Summer of the Apocalypse

Chapter Fourteen LOOTING

The four lanes of Hampden Avenue stretched before them, empty and still. To their left, a tall chain link fence separated them from a deserted cross-street lined by long rows of brick tract houses. A waft of smoke burned Eric’s eyes as he strained to see through the haze. He had this vision that at any moment a lone figure would resolve itself out of the distance. His father. Eric almost whistled with the relief of it. He wiped wetness from his cheeks with the back of his wrist. Like a pall of wispy ghosts, smoke drifted between the houses. On all sides, up and down Hampden, at each side road, gray swirls floated over the lawns, among the houses and above them.

We’re finding Dad, he thought. Leda’s wrong about him. I can feel it. He’s out there, just ahead, looking for me. I know I’ll find my dad.

Leda said, “Whoops. We’re in trouble.”

Before Eric could answer, he glimpsed a shadow rushing through the air above the street, then it slammed over them and was gone. He was sprawled on the pavement. “What was that!”

“Maybe he didn’t see us,” she said, voice steely calm, her face a foot from him. “It’s a gunship.” Eric could see it now, maybe a half-mile down the road and a hundred feet up, a beige and brown camouflage-painted helicopter. It turned nimbly and headed back.

“What does he want?” Roaring past, the copter’s prop wash kicked up dust. Eric tried to melt into the asphalt.

“I’d heard that some of the pilots went crazy in the last days— this was a couple of weeks ago—and that they were strafing people on the streets.” The copter turned again. Eric watched, amazed. It was so fast!

Leda continued, “A rumor said a copter pilot shot up St. Joseph hospital. Went back and forth pumping bullets into the building. Lots of people dead.”

This time the craft came slower, its blade a blur, a cloud of dust beneath it. Eric said, “He knows we’re here.”

They stood. The copter hovered just off the road, twenty yards away. Bits of sand stung Eric’s cheeks. The mirrored cockpit glass revealed nothing. He didn’t feel scared, really, but he stepped in front of Leda, putting himself between her and the ship. She moved beside him.

“What’s he going to do?” asked Eric.

“He’s doing it.” She pointed to a multi-barreled device that hung on a mechanized swivel arrangement below the cockpit. The barrels were whirling around and around. She said, “He’s shooting us.” After a minute, the copter howling on the road, the ineffectual guns spinning, Eric said, “Let’s keep going,” and he walked toward the copter. Leda stayed beside him. As they approached, the craft moved aside, and the guns swiveled so they were pointing at them the whole way. When they’d walked for a couple of minutes without looking back, the tenor of the engine changed and the copter rose and flew away.

“That was odd,” Eric said. He felt like he imagined an athlete would who had just done some amazing feat—a half-court shot that touched only net, or a grand slam homer that wins the game at the bottom of the ninth—then walks away like nothing had happened, the epitome of cool and calm. Just another day. It was too bizarre to comprehend.

She said, “Glad he didn’t have ammo.”

He said, “Yep.”

Later, as they passed a station wagon parked on the shoulder, Leda bent at the driver’s window, cupped her hand on the glass and peered in. It was the third car she’d checked.

His heart still racing from the close call, he noticed her torn shirt drop away from her side, flashing a long stretch of white skin from her belt to just below her bra. This time Eric didn’t glance away. She’s pretty fit, he thought. Good looking for a twenty-five-year-old. He remembered his ex-girl friend at the high school, a sallow-faced blonde plagued with a band of pimples at her hairline that she could never clear up despite her most dedicated efforts. Last winter she’d decided to attack them with heat and cold and Eric had watched her wash her face with snow, then rush into the house to steaming hot hand cloths that she’d drape across her forehead like an Indian head dress. Twice they’d made out on her living room couch. The second time, Eric had experimentally tried to French kiss, and she’d said, “Don’t. That’s gross.” They’d broken up a couple of weeks later. “I can’t get into this pimple thing,” Eric had said. It all seemed so childish now.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Keys.” She straightened and smiled, her face smudged and tired (but clear-skinned, he noticed). “We don’t need to walk to Littleton.”

Eric hooked his thumbs into his backpack straps and pulled them together in front of his chest. Despite the mid-day heat, he shivered. “I saw a cop shoot two looters yesterday. They were robbing bodies.”

“Really?” She banged the door shut; the echo came back off a distant surface. “The National Guard took over police duties a couple of weeks ago, and my guess is most of the Guard are dead or home with their families. You sure he was legit?”

Eric thought of the ghost cop methodically pulling zippers closed on body bags, the liquid speed he’d demonstrated gunning down Beetle-Eyes and his girlfriend. “I don’t know.” He imagined the cop sitting on the edge of the Golden High School Knight’s football field that was now a mass grave, his wife and daughter somewhere under the torn-up sod. “He believed he was. I haven’t seen a car yet today. We’d attract attention.”

“All right, we walk.” She started down the road again, sniffed, then waved her hand in the direction they were headed. “Kind of creepy, don’t you think? Like dry fog.”

A reddish nimbus circled the sun above. He felt adrenalized by the brush with the copter, as if it had awakened him from a deep sleep. “Maybe. It’s more somber than anything.” He caught up to her and matched her pace. Her hands swung easily to her stride.

She turned and walked down an off-ramp to Wadsworth Boulevard. “Look, a Wal-Mart. We can get some stuff.”

Resting on four cinder blocks, a rusty Pinto sat on the street side of the otherwise empty parking lot. Didn’t she hear what I said about looting? he thought as they passed the abandoned vehicle. The broad reach of blacktop made him feel like a bug on a slide, like God was looking down on him so in the open. He walked backwards for a few steps, scanning the street for traffic, but there was] nothing. No trucks. No cars. No copter. He cocked his head and listened. Not even a bird. His left shoe squeaked. Her footsteps padded on the asphalt; her jeans swished lightly.

As if catching his thoughts, she said, “I’ll leave money. We can find food. Clothes.” She plucked at her shirttail. “Not much left of this one,” she said, then rubbed the side of her index finger across her teeth. “I have to brush too.”

Crunching over broken glass, Eric stepped through the shattered front door. Produce littered the floor, as if there had been a riot. He kicked aside an Oreo box, skittering black cookies across the tile. A whiff of old popcorn, the scent of butter soft as plush, lingered. Leda called into the dark store, smiled back, the flash of white startling in the gloom, and said, “Come on. They’re having a sale.” Last summer, he’d gone with Dad to a Wal-Mart to buy a lawn-mower. For hours, it seemed, Dad agonized over the merits of Briggs and Stratton versus Jacobson. Finally, Eric said, “They cut grass just the same,” and Dad met his eyes in answer, leaving Eric speechless as always. After a frightening second, where something mute and dark bubbled between them, Eric dropped his gaze to the mower. “Grass is grass,” he mumbled. Then he wandered over to the music department, and spent the rest of their time in the store deciding between a classical music collection or the latest group he liked. Leda stepped through a mess of Saltines boxes and other crushed cookies and chips packages, heading to the back of the store. He grabbed a plastic bag of Zingers and tore it open as he followed her. It had that flavorless, pure sugar taste he liked. The farther they moved from the windows, the darker it became, and the cavernous echoes of their footsteps made him jump. “Flashlights?” he said, and she cut down an aisle toward hardware.

“Good thinking.”

Another turn later, he could barely make out her silhouette. She tripped. “Can’t see a thing.”

“Here, let me,” he said and helped her up. Her arm felt warm and firm, and she came up so easily he realized he must outweigh her by thirty or forty pounds. “I’ve been living in a cave. This is almost home.” But it isn’t, he thought. He slid his feet cautiously, holding her hand, waving his other hand in front of him. The cave was never home, not like Littleton. He thought of his own room, the posters thumb-tacked to the wall, speakers perched on their pedestals. How he used to lay in bed with his hands locked behind his head, staring at the ceiling, letting the steady thrum of rock-and-roll wash over him hour after hour. Some days he’d pretend to be sick so he’d miss school, and while his parents were at work, he’d crank the sound up, shut his eyes and feel the vibration of the bass in his lungs. As his eyes adjusted, he realized that the dark was far from complete. A gray wash of light illuminated the high, suspended florescents, and the corners of the displays were just visible. Many of the shelves were empty, or their goods were knocked about. Something frantic had happened here.

“Where are we?” she whispered, her raspy voice loud in the silence.

“Households.” He let go of her hand and picked a box off the floor. He shook it. “You want a blender?” he asked.

She snickered.

“I’ll bet I can get you a good one. Ten speeds.”

“Will it slice and dice?”

He put the box down. “Sure,” he said, and reached back for her. She took his hand again, and her fingers felt good against his, not like holding his mom’s hand, where he wanted to hold her. More like he wanted her to hold him.

“I’m seeing a little better now,” she said, and Eric let go reluctantly, suddenly embarrassed. “Thanks,” she added.

He still moved carefully. Goods lying on the floor were indistinguishable from shadows, and both looked more like holes he was about to step into rather than things to step over.

“Think we can go back to sporting equipment?” he asked. Hammers hung to his right next to saws. On the next aisle, camping gear blocked his path. He rummaged through the pile, searching by feel for a small pack for Leda. Finally he found one that might work, though he couldn’t tell if he’d grabbed a day-pack or a duffel bag. Padded straps gave him hope it was what he wanted.

“No guns in any of the stores, if that’s what you’re thinking. The guard and police cleared ’em out weeks ago. First thing people went for when they got scared.”

Eric shook his head, then realized she couldn’t see him. “Shot for the slingshot,” he said. “If they’ve got it, and a slingshot too for you. I don’t like guns.”

“Here’s what we want,” she said triumphantly. He heard a click. “I’m glad they sell these with batteries in them now.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Eric turned away. “Great, I’m blind.”

“Sorry. Here’s another.” She handed him a flashlight. “I’m going over to clothes. Do you need anything?”

“No. Take this,” he said and handed her the pack. He shone his light on her, and she blinked at the brightness. Curls of her dark hair fell across her face, and her eyes glittered behind them.

“Um,” she said, and she shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Maybe it’d be a good idea if you looked for something new to wear too.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, I mean, something fresh.” She blushed. Eric stared at I her. He’d never seen anyone blush so brightly. Even beneath the grime of a half-day’s walk and everything that happened before, in the sharp cone of flashlight her skin glowed all the way to her hairline.

He sniffed. “Oh, jeeze. Do you think they have a shower? An employees locker room?” Shielding her eyes, she said, “Not that I ought to be talking. If the water’s still running…” She hooked her thumb toward the back of the store. “…It’d be there.”

Through a pair of swinging doors, Eric entered the employee area. By flashlight he read notices on the bulletin board. One in bright orange said, “STAY FREE FROM DISEASE: WASH YOUR, HANDS.” And another read, “BE A PART OF THE WAL-MART: CULTURE: WE’RE FAMILY.” Styrofoam cups, dried coffee in their bottoms, littered a round table in the center of the room. He ran his hand across a plastic-backed chair’s top. Another swinging door led to a small lock area and a shower. Since the door didn’t have a latch, and feeling slightly absurd, Eric propped his pack against it. He showered in the cold water by the light of his flash he’d placed on the floor. While the water pounded down, and he lifted his face in the cold stream, he marveled at himself: how mundane everything seemed. Even now, the world as dead as dead could be, his father gone (maybe needing rescue!), he could still take a shower, raise his hands above his head and stretch. Palms on the wall, head down now, the water ran off his back. He could almost feel layers of dirt peeling away, and it was normal. He remembered a friend of his telling him once, after going to his grandmother’s funeral, how everything seemed so weird. He’d said something like, “They’re putting her in the ground, and my mom’s crying and stuff, and all I could think about was how nice it was they covered the grave dirt with artificial grass. My grandma’s dead, and I don’t feel a thing. I just looked at that astroturf like nothing special is going on. You know what I mean?” Eric hadn’t then, but now it made more sense. When he finished, he turned the water off. Shivering so hard his teeth ached, he rubbed vigorously with a towel he’d plucked off a pile in a canvas hamper. “Shoot,” he said explosively. “Nothing to wear.” His kicked his dirty clothes aside and rummaged through the lockers. In one he found a clean pair of overalls. A draft caught him, and he shivered hard again, but this time it wasn’t cold. The room suddenly felt spooky. He rubbed his hands down his legs, and he wondered about who the clothes belonged to. Who’d worn these before? Would he mind? He picked up the light and shined it around the room: lockers, shower, changing bench, towels, and door. Something wasn’t right. Something was different. Backing to the wall he looked again. What had changed? Then he saw it: his pack. It had fallen over and was a foot from the door. Slowly he approached it. Shadows bent and moved with the light. Falling over, I believe, he thought, but then it slid a foot? No way.

Then he thought, did I actually leave it against the door? I might have thought about putting it there, then didn’t. That’s more likely.

But why was he so sure there wasn’t someone else in the store? It was a big place. A natural safe haven. Plenty of food, albeit mostly candies and cookies, and there was that normality he’d thought about in the shower. The world might be falling apart, and all of your friends could be dead, but at the Wal-Mart you could still find queen-sized comforters and camcorders and bicycle tires and Sam’s Cola. Sure, a person might come here to save his sanity, he thought. He could sleep on a brand new mattress every night. He picked up the pack, then cautiously pushed the door open, the flashlight gripped like a club. Grit scrunched under his bare feet; the floor needed sweeping. Nothing. The employee lounge looked the same. Past the double doors, he saw Leda’s light. Moving quietly, light peering around every corner, he found her in the clothes section. She’d draped a blouse over her arm, and was stuffing a pair of jeans into the backpack.

“Doesn’t hurt to have a spare,” she said, then pointed her light at him. “Nice overalls, but do you think something that long will be good to hike in?”

“There might be somebody else in the store,” he said. “Did you hear anything?” She shrugged. “Was there a noise?”

He didn’t want to tell her about the pack now. It seemed childish. The feeling he’d done it himself came back even stronger. I’ll bet I moved it without thinking. “No. I guess not.”

“Then don’t worry. It’s a big place. Bound to make someone nervous. I didn’t want to say anything, but there’s no way anyone is in here. They’d be crazy to go into a store.” Eric’s jaw dropped. “What?”

She smiled, “They shoot looters. Didn’t you know that? Now, be a pal and find me some toothpaste and a toothbrush. I’ll go shower.”

While he wandered through each department, his light showed the odd interests of the last “shoppers.” All the electronics were gone, even the display models that had been anchored to their shelves by stout plastic-coated wire. The neatly snipped pieces showed someone with foresight enough to bring wire clippers had been there. In sporting goods, as Leda had predicted, there were no guns. He doubted anyone had waited five days for a government check-up on their fitness to be gun owners before walking out of the store with these weapons. Anything else that might shoot was gone also. No bows, or slingshots. No shot either. A pair of glass cases, their lids shattered, were all that remained of the knife displays. He sighed. A heavy duty knife might have been good to carry.

He pirouetted. Was someone behind him? In the aisle he’d just come down, fishing poles criss-crossed the path like long toothpicks. No one could walk through them without making noise unless he had a light to direct his steps. Broken display case glass on the tile all around made it seem unlikely that he could be approached soundlessly. He thought, I’m just getting the creeps.

Toothpaste looked like an item no one had been interested in. He grabbed a couple of different brands and a pair of toothbrushes. As far as he could tell, not one roll of toilet paper remained, and almost all the drugs were gone. In a corner, behind a bag of cotton swabs, he found a box of aspirin. It was the only pain killer left. All the cold remedies were missing. He grinned sadly. How pathetic that people would try to treat the symptoms of the virus that killed the world with Nyquil or Sudafed. Antiseptics were gone; so were bandages and tape. He wrinkled his nose; a strong smell of bad meat told him what to expect behind the prescription drug counter where he found the long dead pharmacist, still in her blue smock, on her back, a messy wound on her neck. Not a single bottle graced the shelves. Eric took another route back to the employee area. The garden area seemed untouched. Droopy-leafed plants hung forlornly above bags of fertilizer. Neat displays of garden hoses cast odd shadows. Some boxes blocked the path in the toy section, but generally most of the goods still crowded the shelves. He looked at a red fire truck whose ad said “REAL EMERGENCY SOUNDS. TRY ME,” and an arrow pointed to a row of buttons below the cab. He pressed one. The red lights on top flashed and a tiny voice announced, “We have a hot one boys! Start her up.”

Back in the employee area, he heard the shower water. He sat in one of the chairs and turned off his light. Leda hummed a song. He couldn’t identify the melody. Water sounds came to him unevenly, the sounds made when someone is moving under a shower. She’s nice, he thought. Not half bad for an adult. Dad probably would like her. She’s independent. He imagined her in the shower, water cascading, cleaning her arms, bending over to get behind her knees, hair hanging nearly to the floor, and he found himself standing at the door into the locker room, listening. He didn’t consciously remember making a decision to stand up. Pressing his ear gently to the door frame, he heard water hitting skin. She still hummed. It’s cold, he thought. She won’t stay in there long. He thought of the way she walked, how her shirt dropped away from her belly when she bent to look in the car window earlier, and he imagined himself pushing the door open. Her flashlight must be on the floor, he thought, pointing in on her like his had been when he showered. She would never know the door had opened. She’d never know I was standing there.

He remembered necking with his pimpled girlfriend in high school. Lips together, she’d breathed on his cheek, evenly. It wasn’t like he’d thought it would be. No real passion, but he’d been so aware of where his hands were: one around her shoulder, the other on her waist, and he thought of what other guys had told him, what he’d seen in movies, what he’d imagined. It would have been so easy to slip his hand up, across the shirt.

He stood, listening. Leda hummed. Water splashed on the floor. His stomach ached with tightness. His hand rested on the door. But is it right? he thought. Is it right to look at her, and he found his mind tumbling. What did he think of her? Who was she? A friend? A woman? A sister? A mom? What would it say about him if he did look? His other hand hurt, and he realized it was clenched. Painfully, he straightened his fingers and made them relax against his thigh.

When he’d kissed his girlfriend, he’d put his hand on the back of her neck and caressed the fine little hairs there. Just when he thought he might slide that other hand up, she’d put her hand on it, stopping any chance for motion. It was then he’d opened his lips, reached out with the tip of his tongue. Pulling back, she’d said, “Don’t, that’s gross.” But he hadn’t really heard it that way. No, not that way at all. For weeks after, and even now, he heard it as, “Don’t, you’re gross.” What did Leda think of him? He had saved her life, and she had saved his. They’d talked for hours in that basement, not sure if they would live or die. But he had cried in her arms earlier today. She’d let go of his hand in the darkened store. Don’t, he thought, you’re gross.

The water still fell. He could almost hear soap sliding on skin, around curves, up and down. He wiped sweat off his forehead. Why is she staying in there so long? She must be goddamned frozen by now!

Through the crack in the door, he could see the light on the floor. It was pointed toward the shower. The tile glistened where some water had splashed out, or maybe it had fallen off him when he’d dried. She must know I’m out here, he thought. Why else would she stay in so long. She must want me to look! He breathed hard. Oh God. He pressed his hand against the door, trying to remember if it squeaked, then deciding it wouldn’t matter since she couldn’t possibly hear it. He swallowed and pushed harder. It moved a half inch, then stopped. Something was against the door. Dropping to his knees, he looked under the door. A shadow a foot or so wide blocked the light. He reached under with his fingers and felt slick nylon.

Sitting back in the employee chair, his flashlight still off, Eric looked at the light under the door, at the shadow. The shower turned off. Silence replaced the throb of falling water. He heard her walk. He heard a towel rubbing briskly. It’s her backpack, he thought. She leaned her backpack against the door, and a thought came to him very clearly, like a wave crashing on a beach: sometime while I was showering, or maybe even when I was toweling off, Leda pushed open that door and looked at me. That’s why my pack was moved. She looked at me, then went back to the clothes section so I would never know. I stood naked in the water, and she watched me.

He didn’t know what to think of the thought.

But it made him happy.