Going Gray

by Brian Spangler

  Fear suddenly overwhelmed her, tightening every muscle. She ran at him, slapping his arm for having scared her.

  “Ow,” he cried, but continued laughing.

  “Not funny!”

  Peter’s laugh quieted, ending when he cleared his throat. She didn’t know why, but the sudden emotion pushed her to crying. “Just don’t do that, okay?” His arm was around her next, holding her.

  “Shhh, I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was sedate, calming. She let herself go for a moment not caring whether or not she was embarrassing herself. It was a small cry, but enough to wet her cheeks and to spill what needed spilling. “I can be an asshole sometimes, and given the circumstances, that wasn’t very funny.”

  Emily felt the heat of his body, and leaned into him, closer. Time passed without any tears, without any words, only the sound of their breathing and the distant scurry of tiny feet along the pipes.

  “We should get moving,” she said, and then quickly regretted saying anything at all. A new feeling stirred. Inviting.

  “Yeah,” he answered, but then touched her chin, easing her face up until she only saw his eyes. At once, she was lost in them, unable to look away. She melted inside. “I am sorry. I promise I won’t do that again.”

  “Good,” she told him, but that was all she could get out. When he didn’t look away, she melted some more. Emily put her hand over the flashlight, and added, “Might just have to kick your ass if you do.” They laughed at that.

  Emily couldn’t tell how far they walked, and was glad when they were finally beneath the emergency light. The rats stayed close behind them, matching their pace. The light wasn’t at all like the emergency lights in the mall. She looked at it but turned away from the curly hot glow. She stared ahead into the darkness where an afterimage floated in front of her. It was a tunnel light, the kind with a heavy glass jar and a small metal cage to protect it.

  A ladder, similar to their own, jutted out of the wall. She followed it upward and to her relief she saw the underside of a hatch door.

  “Do you think anyone is in the Food-Mart?” she asked.

  “Can’t say,” Peter answered, taking hold of the ladder and jerking on it. “Might have already been down here and didn’t see anything but the rats.” Emily watched as Peter shined his flashlight on the stack of pipes, tracing them back until the beam of light vanished in the blackness.

  “I think I hear something,” she said.

  A faint commotion. Peter stopped climbing.

  “Did you hear it?” Emily asked. Gripping her flashlight, her hand trembled. Breathe.

  Peter raised his hand, leaning toward the dark and listened. “I hear something. But to me, it sounds like water.” His voice didn’t sound convincing. “If everything comes in from the street like Mr. Halcomb said, I’m guessing that there are tunnels connecting all the buildings. Relax. If anything, I’m surprised that we don't hear more.”

  Emily tried relaxing. And when the sound came again, she repeated to herself what Peter said. It’s just water.

  They weren’t alone. While she thought there might be some survivors in the Food-Mart, she never considered the rest of the town. The other tunnels. How many?

  The scurrying echo of rat feet caught her attention. More of them followed. She swung her flashlight around, stabbing it in every direction. The shine of cold beady eyes stared back at her. She hated the thought of it, but this was their tunnel and her and Peter were the trespassers.

  “We should get moving,” she told Peter, pushing against his back. He climbed the ladder and knocked the metal plate with the heel of his hand. “Try your flashlight… metal on metal and all that.”

  Light bounced and danced on top of her as he clinked the metal with the butt of his flashlight. The sound rang truer, cleaner and easier to hear. They waited. An awful thought occurred to her then. What if the Food-Mart hatch was locked, or stuck? Minutes seemed to pass and Peter knocked again. They waited for a knock back, or the sound of a muffled call. Nothing.

  “I think we’re going at it alone on this one,” he said and handed her his flashlight. “Gotta try and push the door open.” The flashlight handle was warm and even in the cool air, she could see a sweaty sheen on his face. With one hand holding the ladder, Peter pushed against the door, easing into it, straining to move it. He groaned, lunging upward until his arms shook from the stress.

  “Is it stuck?” she asked, and then felt stupid for stating the obvious. “I mean, do you think it’s locked?” Peter pushed again.

  “Nope, not locked,” he answered, feeling around the lip of metal and concrete. “Locked would feel different, looser. That quake we had earlier—the bigger one—I think something fell on the door, weighing it down.”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  “Got an idea,” he said and pushed one leg behind a ladder rung, freeing his other hand. “Leverage. I need leverage to use both hands and push up on the door. Just hope this ladder holds.” Peter pushed again, and at once Emily could see the hatch begin to open. A sliver of light appeared, tapping the darkness like a knock on the door. Emily shielded her tunnel eyes from the brightness, unable to adjust fast enough.

  “It’s moving!”

  “Whatever is on the door, I think it’ll slide off —” Peter groaned, “— just a little more.” Emily could barely hold the flashlights. Her hands shook as she jumped up and down, excited by the light, but more so with the idea that they’d be out of the tunnel soon.

  Peter’s scream doused the fluttery feeling in her belly. The sound was terrifying: primal. The sharp light quickly went gray, doused, blocked by a beefy arm sliding through the opening. The arm dropped down, swinging back and forth, carried by its own weight. Peter reeled backward, nearly tumbling down the ladder, but with his leg behind the ladder rung, he held firm.

  And though she’d been startled as well, a sudden coldness came to her. The weight on top of the hatch was a dead body. Sleeveless and covered with patches of brown and gray hair, an old tattoo in the shape of an ancient scroll dressed the dead man’s forearm. An older man, years had taken away any of the tattoo’s clarity, leaving behind blotchy letters and fading ink mottled with age spots.

  Scaly dark patches of dried blood covered the inside of the man’s arm, yet there were no burns on his skin. The man hadn’t died from the poison. An injury? she supposed, unsure.

  Days ago, before the clouds fell, she would have run from such a thing. But now, the sight of a dead body, the touch of their lifeless skin, had become part of her every day. Sadly, it almost seemed normal.

  “He’s dead,” Emily offered, shining her flashlight onto the dark patches of blood. She narrowed her eyes, seeing the edge of dried blood lift and flake, moving against the shallow current of air. Peter looked down, covering his eyes from her flashlight. “Do you think you’re going to be able to open the door?”

  Peter pinched the man’s arm, moving it around to see the blood. “There’s a few burns,” he answered, continuing to inspect tattoo man. “But I don’t think he’s been outside.”

  “Do you want me to come up and help?” Peter shook his head. He strained against the door, and then repositioned his legs: one in front of the ladder and one cradling a rung from behind.

  “I’ll try to slide him off.”

  Peter faced away from the opening, pressing his shoulder into the metal plate and then lifted. Emily shuddered at the sound of flesh slipping on the metal. More of the arm fell in, lifting her hope. Peter pushed harder, higher, until more sounds of the scraping flesh came to them. The dead man’s arm rolled, becoming alive, moving backward and around until it faced the other direction. For a moment, the man’s hand lurched unexpectedly, and the stiffened fingers poised upward as if flipping them off.

  “He’s giving you the bird,” Emily said, but then felt stupid for trying to make a joke of it. Peter turned his head in time to see the dead man’s final obscenity, and then returned to pushing on the door. A thump came from ab
ove them, and the hatch door flung open.

  “Got it!” Peter exclaimed. But when his eyes bulged, and tears wetted his cheeks, Emily shrank back to find safety in the dark. “The smell… it’s awful.” Peter heaved and then grabbed for the ladder, missing the rung while yanking upward on his pinned leg, trying to free it. He clutched at the air and then cupped a hand over his mouth, gagging and waving for Emily to turn away. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t tell what was wrong. Vomit spewed from between his fingers in long streams. A fountain of chunky slop splattered down onto the dense concrete in front of her, covering her shoes in specks of what looked to her like clam chowder. She gagged and pressed her lips and tried to hold her breath. The stench from the opening breached the service tunnel like a deadly finger, watering her eyes in an instant. She felt her insides turn and then heaved, coughing out a mouthful of tea and banana muffin.

  “Peter,” she coughed. “Come down before you fall.” Another shower of vomit rained onto the concrete, splattering and painting a sickening flower on the concrete. By now, Emily had the company of curious rats coming toward her—all apprehensions lost to them. There was food falling from the sky, and they were hungry for a bite. Disgusted, Emily shooed them away, swinging the flashlight like a sword. Jutting rays of light cut across the dark, revealing a small army of beady eyes. She no longer feared a bite from their yellowing teeth, or felt squeamish by their stringy naked tails. The air stank of salty decay and rot and drove all of her instincts at once.

  “Awful —” Peter started, and continued to gag. He puckered his mouth then, pressing his lips until they were thin gray lines. When he reached the last ladder rung, Peter dropped to the concrete. He wiped his mouth, swinging his arms at the rats. “Get out of here!”

  “What is that?” Emily managed to cough out. Swinging her flashlight, she imagined holding a lightsaber—like the kind she’d seen in the movie her father watched over and over—but this one had little effect on the rats. A few shied away from the light, only to advance again. “We have to get up there. We’ll have to run past it somehow!”

  “Rotting meat. A lot of it, I think. We must be at the back, near the walk-in freezer,” Peter answered, kicking his feet in the direction of the rats. “Freezer must’ve been left open. Not sure why?”

  A rat—one of the biggest Emily had ever seen—ignored their yells and swinging feet and jumped straight up, reaching as high as their knees, and plopped its round body into the middle of the vomit puddle. The two looked at one another, but said nothing as the rat picked up a chunk of spent food and sank its toothy mouth into it.

  “Gross, let’s get out of here.”

  “The hatch is free, just hold your breath and follow me.”

  “Where should we go?” Emily asked, and wondered if the entire store smelled as bad. There’d be no way to breathe if that were the case. Peter stared at the rat, who by now had been joined by two more. All three stared back, sometimes looking at Emily, but mostly watching Peter. Even in the shadow, Emily could see the blood running out of his face, sickened by more than just the smell. He’s going green, she thought. Though, in this light, she wouldn’t call it green, he was gray. “Peter!” she yelled, wrenching his attention away from the rats feasting.

  “To the front, run to the front” he answered her, and then gagged, dry-heaving until his cheeks puffed out like small balloons. “Smell shouldn’t be as bad at the front of the store.”

  Emily took care to follow in Peter’s footsteps, matching where he placed his feet and how he navigated the store. Yellow emergency lights eclipsed the walls, high up near the ceiling, painting yellow stains across the tiles. She wondered how many days or hours remained on the emergency light batteries, and was thankful the front of the Food-Mart was mostly glass. Gray daylight bled indoors, lighting up most of the store, but leaving the back in a deep shadow.

  The retched stench clung to them as they passed the rotting meat. And as Peter had suggested, the walk-in freezer had been left open. But the locker door had also been propped open with a crate of rotting vegetables. Intentional. Shelves of drippy meat spewed an odor that she was certain would stay with her forever. And as she suspected, the tattoo man hadn’t died from the few noticeable burns, but instead he’d been murdered. Half of his face had been pummeled—battered into a mess of dried gore—erasing any recognizable features.

  A few feet away from tattoo man, a small red fire-extinguisher sat on the ground, perched upright, as if at attention and ready to use in the event of a fire. And though they were moving quickly—running past the obscenity of it all—she could see the bottom of the fire-extinguisher, the dented metal, the caked blood, the pieces of skin and bone: tattoo man had been beaten to death. But for what? There was hate in the way he’d died. True hate in the way his attacker took the man’s identity. What if tattoo man’s attacker was still in the Food-Mart. What if they were in the Food-Mart with them? Emily felt for the impression of the small knife in her pocket. But what would that do, other than open pharmacy boxes? They needed something to defend themselves.

  The kitchen aisle! They’d reached the kitchen aisle and Emily took the first weapon she saw. A long chef’s knife gleamed the gray and yellow light from the emergency lighting. She yanked it from the shelf, breaking the hanging tab with one quick snap. Peter slowed, heaving, and then stopped. His eyes grew as round as saucers when he turned to find her poised with a knife in her hands. He stumbled back, throwing his hands up in front of him.

  “What are you doing with that?” Emily realized how she must have looked and lowered the blade, but gripped the handle with a tighter squeeze. She liked the feel of the weight in her hand. And she liked the effect it had on Peter even more. “Seriously, Emily, what are you doing?”

  “It’s for protection,” she huffed out. Her voice rasped in a throaty tumble of words. She motioned back to tattoo man, and managed to add, “I don’t think we’re alone.” Heat rose from beneath her collar. Sweating and irritated, Emily stripped out of the heavy sweater. The Food-Mart air was thicker than in the mall; uncomfortable and muggy, like a wet summer day.

  “Protection?” he asked, raising his arms outward and turning side to side, indicating that they were alone.

  “Did you see the dead man? Did you see the way he died?” Peter shook his head and lowered his arms. “He was murdered.”

  “Could’ve been the explosion… I mean look around, half the shelves in the store are toppled over.” Emily considered what he said, but realized that Peter hadn’t seen the fire-extinguisher.

  “Falling canned goods wouldn’t do that to his face. Someone beat that man with a fire-extinguisher. And who knows if that person isn’t still in here… in the store with us.”

  Without another word said, Peter reached over to the aisle shelves and pulled away a meat tenderizer. He cupped the wooden handle in his palm, closing and opening his fingers around it until he was comfortable with the grip. When he wagged the square metal end in the air like a hammer, Emily could have sworn she saw satisfaction.

  “I feel like Thor with this thing,” he said half smiling, but she didn’t get the joke. “Here, let’s do this right then,” he added, and pulled two leather straps from the shelf. Peter showed her how they’d use the straps to hold their weapons. An unexpected pinch of nerves fluttered inside her when he knelt down in front of her. She braced herself with her hands on his shoulder. The flutter turned into a stir as he reached around her middle.

  Looking up at her he said, “This will hold your knife… and just don’t cut the strap, or yourself,” he pleaded, shaking his head. Peter continued working the strap through a belt loop, pulling her closer to him, until he had the leather strap wrapped around her.

  “You made a scabbard,” she called it, having learned the word recently.

  “Yeah, kinda. I know it’s just some material used for crafts, but it’ll work until we find something better.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed. Her cheeks felt warm, and as he s
tood, her hands wandered down his tight arms, reaching his hands with the other piece of leather. “Here, let me.” When his belt was tied off around his waist, he pushed the handle of the tenderizer through, sitting and at the ready.

  “Emily, if we do run into anyone, don’t hesitate,” Peter looked at her gravely, and then motioned to her knife. And now this was a part of their every day too. “There’re no more laws, and people—well, men—are going to want to do things.” Emily closed her eyes, wanting to go back five minutes when she felt safe.

  “I don’t even know how to use this,” she answered. Her voice shook with the thought of what he was suggesting. Vulnerable. He must have seen her expression, and took her in his arms. Stay strong, she thought, but what he said had terrified her, I’d rather die first than let that happen. The Food-Mart whispered silently, making the types of sounds she’d expected to hear in an empty market. Her ears felt taught, pushed back high, trying to listen for any signs of life.

  A sound came from the front of the Food-Mart, breaking the tension. Emily wiped her cheek with the heel of her hand, and Peter affectionately wiped her other cheek. Bringing his face to within an inch of hers, he pressed his finger to the dent in her upper lip, leaving it there.

  She nodded, understanding.

  And other than her knife and his tenderizer, silence was their only weapon.

  Sweat beaded on her arms and her face, and she saw the heat in Peter’s cheeks, which had flushed blotchy red. And there was something else about the air, something that reminded her of lightning storms, buzzing with static.

  The hair on her arms and neck stood up, and an invisible hand gripped and turned her stomach. She followed Peter to the front of the store, careful not to step on canned goods and dry-goods. When he turned to face her, he shook his head and tried to say something, but the words were slow to come out.

  “We should turn around,” he said at once. He spoke in a solemn tone that she hadn’t heard before. His hands trembled and he flinched, turning away and then shuddered. There was dread in his face, and a morbid curiosity rose in her that needed to be answered. “Let’s just find what we came for and go back.” He was protecting her. But from what?