breakfast.
My stomach rumbled like an angry bear and I realized that it’d been close to fourteen hours or so since I’d eaten anything. I also realized that I couldn’t keep going on an empty stomach. That if I had any hope of finding Jason, I had to get some food energy in that tired ’ole body of mine. I knew I had a bunch of Spam in the backpack, maybe some crackers, a mess of Slim Jims, and one or two cans of….
And then it hit me. The backpack. It’d had all my food in it. The little first aid kit I’d lifted from a wrecked car on the interstate. The rest of my ammo. And, in my hurry to chase after the boy, I’d left it back there in the house. In the room with his dead mother where it wouldn’t be doing anybody any good.
I had this feeling like my stomach had just turned itself inside out and all the bile had spilled over my innards. I wanted to throw up, to bang my head against the nearest tree as I screamed out my frustration. How could I have been so damn stupid? My life depended on the contents of that bag and I’d just waltzed away, never giving it a second thought until I’d gone so far that I’d never manage to find my way back to where I’d left it. On top of that, I’d killed an innocent girl, let a little boy’s mother get bitten by one of those fuckers, and then lost him in the process… some fucking hero I was turning out to be.
About half an hour later, I came across a little patch of blackberries and attacked them like they were manna from heaven. I shoveled handfuls in my mouth, ignoring the prick of the thorns as they drew beads of blood from my fingers, and probably ate more than a few of the little grub worms you sometimes find inching their way along the berries. It wasn’t much of a breakfast, but to me the tart sweetness of the juice that stained my lips and fingers was like a full course meal with all the trimmings.
After eating, I kept walking until the sun was well over halfway across the sky. About fifteen minutes earlier, I’d spotted something in the distance: something white, something that occasionally flashed with brilliance from its hiding place behind the trees. I was pretty sure that it was a house or building of some sort and that the flashes were the reflection of the sun on glass windows. Maybe I would be able to find something substantial to eat there or even a weapon that had more than just three rounds left.
My instincts wanted to run full out toward that little glimpse of civilization, but I had to force myself to walk the way my Grandpa showed me when he taught me to hunt. Each foot carefully placed in front of the other, mindful of twigs that could snap and give away my position; in a way I was stalking this building, creeping forward at a pace that would have done a turtle proud. What normally would’ve taken me a few minutes to cover ended up taking nearly half an hour.
But eventually I was at the edge of the woods and I hunkered down within the trees as I scoped out that lay of the land. What I’d seen had been a house after all. But that house was just one part of a small town, much like the ones I’d grown up in. A single road, most likely called Main Street, cut through the center and I could see the marquee of a theater called The Roxie that looked as if it dated back to the fifties. Accountants, lawyers, real estate agents, a hardware store: all the earmarks of Americana were laid out on either side of that empty road.
I watched for movement, for anything that would betray the presence of rotters. But there was only the shadow of clouds easing across the street and buildings. Only the rustle of leaves on the little trees bordering the sidewalk as a slight breeze rattled litter through a town that seemed frozen in time.
Finally, I stepped out of the safety of the forest and into the open. I gripped my pistol with both hands so tightly I could feel my pulse throbbing within my palms. Take a step. Stop. Listen. Scan the town for any signs of activity. Repeat.
The American flag outside the post office fluttered in the surreal silence and I forced myself to take long, slow breaths.
Take a step. Stop. Listen.
In my mind I had imagined that every city in the country would be in shambles: all shattered glass, burnt out buildings, the wreckage of civilization smoldering amid the ruins of a crumbled world. But this town was immaculate. As if all the residents had simply disappeared in the wink of an eye. As if the Rapture had come during the wee hours of the morning to whisk them away from the hell that was about to be unleashed upon the world.
Take a step.
Maybe I’d be able to find another first aid kit in of the cars parked alongside expired meters.
Stop.
Maybe the grocery up ahead would be filled with row after row of canned food, just waiting for me to come along to find it.
Listen.
Thoughts of food caused my stomach to growl and in the stillness it sounded like a rusty door swinging open.
Scan the town.
I would get what I could from this place, stock up, and then head back out into the woods. Resume the search for the boy. He couldn’t have gotten far.
Repeat.
Nearing an intersection, I saw a green, rectangular sign which confirmed my earlier suspicion: the corner of Main and Elm. Before I could go back and check all these mom and pop shops for supplies, I needed to make sure that this place was a clear as it seemed.
I eased my way over to the sidewalk and pressed my back against the rough bricks of Brighton Hardware and Feed. Just a few feet from the intersection now… I stood and listened.
Nothing but the chirping of birds, the wind, and the breakneck rhythm of my own heart.
The pistol felt as heavy as a chunk of granite in my moist palms and I tried to ignore the little voice whispering in my head:
As slowly as I could, I peeked around the corner of the building and what I saw caused my breath to catch in my throat.
Whereas Main Street could’ve been lifted from a Norman Rockwell painting, Elm was an entirely different story. Here was the destruction I had expected to see: shattered windows with curtains flapping through the empty sills, front doors flung wide open, cars crumpled around telephone poles, bloodstains like dark inkblots on the street and sidewalks. Four houses on Elm were nothing more than a huge pile of cinder and blackened stone and the wreckage seemed to radiate out from a central point as if there had been an explosion.
I saw bodies littered about the street, sprawled out with dark clouds of flies buzzing overhead and crows ripping long strands of flesh with bloody beaks. But none of these bodies seemed to be moving and I was pretty sure zombies didn’t have the presence of mind to play possum in an attempt to lure fresh meat to them.
I rounded the corner and came to the first of the fallen. In life, he’d been a young man but now he was nothing more than a sun-bloated feast for the insects and scavengers. His eyes were long gone but there was something within the darkness of the sockets that gave the impression that things were moving around in there. A scuttling sound. Changes in light and shadow. Lumps that shifted position just beneath flesh the color of a paper grocery bag. For a second, I thought I caught a glimpse of something pink as it poked out through the bullet hole in the center of his head. But it was gone so quickly it may have been nothing more than a trick of my exhausted mind.
When I’d approached, the crows had taken flight and perched on a phone line overhead. They called out in their gravelly voices and somehow this sound I’d heard all my life now seemed threatening. As if they were warning me to step away from the food. Just step away and no one gets hurt….
The man’s right arm was stretched out away from his body. As if, even in the throes of death, he had been trying to reach the overturned shoe box a few feet away. The contents of the box had spilled out across the street and I saw a few bottles of aspirin that had rolled a distance away, two tins of tuna, a pair of binoculars.
Overhead, the crows called out again.
Let them have their feast; I would have my own. This man may have been killed when blood still flowed through his veins, but I couldn’t let that get in the way of my own survival. The food and supplies, as meager as they were, was fair game and I’d be damned if I’d just leave it behind based on principle.
