Humanity Gone: After the Plague (10 page)

             
I need to get this food to the girls – to Jo. I can’t give anything up.  I have to convince this man that it’s all for me and he can’t have any.

             
That’ll go over well.

             
“I asked you a question!” he roared, taking quicker steps, clenching his fists.

             
“Just a few cans,” I admit.  “I need them,” I add weakly while backing up a few steps at a time.

             
“Not as badly as I do.  Give them to me.”

             
“I can’t.  You don’t understand.”

             
“Give them to me!” he roared again.

             
“Listen, I need these!” I yell back.  “Can we just talk…”

             
“Give them to me!”  His walk turns into a run, and the snarl on his face makes him appear to be more of an animal than a man.  I hope I was wrong about being able to outrun him.

             
I turn and head for the next aisle over, and run as fast as I can toward the front of the store.  The weight of the bags in my arms prevents my arms from swinging, so I just lean as far forward as I can and try to stay balanced.  This is what it feels like to run for your life.

             
His face greets me as I approach the front of the aisle, followed by his fist.  How stupid am I?  Did I really believe he wouldn’t just turn around and block the exit?  I stagger back and turn to run the other way, but he tackles me, trying to pry the backpacks out of my hands.  The time for talk is over.

             
I let go of the bag in my right hand and deliver a cross to his left eye.  I guess he didn’t anticipate that I’d fight back, so the strike shocks him for a moment.  I roll back up and grab the pack on the ground, and turn around to find my exit.  As I turn around, I raise my left arm just in time to deflect another punch with a bag.  He yells in anger as his knuckles glance off the cans inside.  His other hand swings into the side of my face and my vision blurs for a second.  I get ready to block more punches, but he doesn’t swing.  He lunges for my neck.

             
With my hands weighed down, there is no way I am going to keep his fingers from wrapping around my throat.  My knees bend and I try to keep on my feet.  He’ll kill me. A wave of panic and rage surges through my body as I open my hands, letting the two bags fall to the ground.  He shoves me against the shelves. My hands shoot to his wrists, but are unable to pluck them away.  Instead, I raise my hands above my head and bring my thumbs into his eyes. I push as hard as I can. His hands and arms release from the pain, and I can draw a full breath.  I grab his shirt at the shoulder and under the other arm and deliver a knee to his groin.

             
His hands immediately release my neck completely and I back away, grabbing the two bags on the ground.  He staggers over to one of the shelf units and supports himself on one of the items. I turn and run down the new aisle I find myself in. 

             
Of course.  The cutlery aisle.

             
I turn and see him ripping the plastic coating off of a paring knife and he charges at me with a new-found energy.  He quickly catches up. I let the packs slide to the floor again and try to dodge his attack at the same time.  The knife slices through my right sleeve and the skin under it.  I see red beginning to darken my coat.  I wish I had put the gun in my pocket.  I thought I would be safer without it.  Wrong. I reach for anything on the shelves that I can and start throwing at him to slow him. 

             
A cheese grater.

             
A plastic cutting board.

             
A potato peeler.

             
Finally, I find myself with a pan in one hand, and I’m reaching for a mop with the other.  This would be funny if I wasn't about to die.

As he jumps at me, I shove the mop in his face-the absorbent side. He uses both hands to shove it to his left.  I let go of the mop with my left hand, and while spinning clockwise I deliver a blow with the edge of the pan to the left side of his head.  I’ve never put so much effort into a swing in my life.

It lands just behind his eye with a sickening crack.  The edge breaks through the skin, and his eyes roll back into his head as his body crumbles to the ground.  My legs are locked for a moment, and my breathing is labored as my focus remains on the deep wound that I’ve left in the side of his skull.

I bend down and reach for his neck with my left hand.  With two fingers across his throat, I wait, feeling for any kind of signal that his heart is still beating.

Nothing.  I look at the pan.  The edge is crimson, and noticeably dented from the force of the blow.  Dropping it to the floor, I collect the bags while breathing harder and harder. A pool of blood forms around his head.  I try to feel guilty, but it was just like Darry on the city street.  He deserved this, maybe that's why I don't feel sick this time.  Not shooting Darry made me sick.

Killing wasn't that hard...

The girls.  I need to get back.  Do I have everything I need?  I look back at the aisle and realize that some of these items could be invaluable.  I put one bag over each shoulder and one in my left hand so that my right is free for a big pot with some knives and other items.  I step over the recent corpse to grab a metal spatula.

There are movies, mints, books, and some other stands in front of the cash registers.  Useless.  I need to make sure we have everything we need. One of the stands in particular catches my eye.

Seeds.  The stand is full of seeds with a big clearance sign on top of it.  Nobody has taken these yet.  What’s more, one register over, there's a stand of books with titles like “Paint Your Thumb Green” and “Gardening for Dummies.” I shove as many seeds as I can in the gaps in the bags, which turns out to be substantial, and I put a few books under my arm.  The last thing I need is another encounter.  I wobble out of the store with all of my goodies in every nook possible on my body.

The rest of the trip back to the car goes without a hitch.  When I am almost to the SUV, I stumble and fall down the small hill, dropping the books and one of the backpacks.  I look up from the ground and see Jo running toward me.

When she asks how it went I think I will leave out the boy I killed.

Chapter 18: Caitlyn

             
This is the second time that Jon’s gone away, and it’s scarier than the first.  He could get hurt this time.  I keep falling asleep in the car, and I feel so cold.  Jocelyn and Sara are talking about something, but I have no interest. Something about Jon.  Both of them seem okay, so I bundle Jo's coat a little tighter.  I feel an itch in my throat and cough.

             
“Are you okay?” Jocelyn asks from the driver's seat.

             
“I wanna go soon.  Do you see Jon?”

             
“He’ll be back soon,” she replies, rolling back into her seat to get a better look where Jon ran off.  She quickly shoots upright, though, and I follow her eyes to see Jon falling down the hill, with much more than the three backpacks in tow.  Jo runs out to meet him. Sara giggles for a second.  He looks so foolish carrying all that stuff and then rolling down the hill. Sara and I both climb out of the car to help.

             
“Jon!” she yells, reaching his side. Jon seems briefly dizzy, and Jo picks up two of the backpacks as the two hurry to the car.  I begin to pick up a few cans that rolled to the bottom. With all our efforts we have the car loaded up.  As Jon shuts the door, a smudge of red covers the trunk handle.

             
“Jon, you’re hurt.” Sara whimpers. “Your arm.”  Jon lifts it to his eyes.

             
“Oh, this? I scraped it along one of the aisles trying to grab more stuff.  I will cover it when we get back. It was so dark inside.  The place was empty-completely different from 48 hours ago.” Sara looks relieved but something doesn't feel right about his story.

             
We scramble into the vehicle and head back to the cabin.  I don’t want to, but I can’t keep myself from coughing.  I try to be quiet the whole way home, but eventually Sara tugs at my shirt.

             
“Are you okay?” she asks.  I try to smile and nod.  Jon isn't fooled, and he looks back at me from the passenger's seat.

             
“What’s wrong, Cait?  Do you need some water?”

             
“No.”

             
“Are you sure?  How do you feel?”

             
My lips drop into a frown.  “Bad.”

             
“We’re not far from home.  We’ll get you back under the covers and you’ll feel much better, ok?  You probably just need some good rest and a real meal.  Jo will take care of you, right Jo?”

             
Jo looks away from the road for a second and rolls her eyes.  Their interactions remind me of mom and dad sometimes.  They have trouble being serious for too long.  Sara likes that.  I don't.

             
I keep my frown.  “Ok.”

             
The ride drags on, and each pothole makes my head hurt more and more.  It’s not even noon yet, and all I want is to go back to sleep.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and feel better. 

After glancing at me a few times, Jo just keeps looking over at her brother and inhaling like she wants to start saying something, but she never does. I think it is about me.

              Eventually, I drift back to sleep with my head in Sara’s lap.

             
The car comes to an abrupt stop, and I wake up just as quickly.  We’re home, and Jon wasn’t very soft on the brakes.  My throat hurts really badly, and I have to cringe to swallow.  I let out another whimper, stretching and trying to make the soreness in my arms and legs go away.

             
We head into the cabin and Jocelyn tucks me into bed.   Jon grabs the first aid kit and sets it on the table.  He takes off his coat so that he can tend to his cut.   Jocelyn and Sara begin to store some of the stuff Jon found away but after awhile she asks Sara to go outside and fill one of the buckets with water at the pump. I try to close my eyes and fall asleep.

             
When I hear the door slam, there is a moment of silence.  I keep my eyes closed but I hear both of them whisper to one another.

             
“Jon, what really happened to your arm?  Your face looks puffy, too.'

             
“I'm telling the truth”

             
“Don't lie to me.”

             
“I'm not!” Their voices begin to get louder.

             
“Jon you don't just fall and get a cut on your arm and the beginning of a black eye.  Tell me the truth.  Now.”

             
“I fell while the lights were flickering.  Leave it the hell alone.”

             
“How can we expect to make it if you’re not even honest with me?”

             
“I am honest with you. You’re the only thing I care about in this screwed up world.”

             
“Then why are you lying?” They are nearly yelling at one another.

             
“This is the truth.  Now leave...it...alone.”

             
“You're unbelievable.” She swears at him.

             
Listening to Jo and Jon argue is kind of scary.  I can feel my heart beating.  The more I focus on it, though, the quicker it slows down.  That just lets my mind go back to my chills and headache.  It takes some time, but I’m finally able to shut my eyes and drift into an uncomfortable sleep.

*     *     *

              Each day I feel worse and worse.  Almost a week has gone by since I started to feel awful.  My head feels like it is on fire but I feel cold at the same time.

             
Initially, they worried that maybe I had gotten the plague somehow.  Jo checked every inch of me for the rash, but she said I was clear.  The possibility of having the plague made me really upset, so it was relieving to know that it was something else.  Jon and Jocelyn have looked over a few book s they found in the ranger’s cabin, but so far they haven't been able to figure out what is wrong with me.  We have all the medicine, but they are each afraid to give me anything.  So my job is to stay in bed and eat when I can and hope that the ibuprofen is enough.

             
I look outside and see the three of them messing with the ground.  Jon has an idea to try and get a few things grown before it gets too cold.  They do look funny out there fooling around in the dirt.