* * * *
7 - RYAN OLSON PART 2
Ryan watched the front end as the post-dinner rush died down and nightfall turned the parking lot black. They’d be storming in any minute now, guns drawn. He might not be able to do anything about it, but he could at least minimize the risk of shit going bad.
He glanced at Clarissa, the youngest of the cashiers. She just turned 16 two weeks ago; she landed the job on her birthday. She was nice, cute, bubbly, and the kind of cashier that made his job easier. She showed up on time and actually did her job, unlike a lot of the high schoolers who either acted like they were too good to work at the store or had attitude about having to work at all.
He walked up to her register, looked back and saw she had only one other person in line, a young woman with a small basket of stuff. He clicked off her lane light and said, “Take your 15 minute after our next guest, okay?”
“OK, Mr. Olsen,” she said, smiling.
Ryan glanced up and down the front end. Three other cashiers on: Gladys, who was as old as the hills and twice as slow; Billy, a 25 year old drama queen who’d not dream of stopping a robbery; and Ellen, a 28 year old woman who was just kinda there most days and was far too self-concerned and lazy to get involved in anything that didn’t immediately involve her.
That left the stock guys, who he had unloading pallets in the back; produce, who was likely hanging out shooting the shit; the bakery and deli departments, who never left their sections in the back of the store; the pharmacy, which was already closed; and of course, the customer service desk. That was where his real problem could emerge. There were two cashiers on duty, both older women who had been there longer than him. One of them wanted his job so bad, he sometimes felt he should check to make sure his lunch wasn’t tampered with.
Customer service was trained to hit the silent panic button the minute they sensed anything. After that, they’d be cooperative, but they might also try to trick the robbers. Tell them they didn’t have access to the safe when they did, had less money on hand than they did, or anything else that might make the robbers pissy.
Of course, the robbers were the biggest variable in the robbery. Ryan’s only instructions were to cooperate and make the entire thing quick, easy, and painless. If someone did something stupid, surprised the robbers, or tried to play hero, then this could all get scary. Ryan didn’t know who would be staging the robbery. He figured that it wouldn’t be too bad if it were only Pete and one other person. Though he didn’t like Pete, he knew Pete wasn’t likely to turn a bad situation worse. But if Viktor got some fucking meth heads to pull a robbery, all bets were off.
Ryan glanced back to Clarissa’s lane to see that she had allowed a fat family with a cart full of at least $400 worth of stuff to get in line behind her last customer. And, of course, the woman had a purse stuffed with so many coupons, they threatened to spill out in a sea of paper when she opened the purse.
What the fuck?
That order would take five minutes, easily, assuming the coupon queen didn’t want to sit and argue about half the coupons that would likely be expired or for different items. Coupon people could be nearly religious in their fervor and rage when they felt entitled to something not stated in the coupon.
Ryan hated customers who took advantage of his cashiers. Whether it was the assholes who crowded the “10 items or less” lane with a cart full of shit, or the ones who jumped into a closed lane, the customer knew the cashiers wouldn’t give them a problem. That whole “customer is always right thing” gave assholes license to treat cashiers, and the customers behind them, like shit. Finding people who wanted to work for the shit pay the store offered was hard enough. Expecting them to take mounds of abuse from the customers was another hurdle altogether.
Ryan raced over to the lane before the woman took the first item out of her cart, and said, “I’m sorry ma’am, this lane is closed.”
“Excuse me; I’m already in this line, and I’m not getting into another. Your cashier should’ve told me that when I got in line.” The woman hoisted a case of soda from her cart and slammed it on the conveyor belt in a silent fuck you.
Clarissa glanced at Ryan, eyes wide, not sure what to do.
“Ma’am, there are three other lanes open, and nobody in line on lane four, let me help you...”
“What’s the problem?” the woman’s fat husband said, pushing his way towards Ryan. The guy was big, bald, and mean looking. The two made a lovely couple. Their obese son with an unfortunate haircut and a face smeared with chocolate cookie from the bakery watched with anticipation.
“It’s okay, Mr. Olsen, I don’t mind,” Clarissa said as Ryan’s eyes locked with beefy baldy.
Ryan sighed, “Okay. Thank you, Clarissa.”
“Yes, thank you,” the woman said, glaring at Ryan.
Ryan held his tongue. The taste of shit was familiar in this job; no use spitting it out now when he was about to assist a heist. Just keep things humming along. Ryan turned, reluctantly, and headed back to the front of the store.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
Three men in black ski masks and matching outfits rushed through the front doors armed with shotguns.
“Everyone on the fucking floor! You, take me to the safe!” one of the men yelled, staring straight at Ryan.
Screams erupted along the front end as customers and cashiers alike stirred, confused, and were slow to fall.
“Now!” one of the men said, firing a shot overhead. The shot punched a hole in the tiles, sending a rain of white dust to the ground. The cashiers and customers hit the ground. Ryan took some pleasure in seeing the annoyed and panicked looks on the couple he’d just argued with. Then he caught Clarissa’s face, struggling not to cry, and his stomach turned.
“Come out of there, hands up!” a gunman shouted at the two cashiers at the customer service desk.
The two women came from behind the counter and stepped to where the gunman was pointing, a front-row seat at the head of the express lane. One of the cashiers, Carolyn, caught Ryan’s eyes and nodded slightly, as if to indicate she already hit the panic button.
Fuck, not much time now.
“What do you want?” Ryan asked.
“All your fucking money!” the man said, shoving Ryan toward the office, just past the customer service desk. “Tell your people to cooperate and nobody gets hurt.”
“Do whatever they say,” Ryan said to his cashiers as one of the gunmen went to the cashiers with a black sack demanding they fill it up. “Remember your training. Your life is more valuable than any dollar amount the store will lose. So just give them what they ask for.”
Well, that sounded stupid.
“Let’s go. Hurry!” the gunman yelled at Ryan, leading him through the door to the manager’s office.
Once inside the manager’s office, the gunman said, “Open the safe.”
Ryan realized then that it was Pete behind the mask.
Ryan hoped like hell Pete would keep his mask on, or not say anything stupid, as there was a security camera just above, filming their every move and sound.
“Okay, okay,” Ryan said, as he removed the keys from his pocket, inserted it in the safe, then punched the security code into the safe’s keypad.
“It’s gonna take 90 seconds to open,” Ryan warned as red numbers on the digital display began the countdown from 90.
“Fuck, you didn’t tell us we’d have to wait!” Pete said.
Ryan’s heart nearly stopped dead. He pursed his lips and glared at Pete, hoping what the idiot had said so far wasn’t enough to implicate Ryan’s part in the robbery whenever the cops reviewed the security footage. Ryan couldn’t believe Pete could be so fucking stupid. He had to alert Pete to the camera’s presence before the fucker started using names, removed his mask, and invited Ryan to meet for drinks later.
“Don’t shoot me,” Ryan said, “There are cameras in here and they’ll catch you.”
Pete glanced around, then found t
he camera above them. He looked back at Ryan, eyes narrowed, then said, “Just hurry.”
The clock read 20, 19, 18...
Ryan’s heartbeat raced as he hoped to God that the cops wouldn’t arrive before he was able to give the men their money and get them the hell out of the store.
14, 13, 12...
The clock is taking forever!
Finally, it hit zero, then read, “SAFE OPEN.”
Ryan turned the thick metal handle, pulled the safe open, reached inside, grabbed all three of the deposit bags, then handed them to Pete.
“Anything else?”
“Nothing of value,” Ryan said, pointing at the receipts and lotto tickets.
“Thanks,” Pete said, turning around and leading the way out of the office.
Just as he stepped through the doorway, gunshots erupted. Two quick ones from a shotgun. Then a third, deafening blast from another gun.
Shit just got bad.
“You stay here,” Pete said to Ryan. “We’ll call you when needed.”
Ryan stayed in the office listening to the volleys of gunfire from the other side of the wall, which were rapid at first but gradually slowed to a few scattered inconsistent sounding pops, then finally to nothing.
Ryan crept from the office and into the chaos of the now mostly empty grocery store. Aisles were overturned, cans rolled along the linoleum and cereal carpeted the floor, causing Ryan to detour around aisle 7 so he wouldn’t crunch the sugary grains under his feet.
What the hell happened?
Pete and one remaining officer were the only men standing, pistols in one another’s faces. Ryan stepped back, trying to make his way to the back of the store so he could escape unseen. As he was backing up, his foot slipped on something and fell backward, right into a display of glass Ragu jars that fell to the ground in a crash.
He looked up as the officer turned, startled by the noise. The punk made the most of the cop’s split second distraction, pulling the trigger and splattering the cop’s brains out the front of his skull.
The officer fell as Ryan screamed.
Pete said, “Shut the fuck up, Pollyanna, and go make yourself at home in the back of the Lincoln. Otherwise you can join Johnny Law on the floor.” He waved the gun in the air. “So, what’s it gonna be?”
A siren blared in the distance. Several more immediately echoed. Ryan chewed his lip, then walked the rest of the way down the aisle, over the dead officer, past Pete, then to the front of the store where he saw two of his people on the ground. One was Bill, face down in his own blood. And then he saw her- Clarissa, lying on the ground and staring straight up, blood bubbling in her mouth. Her eyes met Ryan’s, and she tried to speak.
“Oh my God,” he said, kneeling down.
“Come on!” Pete screamed.
“She’s still alive!” Ryan said, “I have to help her.”
Pete marched over, looked down at the girl, and aimed the gun at her face.
Ryan screamed, and tried to reach out, but was too late. Pete pulled the trigger.
“Come on!” Pete said, grabbing Ryan by the back of the neck, forcing him to the front doors and out into the parking lot.
It was a short drive to Viktor’s pad, surprisingly close. Ryan always thought the guy lived further out. They were inside the house for five minutes or so, Pete explaining things to Viktor in a whisper on the other side of the door. Viktor’s anger was nearly silent, but fuming and thick in the air, even with an oak door between them.
Another guy, Ryan had once heard Pete call Stink, came out of Viktor’s room, walked up to Ryan and slid a needle into his neck before Ryan even noticed what was happening. Ryan felt a few seconds of familiar euphoria, then his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his face fell flat on the cream colored shag carpet.
**
Ryan opened his eyes to darkness. He had no idea how long he’d been out, only that his head was pounding and the room was pitch black. He heard a whistle-like thunder outside, then a deafening crash that shook the walls.
“Anyone here?” Ryan cried, voice hoarse. “Someone wanna tell me what the fuck that was?”
He stood up, groggy, then fell to the ground again.
More darkness.
When he woke again, it was morning.
He made his way to the hallway, down the stairs, and out the unlocked front door. The sky outside was a weird shade of purple, and smoke billowed from three different directions.
What the hell?
He had to get out of there. Now.
Ryan thanked Christ there were keys in the Mercedes. He figured stealing Viktor’s car was a one-way ticket to the graveyard, no doubt about it. But then again, Ryan figured that ticket was already punched. Best to get to Mexico, Canada, or anywhere else where they had good, long distance and cheap plastic surgery. First, he’d have to get Mary and Paola to come with him. They were sitting targets as long as Viktor was alive.
He pulled away from Viktor’s estate, shuddering at the plumes of smoke and vaguely remembering the sound of explosions in the night.
I’m free now. None of that matters.
Ryan kept driving, and didn’t stop for 212 miles. He was well into daylight before his mind surfaced the shocking reality: the roads were void of motion and vacant cars littered the asphalt.
The world had died; he was alone.
* * * *
8 - DESMOND ARMSTRONG
Desmond filled a duffel bag with the things that mattered most, finishing with an 8 gig memory card. While he used to love taking photos, he’d nearly forgotten cameras existed until about six weeks earlier and felt ridiculous for having waited as long as he had. It was still too early to tell if this was the end of forever or the beginning of a global reboot, but either way, if the survivors didn’t document it, who would?
Desmond would give anything to have pictures of the first month: their flight from Warson Woods, the wreckage of the storms that looked as if the world had stacked an entire city into a pile, the bodies in the river, and their time at the Drury; the frantic search for John, the horrific, ghostly flight from the Inn, and every rancid minute stumbling through the following month until everything finally fell into place in their newfound home.
Pictures were evidence, and evidence was data. Data made decisions easier to make. Data could help you swallow the stuff your instinct begged you not to.
Stuffing the duffels was horrible. Worse this time than the last. Was this how it would be forever? Always running, never stopping, hanging their hats until the horizon lined with the undead . . . or whatever they were.
Desmond shuddered. In five months he’d grown accustomed to much of the new world, but the bleakers still made him feel every bit as sick as they had on first sight. Most of the new world was still a mystery, but the bleakers were a mystery that wanted to kill you while they rotted in front of your face.
What were they?
Are their numbers growing?
Were they once people?
Was it possible for he, and the others, to become bleakers, too?
Desmond couldn't help but feel that if he’d taken pictures back at the Drury, he’d have more answers now. And how hard would it have been to find a quality camera in an empty inn? But the truth was, answers weren’t why he started taking pictures.
It was Mary.
First it was just pictures of she and Paola together, then he added pictures of their surroundings, the compound, the surrounding woods. Once he felt his old groove, the groove that had filled his old hard drive with 100 gigs of gorgeous photos, Desmond moved the lens into the bedroom.
At first, Mary was shy. But not for long. The curve of her breasts; the slightly wide hips that made her self-conscious, but made her look like a real woman to Desmond. Her neatly trimmed pubic hair. Desmond found it extra sexy, looking as neat as it did at the end of the world.
Desmond connected with Mary the way he’d always wanted to, but never could, connect with a woman. The way he imagined it coul
d be. The way he saw his Uncle Jeremy connect with his Aunt Hazel, his mom’s sister.
Part of the problem had always been Desmond. He figured if a woman was into him, at least part of it had to be for the money. Most of him knew it was ridiculous – he was reasonably smart, handsome, and funny – but the rest of him couldn’t help the uncharacteristic self doubt.
But at the end of the world, money didn’t matter, which meant his guard was dropped where it belonged. His relationship with Mary had been born in an instant, three weeks away from the Drury, smack in the middle of a hard snow without any food and little hope for survival. Their mouths met before either knew what was happening. It was over in minutes, maybe seconds. But it was only the beginning.
When the snow thawed, so had something frozen inside Desmond. Mary, too. It was plain to see. She didn’t try to hide it, not even in front of Paola, who clearly didn’t care for the coupling.
Paola was nice enough to Desmond; she might have even loved him. But that didn’t mean she wanted him with her mom. Not that Desmond blamed her. Her father, Ryan, deserved the loyalty. But he was gone, like 99 percent of the world. Desmond could tell that Paola wanted to get over it, wanted it to be okay, but her real feelings were obvious in the way she answered Desmond’s questions too slowly, or too quickly, or rejected his ideas with numb indifference.
Mary opened the door. “Luca will be down in five,” she said. “Everything ready?”
“Yeah,” Desmond nodded. “I was just coming to get our Everyday Bag.” He held the leather duffel up for her approval. “Come on, I’ll walk you downstairs. Luca can meet us.”
Mary raised her eyebrows, but Desmond insisted.
“You can’t treat him like he’s eight. He may not be mentally caught up with his body, there’s no way to account for the missing experience, but the chemistry is there. The boy’s brain has changed. He’s at the tail end of adolescence. And we all need to be aware of it.” Desmond drew a breath before adding, “I trust Luca more than anyone in the world, including me and you, but I think we need to watch him around Paola.”
Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) Page 7
