by Guy James
The girl scowled, but put her knife away. The man next to her, seeing that she had put her weapon away, nodded and said, “I’m Brian, looks like we’re all stuck here together. Let’s make the best of it.”
The girl still stood there, scowling and silent.
“That’s Lorie,” Sven said. “We’ve all had a rough day.”
The vegan nodded, took his cigarette out of his mouth, and stubbed it out on the outside of his box of matches—a questionable activity, he knew. Then he lit up a fresh cigarette, feeling relieved as he gave it its first few puffs.
Sven pointed at something on the ground next to Brian. “Anything on your iPhone? News? Anything?”
Brian shook his head. “It’s the strangest thing, nothing works, like the internet is dead. Still can’t place calls either. How can the internet be down unless something’s interfering with the signal?”
Sven looked perplexed. “Why would something be interfering with the signal?”
Then Lorie spoke up for the first time since the vegan walked in. “Because they don’t want us communicating with anyone, putting up YouTube videos of the infection, freaking out the whole world.”
That didn’t sit right with the vegan. “But the whole world might be like this, full of ghouls, then who would they be hiding it—”
“Ghouls?” Lorie exclaimed. “They’re not ghouls, they’re zombies. Sven, tell him.”
Sven shrugged. “Whatever they are, we don’t have enough information, about anything. And where’s the government to help us?” Sven turned to the vegan. “Randy, it’s not the whole world. I got a call from my mom this morning—she got through to me somehow—and she said it was just Virginia that’s affected. If it’s just Virginia, how else can you explain the internet being out except that they don’t want us communicating with people outside Virginia? I don’t know a lot about the internet, but I don’t think it can go out in one day, just like that.”
The vegan wasn’t sure how to process this new information. “Just Virginia? That doesn’t sound like the apocalypse at all. That sounds like...” He wasn’t sure what it sounded like. “How can it be just Virginia?”
Everyone shrugged.
Lorie drew her knife, a ferocity suddenly in her eyes. “What’s that noise?”
Sven looked at the vegan. The vegan looked back, inhaling deeply of the cigarette. Before either of them could answer, a desperate voice called out from behind the vegan. “They’re outside!”
The vegan turned, and he saw a tall woman who was obviously pretty underneath her current distressed appearance. She had two guns slung over her shoulders, one of which was enormous. The vegan recognized that it was a revolver, but he had never seen one so big before.
Maybe in the movies, he thought, in Clint Eastwood’s holster.
Then the woman turned to the vegan. “Who’s this?”
“A friend,” Sven said, “he helped me bury Evan.” The vegan was grateful for that. Apparently the carnivorous man was sharp, having figured out that the fastest way to disarm his group to the newcomer’s presence was to involve him as an assistant in the burial. The vegan guessed that whoever it was he had said a prayer for...had been special to all of them, a victim of the localized apocalypse, or whatever it was.
“Okay,” the woman said. “What do we do about them? And where the hell did they come from?”
Lorie began to walk toward the Wegmans entrance where the shutter was rattling harder now, loud enough for all of them to hear. They all followed her, and the vegan tagged along, feeling hungrier than ever as he lit up his next cigarette. He stayed behind the group and watched each of them tiptoe toward the rattling shutter, stare through it for a moment, then retreat, face aghast.
“Where did they come from?” the woman asked again, when everyone had had their chance to take in the terror. She looked directly at the vegan with her large, piercing eyes.
The vegan put up his hands defensively. “I didn’t bring them...at least I don’t think I did. They came out of the woods. I came in from the road, from the other side. I was walking up 29 all day. The ones I passed along the way, they reacted to me, but I lost sight of them as I got farther. I didn’t see any keep up with me.”
“It’s not his fault,” Sven said. “They came when we were burying Evan, out of the woods, out of nowhere, like he said.”
“They’re all clumping up against the entrance,” the woman said. “What if they’re surrounding the place?”
The vegan didn’t think so. He peered outside and saw that the mass of ghouls was getting larger, clinging to the outside of the shutter. He could see more coming out of the woods, staggering toward the throng now pressing to gain entry. “They’re all just here in this spot, and new ones are coming, but only in this direction, like they can hear us, or sense us. It almost looks coordinated.”
“They smell us,” Lorie said, with a conviction that chilled the vegan. “Just how we can smell them. They track us and hunt us down and kill us. They don’t need anyone to lead them. They can find their own way.” She looked up at the vegan with wide, vacant eyes, then she went off down the row of checkout aisles, toward the makeshift camp.
“I think this’ll keep them out,” Sven said, pointing to the shutter as he stepped away from the entrance.
The woman with the big gun looked unconvinced. “Help me put these back again.” She walked toward a long row of shopping carts, and Sven joined her. Together, they pushed several rows of shopping carts up against the back of the shutter. The vegan wasn’t sure how much help that would be if the ghouls broke through, but he figured it couldn’t hurt.
Then the vegan couldn’t take the feeling in his stomach anymore. “Sven, if it’s alright, I need to eat something. I’ll just grab something off the shelf and come back, okay?”
“Yeah, of course, sorry I forgot all about that.”
Grateful to get away from entrance and to finally look for some food, the vegan limped hurriedly toward the interior of the store. He knew exactly where the organic section was—up through the produce section in front of him, and then to the left.
The vegan noted the state of the avocados as he passed by them—of a lower quality than the ones he delivered, but passable. He made a mental note to begin working on them soon. Maybe he could even introduce the wondrous fruit to his new friends, if they weren’t familiar with it already.
They were a good bunch of people, he decided, very civil, considering the circumstances. He hadn’t caught the woman’s name, but there would be time for that later.
Walking through the produce section, something on the floor caught the vegan’s eye. There were dry, reddish smears on the tiles—they looked too much like dried blood to be anything else. The vegan stopped, but didn’t come any closer to the dried blood. He took a long drag on his cigarette, bent over, and took another look, from the angle of the floor. There, kicked between two of the movable displays, was a bloody towel, apparently forgotten.
The vegan straightened, deciding to let it go—at least until after he ate.
He walked into the organic section, feeling lighter as he entered that familiar part of the store. He turned in at the correct aisle and made a straight course for the Newman’s Own Peanut Butter Cups in Dark Chocolate that he’d been fantasizing about all day. He picked up one of the small treats, savoring the crinkle of the plastic in his hands.
The vegan tore it open, took his cigarette out of his mouth, and began to scarf down the small peanut butter cups. He was overeager at first, and one of the peanut butter cups made straight for his esophagus, the vegan having forgotten to apply the chewing step to that one. Once the peanut butter cup had completed its painful journey into the vegan’s stomach, he made himself slow down as he ate. After several packages of the peanut butter cups, the vegan let out a satisfied sigh and put his cigarette back into his mouth. Apocalypse or no, the vegan’s stomach now told him that things were going to be alright.
Relishing the feeling of a warm, ful
l stomach, the vegan half-sauntered, half-limped in and around the organic section’s small set of aisles until he found something else he wanted to eat. It was in the freezer, and though he was familiar with the frozen food’s brand, he had never tried this particular product before.
It must be new, the vegan thought, as he removed the package from the freezer. He turned it over and read the nutrition facts—no animal products, therefore suitable.
Carrying his prize, the vegan went back to the makeshift camp and sat down in a corner. He positioned himself so that he was close enough to be social, but far enough so that he was at an unthreatening distance. There the vegan unwrapped his frozen food item and began to eat.
102
Ivan liked to watch the new man from the moment the new man arrived. The new man smelled like grass and fire and burning. Ivan didn’t know why, but he liked the new man. The new man was good, and Ivan wanted the new man to stay. The new man had a shiny thing that he played with sometimes, and Ivan was curious about it. Now the new man had gotten something to eat. He was unwrapping it and—Ivan froze, terror and confusion riveting his body into place. Ivan steeled himself, approached the new man without getting too close, and hissed as powerfully as he could. The new man stopped what he was doing and looked down, made some noises, and then went back to unwrapping the food. Ivan hissed again, and again, and again, until his cat body hurt from it, but it was no use. The new man didn’t understand. Like the other people, the new man didn’t understand. Ivan brushed up against the new man’s legs, for the first and last time. Then Ivan ran away.
103
Jane came in off her watch sometime around 2 A.M.—at least according to the big Wegmans clock. Sven remembered where he’d stuck his watch, and though he wasn’t sure why he’d stashed it, he didn’t want to look at it right now. Just the thought of it made his throat lock up.
Jane crouched next to Brian and whispered something to him, then Brian winked out the light on his iPhone, got up, picked up his baseball bat, and walked away.
Maybe now, Sven thought, now that Jane’s back, I’ll be able to sleep a little.
Jane lay down on top of her sleeping bag without addressing Sven. That was alright, he decided, just her being there made the day a little less terrible.
Sven reflected on how Randy had left to find food, then had come back with some strange frozen food item that was completely unrecognizable. Sven asked him about it, and Randy cheerfully explained what it was, but it still made no sense to Sven.
He wasn’t in the habit of eating such things—he didn’t believe in them—and given his current state, it didn’t matter either way. Sven wasn’t going to try the bite that Randy offered him. Sven wasn’t going to try a bite of anything. He could barely keep down the water he was drinking. Food was not an option.
Sven’s mind was still resisting the events of the day. He didn’t believe what was happening, what he was seeing and feeling. It didn’t make any sense. And why wasn’t anyone there to help? Why were they suddenly cut off from the rest of the world?
And Ivan! How Ivan had scared Sven earlier that evening. That wasn’t like him, running off into the night. What was he doing in the woods with the zombies anyway? Sven looked over at Ivan, who had settled down on his paws in the middle of his arrangement of new bowls, each filled with food. Sven had picked out four of the meanest, metal cat bowls that the Wegmans had. Ivan was a tough cat, after all, and his bowl—or, as in this case, bowls—should show it.
Into the bowls Sven put tuna, sardines, sockeye salmon, and shrimp. Ivan deserved no less than a feast for getting through the day, and why not spoil him now? How much time did they have left at this rate?
Sven looked at Ivan, who lay there with his eyes half-open, and remembered the warning they had all given Randy. Randy had gotten up after finishing his frozen food item, suddenly announced that he needed matches, and then it must have crossed Jane’s mind that Randy didn’t yet know about Milt. She was right. Sven and Jane told Randy the barest of details, with Lorie chiming in hatefully every now and then. Randy’s expression grew more concerned as he listened, but the lecture hadn’t stopped him from walking off—probably in search of more of his strange food in addition to the matches.
Randy hadn’t come back, but Sven wasn’t worried about him, and felt no need to go searching for him. The man was a survivor. He had easily proven that today, having hobbled miles up 29 to safety, surviving hungry zombies, and according to the story he told, also surviving an encounter with an overweight, leather-clad, tire iron aficionado.
Sven was confident that after having come all this way, Randy would be just fine.
104
Milt was tromping up and down the candy aisle, stewing with rage. He couldn’t believe how foolish the others were in their sentimentality, in their unwillingness to see that he had saved them from the zombie boy—an inside threat that could have destroyed the safety of the Wegmans sanctuary they had taken for their haven.
He had eavesdropped after he left the produce section, hiding behind a large macaroon display to listen. He was appalled by the things they had all said about him...after all of the good he had done for them.
I saved them, Milt thought, and they repay me by speaking ill of me behind my back. They want me out of here, to displace me from the very sanctuary I fought to secure. I shall not allow such a travesty to pass into being. I most certainly shall not.
And he was almost as incredulous of their having taken issue with his treatment of the cleanup duties. So he hadn’t joined in the removal of the bodies, what of it? Didn’t they realize that he was above such menial tasks?
It is irrelevant, Milt decided, they can be stupid all they want. I shall not be stupid. I am not going to be caught unprepared, enslaved by rudimentary human emotions, and I shall continue to take the initiative when the situation calls for it. What unintelligent saps they all are, with no appreciation for the fine art of survival…and it is a fine art.
Now that the cretins had taken Milt’s sword away, creativity could become a necessity.
Milt gulped down the rest of the contents of the Coca-Cola bottle he held trembling in his hand. He set the liter bottle down and eagerly approached the shelf of candy miniatures, in the center of the aisle.
I shall feed my brain, he told himself, settle down a tad, and then plot my next move.
He tore open a package of Snickers miniature candies, and began popping the candies into his mouth with the ease of an expert candy popper. As he chomped, dribbling chocolate and nougat down his chin, he knew that he and the others were at an impasse, and that the only solution was to—
Milt found himself the sudden victim of a very odd hallucination: a very skinny man limped past the candy aisle, smoking a cigarette and carrying two cartons of cigarettes under his arm.
Milt rubbed his eyes with chocolate-smeared hands, making his eyelids sticky. Working through the sticky chocolate and nougat now on his face, he reopened his eyes and stared. The hallucination returned, backtracking to the mouth of the aisle and turning in toward Milt.
The slender apparition began to travel toward Milt. “Hi,” it said in a cheerful voice as it waved its cigarette in Milt’s direction. “You must be Milt.”
The apparition began limping faster now, and Milt dropped all the treats he was holding.
He recoiled, taking two laborious steps backward. “Stay back! My time on this plane is not yet finished!”
Then Milt grabbed a bag of miniature 3 Musketeers candy, tore it open, and began throwing the small candies at the hobbling ghost.
The ghost stopped and put up his cigarette hand for cover, still holding tightly to the cartons under his arm. “What?”
Milt flung another handful of small candies. “Do not play coy with me. I recognize Death when I see him, or rather, it.”
“I’m not Death,” the ghost said, almost believably. “I just got here. I’ve been carrying on up 29 all day, looking for a place to hide...” the ghost
’s voice dropped to a whisper, “from them.”
Milt wasn’t buying it. “Then how did you gain entrance to this place?”
The ghost hesitated, and began to hobble nearer.
Milt flung the remainder of the 3 Musketeers candies. “Stay back I say!”
“Alright, alright. Cool your jets. Sven let me in. He was burying…well…he was burying a dead person. That’s when I got here more or less.”
“More or less? Likely story.”
The ghost shrugged. “Likely or not, it’s the truth. I’m Randy.”
The ghost offered his hand to Milt. Milt looked at it with suspicion, and did not shake it.
He waited for the ghost to lower his hand, then he said, “I gather they have told you a plethora of fabrications as to my nature.”
“What?”
The ghost broke into a violent spasm of coughing, and Milt backed away, noticing for the first time the incredible pallor of this supposed man.
The pallor of him, though fitting for a specter, could mean only one thing in the ongoing zombie outbreak—this man who called himself Randy was turning.
“I see that you are ill,” Milt said. “Perhaps you should get some rest.”
“I’m exhausted. Been walking all day, got beat up, starved half to death on the way over here. You’re right. I was just on my way to find some blankets and set up. I think I’m gonna set up away from the others. I’m gonna be smoking for a while—probably all night—and I don’t like to smoke on kids, and I guess on non-smokers in general. I imagine I’ll find the aisle with matches and lighters and such and spread out there—I’m running low.” Randy put his cigarette in his mouth, fished a box of matches out of his pocket and shook it at Milt. “Just one left,” he said through his cigarette. Then Randy shrugged, said, “Good meeting you,” and walked out of the aisle.
