36 Hours (12 page)

My mouth salivated; I reached inside and grabbed some potato wedges. The panel had been shut. They were still warm. Crunching my teeth into it, I nearly puked at the taste of chilly potato filling. I spit it out at my shoes. The chicken was still warm. I probed the inside of one with my finger just to make sure. It was fine.

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I drew the bucket out and put it in a solitary cart flipped over in the produce aisle. Gave me a chance to get some bananas and apples and pears. Bagged nuts and seeds covered stand-alone basins, also littered with garlic and pickles, some apple cider, all-natural honeycomb honey and molasses. The far wall was lined with bottle upon bottle of all sorts of cheap wine from across the state. George ran up. “Hey!”

I spun around, half-terrified.

He demanded, “Where’d you get the cart?”

“It was in the aisle.”

“Oh.” Calming down, “Okay. Don’t go outside. They might be out there.”

“I didn’t plan on it.”

“Grab some Lunchables and stuff like that. Oooh. Chicken.” He grabbed a piece and bit into it. “Nice choice.”

“I thought you might like it.”

He slapped me hard on the shoulder; I winced. “Maybe some snacks, too, eh?

I have to keep Daniel and Louis from spending too much time in the alcohol section. You know how they are with booze. Hurry up, okay?” He trotted off. Pushing the cart, I wove out of the aisle, past the movies section, and around the registers. Pausing, I took a spare moment to look over the registers, the quiet paper and plastic bags, out the large panel windows. How many times had I stood here, doing nothing but counting away the time till I was able to escape. Feet aching, crying; hands swimming in all sorts of foods and drinks and methodologically filling bags
Paper or plastic?
And that parking lot. How many times had I looked out to see sparse cars, a cozy, setting sun, girl and boy scouts and churches selling cookies or wreaths or Christmas trees? Normalcy. Shot out the window in only a few hours.

And how many hours had it been? It seemed like ages. No. It was only 11:47

a.m. Almost six hours since I rose from my bed, thinking it would be just another boring Friday afternoon. Friday. Laughter. Inside, at least. My face remained stonily cold. Friday. I always worked Fridays. Curiosity drew me to the schedule. Ryan—was he alive?—, Jason—and him? Where was he?—, Ashlie—a wonderful girl, had she turned to a beast?—and on down the list of names, till
Austin
, with my phone number below, reflected into my eyes. 3:008:00 tonight. When I was supposed to work. Oh, how I yearned so bad to come in at three o’clock and work. To know my family was fine; to know Chad and Anthony Barnhart

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Drake were okay; and to know Peyton went home only to skip open gym and watch
Seinfeld.

Normalcy.

Out the window.

My eyes drifted over the service desk. Trojan condoms. Lighters. Butane. Batteries. A sign advertising the week’s sales, video rental information, dark computers. Fans that were held still, motionless, without a breath. The commons on the registers did not glow; no one was there to operate them. Blood stained the floor near the end of a register, some sprinkled over the wrinkled plastic bags. Never could have imagined. Displays of all kinds of cheap, fatty snacks. Butternut. Little Debbie’s. Hershey’s—two stands for Hershey’s—and Homer’s Grocery off-brands.

Normalcy.

Gone.

I feared—forever.

Crash

Ripped from my trance, I glared towards the sound. It had come from the soup aisle. I set my cart still and ran for it, fearing someone might have gotten hurt. God forbid Daniel and Louis get drunk and mess something up too bad. I wheeled around to see the soup aisle empty—except for a few cans rolling on the ground, one split at the seal and leaking a colored, murky gook. I only then noticed how hard my heart had been beating; I pat ed my chest, trying to calm it down. Just an accident. They happened all the-Running feet. I peered down the aisle just in time to see Daniel’s body halfrunning, half-falling past. Then gone to the other side. I ran forward and dove into the corridor. The large swinging doors leading to the dairy were rocking back and forth. Hands with needle-like fingernails dug into me; I whipped around, bashing the attackers in the face. Daniel staggered back, blood seeping from his nose. I read terror in his eyes. He was pale and shuddering, losing control.

I grabbed him by the arm, gripped. “Daniel. Daniel. What’s wrong? What happened?”

He was babbling under his breath.

Shaking him, “Daniel? Daniel.
Daniel!
”

The store manager managed, “I told him not to… He might still… But he didn’t believe… didn’t… listen…”

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“Daniel, what are you-“

A horrendous screech. I released Daniel and spun around. The doors were thrown back and George fell from the dairy, landing hard on the concrete flooring. A deep gash gushed blood from his wound, an artery or something slashed. He cried out in pain, groping at the wound as it bled all over the concrete. Over the din of his cries I could hear
bang bang bang
from the windows of the lounge. I looked over George and saw them at the windows, yelling. Pleading.

No.

Warning.

Warning.

“Daniel…”

He sagged up against stacked 12-packs of Pepsi. “Austin… Austin…”

“I have to help him. Stay here.”

“Austin…”

I ran away and fell next to George, the doors looming over me. Blood covered his arm. His eyes flickered back and forth as he faded in and out. I felt for a pulse. Very weak. The blood welted out of his arm like a spring. The flesh was sliced open from the shoulder to the wrist, tearing cloth and ligaments, splintering bone. Strands of muscle lurked from the wound. Blood trickled over my hands, and a sudden burst sprayed my legs. I didn’t care. George’s eyelids fluttered. “George… George, man…” He reached up and grabbed me by the shoulder, choking. “George…” His grip tightened; he leaned forward, purple tongue bulging, and his eyes slid shut; his grip loosened, and he fell back, gurgling; his hand draped down to the floor and blood trickled from his mouth. He was gone.

Feet coming for me. I turned my head. It was Daniel. He wailed, “Austin!

Run! Run!”

“How did this happen?” I ordered, not thinking straight. “What happened to him!”

“No! Run! Run!”

“Daniel!”

Daniel stood over me, and he said, “It was Kenny. Kenny did this.” And he sprinted away.

I leapt to my feet. “Daniel! Kenny? I thought-“

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He whirled around, shouted, “Run! He’s in the aisles! Somewhere in the aisles!”

And he vanished into the meat department.

Shook my head, knelt down next to George’s corpse. “Sorry, buddy.” I don’t know if it was a warning, or something natural, or maybe something completely off-the-mark. But the hairs on my neck rose and shivers climbed my spine. Literally
climbed
. I felt terror grip me, and could almost feel icy-cold fingers wrapping—no, clenching—around my heart, my chest, filling it with lucid evil. I gazed down the corridor, to the alcoholic beverages. Completely empty.
Bang
bang bang

Warning

And it hit me. I looked down. George’s skin had turned purple-gray, his eyes sunken; the lips unfurled before my eyes, revealing yellow teeth. His closed, sunken eyes ripped open, and he glared at me. But it wasn’t George. It was…

something else. He snarled and wrenched upwards, snapping at me with his teeth. I reeled backwards; he caught me in his arms, fingers clawing at my back. I swung him against a display of canned goods, sending the cans crashing to the ground. George’s hands unclenched and he fell with them, tumbling down, blood covering everything. My feet dragged me around, and I bolted down the aisle.

Bang bang bang

They were still banging

Kenny

Somewhere in the aisles

Run! Run! Run!

I almost ran right into the grocery cart with the bucket of chicken. I looked down the aisle and saw Kenny, hunched and decrepit, staring at me. He opened his mouth and shrieked. Grabbing the bucket I tore my feet towards the meat department. Kenny’s own legs raced forward, giving to a chase. I wheeled past the hot deli and the soda display. Louis, neck spurting blood, stood there, now nothing close to human. He ran after me, blocking my way. I side-stepped as he neared and tripped him up; he landed hard and slid, knocking Kenny over as he rounded the corner. I bashed through the double metal doors and ran up the steps; Mary swung open the door and I hurled inside, bashing the bucket of chicken against the wall, tripping over someone’s feet, and taking a dive into a couch. Mary slammed the door shut and locked it tight; the chair was wedged Anthony Barnhart

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back against it. My heart jumped to and fro. I spent a moment on the floor to get my breath back.

Everyone stared at me. Daniel was bawling in the corner. Two of his best friends had gone.

“Well,” I said slowly, still finding it hard to breathe. “I got the chicken.”

12:00 p.m.

Lunchtime

The Passion of Insanity

Good-byes

Lunch. Just in time, too. The cracked LCD on my watch said it was right at noon. I still lied against the foot of the couch, breath coming to me in awkward spasms. The world went fuzzy for a moment, my head swam, but it came back to me, surreal, and I felt as if I were being loaded into a coffin and laid to rest six feet into the ground. Then the scene became clearer, and my eyes sparkled. My lungs inflated, and my head surged with a new burst of oxygen. Amanda helped me to my feet.

“We tried to warn you,” she said.

My knees knocked together under the jeans. “I didn’t understand until it was too late.”

Diane glowered, “Kenny ran into that back room. We saw it happen, but didn’t see him leave. We didn’t think he was still there.”

Thinks for telling me. Oh, by the way, one of our day employees is infected and trying to kill people, he might be down there in the dairy, but, sorry, I guess it didn’t cross my mind. But I didn’t show my cursed disapproval. I was okay. Daniel was, despite his choking sobs—and who is to blame him—, was fine. But George and Louis were gone. Bryon and Les watched from the window. Hannah stood silently in the corner, staring at me, and I imagined she might have been thinking,
He could have been one of them. He could have tried to kill
me.
And I wondered what went through the infected’s minds, and I shuddered at the grim thought of knowing first-hand.

“At least,” Diane said, “you got some food. And chicken. Nice job.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said, kneeling down, grabbing one of the floor. My muscles quaked. I picked a strand of hair off the cold, wrinkled skin, and sank Anthony Barnhart

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my teeth into it. My hunger had all but evaporated, and now it didn’t taste so good—cold, chalky, greasy. But I ate it anyways, and my stomach found no complaint.

The others grabbed chicken from the floor and bucket, and quietly ate. Daniel even started eating, chewing and swallowing between sobs. A baby refused to eat, crying, eyes bulging and cheeks swelling red with blood under the faint skin.

I grabbed the bucket and looked inside. One left. I prepared to eat it—a trophy—when I realized Hannah hadn’t moved. I walked over to her, and tried to give it to her. “Come on.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Neither was I. But your stomach will be thankful.”

“No.” She turned her eyes.

“Don’t famish yourself. You need all the strength you can get.”

“I have strength.”

I set the piece of chicken on the window sill. Between the blinds, I could see dark splotches of crimson blood and a knocked-over stack of cans where I had ran from the savage George. I had to laugh at that last thought. It was dark in the store because of the power outage, but I could still make out faint swirls and shadows over the stocked aisles. I remembered stocking some, especially the baby food aisle—I had small fingers, so I was always given that task. A hunched shadow caressed the baby foods, then dispersed to nothing. I took Hannah’s hand. It was cold. And shaking. “You lie,” I said with a wan smile.

“Eat the chicken.”

She pulled her hand away from me, almost repulsed. Anger. Choked it down. Sigh. “Hannah…”

She denied looking into my eyes.

“Okay. Can I see your arm?”

Her eyes seemed to go livid, but flared down. “It’s fine.”

“No.” I took it, and she didn’t protest. Her skin was soft, smooth, yet cold. I rolled up her sleeve. Her tan skin faded to a mottled white after a tan line. A deep bruise was swelling over her bicep. A pit of grief and shame and guilt clenched my gut. I wanted to cry.

“My leg is bruised, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Take the chicken.”

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A knot in my throat. I left the chicken there, but retreated back to the couch, sitting down at its foot, next to Les and Bryon. They teethed the frail chicken bones. Amanda had bit through the bone and was sucking out the marrow. Smart. My eyes nonchalantly trailed up to the ceiling, and I looked at the hatch, and saw nothing but freedom and doom. Temptation. Know the end result, go through anyways. Can’t live without it, your mind says. Who is it going to hurt?

Me. It won’t kill you. Yes, it will. Come on. You know you’re going to do it. Why even wrestle with it? Face the facts. Don’t look like a hypocrite and wander around the cones, but always reaching the end of the line! Be hot or cold, Austin, not lukewarm. You’re not hot. Might as well be cold. So be cold. No. Be cold. It’s inevitable. No.

Do you love them?

Dropped the chicken bones to the floor. My stomach half-revolted with the disquiet meat. I didn’t know how to say it.
Mom Dad Ashlie
. Even the dog. The dog? So I just said it. “Guys. I have to leave. Have to get out of here.”