by D. Gideon
“What the hell, lady?” Mel said again, pushing in between us and trying to shove the crazed woman away from me. “Get off of her!”
“I was here first! They got the pharmacy and laundry detergent, but I got here first! Let go!” The woman said, wrenching and twisting the jug to get it out of my fingers.
“It’s not yours!” I said, tugging on the jug in short motions. She had both hands wrapped around it, and I couldn’t get it free. Her twisting was making my fingers slip, and I struggled to keep a grip on the rounded, smooth handle.
“It’s all mine! I was here first!” she repeated, and kicked at us. She nailed Mel, who stumbled back, yelping.
“I’ve got two! I’ve got two! Drop it, Rip, let’s go!” Corey said, pushing Mel towards the end of the aisle. The woman tried kicking at me again, and missed. I was afraid if I let her have this one, she’d just drop it like she had Corey’s and grab onto my second jug. I hung on.
“You’ve already got tons! What the hell are you gonna do with it all?” I said, trying to thump her hands with my other gallon. That was useless; I couldn’t get enough of a swing for it to hurt.
“I’m-a sell it, same as you!” She said, kicking at me again.
I looked past her and faked a shocked face. “That other lady’s stealing your cart!”
That made her let go and turn, cursing. I took off. The woman who’d been grabbing cake mixes was gone, but I crushed at least three boxes on my dash to the end of the aisle. There were more people coming in to the aisle now, sweeping the shelves with their flashlights to see if they could find anything worthy of stealing. We turned the corner and dodged between people, using whatever light they had as a guide. Trying to be both quick and agile enough to move through the crowds with a gallon of oil in each hand was difficult, to say the least. We were nearly to the registers when Mel shouted for us to stop.
“Wait! Shouldn’t we-” She started.
A man came flying backwards out of the cold medicine aisle I was standing next to. He slammed into me and knocked me down. The impact knocked one gallon out of my hands, and it went bouncing and sliding across the floor into the darkness. The man landed on top of me with a grunt and started to roll off. Another man dove at us, following the first, and landed on his opponent—and me—with a crushing weight. The air left my lungs in a rush and I tried to remember how to breathe. I could hear the two men making noises at each other that were close to growling, and Mel and Corey were both yelling something. Then suddenly the weight was gone, and the man who’d knocked me down was scrambling off of me. I lifted my head and gulped for air, and saw Mel and Corey both rearing back and swinging their gallons of oil at the second man. Most of the swings missed, but a few connected solidly with his head and shoulders. He yelped and rolled away, small boxes falling from his pockets. The man who’d been thrown into me scrabbled after the second, grabbing up all of the boxes. I pushed myself up and felt something crumple under my knee. It was one of the boxes; I stuffed it into a pocket and looked around for my other jug of canola oil. Now that I was down here, I could see dark lumps all over the floor. Boxes, fallen clothing, the debris of looting everywhere. I reached for my pocket, going for my little flashlight. A hand hooked under my arm.
“C’mon, we gotta go,” Corey said, pulling me up. I looked around and saw that the second man was gone; the first was still crawling around collecting boxes. Mel stood behind Corey, looking down the aisle towards the glassed-in Pharmacy.
“I lost one,” I said. “We’ve got to-”
The sound of glass breaking from the other end of the short aisle startled me. Shouting followed. Now it was starting to sound like a riot.
“So much for the guys holding people off at the door while their bros scooped stuff up,” Mel said. “They’re going through the glass. Shit’s about to get real, people.”
“Forget the other jug,” Corey said. “Let’s go.”
“But-” I started.
“We’ll get more somewhere else, Rip. Move!” Corey said, pulling me away.
Chapter 2
Monday, September 3rd
Bowie, Maryland
Marco moved quickly past a large selection of women’s underwear and headed for a rack he could see sitting out against the main aisle, displaying ladies boots for the fall season. He rounded a high wall separating the nighties from the shoe section and stopped. He could see the first two racks of shoes, but past that it was a sheer mass of people yelling, grabbing boxes off of the racks, and trying to push either into or out of the crowd. One escapee ran past him, three shoe boxes in his arms.
He didn’t want to step into that. He couldn’t even see what was there, and had to assume it was tennis shoes. Maybe the hiking boots were out here, with the other seasonal boots. He panned his flashlight around and saw house shoes, rain boots, gardening boots, and a lot of very stylish but completely impractical high-heeled boots. Anyone trying to actually walk in those in the winter would be risking a broken ankle. Three more men came pushing out of the crowd, whooping and cheering, each with a stack of shoe boxes. Marco slid out of their way into the aisle with the gardening boots.
“Don’t be bringing trouble over here,” a voice said, and Marco looked down to see a large man squatting in the aisle. He had short, gray hair that contrasted with his dark skin and tight eyes that were watching him carefully. He held a flashlight in one hand, aimed at the rack. The man slid a hand down to an old, weathered, wooden bat that lay on the floor next to him and raised an eyebrow.
Marco raised a hand, shaking his head. “Whatever you’ve got, I don’t want it,” he said. “I’m just looking for something to put miles on.”
The man frowned and motioned his chin over his shoulder, towards the mob. “You ain’t gettin’ near those unless you’re wanting to get hurt. They’re on the same rack as the sneakers.” He aimed his flashlight down at Marco’s loafers and made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Size?”
“Eleven,” Marco said, turning to see what the man had been digging through. An open box landed on top of his feet.
“That’s the best you’re gonna get without fighting for it,” the man said. “At least they won’t fall apart like those.” He gestured at Marco’s feet.
Marco squatted down and opened the box. It was a pair of waterproof boots, calf high and coated in rubber nearly up to the ankle. They’d be heavy, and hot to wear…he’d have to change out his socks often. But the man was right—they wouldn’t fall apart.
“I can’t find a twelve,” the man said, reaching up and pulling more boxes down to get to the ones behind them. “If I’d known I’d be walking, I wouldn’t have put my combat boots in with the shit I shipped home.”
“I wouldn’t have left mine overseas,” Marco said, scanning over the boxes in front of him. He pushed a few boxes aside and then moved to the lowest shelf. “Here’s a twelve.”
“Thanks,” the big man said, sitting and pulling off his tennis shoes. Looking around to make sure the crowd wasn’t pushing into the aisle, Marco did the same.
“Aren’t those what everyone is over there fighting for?” Marco said, seeing the man’s bright red and white sneakers with their distinctive “swoosh”. He pushed his foot into the boot, groaned inwardly at how stiff it was, and yanked the laces tight.
“Rob me signs is what those Lebrons are,” the big man said. “The ladies like ‘em, because they know they’re $400. But they’ll get me killed before I get past DC. Take ‘em if you want ‘em.”
“I’d rather have one of those,” Marco said, nodding to the man’s bat. The second boot slid on as stiffly as the first.
“Then you’ve got your priorities straight,” the man said. He held out a hand. “Name’s Sam.”
Marco stopped tying long enough to shake Sam’s hand. “Marco. Thanks for these.” He nodded down at the boots.
“No prob. They were right in front of me. Tell you what—you go with me to the bikes, and I go with you over to the sports section to ge
t a bat? Watch each other’s backs?” Sam asked, rolling to his feet.
“Safety in numbers sounds good,” Marco said as he stood. He stomped his feet to settle more into the boots. He’d need to re-tie them in a bit. He pointed at Sam’s sneakers. “You should take those. Maybe you can trade them for something.”
“If someone sees that I have those, they’ll think I’ve got other stuff worth taking. Same with that Rolex you’re sportin’,” Sam said, swinging the bat to lean on his shoulder. “C’mon. Should be down this way.” He headed out the other end of the aisle, then stopped short at the end cap.
“Gonna need these for sure,” he said, plucking a blister pack of gel inserts off of the hooks. He tossed it to Marco and grabbed two for himself. “Tell me if you see pantyhose. It keeps the blisters away.”
“Those are probably back in the ladies underwear section,” Marco said. “Passed it on the way to the shoes.” He grabbed another pack of inserts and stuffed one into each back pocket.
“We’ll hit it on the way out then,” Sam said. He turned and pointed his flashlight down the main aisle just in time to duck as a man ran by holding a Playstation over his head. “Shit! Let’s go around that mess.”
The Electronics section was just ahead on the right, and the crowd there was going wild. A fight had broken out, and had spilled into the main aisle. At least ten different men were struggling with each other over two 65-inch flat screens. Between a vicious game of tug-o-war over the huge boxes, they were smacking, punching, and kicking each other. Others were running from the department with armloads of pre-paid cellphones, computers, and gaming systems. On the back wall where the TVs were hung, there was more shouting and sounds of fighting. Marco and Sam ducked into the Toys section just as one man in the big-screen melee tripped and went down, pulling the box over and taking two other men with him.
As they ducked past a section of lunchboxes and other items adorned with cartoon characters, Marco spotted a few rows of school backpacks.
“Sam!” He called, and grabbed a black one off the hook, putting his arms through it so that the pack hung over his chest. He hooked the waist belt behind him and zipped open the top.
“Good idea,” Sam said, grabbing one for himself. “I just saw a kid’s bike up ahead. We’re close.”
The Sporting Goods section backed right up to the bikes—or where the bikes had been. Nearly empty racks had only a few small children’s bikes left, and a pair of guys were trying to get the last mountain bike down from the hanging rack.
“How bad do you want that bike?” Marco said, eyeing the two skinny men as they kept lifting the bike and getting the front wheel stuck on a hook.
“Let ‘em have it,” Sam said. “I ain’t here to hurt nobody. Let’s get you a bat.”
There were no full-size bats. It wasn’t that they’d been taken, it’s that the store didn’t even have them available for sale. All they could find were a few tee-ball bats. Marco knocked his hand against them, finding plastic and foam. He stopped when his knuckle made one ring with the sound of aluminum. It was black with red stripes.
“This makes no sense,” Sam said, panning his flashlight up the aisle. “I knew Target was anti-weapon, but to not even sell real baseball bats?”
“This will work,” Marco said, pulling it from the hooks. “Just wish they had more than one. Might even be better that it’s shorter than yours. Easier to hide.”
“Probably so, but I’m still keepin’ mine,” Sam said, patting his wooden bat affectionately. “She’s my good luck charm. Had her in my truck for years. People see her, suddenly they don’t want no trouble.”
“I think that may have more to do with your size,” Marco said, grinning. Sam grinned back and shrugged.
They peeked around the aisle and saw that the two men had finally wrestled the mountain bike down and were gone. They passed a few more aisles filled with sports paraphernalia, and then Sam put a hand out to stop Marco.
“Look, camping stuff,” he said. “Maybe they’ve got tarps. You check that side.” He ducked down the aisle, scanning the lower shelves with his flashlight. Marco moved to the other side, finding plastic water bottles, a selection of thermoses, and cans of bug spray—he stuffed a couple of those into his pack. Next were small backpacking stoves, foldable outdoor grills, propane cans…and then he hit the jackpot.
“Sam, need a knife or two? Or ten?" he asked, looking over an array of pocket knives, multi-tools, and even a huge machete. Sam stepped up beside him, still stuffing a tarp into his pack.
“None of that Gerbage crap,” Sam said. “Ever since they started making their stuff in China, the whole line’s gone to shit. Blades snap if you look at ‘em the wrong way, the multi-tools fall apart…my boys quit carrying ‘em.” He pulled a Swiss army knife off of a hook. “I’ll take this Victorinox, though. That’s quality.”
“Your boys? You have sons?” Marco grabbed a few different knives and dropped them into his pack.
“My boys, boys,” Sam said. “My unit. Here, get you one of these.” He plucked a stainless steel water bottle from the bottom shelf and handed it up. “You can boil water in that if you have to; make it safe to drink.”
“I’ve done that often enough,” Marco said, and slid the bottle into a stretchy webbed side-pocket on the pack. Ripley had had a stainless steel bottle much like this in her backup pack from the shelter, but he’d let Mel take it when she’d said she’d need it to keep her coffee hot. That jarred his memory, and he moved back to the shelves with the stoves, looking for a camping pot. He found one; cheaply made of thin metal and only large enough to hold a can of soup, but it would work. He heard Sam chuckling and asked what was so funny.
“This,” Sam said, gesturing to the display of knives. “They won’t sell guns, they won’t even sell real baseball bats…but here’s a freaking machete. Granted, it’s a Gerbage so it’ll get a dent in the edge the first time you hit something with it, but you could nearly take off a head with that. A baseball bat’s considered a weapon, but this ain’t?”
“Corporate logic,” Marco said, moving past Sam and grabbing two tarps. He looked around for rope and saw a few hanks of cheap paracord. “Over in Electronics there are more powerful weapons than anything here. With one computer and the right code, you can ruin millions of lives.”
“Just goes to show that it ain’t the tool, it’s the person using it,” Sam said, shaking his head. “But you ain’t gonna convince me you’re a computer nerd, even with that Rolex and them fancy shoes. You got that look.”
Marco pasted on a smile, trying to make light of Sam’s words. “That look? You mean like an old war bear wearing $400 shoes?” He dropped two hanks of the paracord into his bag and tossed a third to Sam.
“Son, I put in a life term in the Army. I know how war changes a person. I see the way you move. Your head’s on a swivel. You’ve seen combat.” He paused, watching Marco’s smile drop, then nodded as he pushed the paracord into his backpack. “Yeah. You’ve seen some bad shit.”
Marco shrugged. “That was another life. What else do you need to get?”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “All I was after was the boots and the bike, but if you’re stickin’ with me for a bit, I could use some food.”
Marco pulled the bat out from where he’d had it resting on the packs bottom straps, against his stomach.
“Let’s go get some food then,” he said.
Chapter 3
Monday, September 3rd
Bowie, MD
I heard a beep, and the door to our hotel room swung open.
“Finally! We thought we’d have to go back in at daylight to find your body,“ I joked, turning from where I’d been sitting at the window. At my feet, King tensed, ready to spring, but settled down when Marco stepped into the room.
“Holy shit, Romeo,” Mel said. “What happened?”
“You’re bleeding,” I said, getting up and hurrying to Marco. I pulled the battery-powered lamp we’d taken from the shelter to the
edge of the counter, trying to get a better look.
Marco’s face was cut open across his cheek bone, and a nasty bruise was already beginning to color the area. Rivulets of blood had tracked down his face into his short beard. He was wearing a Jack Skellington backpack on his chest, and some blood had fallen onto Jack’s face, making it look like he was crying bloody tears. Marco had a small black bat that had some red on it—I didn’t know if that was paint or blood, and I didn’t want to know. He leaned it in the corner against the wall.
“A gentleman with a large ring thought that instead of simply taking his own bottle, it was a better idea to sucker-punch me and try to take the one in my hand,” Marco said. He pulled a jumbo economy bottle of pills from the top of his open pack and offered it to me. “For my lady’s aches and pains,” he said.
“You got into a fight to get me ibuprofen?” I asked, stunned. I turned the bottle over in my hand. It had some dried droplets of blood on it, too.
“Well, as it turns out, I need it too,” Marco said, a corner of his mouth lifting a bit.
“Sit down,” I ordered, handing Marco the light and pointing to the table. “I have butterfly Band-Aids in the pack. Do we have any water that isn’t from the pool? That chlorine will burn like fire.”
“I still have some,” Corey said, digging in his pack and tossing it to me. “Did you catch the guy that hit you?”
“He’ll wake up with a headache,” Marco said as he slipped off the pack and sat down. “By then he’ll probably be missing that ring and anything in his pockets—maybe his shoes, too—but at least he’ll wake up.”
I flipped over my bag and tore off my first aid kit. It was a Condor rip-away EMT pouch with Molle straps and a big velcro patch on the back. All I had to do to get it off of my pack was unclip a strap, slide my C-A-T tourniquet out of the way, and give the carry straps a hard yank. The pouch would pull away from the velcro backing and it was ready to use. I laid it on the table and unzipped it, unfolding the three sections and digging into the net pouch that held all of my bandages and tape. While Corey and I had both skimped on medicines, I had refused to not have a fully-functional first aid kit either in or on my pack. I knew Murphy’s Law would smack me hard if I didn’t have it. With space at a premium on the inside, having a kit hanging on the outside was perfect for me, and it saved time not having to dig for it. Corey had skipped getting one, figuring I’d probably packed the kitchen sink in mine. I had at least convinced him to get his own tourniquet; it was hanging off the front of his backpack from a carabiner clip.