The Next Dawn

by Cooper, C. G.

  Even though she could hold her own in a fight.

  There was the voice of the past coming back and needling her again. Hold her own in a fight? Little old Dottie Roth?

  She walked on, quelling the voices of the past with each step.

  She didn’t see another car drive into her quiet neighborhood for the next forty minutes of her walk. All the while she turned her attention back to the sun, the families held captive in their homes, and the exact description of the man driving the 1983 Chevy Impala, federal blue, missing hubcap on the left front wheel: five feet, seven inches tall, based on the height in which he was sitting. Thin eyes. White beard. Somewhere in his sixties.

  She played the old game in her head, only briefly thinking that she might one day again need to use those skills in earnest.

  Chapter Four

  Sandy Kaplan

  His hand brushed along the well-used sedan with the Driver’s Ed sticker on the side. It wasn’t getting much use. Technically it belonged to the company he worked for, only “technically” didn’t seem to apply much anymore. His neighbors technically bought a flock of chickens and were even now technically building a crude pen for them to cluck their way around, only because it turned out the HOA rules technically weren’t being enforced anymore. Sandy thought maybe he’d get some chickens for himself—if there were any left… technically. There was nothing like a farm-fresh egg for breakfast. And what he had these days was nothing like a farm-fresh egg for breakfast.

  After dusting off the hood for a second time, Sandy Kaplan went inside, admiring the pictures lined all the way down the hall. His three kids splashing in an inflatable pool in this very backyard. He and his wife holding hands as they walked down some forgotten beach. First dances. School award ceremonies. They were all there. His wife had been meticulous about recording every step of the way.

  He reached out and touched one. It was one of the last. He and his wife smiling at the camera, though his eyes weren’t shining like hers. He saw the sadness in his, the light in hers. It was the last trip before the end. The sadness didn’t have a lick to do with any condition. No, in that frozen moment, Sandy Kaplan was more worried about his tenuous job situation than the wonderful woman by his side. A teenaged driver who was too distracted by a text would flip that perception in an instant.

  “I miss you, honey,” he whispered, hoping his wife could hear. He wished she’d send him a blessing, or just let him know that she was okay. But there was no jingling of bells or fluttering of wings. Only silence. He was used to it. His kids were grown and gone. His sadness was too much for them to bear. He got it. He wouldn’t want him around either. He barely looked himself in the mirror even when he shaved, such was his desire to avoid his own eyes. There were days when he barely got out of bed.

  Before X-99, he’d gotten grumpier at work. He’d taken the teenage drivers for granted like he’d taken his wife for granted. Now, he missed them. He’d give 24 hours straight driving to the worst kid in school if he could—but he couldn’t. And he never would again. Because that wasn’t the way the universe had things planned out for Sandy Kaplan. If he’d known what was in store, he might’ve joined his wife right then and there. But crystal balls aren’t available to mere mortals.

  His hand moved to another picture, this one older than the last. He paused with his hand on it, waiting for whatever it was to reveal itself. He felt moisture collecting beneath his finger and he moved it to the edge of the frame, uncovering her lovely face. She was in the middle of tossing a piece of popcorn in the air and catching it in her mouth. He remembered it hitting her nose after the pic was snapped. God, how her laugh created a cavern in his life when it disappeared under the tire of a distracted teenager’s car.

  There was something in the air then. Electricity. He could feel it. He’d felt suffocated for so long that he almost missed it.

  Then, whatever it was dissipated like steam. And Sandy Kaplan was left with all his loss splayed out in so many pixels before him.

  Chapter Five

  Fabian Moon

  He tugged on the cage protecting the window. Reinforcement would be needed. He’d learned the ins and outs of supply warehousing in the Army. There was supposed to be an efficiency to the management and care of goods. He’d never been a student of even middling grades, but in the Army they taught you skills, and skills were what Fabian found to his liking. He took to supply like he’d been doing it since the womb. And maybe he had, organizing and reorganizing whatever it was that his mother had given him for sustenance. Not that he knew what that was. Biology would never be a knowledge tidbit to ever get housed in Fabian Moon’s brain. No, there were more important things to do, like securing the shop where every valuable in his life now resided.

  After checking the front door and its many locks, he moved on to the display cases with their items arranged in neat rows. Watches. Knives. Guns and jewelry. The former owner had kept the place like a well-organized storage unit. Fabian had seen the place only once but had picked up on the immediate potential.

  He’d set to work. Two years ago, exactly. After taking out a second mortgage on his home, cashing in every stock he had and purloining a little scratch from his mother, Fabian Moon became the owner of the renamed Moon’s Pawn Shop. There was a picture in the back office, the one his brother took, of Fabian standing out front, proud and tall.

  That was a long two years ago. It turned out that the earnings statement provided from the prior owner was worth almost as much as the shoes Fabian was given upon reporting to boot camp.

  But this was his chance. He wouldn’t squander it. He sold his house, grabbed an old set of sheets, and set up home in the shop. There was a bathroom and a camp stove, and the place next-door cooked halfway decent Chinese. With his hopes renewed, he spent every waking minute at Moon’s Pawn Shop. He worked the counters himself, treated his customers like platinum, even though they never reciprocated.

  Then, six months ago, Fabian got his hands on some leftover paint from the grocery store around the corner. The owner had ordered too much, and because Fabian happened to be in line when the owner complained to his manager, Fabian was able to negotiate a cut-rate deal on the paint. A win, finally.

  He painted the pawn shop in a weekend while simultaneously juggling the occasional customer. When he finished, he felt alive again.

  The next night, two men broke in and robbed him at gunpoint. He was so distraught as they loaded his hard-fought pawns into a bag that he pleaded with them to kill him. They hadn’t. They’d laughed at him instead. Laughed and left with everything that was of any value.

  That was six months and a million miles away. They wouldn’t get to him again. No way, no how. Sorry pals.

  With a gun tucked in his waist holster, an expandable baton in his pocket, and a blade in an ankle sheath, Fabian Moon would fight to the death the next time an intruder came to call.

  He’d just turned off the lights in the front of the shop when a rap came from the front door. Putting a hand to his pistol, he inched his way to the door. The knock came again, cautious, like a child not wanting attention.

  The phone came out of his pocket and he opened the app with all the new security gizmos he’d paid for after the robbery. With a tap the flood lights on the stoop blazed on. Whoever was at the door raised an arm to their eyes to shield the blinding light. Fabian was about to call the cops when he recognized who it was.

  “Iggy?” he asked, though his brother couldn’t hear him.

  Born Ignatius Moon, his little brother went by Iggy, and Fabian thought the shortened version suited his brother rather well. While Fabian still sported the trim and taut figure of his Army days, Iggy had the emaciated physique of the rocker Iggy Pop.

  It took a minute to unlock the door and let his brother in.

  “When the hell did you put in those lights?” Iggy asked, dragging in a large cardboard box.

  “I got robbed, remember?”

  Iggy pulled out a pack of cigarettes and
went to light one. Fabian snatched it out of his hand.

  “Not in the shop.”

  “Jeez, take it easy, okay?”

  His brother smelled like he’d stepped out of a wine vat. Fabian was in no mood to deal with him. Depending on the day and hour, Iggy was either neck-deep in booze or nose-deep in drugs. Tonight it looked like both.

  “What do you want? I was closing up.”

  “You’re gonna give me that cig back when I show you what I brought. It’s a birthday present.” Iggy grinned wide, his crooked teeth revealing his lack of intimacy with any dentist on the planet.

  “Come on, Ig. I’m not in the mood, and my birthday was two months ago.”

  Iggy made a motion with this hand like it didn’t matter.

  “Open it, Fabian. You’ll like it, I promise.”

  Fabian was intrigued, but only mildly. He pulled the knife from its ankle sheath and cut open the box. “What the hell is this?”

  “What does it look like?” Iggy made a grab for the cigarette in Fabian’s hand. His older brother dodged the move.

  “Toilet paper?”

  “The good stuff. Triple-ply.”

  “You brought me toilet paper,” he said, stating it for certainty’s sake. He gave the box a kick and then snapped the cigarette into pieces.

  “Hey! Don’t you see what I did for you?”

  “Yeah, you scared the crap out of me. I almost shot you. And now you’re giving me toilet paper for a belated birthday present. I don’t have time for this. Plus, I’m tired.”

  Iggy had a strange look on his face. He looked pleased. “You haven’t been watching the news.”

  “No, and I don’t care.”

  “You do realize there’s this virus—”

  “Just because I don’t watch the news doesn’t mean I’m a hermit. I just don’t care.”

  “Of course you care. It’s a good thing you got me, big brother.”

  “Is that so?”

  Iggy’s smile widened like he’d just been invited to sing at the opera. Iggy loved the opera. “How much do you think that toilet paper goes for?”

  “What is this? The Price is Right?”

  “Humor me.”

  Fabian exhaled. “I don’t know, what is it? A dozen rolls? Ten bucks?”

  Iggy shook his head, his eyes grinning now. “What would you say if I told you that you can sell that TP for five bucks a roll?”

  “I’d say you’re full of fertilizer.”

  “And I’d say you need to watch the news, maybe learn how to use a computer. Or just ask your friends. They’ll tell you.”

  But Fabian didn’t have to ask any friends. He thought back to his last trip to the grocery. There’d been no toilet paper. But it was more than empty shelves. It was in the air. A current of something abnormal. It was in the body language of the people around him, in their hushed conversation or altogether lack of conversation.

  The virus. X-99. They were calling it a pandemic. The woman with the scared eyes and a crying baby on her hip. The man with the jittering hands talking about losing his job. The teenager with a black eye who came to pawn jewelry that he had no business owning, stuff Fabian only accepted because he himself needed it. Besides, they were a great price, call it a steal.

  X-99.

  Pandemic.

  Then the most important word: shortage. Then it clicked. Supply and demand. That he understood well. And panic.

  “Tell me about toilet paper, Iggy. I want to know more.”

  Iggy clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “TP is just the beginning, brother. There’s plenty more opportunity coming down the pike.”

  After selling that first box of fifty rolls at five bucks a pop, Fabian not only became a believer, but he set out to learn everything he could about computers and the news.

  Chapter Six

  Sandy Kaplan

  He rose with the sun. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the way the rays streamed through like lasers. Maybe he was a little hungrier than usual. Maybe he needed a change.

  Sandy took his breakfast with him—an off-brand breakfast bar that tasted like sawdust. He needed to go to the store. He’d avoided the grocer, and this is where it’d left him. Internet shopping wasn’t something that he figured he’d ever do. Sandy liked to pick up the peaches and smell them. He couldn’t imagine not taking his time in the butcher’s aisle.

  Despite whatever current conditions dictated, he needed food.

  But the steering wheel did a funny thing when he got near the high school. Instead of staying straight, it turned into the parking lot. There was a single car there, parked in the front row. He knew that car well.

  There’d been a lot of change in the past four weeks, but he doubted they’d gotten around to changing all the locks on the high school. Too many other things to do. Too many loose ends to tie up as the quarantine took over the town. He was right. His key still worked.

  Sandy didn’t have an office in the school, exactly. He was allowed to use the teacher’s lounge, and that’s where he went first. Empty, save for the lingering smell of coffee that would exude from the walls until the place was torn down. His mouth watered at the thought of a cup, but he figured it had more to do with memories than actual craving. There’d always been so much activity when he visited. Even the complaints he missed. More than anything, he missed the other teachers. Most ignored him, and he figured that was probably because he didn’t have a permanent place in their ranks. He didn’t care. He’d made a few friends, even played the occasional round of cards with Mike Henry, the engineering and robotics teacher. They’d both lost wives, and for the most part kept to themselves. They had that much in common.

  Sandy made a mental note to give Mike a call. They could chat. Maybe go for a walk.

  As he left the lounge, he knew he’d never make the call. Mike had always been the one to initiate first contact. And while that might’ve been good before, it left Sandy in his current predicament: alone.

  His shoes squeaked on the polished hallway floor. Did the janitorial staff still come in every day? They were lucky for that. The thought gave Sandy an idea. He’d give just about anything to have something to do, to be out in the world. He wasn’t qualified to work in a hospital and didn’t know if he had that kind of courage, at the moment, but he could push a broom around. He’d do it for free if they’d let him.

  With a semblance of a request on his lips, Sandy Kaplan quickened his step. He tried to ignore the new smell that he was beginning to notice—a smell of emptiness, like mildew mixed with chemical cleaning solvent. He could help with that. There were a few tricks up his sleeve. He’d cleaned homes years ago. How hard could it be to pick back up?

  He made it to the principal’s office before he sensed anything amiss. The door to the outer office was open. Not so strange if the principal, Dr. Inglewood, thought he’d be alone. Besides, he was famous for always having his door open.

  And it was. But that wasn’t what got Sandy’s hairs standing. It was the tingle of otherworldly knowledge. Something handed down from our more enlightened ancestors.

  He slowed now, holding his breath until he hit Dr. Inglewood’s threshold. And that’s when he saw it. The hanging body, suspended by one of those orange tie-down straps, the kind Sandy used to hold down the old furniture he’d taken to the Goodwill.

  For some reason, Sandy stood staring. The body was stock still and Dr. Inglewood’s face was thankfully turned the other way. Sandy couldn’t look away. His fascination held until a fly darted past his ear and landed on Dr. Inglewood’s bald head.

  Sandy shook his head to clear it, pulled the mobile from his pocket, and dialed 9-1-1.

  Chapter Seven

  Dottie Roth

  She was getting used to the walks now. On those first days, she came home with aching feet. Out of shape and paying for it. But a good month into this latest adventure, Dottie’s step may not have contained the old spring from days gone by, but her feet were strong, her calves were
honing, and her spirit was full—for now. She liked these walks and the precious solitude they afforded her. The birds chirped their greetings to her as she left the house. There were no more zooming teenagers who seemed like they were trying to knock your block off with their side-view mirrors. Perhaps she could get used to this, like a Disney movie where she got to be the quiet, unassuming princess. Only there was no castle, and it wasn’t all fun being a princess of a town gone as silent as a cemetery.

  Was it better this way though? Was the specter of death lurking everywhere you looked better than a town pulsing with life?

  She tamped down the thought by refocusing. They weren’t all dead. They were on lockdown, right? Lockdown wasn’t death.

  She realized then that she hadn’t heard anything from her neighbors as of late. She hadn’t seen the cars come and go, but she heard them leaving early, before dawn, and then car doors shutting long after sunset. She hoped the kids were okay. It was easy to let her imagination run wild, to think that the X-99 lockdown had turned her quiet neighbor into a drunken, murderous madman. She knew from experience that simple snapshots were rarely the whole picture of one’s life. One had only to look at Dottie Roth to confirm that fact.

  She drifted into calm and wandered her normal path. There was nothing to do at home, so walking was the preferred alternative. Her smartwatch buzzed at one mile, then two. She liked to track her steps. She liked the little awards the fitness app gave her, little markers for an active lifestyle. Technology wasn’t all bad. It was only bad when there was no one left at the other end to man the servers. When everyone was dead.