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.
