, she panned over the area.
It was not uncommon for bands of raiders to lie in wait for unsuspecting scavengers. On at least two different occasions, Clarissa and the others had been surprised by a hidden enemy, desperate people who had tried to attack them and steal everything they had. Desperate, Clarissa noted, but ill-equipped and poorly trained. They had been lucky. Were it not for Andrew's anal retentive attention to preparedness and his deep-seated belief that humans were a violent species incapable of sustained peace, she and the others would have already met their fate.
He had an uncanny knack for knowing where would-be raiders laid in wait. Two different times, he had urged the group to pass up what looked to be golden refueling opportunities based solely on his intuition, only to have his intuition pay off moments later when the very types of people he suspected emerged to chase him and the others away. In both cases, they had been extremely fortunate when the thieves backed off from a high-speed chase after they recognized the fruitlessness of a gas-guzzling pursuit.
It helped that Jon agreed. His military background and experience in the field bought him acres of credibility. If someone disagreed with Andrew, he or she quickly changed his or her mind when Jon gave his stamp of approval. The pair made a formidable team, and Clarissa wasn't alone in feeling grateful that Jon and his group were part of their new family.
“I think we're good,” she said upon finishing a full circle sweep. “I don't see anyone.”
Andrew was already preparing a second gas can. “Good. Just keep an eye out.”
“Will do.”
Clarissa returned to the front passenger side of the Civic and plunged her head inside the cabin. It smelled of cigarette smoke and stale coffee. A half-drunk Starbucks cup sat in a holder under the radio, and Clarissa had to restrain herself from taking a sip of the rancid beverage. Yes, she missed coffee that much.
The inside of the car held little of value. She found tissue packs and a remnant stack of plastic cups still in its sleeve. Other than that, it was all trash. And lots of it.
She exited the Honda. “I know it's the end of the world,” she began through a crinkled nose, “but why does that mean we have to act like we live in an alley? I mean look at this.” She reached back into the car and picked up a fistful of refuse. “Hamburger wrappers, snack bags, napkins, and other nastiness. Is it really so hard to throw things into a...”
Clarissa's voice trailed and her brows furrowed at the sight of the neon orange sheet of paper in her hand. “Well, hello,” she said. “What do we have here?”
Andrew regarded her briefly, as he swapped out cans.
“Got something?”
Clarissa dropped everything except the orange paper. “I don't know. Maybe. It looks like an advertisement for a sleep camp.”
Andrew frowned. “Why 'maybe?' We've been hearing of sleep camps since Kansas.”
“No, I know. But those always seemed like they were confined to locals. People who got together through word of mouth. This,” she said, snapping the paper, “is next level shit. I've never seen a sleep camp like this before or one that was advertised and computer printed.”
Andrew looked up at her. “It's printed?”
Clarissa handed it to him. Andrew took it and read over the flyer with a prominent crease in his forehead. She thought he started to see what she meant.
Typically, sleep camps included only the people who lived in the communities where they originated. Locals who knew and trusted each other and who watched over one another to prevent in-sleep disappearances. It became a common practice across the country and probably, Clarissa thought, the world. Outsiders were rarely welcomed into a sleep group, due in large part to the worldwide plummet of morality and human decency. People just flat out couldn't be trusted anymore. Clarissa had heard more stories than she wanted to about people ingratiating themselves into sleep communities only to rob them, murder them, or both once trust was gained. Hell, Clarissa had a firsthand account of such atrocities, and that happened early on in the Sound's timeline. Things have only deteriorated since.
The sleep camps promoted on the flyer were something different. The touted safe havens weren't private homes—they were stadiums. Ohio Stadium in Columbus, Great American Ballpark in Cincinnati, Progressive Field in Cleveland—all were among a master list inviting anyone who needed a place to live to join those already there for a safe environment to sle
ep.
Andrew was unimpressed. He thrust the paper back at Clarissa.
“Well?” she said, taking it.
“Well, what?”
Clarissa sighed. “What do you think?”
“What do I think? I think it sounds like a nightmare scenario, that's what I think.”
“Nightmare?” she said, recoiling as if she had just smelled something foul. “How so? If they're able to put people up in stadiums, then that must mean there's an organized government in place. If there's a government, then that means there's protection and order, and if there are those things then there's a pretty good bet there's food too. You remember food? That thing we struggle to find daily?”
Andrew slowly looked up at her. “First off, nowhere on that piece of paper does it mention the United States Government, the Ohio State Government, or even the governments of participating counties. There isn't even a state seal.”
Clarissa looked at the flyer and saw that Andrew was right. “Okay,” she said, “so there's no seal. Does that mean none of those governments are involved? Come on. Who else could pull off something this professional looking? You're splitting hairs.”
“Maybe. But in these times, when folks are looking for security and someone to trust, I would think the first thing a government would do is convince people they were still present.” Andrew nudged his chin toward the flyer. “Nothing there indicates that. Not that doing so would have been any assurance to the folks who already didn't trust the government.”
Clarissa dropped her arms to her sides. “Okay, now you're starting to sound like some of Aunt Mae's customers. Seriously, though, you don't think this is worth checking out? I mean, come on. This is printed. They must have power, right? If they've got power, then they might have the means to communicate or grow food.
Andrew shook the siphon hose, which sputtered. “You don't need power to grow food.”
Clarissa's entire body went slack from frustration. Andrew was being difficult. “Yeah, I know, but...what I'm saying is that they may have things, okay? Food, water. Hell, they may even have a military or police force to keep the peace, for all we know.”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “Because that's what we need: more trigger-happy fools with badges to hide behind to justify their actions.”
“Oh, come on,” Clarissa said, as Andrew extracted the siphon tube and stood. “Don't be so cynical. Not everyone is a shithead.” She pointed toward the others who collected gas down the road. “Do you really need more proof of that?”
Andrew hoisted the half-full can of gas and lugged it over to a burnt orange Chevy Sonic. He set down the rusted container beside the vehicle with a sloshy clomp.
“Look, I like Jon and the others too, but we got lucky. They could just as easily have been another group of Travises who drove down my driveway that night. Had that happened, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Don't ever forget that.” He knelt and pried open the gas door.
“And don't you forget,” Clarissa began, “that not everyone and everything is as bad as you make them out to be. I mean, yeah, we're all in a tough spot right now. So is the entire rest of the world. And yeah, there are some bad people out there. But there are good ones too.” She held up the flyer. “And they might—just might—be in places like this. If this whole Rosenstein thing doesn't work out, don't we owe it to ourselves to find out?”
Andrew punched a screwdriver through the gas cap and twisted it open. He threw the cap aside and fed the siphon tube into the tank. He looked up at Clarissa with eyes devoid of amusement.
“You want my honest opinion? What I truly believe?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay, here goes. I believe that when it comes to people, at least one will try to jockey for power over another. It's in our nature to control, to exert dominance. And when you have people in positions of power, the less strong are relegated to slaves.” Andrew jabbed a finger at the flyer. “Make no mistake. These sleep camps are organized, someone is in charge, and they're profiting at the expense of everyone else's fear and misery.”
Clarissa's mouth hung open as if she'd lost muscle control in her jaw. “Jesus Christ,” she said, shaking her head, “what in the hell happened to you up in those mountains all by yourself?”
Andrew chuckled manically. “Me? What happened to me? I gained clarity and perspective. That's what happened. By and large, people are narcissistic, self-absorbed opportunists who will always choose what's best for themselves over what's best for the group.”
Clarissa faux-smiled. “Gee. Thanks. Your opinion of us is flattering.”
Andrew dropped his shoulders and rolled his head in misunderstood exasperation.
“Obviously, there are exceptions. True human goodness is tested when a person has something to lose, and right now that person is all of us. You think these camps are populated with kind souls who welcome weary travelers with open arms and a hot meal? That you'll join up with the others already there and ride out whatever's going on in peaceful, commune-like co-existence? You're deluding yourself. Each one of these places will be a post-Katrina Superdome hell to the tenth power. A microcosm of society at its self-centered, kill-or-be-killed worst. What do I think? I think I would rather walk on my hands and knees over broken glass cross-country than end up in one of those asylums.” Andrew returned to his siphoning duties. “But that's just my opinion.”
Clarissa delivered Andrew a mock expression of inquisitiveness. “So, are you saying you don't want to go?”
Andrew opened his mouth to reply but shook his head when he realized Clarissa was giving him a hard time. A person less familiar with his curmudgeonly personality might have cried tears of intimidation by the bullish way he spoke his mind, but Clarissa had grown accustomed to Andrew's directness and intensity. He didn't mean to come across as a crotchety old grump. He just believed what he believed. Heaping doses of passion were often at the core of his arguments even though people often misinterpreted said passion as browbeating.
Clarissa tried the passenger door of the Chevy. It opened effortlessly. No sooner did she yank the door open to its furthest travel than she recoiled in eclipsing horror. She pinwheeled clumsily backward, stumbling and landing hard on her backside.
Andrew, who saw the whole thing, abandoned the fuel and rushed to her side.
“You all right?” he said, crouching beside her with a dry smile. “Might be time to give up that dance career.”
It was an attempt at humor, and were it another time, Clarissa might have found it funny. But the rotting corpse slumped at an obscene angle over the dashboard sapped any levity. Andrew followed her shocked gaze to the car. His dry smile dried up.
The body was in an advanced state of putrefaction. Desiccated flesh clung to bones like wet charcoal paper, the head twisted impossibly askew. Two cavernous bullet holes punched chasms into the face, one just above the left eye, the other a festering crater in the right cheek.
At one time, the body had been a woman. Blue-jean clad with a snug lavender top—which was now soaked through with gray-black nastiness—she was the only person in the car.
Clarissa was relieved to discover no signs of children, but she had trouble envisioning the scenario that left a passenger dead—executed?—and the car absent a driver, and all while stranded in the middle of a miles-long traffic jam. Had others seen what happened? Had anyone tried to help? Or had events played out well after people ditched their cars and struck out on foot? Perhaps the woman had been scavenging just as Clarissa and the others were and had come across some bad elements. In the end, she supposed it didn't matter what or how it happened.
Andrew pulled Clarissa to her feet.
“You all right?” he asked again.
“Yeah,” she replied, barely able to tear herself away from the body to look at Andrew. “Yeah, I'm okay. Let's just get this done so we can get the hell out of here.”
Andrew nodded. “On that at least, we agree.”
He returned to siphoning, but
Clarissa caught him sneak occasional looks at her. She appreciated his concern, but it wasn't necessary. She had seen enough dead bodies and reconciled her emotions to deal with the trauma of having gone from a first-shift waitress to hardscrabble survivalist long ago. She was sure much of the world had made similar transitions.
Even so, the woman haunted her. Now more than ever Clarissa feared her mortality. The discovery of so many seemingly organized sleep camps instilled a hope she had thought long since dwindled. The drudgery of moving from place to place, searching for something she felt they would likely never find, wore on her—and she wasn't the only one. She craved stability even more than she craved a piping hot meal she didn't have to get from a can and prepare over an outdoor fire.
The urge to abandon their Rosenstein quest and investigate one of these camps was tantalizing. Andrew may be right in his assessment of them, but what if he was wrong? What if these camps were the dictionary definition of utopia, places where people had banded together to form functioning societies, where everything wrong with the world before the Sound reared its noisy head had been corrected? The possibility that places like that could exist were too great to ignore.
If Rosenstein turned out to be a bust, she had a backup plan. A powerful impulse toyed with her to go now, but she couldn't leave. Not yet. Too many people depended on her, and if she was honest with herself, she still depended on them. No, she would see through this Rosenstein ghost chase to the end. If things didn't pan out, she would recon one of these camps and invite anyone who would rather choose living over just surviving to join her.
Who knew? Maybe she would discover other such camps along the way. Places that were even better than the ones in Ohio. She was no fortune teller, but she felt optimistic about her chances.
Though she wasn't religious, Clarissa said a small prayer for the poor woman. Then she kicked the door closed and moved on to the next car.
