by A. R. Shaw
Graham stepped onto the chestnut parquet flooring. “The real stuff, not the fake kind. Must be the original,” he said absentmindedly.
Still with his hand on the door, he said, “Anybody home?” When no one answered he left the door open, looking back across the street, feeling tethered to the kids. It was as if they were his own, or at least like he needed them to feel like his own. Who else’s would they be? he thought. He released the doorknob and began walking through the strange home and into the kitchen. He hoped the kitchen would be the next likely place someone would leave their keys, possibly on the counter or on a hook by the garage door.
Graham peered around the well-lit kitchen, which was clean and tidy right down to a candle placed in the center of a small island. This is a redone kitchen for sure, he thought. No way this cabinetry is original. They’d been redone with raised panel oak, and the countertops themselves were a light peach laminate, obviously not up to date but definitely not harking back to the 1940s, either. The place was oddly neat as a pin. Had someone been home when they died, their stuff, in the haste of disorderly living, would be everywhere. He looked around the countertops and a small oak square kitchen table beyond for keys, but with no luck.
“Maybe the bedroom,” he said aloud and looked to the short hallway he’d already passed that must lead there. Graham held his jacket up to his nose and mouth. He expected the worst as he turned the doorknob. He opened the door an inch, then two, but what he saw was only a neatly made chenille-covered bed.
“Nobody’s home,” he said to no one in particular. Just behind him was the door leading to the garage, possibly the last hiding place for the keys.
He opened the unlocked metal door, thinking it was surely a replacement and not the original to the old house. He then peered inside the darkness of the one-car garage, reached for the likely light switch, and flipped it up. By accident, in the process of his search, he dislodged what sounded like keys, sending them jangling to the floor.
As his eyes adjusted to the new light, Graham was surprised to see an older but well-maintained gold and white International Harvester Scout, probably a 1975. It had two rows of seats and a decent cargo area in the back for supplies. He could probably load the bikes up on the top, tying them to the rack. He located the keys he’d dropped and examined them. The ring only contained the keys for the Scout, not the Toyota out front. He hoped this thing was a four-by-four. Graham hit the garage door opener and heard a familiar racket as the door lifted.
He walked over to the driver’s side and opened the locked door. He inspected it for the necessary conversion to switch over to four-wheel drive for rough terrain, which to his surprise it had. He started the vehicle up and laid his rifle in the passenger’s seat area. It smelled clean and there was no litter lying around. He was happy to see it registered a full tank of fuel.
It dawned on Graham that this must have been Campos’s doing: he must have gone house to house, getting them ready for the new residents he expected. He truly wished he hadn’t had to kill the man; part of Graham would always feel guilty about it, because the truth was that part of Campos had been good—the part of him that wanted to make this town clean again and the part that had cared for Marcy. Graham knew that part of him, too, because he’d seen it just before he died in the look he gave Marcy. But the other parts of Campos just couldn’t have been allowed to remain. Graham knew all lives were especially precious in this new world, and that made his guilt even more so. He laid his forehead onto the steering wheel for a minute while he let the engine run and idle down.
~ ~ ~
It was only late afternoon, but already Graham felt spent. It’s time to get the kids out of here, he thought before backing out of the skinny driveway and onto the main road. He left the vehicle running and parked right outside the market to warm up the inside. The kids already had two carts full of boxed food ready to load. Graham walked over to Marcy.
“How are you feeling?” he asked her.
“I’m okay,” she said, “but my head really hurts.”
A little concerned, Graham looked her over again. He didn’t see anything unexpected, considering her injuries.
“Let’s put some ice on your head to keep the swelling down. You just took the painkillers, too, right?” he asked her.
“Yeah, I took two just like it said on the bottle,” Marcy said.
“How old are you girls?” he asked.
“We’re fifteen, but I’m older than Macy by five minutes,” she said.
He smiled at the girls, amused that she had said something normal in this abnormal world. “Well, you keep taking those pills every six hours then,” he said.
“All right, let’s get you in the backseat and warmed up. Then we’ll load up the rest of this stuff,” he said.
Graham lifted the girl, making sure he didn’t disturb her wound, and carried her out into the misty cold. He opened the door to the backseat and slid her in onto the warmth of its vinyl.
“You couldn’t find anything newer?” she asked.
“No; we were actually lucky to find this one,” he said.
“At least it’s warm,” she conceded.
He shut the door gently and then looked over at the dog, who watched his every move. Graham moved over to the back, opened the top window and then lowered the tailgate.
“Come,” Graham said to Sheriff, who just looked up at him, not knowing what he wanted. Then Graham said, “Hmmm, what’s your language, big guy?”
Macy pushed one of the carts through the door, coming around to the back of the vehicle. “Do you know what kind of commands to use for him?” he asked her.
“I have no idea. He just jumped into the backseat of the last car we were in. I haven’t tried to tell him anything.”
“Well, let’s try this, then,” he said as he patted the back of the tailgate of the truck. Sheriff did a running turn and jumped right up and in. “Good boy!” Graham said and scratched Sheriff behind the ears. “Bet you’re getting hungry too.”
“Bang found some dog food,” Macy said. “They’re fast friends, those two,” she added, while handing Graham the food supplies from the cart.
Graham loaded quickly, tossed everything lightly into the back. Sheriff walked up to Marcy and sniffed at her head rising over the headrest. She reached up and patted the dog, who sat on his haunches and let her continue the affection.
“Wish I had listened to you, boy,” she said lightly.
“Don’t do that to yourself, Marcy. Don’t regret; it does you no good, believe me,” Graham said, speaking loud enough for all of them to hear.
“Look, we all have to be more careful now. There are wild animals everywhere, and a few people who are willing to hurt you, for whatever reason. These are the new rules now. No one goes anywhere without telling me, and you must always have someone with you at all times. I’ll carry my weapon with me wherever we go and you three need to learn to do the same. A ruler and an ice scraper aren’t bad, but they’re not good enough to defend yourself with.”
The girls looked at one another.
“I know we haven’t really talked about this, but it’s your choice. You two should decide together. After we load up, we’ll go get the bikes that Bang and I hid last night, then go over to your dad’s place. Girls, I’m pretty sure you know he’s not with the living, but we’ll go there and make sure at least. Then it’s up to you two if you want to come with Bang and me up to my cabin in Cascade. It’s safer there. I know the hunting and fishing grounds, and not that many people know the area. Those fires over there”—he pointed toward Seattle—“are inching their way over here and I don’t want to be anywhere close to them when they get here. Besides that, this place welcomes people and you don’t know what kind you’re dealing with. I’m not saying it’s bad to stay here, just that I’m not. It’s up to you to come with me or stay by yourselves. There are a lot of houses that are livable if you want to stay.”
The girls looked at one another again and Macy
spoke first. “We’re going with you—at least I am. I don’t want to stay here. Do you, Marcy?”
“No way, not after this,” Marcy said and gestured openly with her hand. “I can still feel him here,” she said, with goose bumps rising and shuddering from a chill.
“All right, then, I just wanted to make sure you realized it was your decision,” Graham said, and continued loading what little food they’d managed to find. It wasn’t a lot, but it might get them through a couple of weeks.
Graham walked back to the market and scanned the inside, retrieving the red ice chest he’d packed earlier, and looked around for anything he thought they should also grab. He noticed a few fire starter logs and took them, as well as several lighters and a snow shovel leaning near the entrance door. He carried the goods out with Bang’s help and locked up the back end of the truck while Macy and Bang climbed in the backseat next to Marcy. Before Graham got in, he noticed the sickly sweet burning smell again, coming from the damp, smoking blue trash bin, and his stomach clenched. “Sorry, Campos,” he said under his breath. He meant it, but he wouldn’t regret what he’d done.
Graham got into the running vehicle and headed over to where he’d stashed their bikes the night before. For him it was returning to where Campos had struck Marcy the first time and, more important, where Graham had failed. Hopefully the lesson he’d learned would stick with him.
Shutting off the truck, Graham said, “All right, Bang, let’s go get the bikes and stuff. Girls, this shouldn’t take long,” he added, shutting the doors to keep in the warmth. Graham looked around to make sure there were no predators; he could not be too careful these days.
Graham and Bang walked between the cars and over to the brush where they’d hidden their bikes and trailer, only to find that something had tried to get into the plastic storage bin containing their food. The shower curtain was ripped to shreds and scattered about. The rifles had been tipped onto the ground but, thankfully, they were still there.
The first aid kit was smashed and scattered all over the ground, but to Graham’s amazement, the storage bin itself was intact and unmolested.
They unhitched the trailer and left it where it was. “I wish we could take it,” Graham said, “but there’s not enough room.” He picked up the gun cases and the storage bin and balanced them on the seat of his bike. Meanwhile, Bang retrieved his bike and then they both made their way back to the truck, winding through the scattered maze of cars. Graham took a second to look down the highway and noticed several dogs milling about below the overpass. One looked up at him. “Hurry up, Bang,” Graham warned. “If they come up here, just drop the bike and run for the truck,” he said.
They both picked up their pace as one of the dogs lifted its head at their scent and barked, alerting the rest of the pack. Graham heard growling and turned around just in time to see the boy let a little arrow fly into a coyote’s side as it snuck up behind them. The coyote let out a yelp and took off in the opposite direction.
“Okay, that’s enough for me, leave the bike,” Graham said, and awkwardly grabbed the tote with the guns balanced on top in his right arm and reached down and pulled Bang up in the other. He ran the rest of the distance to the truck, with more of the pack in pursuit behind them.
Graham opened the front passenger door, pushed Bang in roughly, and then stuffed the bin in right behind him. He then jumped in himself and quickly closed the door.
As they looked out the windows they saw a large coyote come to the rise, followed by a Rottweiler barking insanely. Sheriff growled in their direction, the fur on his back standing on end. Somehow, domestic dogs had gone so far as to join with the wild packs. The girls were shouting and crying and Graham turned around to them, waving his hand up and down, trying to calm them.
“It’s all right, we made it back,” he said. “Whew, that was too close!” He climbed over the bin, and lifted Bang back to the passenger side. “You’re pretty good with that bow and arrow, buddy!” he said.
“Those are bad dogs,” Bang said, pointing. “They’re coming over here,” he cautioned.
The girls’ cries started to increase as they remembered their drive the day before. Graham started the engine and circled around, even though the dogs were many now and they were jumping and snarling at the truck.
He sped down the main street and turned left toward the apartment complex beyond. The dogs gave up the chase before long. “Okay, girls, can you give me some directions here? Which building is it?” Graham asked.
Marcy pointed to a gray building with white trim and looked up through the back window at the second floor pointing north. “That’s it, number B204,” she said.
The building itself was fairly new, built within the last two years or so; behind it there were several more, still under stalled construction. Graham stopped the truck and let it idle right in front of the breezeway that led to the stairs of the building; he looked out the back windows and didn’t see any vicious canine brigades. He turned off the engine and then turned back to the girls. “I think I should go up there first. Do you have a key?”
Macy pulled at a lanyard around her neck that held a key hidden within her shirt. She took it off and handed it over. “It’s the first door on the left there,” she said, pointing to the second floor.
“Don’t forget the rifle. It’s in his closet,” Marcy added. She paused, then said, “His name is Brian.”
Graham nodded to them, not sure what else to say; he looked deep into Marcy’s eyes, and then Macy’s. He took the lanyard and said, “Keep the doors closed, and if there are any issues, honk the horn. I’ll just be a minute.”
All three nodded in unison. Graham looked at the dog and said, “You’re in charge, Sheriff,” and the shepherd returned the look with smiling eyes. Graham saw Bang grin back at the dog, then switch his gaze to the girls’ faces. The kid sobered quickly. After one quick survey of the world outside, Graham stepped out and silently closed the door, taking his rifle with him.
When he approached the building, Graham noticed debris scattered around the concrete breezeway. What looked to be cheese crackers and cereal were strewn all over.
The door to the apartment wasn’t locked or even fully closed, and Graham had a bad feeling about what lay inside. He pushed the door open a little and looked around, holding his rifle up as he entered. The smell hit him right away, pushing him back out the door. He looked down at the truck below and then pulled his jacket back up over his nose and mouth. He entered again and pushed the door against something lightly blocking it. He looked around the door itself and found a large unopened bag of sugar, just lying there wedged against the wall as if someone dropped it on his way out. The place was a mess, and the smell was terrible. Someone was dead in there somewhere. Though Graham couldn’t see the body, he had no doubt that the girls’ father had perished.
The lights to the kitchen on his right were blinding. He kept his rifle out and peered around the counter, scattered with cans of corn, a box of gelatin, and another of pancake mix, opened and spilled of its contents.
Nobody’s in here, he thought. Then he looked over at the couch in the little living area, covered in tossed clothing. On the wall above the sofa he recognized two photos of the smiling girls, Macy and Marcy. One was a gold-framed picture of the girls and their father on what looked like a family fishing trip; each proudly held up a fish.
Graham made his way over to the bedroom and pushed the door, which was slightly ajar. He opened it farther with the end of his rifle.
What he saw wasn’t a victim of the pandemic but a bloody massacre. Two decomposing bodies were sprawled on the bed. The odor even seem to latch onto his eyeballs. He dry-heaved, then pulled the coat closer to barricade his senses further if it could. There was a man, or what looked like one, with a gunshot wound to the face and blood spray covering the wall behind him. A naked woman lay across his middle, face down; she appeared to have taken a shot to the back of the head.
Graham looked around qui
ckly for any rifle within the closet and around the room, but it was clear the place had been ransacked, and a rifle would have been among the first things taken. He quickly made an about-face and ran toward the living room. He picked up the two pictures he’d seen on the wall and left, closing the door behind him as best he could. He looked down at the truck below and dreaded what he had to do now.
Checking below the stairs for any predators, Graham walked around to the driver’s side and entered the truck. He was glad to have fresh air to breathe into his lungs, even if it was cold and damp. “Here, I thought you might want these,” he said, and handed the pictures over to the girls who had wide, questioning eyes. “He’s not alive; I’m sorry,” he said.
Marcy said, “I want to see.” She looked beyond Graham, staring out the windshield.
“Let me tell you something, Marcy. You don’t want to see that. I’m telling you,” he said, shaking his head.
Macy cried now, and tears ran down Marcy’s face too. “I don’t know if I can believe you if I don’t see him,” Marcy said.
Taking a deep breath and fully understanding her statement, Graham said, “I know, but, Marcy, I don’t think he died of the virus. I think he was killed for supplies.” Then he added, “There’s food all over, like someone tried to cart it all off at once. I think he was shot in his sleep. He didn’t suffer. I’m sure your dad wouldn’t want you to see this.” Marcy let the tears roll, sobbing and holding her sister. Now they knew for sure, but the truth held no hope, and they were alone in the world together.
Graham let them be and turned his attention to the road; he needed to make distance between this place and the place he would be take them. He headed back out to the main road and scoffed at his own habit of putting on the loud turn signal, flipped it off, and turned left. They all looked at the parking lot in front of the market, the blue trash bin still smoking in front of it, as they headed out and they saw a black crow nibbling at bits on the pavement. No one said a word as they headed to the other end of town, where the final makeshift gate remained, blocking their freedom.