| |
I waded through a sea of garbage leading to an overflowing green dumpster. Flies buzzed around my head, so fat from the free smorgasbord that I could easily catch one, if I were so inclined. Bags of trash piled well past my mid-section, almost covering the white Refuse Management logo on the green metal container. I pushed past them and crouched between it and the back-alley wall.
“Stupid bread,” I said to no one. Stupid scooter, too, I thought. Now wasn’t the time for that thing to act up on me. I readjusted the heavy backpack over my aching shoulders.
Some good Citizen had tried to compact the mass of plastic bags with the two heavy black lids, which now stood straight up in the air, blocking my view. //I sure could use a little help here.// I chipped to Howie.
//Wish I could. I’m stuck with Marcus all afternoon.// He sounded way too nonplussed for my current level of panic.
//I don’t even like bread.// I transmitted the thought, although it was more for my own benefit. Howie had enough on his plate. Of course he couldn’t come help me every time I called. But still. This was a boy’s job.
//I heard that.//
Oh Stone!
//And how very progressive of you.// Howie teased.
//Shut it.//
//Just run. You got this.//
Peering around the corner, I touched the yellowing gauze pad behind my ear. It was still there, just as it had been the previous twenty times I checked it that morning. Pumping myself up for the dart across the street, I took a deep breath, and regretted it immediately. Choking and gagging, I stumbled backward. My backpack knocked stray unbagged items off trash mountain. A fading dartboard rolled past me like a 2D snowball and settled on the pavement beside something I hoped was spaghetti noodles.
Recovering my balance, I hiked my shirt over my mouth and nose, and tried again. This time the air was less putrid, and I held my composure. Alright, let’s get this over with.
Without thinking, I ran full speed across the deserted alley. My heart pounded in my chest and I expected shots to ring out at any moment. My shoulder crash-landed against the red brick facade of the bank building. I counted the changing exteriors to its right; white concrete, brown and red brick, and beige stucco. Target acquired.
It took a full minute to inch my way to the third one. A thick gray metal door loomed over my head. I jiggled the handle in a futile attempt at something going my way today. Something rustled in the distance and I flattened myself against the door. Glass crunched under my feet. It looked new. Following the trail, I found a shattered window on the side wall.
I jumped up, barely grabbing the bottom frame, jagged glass tearing at my sensitive finger tips. Falling back to the ground, I cursed at the burning pain that soaked my knee and jeans in crimson. I shed the backpack, heavy with jugs of water I’d collected from the stream behind the dairy farm. I shuddered as the stench of those poor dead cows assaulted me once more.
Brooks’s plastic yellow bat stuck out of a side pocket like a sword in its scabbard. I tucked it into the back of my jeans. The handle poked out over the top of my head. I yanked it out, practicing my quick draw, then replaced it and repeated.
Once secure in my ability to defend myself, I stood on top of the backpack and jumped to the window again. Shards of glass stabbed ten fresh holes in my fingers. But I held firm and pulled myself up, legs clawing at the wall for support. At that exact moment I was rather glad Howie hadn’t accompanied me on my shopping trip.
My arms shook as I forced my head inside the window, only to get stuck half in and half out. I tried again, and went nowhere. Each time I pushed, a tiny scraping noise accompanied the stopping. With one hand I snatched the bat out of my pants and threw it, as the other hand shoved me in the pitch-black room.
I had no time to revel in my bloody victory. A click beside my ear made me regret the hasty decision to throw my weapon.
###
MY EYES ADJUSTED TO the darkness in time to see a shiny black dress shoe coming at my face. I rolled out of the way and into a shelf of rotting pies. I only knew they were pies from the fermented fruit goo that lodged itself up my nose.
The offending shoe grazed my ribs as “Get up!” echoed through the room. I obeyed.
“What are you doing here?” The voice, which belonged to a barrel-chested soldier holding a giant machine gun, didn’t instill in me an urge to speak.
The gun smacked me upside the head and words fell out. “We need bread.”
The soldier looked me up and down and I shrunk to a timid shell of myself. “Why didn’t you use the front door like a normal person?” he asked down the barrel of the gun.
I shrugged.
His sausage finger stayed on the trigger and he nudged me with the barrel into a dimly lit storefront. “You get three things.”
Rows of empty shelves lined the outer walls. The overhead lights around the perimeter were dark, the only beacon of light shining in the middle of the room. There a mass of people stood in a single file line which zigzagged around “Wet Floor” cones. Everyone waited their turn to peruse the scant selection of perishables and dry goods stacked on display tables. Two open refrigerated bins sat beyond the tables; the smell of barely edible meats hung in the air. A diesel generator rumbled off to the side, connected to the coolers by two lengths of drop cords. Beyond it I was glad to see the front doors wide open.
I took my place in line behind a tall man with a crinkled plastic bag hanging out of his back pocket. I recognized him as the guy who washed cars in the Kwik Stop parking lot by school. I smiled at him but he didn’t acknowledge my existence. In the long line of what was left of my neighbors, every set of eyes examined the floor beside their feet.
Soldiers in pressed green and black uniforms stood around the stash, guns downcast like the people’s heads, trigger fingers ready. As I wound my way through the line, one step at a time, I watched the people before me pick one item from the table and one from each cooler section. When I made it to the front, another armed guard held out a hand for me to wait. The old man in front of me took his sweet time deciding between the last loaf of bread and a six pack of noodles. Dropping Mom’s bread in his bag, he shuffled to the cold foods and across the empty store to the exit.
The soldier waved me on and I grabbed my consolation prize — moldy hot dog buns. Then I bent over the cooler and dug through the expired lunchmeat, looking for dogs to go with the buns. I found them, stuck to the bottom, and tore a hole in the plastic packaging as I struggled to rip them free. Rancid juice ran down my arm. I resisted the urge to shake it off, fearing I’d spray a soldier and get shot.
The second bin held more of the same, plus thawed fish sticks and questionable chicken nuggets. I opted for the nuggets, choosing the risk of salmonella over whatever lived in expired fish.
Then I saw it.
Hiding behind a soggy bag of pizza rolls, the unmistakable silver foil wrapper of a Mr. Icey ice cream candy bar. I dropped the hot dogs I’d fought so valiantly for and held the semi-frozen candy bar tight. The air deflated from a rather large soldier to my right. Someone must not have stuffed it as far into the corner as he thought.
I hurried out the front doors and around the building. Sitting beside my abandoned backpack I opened the candy bar and savored every crinkle of the shiny wrapper. My back held up the wall as I nibbled at my treat, fighting every urge to inhale it. Happy Birthday Syn.
A good ten minutes later, licking the last molecules of chocolate off my fingers, I gathered my haul and headed home. By the time I got to the main road, less than a mile away, shame soured the creamy goodness in my gut. That selfish treat cost us eight hot dogs. I could still smell their taunting juice on my hands.
As I turned the last corner into my neighborhood, my house came into view, and I could hardly force my feet to continue. I knew the moment Mom looked at me she’d know what I’d done.
I stood outside my front door, spreading out my fingers and taking one last breath before turning the knob.
“Surprise!” Mom, Brooks, Howie, and Marcus all screamed from the black room. “Happy Birthday Syn!”
I burst into tears.