by James Sperl
“Taken?” Andrew said, finishing her sentence. “I suppose it's possible, but statistically speaking, I don't think it's very likely. Most of the world learned fairly early on how to prevent that from happening. I guess there's a chance some outlying areas didn't get the message, but I'd be surprised that a city with a population of two thousand was one of them.”
“Could be folks just fled,” Jon suggested. “Under the law of averages, statistics say that some places will have suffered worse while others fared far better. Maybe when things started going down, the Sound hit Stonebridge harder than most. When so many people started to vanish, it could've freaked out the other residents, and so they left en masse. You know how small towns can be sometimes. It would certainly explain why so much fuel was left.”
“It would,” Andrew agreed.
Rachel stepped forward and held herself. “Whatever the reason, I don't like it.”
“I'm with Rach,” Clarissa said. “This is weird.”
“Agreed,” Jon said, “But if we get half as lucky here as we did at the gas station, we could set ourselves up supremely.”
“Or, conversely,” Clarissa countered, “we could be stepping into a trap set by marauding lunatics, who are just waiting for us to enter so they can massacre us.” Clarissa pointed down the road in the direction from which they came. “I mean, those guys in the truck with the guns came from somewhere.”
Jon shrugged, defenseless. “There's always a risk.”
“Jon's right,” Cesare said. “We can never be one hundred percent sure about things. We can only be careful. In this case, though, I think the risk is worth it. We lucked out with the gas. Maybe it'll carry over here.”
Clarissa eyed the market. She used to loathe visits to the grocery store. Now, though, it felt strange to acknowledge that she hadn't performed the mundane errand of grocery shopping in a long time. The idea of perusing aisles of food, even under dangerous circumstances, held some appeal.
She peeked into the backseat of Andrew's truck—Valentina was still asleep.
“And her?”
“Ev and I will stay behind with Elenora,” Jon said.
“What?” Evan blurted. “Why do I always have to stay behind? I want to go inside.”
“You're staying back because your dad loves you, that's why. We don't know if it's safe yet. It's a bad idea to send the majority of our crew inside until we know.”
Andrew chambered a round. “Listen to your dad, Evan. I know it's not what you want to hear, but guarding our supplies is just as important as trying to procure them. You'll get your chance soon enough.”
Evan crossed his arms and leaned hard against the side of the SUV. “This sucks.”
“Love you too,” Jon said.
Andrew looked at him. “You good?”
Jon reached into the SUV and grabbed a Remington .308 from beside the front seat then lifted his shirt to reveal the Colt Mustang he had tucked into his waistline. “Yep.”
Andrew prepared to ask Cesare the same question, but Cesare already had his Ruger in hand.
“Okay,” Andrew said, satisfied. He looked at Clarissa and Rachel. “Let's go.”
* * *
The front entrance to the market was barricaded from the inside. The door glass, along with the big plate glass windows facing the parking lot, had been shattered. Sheets of plywood filled the open spaces, which held firm when Andrew tried to push on them. Their primary purpose appeared to have been as a deterrent against looters, but over time a secondary function developed—as community message board.
While some people had thought to write directly on the wood, most of what littered the rough surface consisted of photographs, hand-drawn and computer-printed maps, and a sea of pinned notes, all of which rippled in a light breeze.
Clarissa moved from one desperate plea to another, the destructive effects of the Sound on full display: families searched for loved ones; friends sought each other out; single people begged for a sleep partner—the tragic sadness of it all left her speechless. Even more devastating was that the plywood message board of Stonebridge undoubtedly represented a microcosm. Clarissa imagined every city in every country in the world employed boards like this. Places where people came to hope, to pray, to question, to grieve.
Andrew led the group around back. He gave Jon and the others a thumbs up from across the lot before he, Clarissa, Cesare, and Rachel sneaked alongside the market toward the loading docks. The bay doors were tightly sealed, but the metal door between them was ajar. Strike marks gouged the area near the lock where someone had pried it open.
Andrew and Cesare readied their weapons. Andrew entered first.
The door led to a storage area. High, industrial shelving lined all available wall space. Sparse boxes dotted some, but with words like “toilet bowl cleaner,” “light bulbs,” and “fabric softener” handwritten on the outside, no one wondered why they had been left alone.
Clarissa's optimism dwindled with the remnant of each ripped-open box she stepped over. Previously packaged foodstuffs such as cereals, beans, tomato sauces, juice, and sugar were but a few of the items that had been cleaned out.
A pair of swinging double doors separated the storeroom from the main store. Andrew made eye contact with each person and put a finger to his lips before he pushed through them.
For a six-aisle affair, the market didn't have much left to offer. Like the storeroom, most of what remained had little value in a post-apocalyptic world. Items such as toilet brushes, Glade Plug-Ins, Pine Sol, and a paltry selection of light bulbs were plentiful, but save severely dented cans and ripped-open sacks of grains and flour, anything edible had already been taken.
Andrew's shoulders dipped noticeably in disappointment, and Cesare let his gun hand drop to his side like a dead weight. No one expected to find a treasure trove, but they also didn't expect to find nothing.
Clarissa reached for a nearby abandoned cart. It rattled loudly thanks to resistance from one of the wheels, which screeched along the tile floor until it loosened from its locked position and spun freely.
Andrew shot her an intense look: What the hell're you doing?
Clarissa moved up beside him and the others.
“I don't think anybody's here,” she whispered.
Andrew's bothered expression deepened with her decision to speak.
“You don't know that,” he mumbled harshly. “We haven't checked the place out yet.”
“No, I know, it's just...I don't know. I think if someone were waiting for us, they would have tried to jump us right here. The front's boarded up, making this the only way in. Besides that, it's quiet as a church in here.”
Andrew exhaled at Clarissa's lack of foresight.
“Did it ever occur to you that somebody might live here? That maybe they're out of sight somewhere, perhaps just an aisle over?”
Clarissa swallowed.
Cesare put a hand on her shoulder. “You're probably right, Clarissa,” he said. “But it doesn't matter. If anyone is here, now they know we are too.”
Clarissa's face felt warm. Almost more than being afraid, she hated to make mistakes.
“Well, there's nothing we can do about it now,” Rachel said, attempting to salvage the situation. “Let's just gather up what we can and get out of here.”
“Okay,” Andrew said, clearly perturbed. “But let's clear the aisles just to make sure.” He nudged his chin in the direction of a sandwich and meat case, over which was mounted a sign that read “Deli” rendered in dark red. “We'll head that way and circle back around, gather up what we can as we go.”
“Sounds good,” Cesare said.
“Andrew, I'm sorry if—” Clarissa began.
Andrew shook her off. “It's okay.” He patted her shoulder in a way that felt disdainful. Suddenly she felt like an awkward schoolgirl again. “Just stay alert.”
Clarissa nodded sheepishly, as she wrapped her hands around the cart's handle. Rachel elbowed her and gave a supportive shrug
as if to say Whaddya gonna do?
The gesture worked. Clarissa grinned.
Rifle at the ready, Andrew started forward.
They crept alongside moldy coolers, which at one time held dairy items such as fresh milk, eggs, butter, and yogurt. Only a handful of products were left—whipping cream, coffee creamer, and the like—but despite them remaining unopened, the air was thick with a pungent sour milk stench. Clarissa pulled the collar of her shirt over her nose as they passed by.
Aisles four and three were clear, just as Clarissa thought they would be, and as they approached the end of aisle two, the only “threat” she discovered was rice scattered over the floor from several torn bags, which created a slipping hazard.
Clarissa bumped into a label-less can with her shoe. She picked it up along with two packages of crushed rice noodles, which peeked out from under the bottom shelf. Rachel deposited a bottle of gourmet mustard and a jar of pepperoncini into the cart then went back to scout for more.
Andrew and Cesare were much less concerned with acquiring goods than they were with guarding bodies. Both men moved furtively as if a person laid in wait around every corner. Andrew edged forward methodically, easing his head past endcaps to peer into adjoining aisles. Cesare stayed right on his tail and shot occasional backward glances in case someone tried to sneak up on their blindside. It seemed like overkill to Clarissa, who still felt the store was vacant, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
The corner of something contained in clear plastic packaging poked out from under an empty pallet that at one time had been used to support cases of bottled water, or so the sign beside it claimed. Clarissa stooped to pick it up then dropped it as soon as she had it in her hand. Hamburger buns. At least, they used to be. Now they were furry green hockey pucks. She wiped off her hands on her jeans and gave the moldy bag a swift kick down the aisle. She watched it carve a trench through the rice, the action eliciting a childish smile.
She pushed the cart but wasn't looking when she collided with Cesare, who had stopped cold—he pointed his Ruger into the store. Her eyes moved from him to Andrew—who also trained his rifle in front of him with wide-eyed awareness—to Rachel, who clamped her hand over her mouth in unspeakable dread.
Something was on the ground.
Clarissa ambled forward, forcing herself to see what had thrown everyone into a heightened state of awareness. Her heart tremored, and her legs felt like steel girders. She moved up beside Rachel and followed her friend's horrified gaze.
Jesus Christ.
She saw four bodies in all—two men, one woman, and a young teenage boy. They laid side by side on the blood-soaked tile, face down, their bodies twisted unnaturally as if dropped from ten feet. A bullet hole punched a tunnel through the back of each person's head. What remained of their faces was reduced to a splatter of gore, which splashed over empty bread racks and a bagel cart.
Clarissa's stomach lurched. Rachel clutched her hand and dropped to a crouch.
Andrew spun and pivoted, his rifle pointed at any location where a person might suddenly jump out. He moved toward the bodies and knelt beside the woman. Once certain they were alone, he examined the injuries.
“They were executed,” he said. “All of them. One shot each to the head and chest.”
“Oh my God,” Rachel said through her hand. “Oh my God...”
Andrew gingerly placed his hand on the dead woman's wrist. His eyes bloomed, and he bounded back to his feet.
“We need to go. Now.”
Cesare became even more alert than he was. He gripped the Ruger with both hands, his forearm muscles taut with anxiety.
“What? What is it?”
Andrew didn't look at him, only the store.
“She's still warm. This just happened.”
The room seemed to tilt around Clarissa. She groped for the nearest shelf and latched onto it to keep herself from collapsing from shock. She had seen a lot during her time on the road, but nothing this immediate, this visceral. She knew violence had become commonplace, even more so now than before the Sound. But this? Why kill a woman? A child? What threat could they have possibly posed? This didn't look like survival. This looked like amusement.
“She's alive!” Cesare nearly shouted.
All eyes pinned to the woman—her fingers twitched.
Andrew dropped to his knees beside her and took her hand in both of his.
“What do we do?” Rachel said, her voice rising in hysteria. She wiped tears of shock from her cheeks. “She needs help. We...we need to do something!”
“There's nothing we can do,” Andrew said, his voice eerily resigned.
“What do you mean?” Rachel pressed. “She needs help...She needs a doctor!”
“Rach,” Clarissa said. She reached for her friend, but Rachel stepped out of arm's length.
Andrew regarded her with utter calm. “Rachel, she's lost too much blood, and her brain is scrambled. Even if there were still hospitals, the best outcome she could hope for would be to live as a vegetable. I'm sorry.”
“But...we can't just leave her like this.”
“No,” he said. He released the woman's hand and stood. “No, we can't.” He double-checked his rifle to verify he had chambered a round.
Clarissa understood Andrew's intention immediately. So did Rachel, to a lesser degree of acceptance.
“No,” she said, horrified. “You can't.”
“It's the humane thing to do.”
“No!” Rachel said. She was dangerously close to becoming unhinged. “She's not a dog, or, or...or a horse that you can just put down. She's a person. Somebody who has a family, maybe even children!”
“And it's because of them, I'm going to do what has to be done. She may be suffering right now for all we know. I don't think anyone in her family would want that.”
Cesare slipped an arm around Rachel's waist. “Come on, Rach.”
Rachel protested, but only a little. Clarissa suspected she understood full well the reality of what needed to happen, even if her heart hadn't come to terms with it yet. Cesare guided her away, and Clarissa didn't think she would ever forget the look on her friend's harried face.
“Clarissa?” Andrew said. She looked at him. “You should probably go too.”
She nodded absently and retreated behind the endcap of aisle two. Andrew didn't wait for her to fully go before he once again lowered himself to his knees. This time, instead of just holding the woman's hand, he spoke to her. He talked under his breath, his delivery calm and assured as if he were recounting a story only she and he would remember, and even though Clarissa couldn't hear a thing, she knew his words were comforting.
After a moment, he pushed himself back to his feet and aimed his rifle at the base of her skull. Clarissa managed to dart behind the endcap right before he fired. The shot reverberated thunderously in the store.
A baby cried from somewhere.
Clarissa snapped up her head like a meerkat sentry. Cesare and Rachel broke from hugging as Andrew rushed over, his mouth agape in stunned surprise.
“What the hell was that?” he said.
“Shhh!” Clarissa spat. She charged forward then froze and listened.
The baby cried again, this time, long and sustained.
Clarissa bolted along the back of the store, past aisles two, three, and four, which ran perpendicular to it.
“Clarissa!” Andrew shouted after her, but she didn't hear it. Every bit of focus, every ounce of drive she funneled into locating the child.
She and the others hadn't investigated aisle five or six yet. The owner of the cry was obviously not in any of the previous ones, which left only those two. She sprinted past aisle five and glanced fleetingly down it, but when she saw the shopping cart sitting askew at the far end, her feet scrambled to try to stop.
Something was in it.
She slipped on the tile and toppled onto her hip. Were it any other time, she would have winced from the streaks of pain that raced down her l
eg. But the injury was a secondary concern. Clambering to her feet, she tore down the aisle toward the cart until she looked down at the source of all the noise.
“Oh, Jesus...” she said. Her hands vacillated between her mouth and the screaming baby strapped to a car seat on the shopping cart. The child howled with displeasure, even after it discovered Clarissa gawking at it. The impact from her discovery knocked the wind out of her. She had to take a moment to process what she saw before she could begin unfastening the infant.
Andrew, Cesare, and Rachel joined her as she detached the five-point harness pinning the baby down. She lifted the shrieking child out of its chair.
Rachel's hands were at her face again, but rather than be expressive of terror, her eyes were wet from tragic joy.
“I don't believe it,” she whimpered. “How...I don't believe it...”
Cesare pulled her to him and held her. Both stared in awe at the squirmy infant.
The baby looked to be around five months old, and Clarissa figured her for a female based on her Frozen onesie. Dried snot crusted her nose, and considerable scratches made from fingernails that were too long tracked her grimy face. Sad eyes leaked frustrated tears, and it didn't take more than a sniff to recognize she was past due for a diaper change.
Andrew looked at the child, captivated. It was the first time Clarissa had ever seen him at a loss for words. He placed a gentle hand on the baby's back, as Clarissa tried to console her, but removed it just as swiftly.
“I guess you were right,” Clarissa said. Andrew raised his stunned eyes to meet hers. “There was somebody here. And she was just an aisle over.” She murmured to the agitated baby. “It's okay. We've got you. You're going to be okay.”
The baby wailed, her young eyes passing over this group of strangers who gaped at her.
“I'm sure she's hungry,” Cesare said. “And if I smell right, she probably needs—”
Running footsteps crescendoed behind them. Andrew whirled, chambered another round, and drew his rifle, only to end up pointing it at Jon, who appeared at the end of the aisle, his gun raised.