We fled from the End of the World Party until the sounds of gunfire and yelling faded behind us like a bad memory, before eventually slowing along the quiet country highway in an odd transition from peril to pastoral. I was still pretty tired on my feet from the lack of sleep and my head complained with throbbing aches that matched my heartbeat. Sam took point, as usual. I was second, and Tarah and Sue Spirit brought up the rear. Sue wasn’t enjoying the warmest of welcomes, but as long as she didn’t mind traveling during the day when the revs were at their weakest, I didn’t care if she came along. With her powers of intuition or whatever led to her visions, maybe she could help us and see something coming for once, instead of always reacting to events being thrown at us.
Eventually, the paved walking path gave way to gravel and then stopped altogether at a property line with hills ahead too steep to climb easily, so we stopped to rest. I spotted a white speck in the distance, a half-mile down on the far side of the highway, surrounded by mirage-like waves of hallucinations. “I can’t be sure from here, but I think I see a truck up there.”
Sam flattened a hand across his brow, extending the bill of his cap to block the sun. “You’re right. A white Dodge, parked on the side of the road like it’s up for sale.”
“Let’s check it out,” said Tarah. “It sure would beat walking.”
The empty highway unfolded in a straight line as far as we could see. My field of vision continued to shimmer, the intensity increasing as I concentrated on an object in the distance like the truck, which grew larger as we approached.
A large sign on the building behind the truck read “LIQUOR” in red letters and “LOTTO” in blue, in all-caps for high visibility to passing highway traffic.
We reached the edge of the parking lot and stopped. With the scene unfolding before us, the truck had lost some of its appeal, while the store where it was parked became a fresh opportunity. The truck had seen better days, but it would be enough, its chipped white paint covered in a crusty layer of brown back-road dirt. The truck’s short bed had a thin canvas cover that would work for discreet storage. The cover wouldn’t stop a bullet, but it could provide some protection for our stuff, most of which I was ready to put down at the earliest opportunity. Even the bag of dried food was getting heavy.
A bright yellow awning above the storefront contained more red lettering: “LIQUOR – LOTTO – BEER – WINE.” The window signs were dark, the LED signs blank where lottery jackpots were usually displayed. But no one would hit the numbers today. A humming ice machine sat along the front wall of the exterior, both of its metal doors open to reveal two empty pallets lining the floor, the ice long gone.
I closed the doors for no particular reason. “Y’all trying to cool the whole outside?” I asked with a cartoon drawl, as though I were a backwards dad at the controls of a thermostat.
We walked around the building to ensure the area was clear. Surrounded by farmland, the property around the store carried all the calmness of the summer afternoon it appeared to be. I needed pain relief and was hoping the store would have something more than low-dose, low-quantity medicine like the two-capsule packets of aspirin sold at ridiculous expense. Between the withdrawals and the sun beating on my back like a heat ray, I felt like a troll looking for a bridge to hide under.
“Are we going in?” I asked the group.
“See how the truck is next to the dumpster?” said Sam, in gumshoe mode. “I bet it belongs to the store owner or the clerk working here. The keys are probably inside.”
“Or maybe still with the clerk, dead and running through the woods chasing squirrels.”
I looked through the door, but a black sunshade pulled down inside prevented us from seeing anything in the store. For all we knew, the place was filled with undead gazing at us on the other side like a TV screen.
“No sense wondering what’s in there because you know we’re heading in,” Sam said. “There’s no one around…we’ll find the keys and stock up if we can. We need water most of all. Unfortunately, it’s the heaviest thing we need the most out there. And keep in mind that if you find something we don’t need but can still carry, we can trade it for something later. Everything you see could get more uncommon from here on out.”
At the entrance, I made sure Sam was ready and gave the door a push, swinging it open just long enough to activate the doorbell that sent a “DING!” throughout the small convenience store…before the door closed abruptly, as none of us had bothered to stick a foot in the door frame. After that, we could do little but hold our breaths and wait outside like an alley of clowns, anxiously gripping our weapons.
Sam pushed the door this time and held it open as we stepped inside, gun barrels prodding the cramped, quiet space. The “DING!” greeted us a second time, and we discovered five aisles of items strewn about in crushed, damp piles of boxes, bags, plastic containers, and broken glass. Looted and ransacked, the calling card of the foolish.
We remained quiet until we could check the small sales floor. An aisle over, Sam kicked an empty box of cereal with its top missing, sugar-coated shapes spraying across the floor. “Kids did this, I bet.”
“How can you tell?”
“They took candy but left protein bars and canned food,” he said, bending to one knee to stuff a few cans in his pack. “That makes no sense in a survival situation.”
I moved from the cooler aisle, hoping but failing to find bottled water, then to the front counter, where I assumed stores kept their meds…usually close to a clerk’s watchful eye. But I stopped, repelled. “Ah, Christ almighty.”
Tarah’s head appeared from behind a spinning rack of plastic gift cards. “What is it?”
“I think it’s the store keep,” I said with a sigh. I’d seen more dead bodies in two days than years I’d been alive and the shock would never wear off.
“’Store keep?’ Are you from the past? Did you find his monocle, too?”
Sam approached, adjusting the shoulder straps on his bag to compensate for the weight of its new contents. “Check his pockets for the truck keys.”
I sighed. “Again? That’s my job now? A fucking corpse pickpocket?”
“Only if you want to find what you need. He sure doesn’t need it.”
I stepped closer the body, grumbling, before something on the counter caught my eye. Next to the register, nudged between a dirty desk calculator and a spilled can of Fluffer adult energy drink (“Fluffer…It Keeps You Up!”), was the familiar metal curve of a key ring. Then I spotted a vehicle’s chunky black plastic key fob, sitting on its side like a toppled monolith. I swiped the keys from the counter. “No rifling through the pockets of the dead for me today, Satan!”
“You should still check his pockets, though,” said Sam, smirking.
“You check his fucking pockets. I found what we needed.” I looked on the dusty, narrow shelf underneath the register and pulled out a scuffed black police baton with a hanging leather strap. Still trying not to laugh, I took the baton and said, “I’ll take this too. We can play ‘Good Cop, Bad Cop’ on somebody.”
I returned to the cooler aisle, wrapping the baton strap around my wrist and taking a few swings at phantoms swimming in my crowded field of vision. They didn’t disappear.
“Everyone keep an eye open for a can opener,” said Sam. “You heard me, Neil? Can opener.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I heard you. I was just thinking.”
“I noticed.” He pointed to his temple. “Too much of that could get you in trouble.” His smirk gave away the ruse. That’s how the guy told jokes…drier than a bone sticking out of a dune.
I headed a few feet over to the aisle with a small hardware section containing gaps on the shelves that stood out like missing teeth from a smile. “Looks like more than just kids came through. Can openers are gone, too. The ‘twist-off generation’ wouldn’t think about that.” Then I paused when an idea hit. “I know where there might be one, though. I’ll check the back room.”
A brown interior door stood closed in the corner near the counter. Pistol in hand, Sam opened the door to reveal a small office about the size of a jail cell, with a chair, filing cabinet, and a cluttered desk with a desktop computer positioned temporarily, as though it frequently moved to accommodate for space…most likely to eat during a break.
We stepped over the clerk’s body to get inside. Sam shuffled some papers around. “The looters weren’t very thorough. Even though it looks like a disaster area, this mess wasn’t ransacked.”
“All the booty in the other room probably kept them occupied.” I leaned in closer. “Ope, let me get around ya.”
Sam and I traded places, and I looked through the desk drawer, where I plucked a folded can opener from among ancient packets of ketchup, packs of napkins rolled around plastic forks, and business paperwork improperly filed forever.
“Slightly rusty, but still functional…kind of like myself.” I held the can opener aloft like a prize and he turned his back so I could put it in the side pocket of his backpack.
We returned to the sales floor, where Tarah and Sue Spirit scavenged what they could from the shambled inventory and put it in yellow plastic shopping bags found near the counter. I walked behind the coolers to the storeroom, where I found several open-topped boxes to put our new items in. Then we loaded up the truck and were once again on the road, like a family from a fruitful grocery trip, this time in a vehicle with intact windows that kept the wind off faces and bugs out of our mouths. I was tired, like I’d been up all day, but it was only nine in the morning.
Sam leered at the gas gauge. “This thing’s only got an eighth of a tank!”
“Look around, though…this is us not walking right now. That eighth of a tank takes us where we end up. Maybe it’ll even get us most of the way if we’re lucky enough to have the wind at our backs.”
“Hopefully, it’ll get us to a gas station.”
“If you see one, stop.”
“We’re gonna have to.”
Tarah sighed. “Stop it, you two, or you’re both riding in the back.”
To break up the uncomfortable silence, Tarah reached over from the back seat and turned on the radio. “Maybe there’s some music on.” The little radio programming we heard was the same recorded message found everywhere else…old and of little use. Then she reached into the center console and found a CD, which she put into the player without looking at it. Christmas music in July was worse than the silence, but I was too tired to say anything.
***
Once the truck’s thirsty engine stalled, we coasted to a stop near a crossroads at the edge of a forest, coming upon a two-vehicle collision between a Ford pickup and a white shuttle van. Both were resting in the intersection’s far corner, between the highway and a deep drainage ditch. A stone’s throw ahead, a smaller Honda compact sat on the shoulder, parked in the manner of the unhurried. A handmade poster board sign on the side of the road advertised a nearby renaissance festival, defiantly stating “Open – No Matter What!,” designed in a subculture clash of American flags and bald eagles with classic medieval fonts and colorful coats of arms, printed on a painted vellum scroll background.
Sam was in the middle of the intersection, back in gumshoe mode, reconstructing the accident. He narrated the scene as though rustling up subscribers for his video channel. “I believe the truck was barreling down that dirt road over there and T-boned the shuttle crossing the intersection right here. Look at those skid marks…and I don’t mean the ones in your undies. Heh heh.” He stroked an imaginary goatee. “Looks like the Honda came up later—or maybe from behind the shuttle—and stopped to help.”
Sue Spirit joined him to assist. “Where is everyone?”
“I’m going to check the vehicles,” I said. “Maybe we can siphon some gas. Not sure about the bus, but the other two wouldn’t use diesel, I don’t think.”
“Siphon with what? We don’t have a hose or gas can or anything involved with that entire process.”
“True. But I’ll look, anyway. What could possibly go wrong?”
Tarah stood at the far corner near our disabled truck, her rifle propped on her hip. “I’ll just cover you from way over here if that’s OK.”
“Suit yourself.”
Sam winked at me. “Maybe we’ll find something that makes it worthwhile…just for her.”
“Maybe you two should get the Honeymoon Suite at the next motel we come across,” she replied. “Ugh, I should shoot both of you right now.”
Sam turned toward the wreck. “The pickup truck’s closest. Let’s check it first.”
We each settled on a side to approach. I chose the passenger, holding the shotgun before me, while Sam kept his pistol at the ready. From my vantage point, I noticed the front of the truck was totaled beyond repair. “They must’ve been hauling ass with the front end crushed like that.”
The inside of the truck was a mess, compounded by a spilled paper cup of now-dried chewing tobacco juice that covered much of the interior in a dark brown, sickly sweet-smelling patina. There were no bodies. The windshield was gone. Deflated airbags drooped from their casings like sad white balloons, their only purpose reached and spent.
“I don’t see blood in any of this mess,” I said.
Sam shrugged. “Let’s see what’s up with the shuttle.”
We approached the second vehicle. The emergency door in the rear was locked. The side of the shuttle read “Cornerstone Methodist Church” along the underside of the dark tinted windows, the rows of glass still intact, at least on the side we could see. The impact had caused bags and other debris inside to pile onto the dashboard, blocking our view. What twisted metal remained of the front end rested in the ditch, partially submerged in dirty water.
“We’ll have to climb up on its side to open the door,” Sam said.
“Be careful.”
“No, I said ‘we’ll have to.’ The bags are right there…if we can crack the door open wide enough, I’ll grab ‘em and hand ‘em to you to look through.”
“Why bother? It’s probably nothing but old people’s stuff. Arthritis cream and laxatives.”
“I’ll keep any bottles of pills I find then,” he said.
I put my hands up. “Let’s not get too hasty. I’ll split everything I find with you if you’re inclined to start up a habit. I wouldn’t recommend it, though, considering current events.”
“You know I’m high on life.” Sam put the pistol in his waistband like they say not to do and hoisted himself onto the side of the bus—now the top—as though lifting himself from the deep end of a swimming pool. When I climbed my fat ass up after him, I realized right away we weren’t alone.
The side door to the bus remained closed by the weight of a body that was impaled on a sharp spike from the broken door handle next to the driver’s seat.
“Check his pockets,” said Sam, joking.
Although the door had opened easily enough, after the corpse shifted, the door would no longer close. Suddenly, once-hidden occupants of the vehicle began scrambling towards the light. Dead, stiffened hands gripped and pulled upward, hissing and roaring with every inch. Sam shot the first pair, only to create sturdy leverage for the revenants behind them to climb. The body impaled by the door lever woke as though startled and thrashed around like a cat in two inches of water.
Sam jumped from the bus. “We don’t have the ammo to clear ‘em out.”
“Let them come out,” said Tarah from her position across the highway. “If we leave ‘em be, we might as well start running away right now.”
“That’s what I think we should do. We can outrun this group. They’re old and walking around dead isn’t doing what’s left of their bodies any favors.”
Suddenly, three more revs appeared from around the front of the van, coming from the woods. These three were younger than the undead inside the shuttle. Two of them, male and female, dressed in business casual, while the third, another male, wore the shop overalls and heavy work boots of a working-class stiff.
Sam returned to his faux-video narration, pointing to each of them. “This must be Mister and Missus Honda here and that one is Mister Truck.” He shot the Honda couple with two quick pulls of the trigger and his gun clicked on the third. “Shit. I lost count.”
The rear door of the shuttle bus suddenly swung outward and landed on the asphalt with a thump, creating a ramp for the dead bodies to spill from the bus like rabid animals freed from a live trap. And just like that, they outnumbered us and we were once again forced to run for our lives, and once again forced to leave most of our supplies behind.
We chose the dirt road, with both edges lined with thick trees, but with lots of open space beyond. As expected, most of the van’s occupants stumbled forward until they forgot what they were doing, but two of them, Mr. Truck and another younger male—probably the shuttle driver— kept pace behind us on the flat dirt road.
“Get to a spot where I can steady up and pick ‘em off!” said Tarah, gasping for breath. “I can’t do much running like this.”
“I don’t know how much farther I can go,” said Sue, sucking wind behind her.
At the head of the pack, Sam and I changed direction and jumped across a shallow ditch and into the thick greenery beyond the shoulder, trying to avoid the prickly brush poking our skin as we blew through with cracks of splintering wood and ruffled green leaves. Once in the brush, our pace slowed but when I looked back to gauge the distance between us, Mr. Truck had tripped up in the brush, while the other had followed through the holes we’d opened, reducing our immediate threat down to just one rev…just like that. The dust blows forward and the dust blows back.
Still running diagonally from the dirt road, we reached the other side of the tree line, where an open soybean field spread out before us like an airport runway. A small patch of grass and another tree line waited on the opposite end of the field and beyond that, a tall wooden fence as far as I could see. The colorful peaks of small wooden buildings poked above the fence line, reminding me of a period-piece movie set.
I pointed to a gate in the fence, and we headed in that direction.
“What is this place?” Tarah asked.
“A renaissance festival,” said Sue. “I used to come here at least once a year. I made some quick cash reading Tarot.”
“Good,” I said. “Then you know the layout.”
Behind us, the shuttle driver was falling back, losing traction the more he dug into the loosened dirt, frustrated into a rage that only dug him deeper.
“Somebody shoot him,” I said.
“We need the bullets,” said Sam.
“Look at the poor guy. He needs one too.”
“Go beat the thing to death. A good crack on the skull should do it.”
“It’s already dead.”
“Then re-death it.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Tarah, dropping to a knee to line up a shot. Peering down the barrel, she pulled the trigger, and a split second later, the revenant went limp and dropped into the clouds of dust its flailing left behind.
All I heard from the other side of the fence was trickling water and the shushing leaves of the trees above and a quick peek through a gap in the gate showed a thin line of nothing so we elected to proceed inside the festival grounds.
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