At my next stop, halfway down the road, a small convenience shop is nestled in between two houses on my side of the road. The door to the shop is wide open, inviting me in. I’ve got to get a drink from somewhere; is it worth the risk? The door is open but inside looks dark and dingy—it does look empty, though. The road is deserted so I gamble that the shop is too.
Outside, the shop is littered with packets of food trodden into the pavement as if the shop has been hastily ransacked by a mob, which it probably was. What are the odds of me finding anything to drink in there? Surely, it has all been looted long ago? This time, my dried-out mouth wins out, and I really do have to find some sustenance.
I move both slow and low towards the entrance. The windows on each side of the door have advertisements for beer at bargain prices, to tempt customers inside. It may be early in the morning, but an ice-cold beer would go down a treat right now. My parched mouth dries out further, to remind me of its urgency. I ignore it, taking my time.
From the right side of the open door, the opposite side to where the door hangs, I get the best view inside. The place has been stripped bare by the looks of things. A small counter is just inside the door with a till sitting on top of it. Next to the till is an angled display rack which was once full of chocolate bars and other treats, designed to elicit impulse buys off unsuspecting customers. The plastic rack looks forlorn and stands empty with every single bar of sugar stripped from it. Behind the counter, the tobacco display cabinet and next to it the shelves that would have held bottles of spirits stand just as empty. Perhaps someone decided to have a massive party to welcome the apocalypse, I joke to myself.
Crossing over to the other side of the open doorway to get a view of the other side of the small interior, my hopes of finding a bottle of anything liquid diminish. Aside from damaged packets of food discarded on the floor, everything edible looks like it has been seized by the desperate residents of this road.
The shop looks clear, but before I enter, I pick up a squashed loaf of bread in a plastic wrapper off the pavement and throw it inside. The loaf slaps onto the floor halfway down the centre aisle. This is a tactic I believe I’ve seen on a Zombie film or TV show, designed to see if any Zombies jump out when they hear the new noise. Nothing moves inside and suddenly I feel slightly ridiculous for trying it. Dan would be pissing himself laughing at my display and I would just have to cower in embarrassment. I do miss the banter and his sense of humour.
I cross the threshold into the shop in hope, more than an expectation, of finding a missed bottle or can. The M4 moves around in front of me, checking corners and blind spots. Before I look for anything to quench my thirst, I make sure I’m alone inside the gloomy shop.
The shop is clear as are the two tall Coca-Cola-branded fridges. I don’t have to open their doors; I can see that I’m too late, looking through their glass fronts. In fact, it is just as I thought from outside, that the place is empty of anything edible and there are definitely no beers. I’m wasting my time here, so I go to leave. On my way out, already glancing out of the door, I notice a bottle of shampoo on the floor, half-hidden by the shelves. If a bottle of shampoo can fit underneath the shelves, maybe a bottle of drink could have rolled under them. In the scramble, one could have easily been dropped and inadvertently kicked under.
Stopping, whilst still watching the door, I lower onto one knee and then put my left hand down onto the floor. Quickly, my head goes down to look underneath the steel shelves. I feel totally exposed as my eyes go down to look, but it’s worth it. When I get back up, I have two bottles in my hand, one plain old water and the other fruit infused water.
Saving the trendy fruit-flavoured water, which goes into the only free pocket I have in the front of my jeans, I twist the top off the plain bottle and gulp half the bottle down. My dried-out mouth swills the last mouthful, letting it soak in before swallowing. After a second’s consideration, my arm comes up again and I finish off the bottle. There was nowhere to store it anyway, what with all the ammo I’m carrying.
Exiting the shop, I carry on down to the bottom of the road, going through my manoeuvres without incident.
Stopping just shy of the end of the road, before it joins Praed Street, I take cover behind a telephone box that is standing on the corner of the junction, next to a wall.
Praed Street looks like a war zone, compared to the side street behind me. The commercialised main road, with its shops, restaurants and more than its fair share of hotels, due to its proximity to Paddington Station, line both sides of the street and has been a battlefield. Burnt-out buildings and cars are everywhere I look. Smoke clogs the street and my view. Dead bodies are dotted around in countless contorted
