2014 Campbellian Anthology

by Various

  We head off to a pharmacy to get the list of supplies I carefully composed: smart bandages, spray antiseptic, a prescription for penicillin, inhalers for Tyler. Who knows when they’ll run out? But the place is shuttered and the door’s electronic sign reads:

  closed. permanently.

  “How can they close?” Callie asks. “Just like that? They were open last week.”

  The steel shutters hide and protect any supplies that might still be sitting on the shelves. Did the people who worked here get so scared they just took off? Left everything behind? To go where? Travel is restricted. Or were they afraid of mobs desperate for medical supplies, pulling everything off the shelves without paying? Or worse, robbing them at gunpoint?

  “Maybe they weren’t doing good business. Like a lot of places today,” I say.

  The next stop on my list is the home supply store. We stand in a long line, our cart stuffed with batteries, duct tape, and some tarp. I jealously eye people with lumber in their carts. Ray only wanted the batteries. He’ll probably roll his eyes at me for the tarp, saying it won’t do any good. But I decided to go for it. Maybe we’ll want it to cover the windows. Maybe he’ll end up thanking me.

  I wouldn’t have been able to fit any lumber in our SUV anyway. Those people probably have trucks.

  “Look, Mom.” Callie picks up a toy fan in the shape of a hedgehog.

  She turns it on and it blows her long hair. She’s in love with something she didn’t know existed a minute ago.

  “Put it back.” Another day, I would have said yes. But I am not in a frivolous mood.

  She does a fake pout and puts it on the shelf carelessly, like she really never wanted it in the first place. It falls over on its side, as if wounded by rejection.

  Outside the store, Callie rolls the cart to our SUV while I get out my keys. I open up the back hatch and set my purse inside to move aside a box of water bottles and Tyler’s baseball bat. I hear a voice.

  I turn to see a man approaching Callie with a smile. He’s in his twenties, lanky, wearing a hoodie. Seems warm for this weather.

  “I’ll give you a hand with that,” he says as he lifts a bag of tape and batteries out of the cart she’s holding.

  He’s too close to her. I step toward him.

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “We can manage.”

  He turns to me. “Okay, ma’am.”

  He drops the bag into my outstretched hands and it almost slips from my grip. Then, before I realize what’s happening, he reaches over and snatches my purse from the back of the car.

  “No!” I shout. “Stop!”

  He runs. I drop the bag and chase him.

  “Mom, don’t!” Callie yells.

  I am not listening. I am fueled by some anger that has been building in me. He is not going to take my wallet, my ID, my money, my credit cards, my phone with all my information. Hours at the gym pay off as I catch up to him and grab him by the neck of his hoodie. I yank and he falls backward. We both tumble to the ground. Callie runs up, holding the baseball bat like a weapon.

  He looks at her and then at me as we engage in a tug-of-war over my purse. He reaches inside with his free hand and grabs my cell phone.

  “Drop it,” I say.

  Callie stands over him, bat ready to strike. He can’t be thinking he’ll get away with taking anything at this point. I see the anger of defeat in his dark eyes and he takes that anger and smashes my phone, facedown, against the asphalt.

  “There’s your precious phone,” he says as he scrambles to his feet and away.

  Callie hesitates for a moment, as if she’s going to give chase, but then kneels down next to me, dropping the bat. She puts her arms around my neck.

  “It’s all right, Mom, you’re okay.”

  I feel my face. It’s wet. I examine my fingers for blood but realize that tears are streaming down my cheeks.

  • • •

  The Spore, later

  The walls of the spore’s container shake. He asks his friend, What is happening?

  The friend warns him. Hold on.

  The spore pushes up close to his friend, hoping they will not be separated.

  Their world spins so hard the two end up on opposite sides. The spore is pushed against one wall. He’s sure he’ll be crushed to nothing when the spinning stops, just a thin, flat wisp of himself. A high-pitched sound wails until it pierces his being. He wonders if the other spores are screaming, and then he recalls that they cannot scream. It is just sheer terror that is communicated. It emanates from him as well.

  Finally, the spinning slows until it comes to a stop. The spore is dizzy. He waits for the feeling to pass and then glances around.

  Where is my friend?

  Then he sees him, by the wall, to his left. He rolls over to him.

  Are you all right?

  His answer is not a good one: sadness.

  My time is done, he says. I did not pass the test.

  Hang on, my friend. You must rest. You’ll be all right in a moment.

  You made it. You will go on. But you must do something for me.

  Anything.

  You must carry on for me. You will go on the mission, as I would have.

  What is our mission?

  You must spread our essence.

  How?

  You will meet your destiny.

  When?

  Soon.

  But how will I know?

  You will know.

  • • •

  Barbara Woodland, in the car, 11:20 a.m.

  Callie rides in silence as I drive through the city. It all has a different feel than yesterday, as if our windows were now tinted with a yellow filter, scratched and faded. Everybody on the street seems to be focused on their survival. Like ants they are hunting, gathering, building, running scared.

  The grocery store is a mile away. I take a back route to save time, a route I haven’t used for months. There are closer stores that we usually go to, but they’re too small, and at this point, they’ll be out of most everything. How much food do we need to have in our house? Enough to last a month? Longer? What if the electricity goes out? Should I not count on freezer food?

  “Look, Mom,” Callie says.

  She points to the oddest sight I can think of at this dire moment: a miniature golf course. Complete with purple turrets, gold flags with blue stars, all meant to catch your eye and your dollars. And for a moment, I am seduced by the yellow windmills, big wooden lollipops, a castle covered with diamonds.

  “When did they put that in?” I ask.

  “Last year. Can we go?” she asks.

  What a crazy idea. Kids. They have this ability to forget the serious concerns of life, the questions about how to prepare for tomorrow, because they live so much in the present. They haven’t experienced tomorrow’s disappointments.

  “I doubt it’s open.”

  “It is. I see, the gate is open.” Her voice is now almost squeaking.

  “We really should hit the store and go home.” I step on the gas.

  “Just for a little while. Please.”

  I look around, pretending to be clueless. “We’ve already passed it.” I shrug.

  “Please. Can’t we go back?”

  I don’t want either of us outside more than we have to be. But I don’t want to scare her either. I glance over at her sitting beside me, and I don’t see a sixteen-year-old edging closer to becoming a responsible adult. I see a five-year-old with chubby cheeks and big eyes, begging me to stop at the carnival to ride the teacups that will spin her until she is dizzy.

  I make a U-turn in the middle of the road and she rewards me with a toothy grin.

  As we pull into the parking lot, the golf place doesn’t seem quite right. It seems… empty.

  “There’s no one here,” I say.

  “Good. Then we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

  I get out of the SUV and notice how stiff I am. Then I remember the fight with the thief. I look down and see that my
clothes are filthy from the scuffle. I brush them off as best I can, then hide my purse under the seat, taking only my wallet. Callie tosses her purse over her shoulder and runs toward the open gate.

  “Callie, wait up.”

  I join her at the check-in booth just inside the entrance. No one is there. She reaches over the counter and grabs a golf club.

  “Here, this one’s yours,” she says as she hands me one of the longer clubs.

  “I don’t know about this.”

  It seems wrong. Like stealing. I wonder if we should leave some money on the counter. Callie gets a shorter club for herself and two golf balls. And a scoring paper with a short pencil.

  “Bet you a dollar I beat you,” she says with a gleam in her eyes.

  We head to the first hole, a windmill. I glance around and notice that the electronic frills are not functioning, of course. But the retro parts, the ones powered by wind or weights, like this windmill, are still good as ever. Callie puts down her ball and swings. It goes right through the moving blades of the windmill and into the circle of green behind it. The ball makes a hollow, high sound as it rolls around the inside of the cup.

  “Hole in one!” she says, doing a little victory dance.

  She’s forgotten about everything except this game. It makes me smile.

  • • •

  The Spore, later

  The spore is transferred out of the container by a kind of sieve that only lifts the ones who are still round and whole. As it lifts him higher, he sees his friend through the floor below. The friend lies on the bottom of the container, still and cold.

  Goodbye, friend.

  The spore thinks about dying and is grateful it didn’t happen to him.

  Is that bad?

  He remembers what his friend said and realizes he can be good. He can make it up to him by fulfilling the promise. The little spore readies himself.

  He is moved to another canister with the other spores that survived the test. A lid is clamped down and their canister is put into another container, one that blocks out all light. He doesn’t mind; he can sense the others. There is a lot of noise, clanking and banging, as the canister is turned on its side. And then there is quiet. The spores are weightless, bouncing and floating in their container.

  The spore hears the thoughts of the other spores. They speak of flying to their destinations. They are euphoric.

  • • •

  Barbara Woodland, Golden Castle Miniature Golf Course, 12:15 p.m.

  Callie tees up her ball on the eighth hole. I watch as she grips her club, then looks to the goal, a hole past a little culvert that should be a stream. But of course, there is no water. Probably hasn’t been water flowing here for months. I wonder if the owners decided to shut down some time ago or if it was just the employees today who ran, leaving the place open. Are we utter fools to be outside?

  It is the eighth hole. Only one more to go. She hits her ball and it flies nicely over the dry stream, right to the little patch of fake grass, near the hole. Her aim is good; she learned that from Ray. She’s always accurate on the gun range too.

  Will he be pleased and proud to hear about this? Or angry that we did something so crazy?

  “Your turn, Mom.”

  I have to try. I have to finish, so I might as well get it over with. Before I hit the ball, I see some boys coming onto the course. They’re at the first hole, clubs in their hands. Older teens, rough-looking, with fierce tattoos, multiple piercings. And no one else around.

  I hit the ball and it lands in the dry creek.

  “Bad shot,” Callie says.

  We walk over to it and stare at the ball. “You can’t hit it out of there,” she says.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “You just play.”

  “Come on, Mom, we’re almost done. Your score isn’t that bad. You might win.”

  She pulls out my ball and sets it on the circle of green.

  “Hey, isn’t that cheating?” a boy’s voice says.

  We turn and see the two teen boys standing at our tee, leaning on their clubs.

  “What’s it to you?” Callie asks.

  The boys react, surprised at Callie’s spunk.

  “We’re done here,” I say, partly to her, partly to them. I give her a look I hope communicates not to say anything more, that I’m afraid, that we need to leave.

  The taller boy approaches. “Don’t rush off.” He grins, displaying metal skulls in both front teeth. “We want to see how you swing.”

  I see Callie’s body tense. She grips her club with both hands. I know her instinct is to confront them. But nothing good can come of that.

  “It’s late. We have to get to the store,” I say to Callie, my eyes burning the message to her like a laser writing out please just shut up and go.

  She looks at me and drops her club on the turf.

  “We’re outta here,” she says.

  We turn and walk. We have to pass them to leave. Will they let us go? Will they reach out and grab us? Please let us get out of here.

  We walk past them, and I feel their eyes burning into our backs. We cannot run, or we will become prey. I’m afraid to look at Callie. I look straight ahead, and in my peripheral vision, I see her doing the same. We walk as fast as we can without seeming to be fleeing.

  Behind us, the boys talk to each other. Probably discussing their plan. I double my pace and Callie does the same. It is a grueling walk past the gingerbread house, the giant lollipops. As we pass the giant pandas at the fifth hole, they seem to be laughing at us. Finally, we reach the windmill.

  The gate that was open before, the one at the entrance by the booth, is now closed. Did they lock it? Did it lock automatically when they closed it? Is there no way out? I can’t climb that chain-link gate. Callie could. I will make her climb.

  I hear the footsteps of the boys now. They are not running but walking toward us with determined, steady steps. I pull my keys out of my pocket

  Callie reaches the gate and pushes it. It doesn’t open.

  “It’s locked,” she whispers.

  I look around her and see the latch she missed. I lift it. “Go.”

  We push open the gate and rush through. Our SUV is ten long yards ahead. We run as fast as we can. I click my remote and the doors unlock. The boys chase us; they are too close, on our heels. Callie gets in her side, I get in mine and I lock all the doors.

  They bang on the windows.

  “Hey!” they scream.

  I start the engine.

  “Look!” Callie says.

  Out the window, one of the boys holds up Callie’s purse.

  “My purse. I left it.”

  I have two seconds to evaluate the boy, looking into his eyes. I glance over at the other one’s eyes. I don’t like what I see. Hardness. Deception. A trap.

  “Never mind,” I say.

  “But they came to return my purse.”

  I go in reverse, and the boys back away from the car, their arms in the air, their faces angry.

  “It’s a ruse. They’re not going to give anything back.”

  The boys are screaming and swearing now. They turn Callie’s purse upside down, spilling the contents over the asphalt. Out come her wallet, her phone, lipstick, coins, and, of course, tampons, which sends them howling with laughter.

  They pocket Callie’s phone and the money and stomp on the other items with their boots. I see this in the rearview mirror as I drive off.

  When I glance at Callie, her face registers shock.

  “How could they?” she says.

  “They’re not like you.”

  A hard lesson, but a necessary one.

  “There’re bad people everywhere, especially now,” I say. “Don’t trust anyone.”

  • • •

  Inside the grocery store, we walk the aisles without speaking. The shelves are a mess. Most of the food is already gone. What’s left are the broken, the dented, the opened containers. We shuffle through those in hopes of finding someth
ing good.

  “Here’s one that’s just smashed on the outside,” Callie says, holding up a cereal box. “The bag inside is okay.”

  I nod and she tosses it in our cart. The produce aisle is barren, but I spot a glimpse of brightness in a stack of crates on the floor. I bend down and push aside the empty box on top to reveal the contents of the bottom crate: one orange. As glorious as a new sun breaking in the east. Callie smiles. It’s more than a piece of fruit, it’s a happy omen. I place our treasure gently into the cart and then glance at the price tag over the depleted bin.

  “At least the prices aren’t crazy,” I say.

  Ray is worried they might start gouging, like the smaller stores have. But they haven’t. Someone, somewhere in the corporate office has a soul.

  The checkout machines have handwritten Cash Only signs. How I miss real people taking my money.

  Callie’s purse. Thank goodness we never gave her a credit card. We’ll have to think later about what information might have been on her phone. Our address? I realize neither of us has a working phone. We’ll go right home now. We’ll talk it over with Ray tonight, what we should do. He’s smart; he invented the handlite, didn’t he? Powered by our own pulse. And then his “secret” project. The one he can’t even tell me about.

  “Mom? It’s done.”

  She points to the receipt coming out of the machine. I take it, and she picks up the bags and we head for the exit.

  • • •

  The Spore, 40,000 feet above sea level over the West Coast, 1:30 p.m.

  The spore senses that they are close. Soon he will be meeting the woman who is his destiny. A sudden thrust and he feels the speed as he pierces the air. The spores are thrown to the back wall, crammed together.

  Excited.

  Pressure builds; a high-pitched sound cracks the air until their container breaks apart and the pieces fall away. The spore sees light and sky and then, below, trees. They separate, each spore, falling freely. He is alone once more. Floating… down.

  • • •

  Barbara Woodland, Ralph’s Grocery Store, 1:30 p.m.

  Callie and I stand at the door, looking outside, scanning the parking lot for trouble. Just shoppers carrying their groceries to their cars.