by Justin Bell
The parking lot was chock full. There were cars slammed into every spot, many of them wedged into every possible empty space, with at least five or six of them parked on the sloped grass raising up from the lot towards the trees surrounding the small, one level shop. A ratty, wooden sign bolted to the front of the store read ‘Pete’s.’ On the outside it looked like a friendly enough general store with wooden slat siding and a wall of windows providing a clear view of the chaos inside. Even from the parking lot, they could see the thick clog of humanity inside the store, stacked up aisle to aisle, and before he even got in there, Phil was feeling exceptionally claustrophobic. He wouldn’t have imagined that there would have been so many people living in the area, much less all gathered together at the store so soon after what had happened.
“Do you know what we need?” he asked Max. “Bottled water, canned and dry goods. Whatever you can get.”
“I don’t want to go in there, Mr. Fraser,” Brad whispered, standing still.
Phil leaned over him, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ll all be together, all right? Ten minutes, in and out, we’ll grab it and get it back out to the car and be done.”
The automatic door strained to squeak open as they approached and Phil worked his way around someone standing near the entrance, staring aimlessly into the crowd.
“My store,” he whispered as he watched. He wore a stained white t-shirt and blue jean overalls, colored with various dark liquids that Phil could not identify.
“Are you Pete?” Phil asked, coming up behind him.
The man nodded, still staring out into the phalanx of wanderers.
“What have you heard?” Phil asked.
Pete glanced over at him. “What happened to you?” he asked.
“Long story. Can you tell me what’s going on in the world today?”
“How am I supposed to know?” he asked, a thick twang of Italian accent coloring his speech as he turned back towards the crowd. “The cell phone, it doesn’t work. The television, it doesn’t work. I know nothing except these people,” the man waved his hand dismissively, “these people, they want everything. As if beer and microwave popcorn will solve all world’s problems.”
“Well, we’re just looking for some water and dried goods if you have them,” Phil replied.
“How do I know what I have? These savages, they take what they want. We have nuclear Armageddon, and they worry about twelve packs of Budweiser. They can take that swill and choke on it.”
“All right, thanks, chief,” Phil said, nodding towards Brad and Max who followed him away from the shopkeeper and towards the throng.
People were everywhere. Phil figured that maybe the whole town was crammed into this tiny store, and as he watched, hands swept over shelves, clearing what little remained of them off into carts, baskets, and opened arms. They forced themselves into the crowd, eyes scanning for any trace of water, food, or anything worth taking.
“What do you see, Max?” he asked.
Nobody replied.
“Max?” Phillip stood tall and swiveled at the waist, scanning the crowd for any sign of his son, but Max was simply gone. “Brad, did you see where he went?” Phil asked, turning towards his son’s friend, who was still clinging to his side.
Bradley shook his head nervously.
“Dammit, Max,” Phil whispered. “Why couldn’t you follow directions for once?”
The crowd loosened up by the rear of the store and Phil took Brad out that way to get a little breathing room. They stood by the freezers, which were nearly bare with only a handful of scattered ripped box items strewn about. One of the freezer doors was pulled off its hinges and lay at a crooked angle, a pool of water steadily expanding out on the smooth, tile floor.
“Max?” Phil shouted, looking through the crowd.
His eyes were drawn towards a woman who broke away from the crowd, sobbing and shaking her head. She held a cell phone in her hand as if it were a piece of buried treasure. Phil freed his own cell phone and checked for a signal, but as expected, circuits were still either down or busy. The sobbing woman set up shop next to him and sat down on the tile floor, burying her face in her hands.
“Excuse me?” Phil asked, lowering himself into a crouch and placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “Is everything okay?”
She shook her head solemnly. “Nothing is okay. Nothing will be okay.”
“Did you lose someone?” Phil shifted his eyes towards the crowd, still trying to track down any sign of Max, but so far, still nothing.
The woman nodded. “Two more detonations,” she whispered. “Two more cities wiped off the map. When will it stop?”
“Which cities?” Phil asked. “Do you know which ones?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, still looking at the floor. “They’ll all be gone eventually. All of us. Dead. None of this matters.”
Phil stood and scanned the crowd, looking for Max.
“Come on, Brad, let’s go,” he said, turning towards the boy. Brad nodded and followed Phil, clutching his hand with his own as they plunged back into the crowd.
“Max?” Phil asked again as they pressed themselves between the huddled masses. “Max!” he yelled, his voice raised and frantic. “Dammit, Max!” How could this have happened? His wife actually trusted him with their son in this mess and he blew it. He looked everywhere, but in every direction he just saw more and more people, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, jostling and shoving. There was no food on the shelves, no water, and at this point Phil wasn’t even sure what everyone was fighting over.
“I want to get out of here,” Brad whispered.
“I know, bud,” Phil replied. “We just need to find Max and we’re out.”
Voices murmured around them as they made their way through the crowd. Frantic voices filled with panic and fear.
“Another explosion?” Phil couldn’t tell where the voice had come from.
“Where?” he asked into the crowd. “Where was the last explosion?”
“San Diego is destroyed. Los Angeles is a wasteland. Wildfires are flattening Napa Valley.”
“I heard Miami got hit.”
“I heard Houston.”
“What about Salt Lake City?”
Phil’s eyes darted left and right, trying to trail the conversations. Were they just rumors? Were they confirmed? Was the entire West at risk of radiation poisoning? His heart hammered in his chest and he lowered his head and pushed forward, dragging Brad behind him. They came in for supplies and at this point, he’d just be happy to get out with the two kids alive.
They burst through the crowd by the front door and noticed Pete, though he was no longer standing. He was on the ground, his arms splayed, a wash of blood streaked diagonally down his plump face. Phil’s stomach flipped at the sight of it, and he thought for a moment he might vomit, but he just looked away and pushed through the automatic door with Brad in tow, trying to keep from staring at the motionless form of the shopkeeper he’d just talked to five minutes ago.
What had happened? Did he try and stop someone from taking something? Was someone else just sick of him standing there? Did he do something to himself?
What was going on with the world?
And god dammit where was his son?
“Dad?”
Phil whirled around, his heart climbing from his chest into his throat. “My God, Max, you had me petrified!”
“I got us some water and food,” Max replied, holding up two gallon jugs of spring water and a plastic bag hooped around one wrist.
“Max! You’re a wizard!” Phil proclaimed, taking two long steps towards his son. “Let’s go and find your mom and get out of here. This whole place is about to boil over.”
He ruffled Max’s hair as he joined the group and they walked towards the street.
“Hey!” the shout was a loud, braying bark. An angry howl bordering on the edge of the same kind of insanity Phil had heard way too much of inside the store.
/> Phil looked over his shoulder as they walked across the road and saw a large man waddling from the opened door, his dark t-shirt pulled tight over a wide expanse of beer-fueled gut. His dark blue cargo pants hung low on his waist and Phil was almost certain he was barefoot.
“Keep walking, boys,” Phil whispered.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!”
Phil turned towards the waddling man who’s thick, hairy arms ended in two small chicken-sized fists that were clenched tight and shaking. The man narrowed his eyes at Phil, now having a better view of his battered face.
“Looks like you already started some trouble,” he growled. “Guess I’ll be finishing it.”
“We don’t want any trouble,” Phil said. “We just wanted some water and food for the kids.”
“Your little brat stole that water and food out of my cart!” the man screamed, stubbing his squat, sausage-thick finger in Max’s direction.
Phil looked at his son. “Is that true?” His face was hot, though he couldn’t tell if it was a mixture of anger and embarrassment, or just the after effects of Lance Cavendish using him for a punching bag.
“End of the world, dad,” Max muttered. “Every man for himself, right?”
Phil turned towards the man to apologize, but he was already thundering towards him, his face twisted into a scowl of boundless fury.
“Hey!” Phillip backpedaled, trying to scramble away, but his heel caught the edge of the sidewalk and the man surged forward, barreling into him and knocking him backwards. He slammed to the street, shoulder first, then rolled over, grimacing.
The fat man stomped towards him and suddenly there was a knife in his hand, gripped tight in his greasy palm, the triangularly shaped blade looking like a meat cleaver at close range.
“What the—” Phil shouted. He’d lived nearly four decades without the slightest hint of violence, now his life was threatened twice in a few hours. Just how long did it take for civilization to fall into chaos?
“Stay away from him!” Max stepped forward, arm cocked back, and he whipped it forward, releasing the can of beans he’d pulled out of the shopping bag.
The man’s balding head jerked back as the can struck him straight in the forehead, careening off to the left as the kitchen knife clattered to the pavement.
“You little puke,” he sputtered, wiping a trickle of blood from the bridge of his nose. He took a step towards Max and prepared to lunge.
***
The front door of the town hall was eight feet high and solid wood, reminding Rhonda of those old school churches that her parents used to make her attend back in her childhood. As she entered the front lobby of the building, she thought maybe it had been a church at one point—one of those small town cathedrals retrofitted for town offices.
That whole separation of Church and State thing wasn’t working too well in rural Colorado, she thought, wondering in the back of her mind what had happened to transform the place. Rhonda remembered coming to this chapel when she was a child, a place of worship at the time, and one of the central meeting places for the town. She wondered what had transpired in the past twenty years to bring it to this state, and for a scant second also wondered what had taken the old church’s place as a central gathering place. Had the town grown more divided in her time away? More separated?
“What are we looking for, exactly?” Winnie asked as her eyes roamed around the tall ceilings. The lobby was small and rectangular with a single staircase going up straight ahead, leading to the actual offices. Rhonda gestured towards it and they headed that way.
“Can I help you?”
Rhonda halted and turned, seeing a man step out of the doorway to her left. He wore a tan button-up shirt and brown pants and wore a simple silver badge over his left breast pocket.
“Yes,” she replied, trying to sound thankful and not betray the fact that just over an hour ago she was helping her husband throw a corpse into a ravine behind her family home.
“Are you a police officer?” she asked, taking a step towards him.
He smiled warmly, nodding. “I’m the police officer in this here hamlet, I guess you’d say. Clancy Greer,” he extended his hand and Rhonda shook it. “I’m the Brisbee town Sheriff.”
“Glad to meet you, Sheriff,” Rhonda replied. “Very glad. We just arrived from out of town to get away for the weekend when all of this insanity happened. Any chance you might be able to help us out?” She hesitated for a second, choking back her tears. “My oldest daughter’s at college and we’re trying to find out where she might be right now.”
Greer shrugged. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, ma’am. I’m in the dark a bit myself.” He gestured for Rhonda and Winnie to come into the office he had just left and directed them towards some empty chairs.
“You want some coffee?”
“That would be lovely,” Rhonda replied. It was long from morning, but the events of the day necessitated a severe caffeine fix.
“Yes, please,” Winnie said.
Greer turned towards a small table with a coffee pot and tipped the glass carafe into two small foam cups. He turned and looked over his shoulder. “Cream and sugar?”
“Yes,” replied Winnie.
“Black is fine,” Rhonda said.
The sheriff slid two cups across the desk towards the two and eased his own body into the chair on the other side.
“What can you tell us? Anything? Have you heard anything about other explosions or evacuations?” Rhonda wrapped both hands around her cup, thin wisps of steam rising from the liquid inside.
“There’ve been a lot of rumors coming in over the radio,” he replied, taking a sip from his own mug. “I can tell you that several federal agencies coordinated an evacuation plan from California to Denver International, but many of those flights were routed to O’Hare in Chicago before domestic air travel was grounded.”
“We heard something about trains, too. Are there trains?”
“I didn’t hear anything about trains. There have been concerns about a wind shift carrying fallout east towards the Rockies, but for the past hour or so, I haven’t heard a thing. It’s actually gotten really quiet, not that the federal suits talk to the little guys like me much anyway.”
“Is Brisbee going to evacuate?”
“Not until FEMA tells us to.”
“Do you have Internet here?” Rhonda asked. “Wi-Fi? Cell service? Anything?”
“Everything’s gone to crap today. All circuits are busy everywhere. Not just California, either. Some weird stuff going on.”
Rhonda took a long sip of the coffee, letting the warmth dissipate through her and heat her from the inside. She glanced over at Winnie and watched her do the same thing. Her daughter had been asking for coffee for a while now, and Rhonda had never let her have a cup until today. She hoped maybe it would soften some of Winnie’s sharp edges.
Footsteps thumped out in the lobby and Sheriff Greer lifted his head, looking out through his office door. Moments later a face peered in.
“Sheriff, you gotta get to Pete’s. There’s a bonafide riot about to happen over there. Food’s almost gone, I think Pete got smacked in the face with something. Two guys are out in the street fighting.”
“Mother mercy,” Greer said, shaking his head. “I just broke up a crowd from Pete’s twenty minutes ago!” He pushed himself upright and snatched his belt from a coat hook nearby, then buckled it around his narrow waist and moved towards the door. Rhonda couldn’t help but notice the slim holster engulfing the black, metal pistol.
As the sheriff pushed past them, Rhonda and Winnie stood as well, following him out into the lobby and towards the front door. As soon as she pressed her way out, her eyes widened.
A huge, lumbering man in a skin-tight t-shirt stumbled towards Max and Brad while, a few feet away, Phil was on his back scrambling away backwards as best he could.
“Hey!” shouted the sheriff as he started towards them. “Robbie, what’s going on with you?”
The large, overweight man halted his lumbering, top-heavy frame and turned towards the sheriff. He stabbed a finger towards Brad and Max.
“They stole water and food out of my cart! Pete’s is out of food!”
Sheriff Greer looked over at the two young men. “Is this true?” he asked.
Max nodded.
Rhonda walked to Phil and helped him to his feet. He dusted off his pants.
Greer looked at him, then back at the fat man. “Robbie, did you do this to his face?”
Rhonda’s stomach lurched.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “He tripped and fell on the driveway earlier today.”
Max left the water and food on the street, still wrapped in the brown, plastic bag. He shot Robbie an angry scowl as he joined Winnie just behind their mother, with Brad close behind.
“I’m sorry about this,” Rhonda said. “Very sorry.”
“Sheriff! Pete won’t wake up!”
Sheriff Greer looked over to the market where a small throng of concerned citizens circled around the fallen shopkeeper. He looked at Robbie, who bent over and scooped up his water and food and waddled away, heading towards the overflowing parking lot attached to the small store.
“You sure everything’s okay?” the sheriff asked Rhonda, again flashing a look towards Phil’s swollen cheek and blackened eye. Rhonda nodded.
The Frasers walked back towards the minivan, leaving the chaos of Pete’s market behind them, and Rhonda couldn’t help but wonder what the point of this whole venture was. What the point of any of this was. They had no supplies, no idea where Lydia was, and the only thing they really did know is that the small town of Brisbee was getting ready to explode.
As they approached the van, Rhonda looked back over her shoulder.
“I think it’s time we get home. Once we get back to the cabin, we’ll pack our bags and head back to the house. Once we’re there we can figure out next steps. Does that work?”
Max and Winnie nodded silently, but Brad only stood and fidgeted.