by John O'Brien
She opens the door and enters, feeling a cooler draft of air brush by her cheeks. A chime sounds. Emily stands by the entrance, expecting someone to respond to the sound, but no one appears. All she hears is a hum emanating from the coolers.
“Hello,” she calls. “Anyone here?”
There isn’t any response, which worries Emily almost more than biking down the highway alone. She again calls out, but is met with the same. She walks past the aisles, looking down each one for someone. Opening one of the coolers, she looks past the shelves to see if anyone is behind them, and walks down hallways to listen for the sound of showers. Roaming the entire store, she doesn’t find anyone.
The lights are on, but no one is home.
She remembers hearing that phrase from someplace, but can’t remember exactly where. Stepping outside, she walks all of the way around the large building, but doesn’t find any vehicles, nary a sign of anyone. Back inside, she wonders what she should do. There’s food everywhere and she knows that she may need more, but the thought of stealing and getting caught scares her more than anything else she’s been through.
Well, almost, she thinks, eyeing the shelves.
Emily calls out one more time, louder. She looks out of the entry doorway to see if anyone is pulling up. Not seeing anything, she walks to the snack aisle and timidly takes a small roll of Oreos. She opens it, expecting someone to burst into the aisle with a, “Haha, caught you.” Her heart beats wildly and she feels her face flush as she takes one of the cookies out. She pauses with it close to her mouth, thinking that if she hasn’t actually eaten one, then she isn’t really stealing. No one charges around the corner or calls out. She nibbles on the edge, looking with fear-filled eyes to each end of the aisle. Seeing no one appear, she bites into it, downing the cookie in two bites.
Not realizing that she was so hungry, she tears through the rest of the package. Thirsty, she begins to open her pack for a drink, then looks toward the soda sign. She edges toward the cooler, which contains all kinds of sodas, some she hasn’t ever heard of before. Still tentative, she opens the chilled door and reaches in to withdraw a can of Dr. Pepper—her favorite. Emily doesn’t have any money on her, so can’t use the excuse that she was going to pay for it. She wasn’t screamed at for taking the cookies and the temptation is too great. She opens the can, the pop of the tab loud within the store, and gulps down a quarter of it. She burps, the taste of Oreos and Dr. Pepper filling her mouth.
With no one bothering her and knowing that she may need food, the floodgates open. Emily finds a larger pack hanging near the back of the store and transfers the stuff in her own to the new one. With a bit more room, she contemplates what else to put into it. There’s the temptation to stuff it full of candy, but even she knows that won’t sustain her for long. She comes to a compromise. She’ll pack good stuff to take with her and fill up on the candy and sweets before she leaves. Feeling that she’s reached a satisfactory answer, she fills her pack with a loaf of bread, plastic silverware, small packs of Kleenex, some peanut butter, and a jar of jam, adding a couple of water bottles. Hefting the pack, she finds it heavy, but not so much that she can’t lift it.
Feeling satisfied, she grabs a couple of her favorite candy bars, cookies, and a bag of chips. She looks through several comic books at one of the turnstile stands, picks one out, and heads back to the cooler, where she dumps her pile. Grabbing a couple of soda cans, she settles to the ground, enjoying her feast while reading through the comic book. It’s like finding a hidden treasure, hers for the taking. With one ear, she listens for the telltale chime of someone coming in. She really has no idea what she’ll do if she gets busted, but for the moment, she enjoys her feast.
Finishing the comic, she stands, burping several times. There were showers and beds advertised and she’d like to stay, but the longer she remains, the better the chance of being caught. She gathers her trash and dumps it in one of the containers near the register. A bank of prepaid phones lines part of the wall behind the register. Emily doesn’t remember any of the numbers stored on her phone, but the thought that she could download some games to play enters her mind.
Taking chips is one thing, but taking a phone is really stealing, she thinks, eyeing the dollar figures printed on the phone packages. I could go to prison for that.
At the door, she remembers how she had nothing to do while waiting to fall asleep under the bridge. Grabbing a couple of comic books, she stuffs them in her new pack. Emily hesitates at the door. She has a lot of stolen stuff. If she’s still in the store, they’re not technically stolen, but once she walks out the door, she’ll be a thief.
Looking out the door for any indication that someone has pulled up, she sees the pumps and parking lot the same as before. She calls once more inside the store, but hears only the continuing faint drone of the coolers. The trek with the soldiers out of her city comes to mind and she ponders what the tall sergeant would do. He wouldn’t worry about taking anything if it could help.
After all, he took my dad’s guns. This is all about survival. I’m trying to survive and that means using everything I can, she rationalizes.
In Emily’s mind, it becomes a game.
Taking stuff isn’t stealing, it’s surviving, she thinks, eyeing the phones. That’s what I’ll tell anyone if I’m caught. I’m just trying to survive.
Laying the pack by the entrance, she walks around the counter, finds a step stool, and pulls one of the more expensive phones off the hook. She reads the back, seeing how to activate the cell.
“That looks easy enough,” she mutters, pulling down several others.
Shouldering her pack, complete with a few of the phones, she opens the door. The entry chime sends a momentary feeling of panic through her, but she calms a spit-second later after realizing that she caused it. Coming from the coolness inside the store, the growing warmth outside seems sweltering. Emily rides away, feeling the heaviness of the pack on her shoulders. Expecting someone to chase out of the store after her, she’s both relieved and a little disappointed when no one does. She crosses the overpass and descends the on-ramp, once again heading for Pineville.
The warmth of the day builds. Pedaling up small rises and across flats heats her even more. It isn’t long until her stomach rebels against the candy, chips, and soda she downed. She feels dizzy and nauseous. All at once, she sharply brakes, the back tire skidding on the pavement.
“Oh God…Oh God…Oh God…Please no,” Emily chants, letting the bike fall and stepping to the shoulder.
She leans over and upends the contents of her treasure. The sight of the mess causes more of the same, and soon she’s dry-heaving. The weight of her pack tilts upward as she leans, threatening to drag her into the nastiness. The nausea subsides, but the taste in her mouth remains. Emily steps back, trying her best not to look at the partly digested feast.
Picking up the bike, she walks it a short ways down the road. The soda caused her mouth and nose to burn on its way up. Taking some of the Kleenex, she blows her nose, then drinks some of her water. She feels better, but also a little weak.
The pack is too heavy, she thinks, attempting to refocus. But, I’ll need all of the stuff I have.
An idea forms and she sits on the ground with her pack next to her. Taking out the bread, peanut butter, and jam, she begins making one sandwich after another. Removing all of the bread, she places the completed sandwiches into the plastic bag. Finishing, there’s still quite a bit of the peanut butter and jam left over. She can’t carry the weight of the jars and makes the decision to leave them.
I have a lot of sandwiches, so I should be okay, she thinks, not wanting to leave the jars behind and add to the litter.
In the end, she understands that she really doesn’t have a choice and leaves them by the side of the road. She also removes a couple of the sodas she “snuck” into her pack and places them by the spreads.
The water is valuable, so that stays, she thinks, repacking.
Hungry
again and wanting to rid her mouth of the rancid taste, she eats a sandwich. Feeling a little more refreshed, she again begins making her way down the highway. As the miles slowly count down, she recognizes some of the taller buildings of her town. A clock tower that was near the college rises above a line of trees that extend into the plain. Emily knows the trees are part of the same woods that she played in and that the line follows the creek. With the sun high overhead, she comes to another bridge spanning the same stream.
Stopping, she again scans the skies for helicopters and the valley for soldiers; both are completely devoid of life. The creek babbles merrily below and she wonders if she should follow it back to her house. She weighs her options, worrying that she may not be able to bring her bike.
Riding up an on-ramp leading to the city, she is struck by the smell of ash, like the campfires after her dad put them out. Several of the taller downtown buildings look crumpled and old…darker. It’s obvious to Emily that they’ve been bombed, as has everything in sight. Near the edge of town, burnt and fallen timbers lie strewn in all directions along with stone and brick. In some places, it’s difficult to make out where the structures once stood. Several larger buildings have collapsed, sending piles of debris to block barely identifiable avenues. Everywhere she looks, Emily sees craters from where the bombs struck, deeper ones from exploding gas stations; everything around them is blown clear.
She rides as far as she can into the outskirts, but then has to leave her bike leaning against a pile of smashed bricks. The smell of old smoke lies heavily in the area, along with something else…rancid. She isn’t sure what is causing the horrible underlying odor, but she wrinkles her nose every time the scent rises.
Emily picks her way around the rubble, circling around the larger craters. The land, the city, has been devastated and no longer recognizable. Everything that hasn’t burnt into ash is darkened by layers of smoke. Amid the piles of dirt, ash, pieces of timber, and stone, Emily sees other shards that she doesn’t recognize. She reaches down to pick up one of the objects, barely poking through. It’s covered in soot, which she attempts to wipe away. The item won’t come clean, but it’s not long before Emily realizes that she’s holding a piece of bone.
“Ewww,” she says, tossing the thing away and wiping her hands on her pants.
It’s then that she begins seeing more and more bones. She doesn’t recognize what many of them are and none of them actually form a whole skeleton, but she knows that the pieces lying in the piles are bones…bones of people. Sickened, she stares over the area and realizes that even the birds have vanished. There isn’t a one to be seen. Everywhere she looks, it’s the same. She doesn’t want to venture any further. It’s obvious that there’s no one left in the city and she doesn’t want to walk among the bones any longer. She’ll have to search for her parents elsewhere.
Her mind won’t allow her to contemplate that some of the bones could be those of her parents. They have to be alive. It’s her reason for continuing. That, and fear. If she keeps moving, surely she’ll eventually come across someone who can help.
But where? Where do I go? Which direction? I can’t go back, there’s nothing there to go back to. I have enough food for a while, and can maybe pick up more.
She heads back to her bike, trying not to stare at the ground. The thought that she had touched one of the bones of someone who used to be alive sickens her. Not just physically, but mentally as well.
Back on the highway, she heads south, her original direction. The wind in her face is refreshing, but when she pauses, the stink of the city rises. With a squeaking bike, she pedals down the shoulder of the highway, the ruined city she grew up in fading into the distance.
Chapter Eight
Missouri
October 7
Sitting at the entrance to the gas station and mart just off the two-lane highway, Koenig stares through the windshield of the Land Rover. It wasn’t as difficult as he imagined getting away from the facility in Fredericks. He grabbed several protective gear suits and walked past security. He had been expecting someone in the presidential bunker to view his departure as treason and make a call. His heart was pounding and his stomach clenched at each step down the corridors and when rounding each corner. At any moment, he anticipated hearing heels clicking on the mirrored linoleum tiles; the telltale sound of security approaching to apprehend him. Instead, carrying the supplies he had gathered, he returned the salute of the security personnel, walked out of the front entrance, down the wide steps, and strode to his vehicle.
On the way to his residence, he called his wife and informed her that he was coming and intended to drive westward toward Colorado. He recited to her a list of the supplies that came to mind.
“Is it that bad?” she asked.
“Yes, we need to get the fuck out of Dodge,” he replied. “Or Frederick…or away from the entire eastern seaboard. Do not go outside or talk to anyone. And, put on a protective mask.”
“James, we aren’t going to be able to carry all of that stuff.”
“Okay…okay. Food, water, flashlights, batteries, blankets or sleeping bags. Those first, but have the other stuff ready,” he stated. “I have maps in the car and should be there in about thirty minutes. Just be ready to go.”
He knew that call would cause her no small degree of anxiety, but he needed to use his time to think and plan a route. Due to the nature of his work, they had had many “what if” discussions, so although the call had been sudden, it wasn’t entirely unexpected.
It wouldn’t be easy getting out of the crowded eastern part of the nation without running into a multitude of people; many of them infected and probably turned already. His plan was to make their way across the country via back roads, thereby limiting the number of people they would meet.
Arriving at home, the conversation had been brief, with him highlighting the plan to find a remote area with access to food and water. Although not much of a hunter, he still had a .270 deer rifle, a shotgun, and a couple of handguns. Even though he wasn’t part of the combat arm of the army, it was difficult not to buy into the gun culture. By no means a marksman or some master tactician, he still went to the gun range often enough to know which part of a firearm to point forward.
A flurry of activity had seen the Land Rover packed to the brim without rhyme or reason. All too soon and with less gear than he would have liked, he locked the door to their residence, climbed into the vehicle, and backed out of the driveway. Expecting to be caught in miles-long traffic jams, Koenig had been pleasantly surprised by the lightly traveled roads.
Maybe because everyone is ill, he thought at the time.
Koenig had counted himself lucky after finding a couple of gas stations still operational. He had thrown a garden hose in the back, thinking that he would have to siphon gas to fuel their trip across the country, though he didn’t like that thought. He had been part of several planning groups that focused on some end-of-the-world think-tanks. In every scenario, each panel had come to the conclusion that the beginning moments of any apocalyptic event were the most dangerous, when the realization of what was happening hit the general populace. The recognition that resources were now going to become scarce would send people to extreme measures to procure the smallest of items. A can of gas, a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, a pack of cigarettes would become valuables to fight and die over.
They had passed through small towns like Climax Springs and Tightwad. Those had been like ghost towns, though at several points Koenig felt that eyes were peeking through drawn curtains, only to vanish when he looked at them. Twice they had to turn around and find another route when he noticed mobs running through the streets. He didn’t stay around to find out if they were looters or infected, but their behavior looked like the latter. Even protected, there was no way he was going to get close to anyone exhibiting signs of infection. In his mind, the air was filled with the airborne virus. That was aside from the concern of being mauled.
Well, it loo
ks like our easy ride is over, Koenig thinks, staring through the windshield.
He feels the slight vibration from the idling engine as he gazes upon the small parking lot. Directly ahead, the covering above shades two rows of fuel pumps. To the right stands the small store with “Bucks Stop” adorning the front. A red sedan is parked next to one of the pumps. A body lies on the ground between the vehicle and pump, the fuel nozzle still grasped by a cold hand.
Turning his gaze to the front of the store, he spies two additional vehicles occupying the few marked parking places. Even from his distance, Koenig sees shards of glass twinkling in the sunlight near the entrance, fallen there from the shattered front doors. Draped through one of broken doors lies another body, the dark stain of dried blood visible beneath the corpse. A third body lies on the warm pavement between the store and the pumps.
“James? Shouldn’t we be getting out of here?” Koenig’s wife asks.
“Yes. However, we need fuel. We’ve used up what’s in the cans and we won’t get twenty miles without more,” he replies, gazing up the road toward the town of Clinton. “Given what we see here, I’m not sure that we’ll find much in that city. If anything, it might be worse.”
“Three people have already died trying to get gas or supplies from here. I’d rather not add to that count,” she states.
“Me neither. I’m thinking whoever did this is gone, or they all killed each other. After all, we’ve been sitting here for several minutes and no one has bothered us yet,” Koenig responds.
“That doesn’t mean that they’re not inside waiting for us.”
“No…no it doesn’t. If we don’t get fuel, and get it soon, this will be our new home and I’m not very keen on that,” Koenig says, looking around. “Hand me the firearm on the floor under you.”
“Seriously?!”
