That’s so screwed up, I think, shaking my head.
I look down at Luke, trotting beside me. He’s adjusted his speed to accommodate my limping gait. I feel a bit like Noah, after the ark. But at least he had his wife and children.
As we travel further along the main road, several more cars sit motionless, some running, heated and clear of snow. Some are dead and covered over. I don’t have the resolve to look inside them. If I see one more pile of dust, or one more savage pet, I might go home and never come out again.
My ignorance-is-bliss tactic works, and we reach Hannaford, the local grocery store chain, fifteen minutes later. The vast parking lot is covered in three feet of smooth white snow, undulating where it rises up over bushes and a few cars. I stop and listen. The world is quiet. No hum of humanity. No birds. All I can hear is the impossibly small sound of loose, wind-driven snowflakes ticking over the frozen lot. The emptiness of this vast silence leaves me drained, so I start walking again and take comfort in the jingling of Luke’s dog tags.
We weave through the few empty cars in the parking lot and I hear one of them still running, nearly silent. I glance into a few of the cars, where the snow has fallen away from the smooth glass windows. Most are empty, but a few hold the now-standard powder clothing piles, of people waiting in the car while their loved one went to grab a few things to weather the storm—gallons of milk, bread, snacks. I find the still running car, a small hybrid, clear of snow, heated from within. With the frigid temperature, the heat would need to be on in the car for someone waiting. I find I’m surprised by the length of time a car can continue to idle. Full gas tanks? Super efficiency? The mystery is weirdly comforting and offers a nice distraction.
Luke and I stop in front of the automatic doors for a few beats until I realize they’re not going to open—the electricity is off here, too. And no one was around to make sure the generator was operating. Unsure about what to do next, I shiver and watch Luke pee into a snow bank.
I didn’t come all this way to be stopped by a lack of convenience, I decide.
Pushing one of the doors open, cool, dark, quiet greets me. Luke pushes past me, thrilled, and he bounds down an aisle before I can stop him. All this rule-breaking I’m about to do, when I stop to consider it, is disconcerting. Breaking in—although technically the doors are unlocked, allowing a dog to run free through a grocery store and looting are all new experiences. It feels wrong, even though I know there’s no one here to care.
This grocery store is considered by many rural New Hampshirites to be too fancy and expensive, with its aisle of specialty food items displayed on wooden shelves and all-natural cleaners and beauty care products. Shiny floors, sushi samples and organic pears from Chile. We’re used to cheaper, generally tax-free living than our neighbors to the south in Massachusetts, and usually we pride ourselves on our Yankee ingenuity. But I love this shiny store, which has always carried everything I need.
Inside the door, chaos. I step over several powdery clothing lumps, next to a full, dripping grocery cart and two tipped over shopping baskets. A half-gallon of Breyer’s chocolate ice cream has melted onto the floor, mixing with the white powder, creating a white-specked brown puddle, like tree pollen after a rain. My presence and the cold wind behind me stirs the air, lifting some of the nearby powder. Granny Smith apples lie scattered a few feet away. Luke jogs his return to me, paws slipping on the waxed floor, a chunk of plastic-wrapped cheddar cheese between his teeth. He drops it at my feet, lies down and starts gnawing, oblivious to the white beneath him, or perhaps seeing it as snow.
The store feels dead. There’s no electrical hum of cooling units, no music or announcements. The bustle of people, voices and squeaky carriages is missing. Children should be negotiating for snacks, babies fussing. Old ladies with coupons, taking forever at checkout. A profound sense of aloneness shivers through me, like the onset of a fever.
The initial reason for our trek dawns again on me—to find survivors, people like me. And prenatal vitamins. So far, I’ve been disappointed by a man-eating dog and too many powder piles. I had hoped that this store and the lure of supplies it provides might draw other survivors out, but I am clearly the first visitor to arrive.
Luke follows me, cheese in mouth, to the stationery aisle, his clicking nails the only sound aside from my wet squeaky boots and the metallic rattle of the wind on the roof. It’s surprisingly dark in here. The windows at the front of the store provide the only light, already diffused because of the gray sky. In the stationery aisle, I select a black, spiral-bound pocket notebook and a package of Sharpie pens. I put the notebook back and pick up a green, instead. I need some color, some cheer. I break open the package, uncap the pen and write, ‘Pens and mini notebook.’ When—if—things return to normal, I’ll be able to pay for everything I take. I’m about to add Luke’s cheese to the list, but my hand won’t move. I try to force it, but only manage to scribble a jagged line. Some part of me is resisting the fantasy that life will return to normal again. That I will have to pay for what I take. That anyone will care.
A teardrop taps against the paper, absorbing and turning the white sheet transparent, revealing the blue lines of the next page. A second tear falls, tapping the page and snapping me fully out of the fantasy. “Damnit!” I yell and throw the notebook into the display, launching boxes of Bic pens and Crayola Markers into the aisle.
I stand there, arms crossed, ignoring the tears and squelching the sobs building in my chest. I’m too angry to cry. I bend down and pick up a package of markers, then stare at it. The bright primary colors mock me. I turn and throw the box over the aisles. Centrifugal force pulls the markers from the box as it spins, showering the floor. Making a mess. I grin and look down at Luke. “Whatever you want boy. Go to town.”
He just stares back, waiting to follow my lead. I head to a nearly empty shopping cart, skirting the pile of dust that’s mostly covered up by a heap of winter clothing. I take the birthday card, roll of wrapping paper and candles out of the cart and drop them on the floor. Then I replace them with pens, pencils, markers, crayons and a few watercolor sets. Several pads of paper go next. It could be argued that I don’t need any of this to survive, but I would argue that I need it to exist. Art is how I process, and I have a lifetime of processing to do before Squirt is born. With enough art supplies to last me a month or two, I put my hand on Luke’s ever present head. “Let’s go.”
Before I make it to the end of the aisle, I shiver. It’s freezing in here, not sub-zero like it is outside, but the stillness of the air feels like a chilled blanket. I’m used to overheating in stores, and usually I drape my coat over the cart. Now I can see my breath. Despite the fact that I’m dressed for an Arctic excursion, the shaking gets worse, but is it the bitter cold, or nerves?
That’s when I notice the smell, and the shaking gets worse.
Nerves. Great.
The usual scent of an enclosed, heated, public place is missing. There are no perfumed bodies, unwashed armpits of people fresh from their workouts, smokers unaware or uncaring about the tangy nicotine trail left behind them or the generic, icy, breadcrumb smell of frozen food items encased in cardboard. No warming rotisserie chicken. Today the store smells of pennies, and thawed meat; the aroma of fresh road kill when it wafts through an open car window in the spring, wet with a hint of decay.
I gag, but contain it. I’ve now experienced worse.
Luke and I wander the store, starting at the pharmacy aisles, where I read the labels on the prenatal vitamin bottles and glance at the actual pharmacy, with all those medications, only to be dispensed with prescriptions. I realize I could grab anything. Should I pilfer through there? Plan on the possibility of getting sick? I feel overwhelmed with the need for planning, and want to ignore the compulsion to foresee the future.
For a moment, I entertain the possibility of killing myself. I could find a sleeping pill. Something serious. Like Ambien. Take the whole bottle. I picture it, the calm. The ease, no mor
e pain. I’ll drift off, mind numbed to the pain of death. And then I picture Luke, alone, his tail between his legs, lying beside my still form. And then Squirt. Dead inside me.
I gasp my way out of the vision. One hand to my mouth, the other clutching the prenatals.
I’m sorry I considered it, Squirt.
I walk away from the pharmacy and the sinister opportunities it offers, focusing on what to take. Should I bother with perishables? Have they already perished? How many hours has the electricity been out, here? Is Luke going to get sick from that cheese? I decide to avoid the fresh meat and dairy. The rest is fair game.
I limp through the aisles, taking boxes of food that won’t go bad any time soon, canned goods and entire boxes of dark chocolate bars—the expensive kind I normally can’t afford. As I round a back aisle, headed for the produce, a splash beneath my foot stops me. A salty, warm fish smell fills the air. In the very dim light, I look down to find a puddle, swirled with white powder. Ice from the fish coolers has melted and overflowed, mixing with the dead. I limp away and lean my back against the now-cold rotisserie chicken counter. The fish smell reminds me of the ocean. The beach. I see my mother’s long brown hair, her thin, girlish body in her size-small, blue bathing suit, bending over my sand castle with me. She’s digging the moat. My father sits under an umbrella, reading and grinning at us.
I flinch when Luke suddenly puts a paw on my leg. I didn’t hear him walk up. The wind is picking up outside. The metal roof rattles, the poor man’s thunder sound effect. The fish freezers drip, a constant plop on the puddle-soaked floor. The darkness of the store closes in on me, adding weight. I’m too far back, I think. I should have stayed near the windows. Near the light. Strange, this primal fear of the dark. I now know there are much worse things in the world.
Beckoned by the scent of still-fresh fruit and vegetables, I enter the produce section. I envision myself gorging on apples, pears and grapes, eating it all before it goes bad, but then I wonder how I’ll carry all of this two miles through the snow, while wearing snowshoes with a swollen ankle. My first step is to transfer what I’ve taken into two canvas bags, the kinds people buy to assuage their guilt over using plastic and save the planet. The two bags are nearly full when I turn my attention back to the fruit. I pick through the organic apples. Luke, tuckered out, lies down next to me on the cold floor.
A particular red apple, shiny and new, lacking any bruising, calls out to be eaten. My mother would ream me out for not washing it first, would remind me that even organic fruit can be sprayed with pesticides for transportation, but I’m hungry. I wipe the apple on my pant leg and take a bite. The crunch echoes through the empty store. The flavor takes me to a hundred different orchard visits. I take a second bite. The crunch sounded wrong, like part of the noise came from the far side of the store. I chew slowly. Silently. Listening until the half chewed fruit rests still in my mouth. I’m about to resume chewing when, somewhere in the store, the distinct sound of a can falling to the floor and rolling away roars through the air like an approaching tidal wave.
I lean forward and push the apple from my mouth with my tongue, unwilling to make a sound. I glance up into the mirror above my head. Why do grocery stores have mirrors above their produce? I bend a little, trying to see behind me, but only fruit and shadows fill the view.
Something scuffs, still distant. Luke raises his head, ears perked. This noise is different, like it had a cause. Cans, off balance, can fall. I wasn’t exactly careful when I went through the aisles. But loose food doesn’t scuff.
We aren’t alone.
My instinct, in my loneliness, is to call out. I open my mouth to shout, ‘Hello,’ but I’m silenced by Luke’s low growl. My heart patters wildly, hummingbird wings, and I grab him by the collar. He breaks away from me, running through produce and around the corner, down another aisle. The hair on the back of my neck rises. Like a horror movie, I think.
In seconds, Luke scampers back to me, whimpering, tail between his legs, ears flattened. He’s drooling. He paws at me and I bend down to hug him.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, but the words have an unusual bump in the middle of them.
We crouch quietly in front of the apples for a minute, both of us with ears perked. To our left now, perhaps an aisle over, I hear a dragging sound, like heavy fabric being pulled across the floor.
Luke whimpers and pees, right there.
We’re definitely not alone. And Luke is terrified.
Quaking all over, I take this as a hint that we need to hide. I hold him by the collar, heft my two heavy bags onto one shoulder—unwilling to give up my hard-foraged supplies—and we head in the opposite direction from the noise, past the bakery and the deli, back to the gross, sloppy-floored fish section. We step lightly through the rancid puddles, thick with fish oil and white powder, and crouch behind one of the freezers. Luke sits down, right in the liquid, and I cringe. He’s trembling.
The smell is overwhelming. My eyes water and I try to breathe through my mouth.
I hear the dragging sound again, a repetitious shushing. It’s coming closer. Following.
I tuck my head down and cling to Luke. Both arms wrapped around his girth, fingers laced under his collar. My heartbeat clobbers my ribcage.
The sound is right in front of us, a heavy noise, like someone dragging a mile long, deflated, hot air balloon through the store. Water gurgles, pushed by something. Small waves wrap around the counter, lapping against my boots.
And then it passes. Moving on.
As the sound fades, the fish smell is momentarily masked by the loveliness of roses. What? I haven’t seen the sound’s source, but the way it terrified Luke, I would have expected it to smell foul. But flowers? The wafting, rose-scented breeze lingers for several minutes, and it brings tears to my eyes. It’s so beautiful. Different from roses. Better. What is happening?
A distant clunk accompanied by a rising and falling brightness tells me that some door on the other side of the store has just opened and closed. Daring to rise up a bit from my crouched position, my hamstrings suffering in the half-squat on my hurt ankle, I peek through the dripping fish freezer. I don’t see anything. I wait a full five minutes. I don’t hear anything.
Luke rises to his feet as well, his furry butt and tail dripping with the foul-smelling liquid. Bits of wet powder cling to his fur.
We need to get the hell out of here. I realize that I had already come to believe that there were no other survivors. So what the hell was that? I should have looked.
I shake my head at the idea. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. There’s enough instinct in the reptilian part of my brain, and Luke’s, to know that much.
I wait five minutes more, and when again nothing happens, I take a step around the freezer corner.
“Stay, Luke. Good boy. Stay.”
I scan the store, looking down the back aisle. The rear of the store is lit in stripes of dim light filtering past the tall aisles. I see nothing but rows of food. Then, a rolling marker, spins at the end of an aisle, drawing my eyes. Still, nothing, but there is something wrong with my vision. The chip display at the end cap is blurry. I blink, thinking there must be some residual tears turned to eye goop in my eyes, but it doesn’t help.
Then the chips move.
No, not the chips.
Something in front of the chips.
The indistinct shape slides forward, into the light, still unseen, but now shimmering, bending the light. It’s...huge. Seven feet tall, maybe. Half as wide.
A ghost, I think. The planet must be populated by them now, billions of people cut down before they were ready, like that Torment novel. The words on the bags blend with the colors, a mushy melting effect, refracting light bright enough to illuminate the surrounding area. I hear the dragging sound before it stops.
Luke’s dog tags jingle and I look down at him, wondering if he will charge to my rescue or abandon me and flee. But he’s as stuck as me. Then his head tilts in that funny way a
ll confused dogs do. I look up, expecting to see the shimmer sliding toward me, revealing its true ghastly self.
Instead, the shimmering light is gone, disappeared.
“Like a ghost.”
11
AUGUST
The trip home is much faster than the journey to Phoenix. The sun is high in the cloudless, deep blue Arizona sky, and the white dust has settled to the ground, much of it now mingling with the desert. Despite the improved air quality, a swirling cloud of the dead spins into the air behind the Highlander, kicked up in the vehicle’s wake. Working my way past the empty vehicles and large wrecks is far easier. Moving slowly, I maneuver between rows of vehicles, viewing them as oversized gravestones marking the final resting places of countless travelers. Not that their bodies are here.
Nearly all the vehicles on the road and in the city, not to mention the surrounding suburban houses and city apartments, all have one thing in common: open windows. The event took place, I believe, at 6:30 PM on a Friday evening. The weather forecast, which I check every morning, even when I’ve sequestered myself in Desert’s underground lab, predicted an unseasonably warm 75 degree weather and high winds from the West. Not cold enough for heat, or hot enough for AC, but perfect for open windows. That’s how the cloud of human dust has grown so large. People’s loose remains were sucked out of their homes and cars—not to mention the hundreds of thousands outside enjoying the evening—and were carried over the desert.
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