A slight contrast in the darkness tells me something’s hiding, ready for me to find and claim my prize.
“Aha. I knew I’d get lucky.”
A container stuck midway between the shelf and floor is out of reach. Knowing food choices are dwindling at the moment, hunger pushes me forward. My fingers walk across the cracked tile, in search of the elusive item. I stretch the arm farther to push my palm into the fray.
Eagerness drives my digits to move faster, and the idea of seizing upon a ridged metal can, or the smoothness of glass spurs me on.
The image of fuzzy, lurking spiders also taking shelter in the small, cramped space causes me to pause. An overwhelming urge to jerk my hand free wars within, but my mother’s voice sounds in my head.
“They’re just as scared of you as you are of them.”
Highly unlikely, Mom.
The emptiness of my pack rekindles my search. A spider bite would be bad, but starving would be worse. I try to suppress a shiver.
Each time my fingertips brush a dust bunny, I cringe.
Please be fluffy pieces of lint and dust, and not hairy, bloated bodies.
Dirt, disturbed by swirls of breath leaving my nose, climbs its way into my nostrils. An insatiable tickling sensation begins. I wiggle my face to fight the beginnings of a sneeze.
My middle finger brushes across the object. Almost there. I shove my shoulder under the lip of the shelf to give my fingers a longer reach.
Need to go a little bit farther.
“Come on, stop playing hard to get.”
At last, cool glass brushes my fingertips and I seize it in exaltation.
“Ha. You’re no match for my scavenging skills.”
Careful to not lose my grip on the slippery glass, my fingers roll it closer. Finally, weak light hits the yellowed paper label, revealing either leaves or a flower.
I wrack my brain. What kind of vegetable or fruit uses leaves as part of their design? Spinach? Gross, but better than nothing. Instead, I pray for applesauce or cherries.
The anticipation of sweet fruit bursting open in my mouth makes me salivate.
Excitement causes my thumb to rub the label faster, and the picture reveals words underneath.
“What the hell?”
Oh great. It’s a damn jar of artichoke hearts. Seriously? You’ve got to be kidding me.
What self-respecting gas station stocks artichokes on its shelves? Before everything had gone to crap, who would’ve rushed to the local convenience store in dire need of artichoke hearts?
My lip curls at the thought of having to eat this disgusting vegetable, but then my stomach growls. I dump them in my pack.
With my spirit deflated, the next shelf beckons, but my expectations are a little lower than when this adventure started.
After several minutes of empty exploration, my wanderings lead me to the back of the store, where the paper goods and toiletries are—or used to be. Not much here now.
Toothpicks and dinner napkins lie in an untidy pile spread across the metal rack.
My gaze lands on a couple of boxes wedged on the middle shelf, near the back. Tampons and pads. Score.
How did women deal with their periods before the invention of sanitary napkins? Not relishing the chance of finding out anytime soon, they slide in with the rest of my loot.
A soft, barely audible sound comes from the front of the store, and the breath catches in my throat. I imagine the noise is the rasp of someone’s clothing while they try to sneak inside. The muscles of my arms and legs tremble.
Idiot. You let your guard down.
The attacker from the other night comes to mind.
Don’t let it be him. Hands shaking, the cold steel of the pistol lends a small amount of courage. Please don’t let it be him.
Flashes of the dingy motel room swirl in my head, along with the pain of groping hands pinching the soft flesh of my underarms; the weight of his body pressing me into the saggy mattress.
The fear these images invoke kindles a deep rage.
I’m sick of letting terror rule my actions.
“Come on out, asshole, unless you want some new piercings.” I hope the tone of voice matches the bravado of my words.
Turning to aim around a shelf, I use the taste of metallic fear to fuel the need to protect myself.
“I will shoot.” The gun bolsters my resolve.
Hand quivering a little, I set my sight on the entrance.
The darkness inside the store has become my ally, hiding me in its shadows. On the downside, though, in minutes it’ll become my enemy’s friend, too.
Pointing the end of the gun in the direction of the door, I peer over an endcap.
Somewhere inside, near the front door, something—a trashcan, possibly—clangs to the floor and shatters the blanket of silence.
Tensing already stressed muscles, the pad of my index finger slips across the trigger, ready to exert pressure if the unwelcome intruder refuses to surrender.
A moment ticks by and no other sounds reach my ears. Fighting a chill that raises the hairs on the nape of my neck, I scour the spaces between the aisles, searching for the barest signs of movement.
All is still—until it isn’t.
The silhouette of an animal stands near the checkout counter, its body motionless.
I freeze, heart hammering in my chest A pair of eyes—one ice blue and the other golden brown—both ringed in black—stare at me.
Relief floods through my limbs, and I sigh.
A dog. It’s just a dog.
Though the hound is several feet away, even at this distance, the ridges and hollows of ribs make bumps under his flesh. Cockleburs cover the brown, matted coat in several different places.
I’m not the only one who’s hungry, and I pray he hasn’t yet had the opportunity to develop a liking for human flesh.
He raises his muzzle, possibly catching my scent when he tests the air. Those mismatched eyes, intelligent and curious, shift to the door. His head swings back my way and the scruffy hair of his neck bristles.
“Whoa buddy. No need to be aggressive. I’m hungry, too.”
At the sound of my voice, the hair on his neck relaxes. The dog dips his head toward the floor, but his peculiar eyes never leave my face.
Is he showing deference? Or is he trying to trick me into coming closer so he can taste test this human?
Brown pointed ears flick and he raises his head.
“Well? What’s it gonna be?” The sweat of my hand causes my grip to tighten. “I don’t have all day.”
His tail thumps once, and a small whine starts at the back of his throat.
“You wanna play nice?”
He lets out a woof and plants his butt on the floor.
“You wouldn’t be trying to fool me, would you?” I want to believe this big dog needs a friend, and not a fresh meal.
Stare into that face, though. Does it look like Cujo?
No, not really. There’s a slight grin on his muzzle.
I loosen the grip on my gun, not completely lowering my hand, but pointing the end of the barrel away from the canine.
“You know, I used to have a dog when I was little. My sister and I taught him to shake and play dead.” Even though he can’t understand what I say, it’s still good to talk to someone, even if it’s just a dog.
At my words, his eyes widen, and he stands.
The gun in my hand returns to aim at his face. A pang of anguish sears my heart at the thought of having to kill this beautiful creature.
He flops over onto his spine and sticks sizable paws up toward the ceiling. Rolling his head to face me, he closes his eyelids and hangs a pink tongue out of his mouth.
I tilt my head. What in the hell?
He lies on the floor, and the tip of his tongue kisses the dirty, white tiles.
“Dog. What’s wrong with you?” The urge to rush over and check on him is overwhelming, but I fight the impulse. He could be pretending.
Worr
y gnaws at my insides until realization blooms to life. I mentioned teaching my childhood pet how to play dead. Hearing this command, he acted on it. This dog is brilliant.
“Good boy.” I want to give a small clap at his performance.
Hearing my praise, he opens his eyelids and pulls his tongue back into his mouth.
“Did your owner teach you that trick?”
Whipping onto his feet, he sits and watches me, grin broader than before.
I wish I had a treat to give him.
Coming to a decision, I lower my gun to my thigh and take a step toward him.
The movement startles the animal, and his legs scrabble backward.
Disappointment colors my words. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Mistrust comes back into his eyes, so I stop my forward advance.
“Well, darn. So much for hoping we could become friends.” But I can’t say I blame him. If he’s seen the same kind of things I have, he has every right to be wary.
“Did those alien bastards kill your family, too?”
A nervous, high-pitched whine answers my question.
Sighing, I move away from the dog and continue to speak in a low voice. “Those flying machines released the virus on us, too.” A crack between two shelves appears promising, and I thrust my hand in between and feel around. Nope, empty.
“One of those spheres nearly caught me, about singed the hair off my head with its lasers. I was able to flee and make it home to mom and dad. Two days later, they died from the virus.” Telling my story, even if it’s to a dog, has an unburdening effect.
Turning in a slow circle in the center of the store, I sweep my gaze back to the hound, who listens attentively.
“I had to bury them in the backyard, under their favorite persimmon tree.”
The dog woofs as if he understands how difficult it must’ve been.
“When the sickness swept through our town and killed everyone, I packed what I could throw in my bag and left to find my sister. She moved to Florida to go to college, right before the EMP attack.”
At least, I hope she’s still in Florida—alive and well. Since I’m immune to the virus, I’m trusting she is, too.
I kneel on one knee. Offering a hesitant smile, I offer a hand palm out. “Maybe you’d like to go with me and meet her?”
Interest still shows on his face, and he doesn’t move any closer to the exit, but his eyes follow my every move.
“Or not.” Shrugging my shoulders, I stand and resume the perusal of shelves, but he stays in my peripheral vision. At least he hasn’t turned feral like so many other animals; he still remembers humans.
Feeling happier than I have in weeks, I hum a low tune under my breath and continue to scrounge.
Live and let live. If he doesn’t bother me, I won’t bother him.
Several travel-sized tubes of minty toothpaste sit on a shelf, unopened in their plastic and paper packaging.
“Oh, what’s this?” I grab the little tubes of toothpaste and hold them up to the weak light, turning the packages to face the dog.
“These little jewels are coming with me. Other survivors may not be concerned with dental hygiene at the end of the world, but I plan on having all my teeth when the bastards get me.”
If they get me.
The dog lets out a soft bark and lays his head on his paws, eyes glinting when the dim light touches his corneas.
“Besides, an infected tooth these days could mean death.”
My neck cranes back to check the ceiling. Old, water-stained tiles line the spaces above.
From the corner of my eye, the Shepherd-Siberian mix carefully wriggles his body closer
Not seeing anything of interest in the tiles above, it’s time for a break.
The dog stills.
My khaki-colored backpack, half empty, lies open on the floor.
Crossing my legs and plopping my ass on the floor, I lean an elbow on an empty shelf and take stock of my dwindling food and supplies.
“Wow. Tonight’s entree will consist of a can of corn, a jar of artichokes, and a piece of old, tough beef jerky. Yum.”
I wiggle my footwear in his direction.
He tilts his head at the movement, then slides forward an inch. The package of jerky sticks out of the bag. That floppy tongue licks his lips, then he sweeps his bushy tail across the floor. The movement creates a half-circle in the thick dirt.
“Apparently, I survived the loss of technology, the arrival of alien spheres, a lethal virus, and an attack at the hands of a lunatic just to perish from starvation.” I rest an arm on my knee, and I prop my chin in my hand. “The irony.”
Wind gusts outside. A tiny dust devil swirls through the broken front door and dies, but not before it stirs a few small pieces of trash and dirt. “Some days, like today, the weight of everything wrong in the world hangs so heavy around my neck, I don’t even know if there’s still a point.”
His left front paw reaches toward me as if offering a hand in comfort. The little black toenails scrape against the floor when he pulls his foot back to his body and rests his head.
Stop it. The whole point of this journey is to find Sissy. She’s the only one who matters. Are you going to let this little hiccup stop you from finding her?
“Sissy, where are you? Did you survive?”
My eyelids close for a moment, and her face comes to mind, so unlike my own; pale blonde locks wrapped in a loose ponytail, blue eyes sparkling in amusement.
“Dog, you’d like her. Hell, she’d spoil you rotten within a day. She never could say no to strays. It drove our parents nuts.” I don’t know if she’s still alive, but I have to try.
She is alive. I won’t accept any other alternative.
Turning to the items strewn out on the ground, I reassess my meager possessions. One food item I haven’t pulled from the bag is a small jar of strawberry jam that’s traveled with me since I left home. My fingers trace the little piece of red- and white-checkered cloth that graces the metal lid on top.
“Now this”—I hold the item up—“this is special. It’s the very last jar left from mom’s homemade preserves. I’m hanging onto it for a rainy day, when there might be something worth celebrating in this shithole of a world.”
Something cold and wet touches my arm.
A glance downward shows curiosity finally overcame temerity.
When our eyes meet, his shiny black nose pulls back, and he crouches. Backing away, he’s now out of arm’s reach.
“You’re a jumpy thing, aren’t you? It’s okay, though.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I’m jumpy, too. Lord knows there’s plenty of reasons why we’re that way.”
A deep whine in his throat pierces the silence. Those eyes watch me, still curious but cautious, as if he might bolt at any sudden movement or loud noise.
When I make no move toward him, he slinks a little closer, but then hesitates, as if torn with indecision.
That’s right, come here. I want to pet that big head of yours and feel that fur under my hand—poor thing.
He lifts one paw, then another. The black toenails scratch the floor, and his feet leave pawprints in the dust. Forward two steps, then back one, battling his fight-or-flight response as he tries to make up his mind.
Don’t do it, Tilly. You don’t need another mouth to feed—you can barely feed yourself.
“Hey boy.” I keep my voice right above a whisper, as soft and unintimidating as possible. “Are you alone, like me?”
That’s a dumb question, Tilly Morgan, of course he is.
Dark, pointy ears perk at the sound of my voice. He cocks his head, a question in those striking eyes. He stretches his neck forward in anticipation of a pat, but at the last moment, shies away and releases another whine.
Slowly, to avoid spooking the mutt, I move my hand into the backpack resting near my leg. Fumbling fingers search the contents, moving the supplies inside until they seize the package of old beef jerky.
&n
bsp; “It’s okay. See? It’s food, that’s all.” I tear it open, careful to keep my movements deliberate and in plain view.
The dog, interested and nervous, dips his head lower, and his hind legs push his butt in the air. He scoots a little farther away.
“Wait, no, come here. I’m not going to hurt you. This is for you—a treat.”
My soft explanation does the trick, because he stops his backward momentum a few paces from the exit and lays on all fours. His head bobs up and down while following my hands.
“See?” The wrapper slides off with ease. “It’s yummy. All dogs like beef jerky, don’t they?” I hold the dried meat out to the dog, hoping its enticing scent will pique his interest enough to return. “Come here.” I wave the tubular stick back and forth. “It’s really tasty. You know you want some.” My tongue clicks the top of my mouth a couple of times.
Blue and golden-brown eyes glance between my offering to my face, back and forth. The black and pink tongue sneaks out, sliding along his teeth and up his lips to lick his whiskers.
“Oh yeah, it smells good, doesn’t it?” It’s so old and dry, my inferior human nose can’t identify anything, but I’m hoping his ultra-sensitive sense of smell can still pick out its meaty goodness.
His black nostrils flare in delicate movements, testing the scent of the meat.
“Yum yum. A little bit closer and this treat’s all yours.” Twisting my wrist, I wiggle the stick a little faster.
He stands and turns his nose to the door he came through, as if to leave, but stops and swings his head in my direction.
“Bet you won’t come across something this tasty again if you leave.” Come on, dog, I won’t hurt you. Stay with me.
Hunkering his body, he edges closer to my hand.
The half-crawl, half-walk he uses to draw closer rubs the brown fur of his belly on the scuffed floor. With a final sniff, he reaches with the end of his snout. Careful to not nip my fingers with those sharp, white teeth, he frees the meat.
“There ya go. I knew you were hungry.” Reaching my hand to a nearby shelf, I stand, careful to not scare the jumpy hound.
The jerky, ensconced between his front paws and the top of his mouth, allows leverage for a stable bite.
The Descendant: Baltin Trilogy (Book 1) Page 2