| |
KATE
Trading Post is a porn shop for the outdoor athlete.
I revel in the merchandise, all of it clean smelling and still crisp in its packaging. Running shoes. Handheld water bottles. Headlamps. Running packs. Waist packs. Compression sleeves. A bunch of other outdoor gear, but I only have eyes for the running equipment.
There is the issue of the five zombies bumping around in the racks. The stockroom muffled our entry through the back, which means they haven’t noticed us and we aren’t in any immediate danger. They are, however, separating us from the supplies we need.
“Behind the counter,” I say to Johnny.
He doesn’t have to be told twice. We hustle on tiptoe to the cash register and take up position behind it, weapons raised.
“I’m going to draw them to us,” I whisper.
“Is this like the Attack and Stack thing you told Carter about?”
“This is just keeping something big between us and them.” I tap the counter, making just enough noise to draw the undead.
Heads swivel, tracking the direction of the sound. Two of them are store employees dressed in brown Trading Post polo shirts. The other three are customers, the outdoorsy type as evidenced by the name brand clothing they wear. North Face. Patagonia. Osprey.
The group rushes toward us. Two crash into racks, but the remaining three have a clear path. They collide with the counter so hard I hear ribs crack.
Johnny jumps back at the onslaught. I grab the nearest undead by her polo shirt and drag her toward me. She can’t be any older than Carter, probably a college student at Humboldt when all this went down.
Her teeth gnash. The other two zombies lunge toward me, but I move fast, yanking myself out of reach while keeping an iron grip on the polo shirt of the girl. My screwdriver goes into her eye and I release her body, leaving it slumped on the counter.
Johnny recovers himself, joining me at the countertop. He swings his spear at the head of the zombie in the brown polo. Instead of cracking open his skull, he hits the beast in the shoulder and pisses it off.
I lunge and strike, my screwdriver punching through the thing’s nose as it goes for Johnny. Dark, reddish-black blood sprays everywhere. I finish off the third zombie as the last two reach us.
This time, Johnny gets the hang of it. When the outdoors zombie lashes out, he snags the thing by the wrist, drags it forward, and jams his kitchen knife into the skull. Blood spatters across the countertop.
“Nice work.” I finish off the last zombie with a screwdriver through the ear.
The interior of the store is drenched in blissful silence. No more zombies. Surprisingly, the large front windows are intact, not shot out like some of the other windows on the plaza. Even the interior is untouched. Perhaps all the zombies in the plaza kept others from scavenging here.
Whatever the case, Trading Post is gloriously intact. It’s just us in this building chock-full of gorgeous running gear. I’d roll in it, except that would be weird, even for me.
“You know,” Johnny says, “I had a friend growing up with a crazy mom. She was from Mexico and had a temper. If my friend missed a homework assignment or got caught ditching school, she’d lay into him in Spanish. Sometimes she laid into him just as a preventative measure if she thought he was thinking about doing something he shouldn’t. Or if she was having a bad day. She was always yelling in Spanish and I always thought she was scary.” Johnny’s eyes rove over the dead zombies draped over the countertop. “That lady was like a hyperactive kitten compared to you. You’re scary, Kate.”
“Johnny, I think I’m going to take that as a compliment. Come on. Let’s go look at shoes.”
I can practically hear the angelic choir playing in my head as we reach the back wall where all the shoes are. There might as well be beams of holy light shining down.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “This is a beautiful sight.”
Johnny frowns, looking around. “What, the neat racks?”
“No. The shoes.”
“The shoes?”
“Yeah. They might not be designer Italian pumps, but they could save our lives.”
I have a list of shoe sizes I compiled before we left Creekside. I pull it out, automatically adding one shoe size to each. Feet swell when used for extended periods of time. A larger shoe will help prevent blistering.
Not knowing each person’s individual footwear requirements, I scan for brands with a wider toe box. More room for toes also means fewer blisters. If someone has a narrow foot, we can tighten the laces.
I also consider the amount of cushion in the sole. Running shoes range from soles that are like thick marshmallows, all the way to soles that are only a few millimeters thick for those who like a stronger connection between their foot and the ground. The latter is definitely out; a person needs tough feet to survive thin-soled shoes. I’m not willing to risk stress fractures.
There are also different treads to take into account. Those with the biggest lugs are meant for mountain runs with lots of vertical. The flatter ones are for road running.
I find shoes with medium tread, thicker cushions, and wide toe boxes.
“Here.” I rip the list and hand half to Johnny. “Let’s go. These are the models we want.” I show him the men’s and women’s shoes I’ve picked.
The back stockroom is dark. I retrieve headlamps for us, which luckily come with pre-charged batteries. The stockroom is neat with not so much as a splash of blood anywhere. The scent of decaying bodies is nearly lost to the smell of new shoes.
Once we have the shoes, I move onto other gear. It isn’t long before we have a huge pile of supplies mounded on the floor in front of the shoe racks. Headlamps. Hunting knives. Waist packs. Socks. Gloves. Hats. Compression gear. Waterproof jackets. Water purification tablets. Dried food. Lighters. A few small tents. I even add several boxes of energy bars and gels for good measure. Running fuel is as essential as dried food.
“Check this out.” I hold up a microfiber sleeping bag that compresses into a small bag the size of two fists. “These things are a hundred and fifty bucks each. We’re taking seven.” I toss them into the pile.
“What about a portable stove or pot?” Johnny asks.
“Already threw one into the pile. Here, look at this. I saved the best for last.” I lead Johnny to the backpack section, where all the running packs are.
“You’re enjoying this,” Johnny observes.
“It’s the apocalypse,” I reply. “A woman has to get her kicks when she can.”
“Yeah, but I bet you were like this before the apocalypse.”
“Like what?” I raise a brow, even though I know exactly what he means.
“This is your kid in a candy store moment.”
“Maybe a little,” I admit. “Don’t take me to Nordstrom. I’d be bored. Take me to a store with running gear and I can geek out for hours. Look at this.” I hold up a blue running pack. “You can carry twenty liters worth of gear in this thing. And the design still makes it possible to run if necessary.”
“I just visualized twenty cartons of milk crammed into that thing. And then I imagined trying to wear it and run from zombies,” Johnny says.
“This is one of the bigger packs on the market. It has a two-liter water bladder in the back plus more room for water bottles in the front. It’s mostly used for fast packing.”
“What’s a fast packing?”
“A cross between ultrarunning and hiking. Slower than a race but faster than a hike. Fast packers carry all their own food and gear. Some of them go into the wilderness for days or weeks at a time. They can go for hundreds of miles with packs like this.”
Johnny makes a face. “Do they ever change their underwear?”
“Most runners don’t wear underwear unless it’s built into the clothing. Too much chafing.”
Johnny makes a gagging sound. “TMI, Kate. I could have gone to my grave without knowing that.”
“Don’t joke about going to your grave.” I pile seven packs into his arms. “No one is going to their grave on my watch.”
“I’m oddly comforted by that statement. It’s all the more meaningful because you’re covered in blood and have a contact high from all the shit we have.”
“This shit could be the difference between living and dying. With this stuff, we can travel fast and light.” Looking at the pile of gear makes me think of Carter, Jenna, and Reed. “The others should have been here by now.”
“They set up a distraction to lure a huge pack of zombies away from the plaza,” Johnny replies. “They probably had to cut a wide path to get back to us.”
He has a point, but I can’t help the uneasiness that steals over me. Granted, I experienced the same feeling when Carter was sixteen and missed his curfew by ten minutes. He wasn’t dead and dying in a ditch back then; I shouldn’t assume the worst now.
Johnny and I take everything out of its packaging and set about the tedious task of condensing all the gear into five packs we can carry back to Creekside. By the time we’re finished, the sun is lower in the sky than I’d like. We’ve been here at least an hour and still no sign of Carter.
Johnny sees my expression. “We should wait another fifteen minutes or so. If they don’t show up, we should make our way to the rendezvous.”
I don’t like it. I pace, fidgeting with a rack of T-shirts. I peel off my sweaty, bloody shirt and replace it with a clean one. For good measure, I pull a second over the first. No telling when I’ll get my hands on moisture-wicking fabric again. I consider making a joke about the best bug-out bags the world has ever seen, but I don’t have it in me to joke.
Where are Carter, Jenna, and Reed?
“They just want us to carry all the shit,” Johnny says, gesturing to the five enormous backpacks we’ve crammed full of stuff.
I try to laugh, but it comes out weak and strangled.
“We need to go.” I pick up the first of the packs and swing it onto my back, grunting under the weight. I put another one in front, feeling like a pregnant lady with the bulge over my stomach.
Johnny does the same with two of the packs. We’re in the process of trying to figure out how to carry the fifth and final backpack when I hear shouting.
I hurry to the big glass windows, peering into the plaza. On the far side of the street are two men in blue jeans and leather jackets. My breath catches in my throat. With them are Carter, Jenna, and Reed.
“Oh, fuck,” Johnny breathes. “Fuck and fucking shit.”
As we watch, Carter, Jenna, and Reed are ushered by gunpoint into a gem and mineral shop.
“Do you know who those guys are?” I ask.
Johnny shifts, giving me a wary look. “What if it’s more of those drug dealer guys?”
“Fuck.” I ball my fists. “They don’t look like Mr. Rosario’s flunkies. Her people dress like hobos. Could they be guys who work for that other guy Reed mentioned?”
“Granjero? Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”
“Fucking shit.” Now what? “I’m going to strangle Reed.”
Johnny shakes his head. “Don’t be too hard on Reed. He’s from the Oakland ghetto. His dad was a truck driver and his mom a cocaine addict who took off when Reed and his siblings were kids. Reed couldn’t afford college.”
“It’s called a student loan,” I say icily.
“It’s called who-wants-to-be-in-debt-for-the-next-thirty-years?” Johnny shoots back. “Look, Reed is a good guy. He did what he had to do to make a better life for himself.”
“If he cared so much about his life, he shouldn’t smoke so much.”
“No one’s perfect, Kate.”
I stew on this. I want to be furious. Reed’s extracurricular activity has earned Carter and Jenna the wrong end of a gun. But Johnny isn’t wrong about how hard it is—was—to pay for college.
I take a deep breath, trying to focus my thoughts. “What do you think those guys want from them?”
“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say they either want their money or their product back.”
“The world is over. Why do they care about their money or drugs?”
“Can you think of a better reason to use drugs?” Johnny shrugs. “I don’t smoke a lot, but there are days when I think Eric and Reed have it figured out. Being stoned makes all this easier.” He points at the pile of dead bodies draped on the cash counter.
When all this is over, Johnny and I can have a philosophical discussion on the pros and cons of drugs in an apocalyptic world. Right now, we have to figure out a way to get Carter and the others out of there.
“We need to draw them out.” I scan the store for inspiration. “Lure the bad guys out into the open.” For the first time, I rethink my decision to leave our guns stashed under the living room couch. We could really use them at a time like this.
Too bad there aren’t any in Trading Post. It might be an outdoors store, but it doesn’t sell firearms.
“You think we can get the drop on them?” Johnny looks at me hopefully.
I shake my head. “I got lucky with Mr. Rosario’s men. I could just as easily have gotten shot or killed myself. We need to get closer and see what our options are.” There has got to be a way to get to Carter.
“Recon.” Johnny nods, dumping his packs to the floor. “I didn’t really want to carry these all the way back to Creekside without help anyway.”
In any other instance, it would be painful to leave behind all the running gear. Now, I barely noticed when my packs drop to the ground. My world is full of the gem and mineral storefront and thoughts of my son.
A gunshot sounds. I jump, dropping into a crouch and scuttling across the floor to take cover behind a rack of pants with Johnny.
A peek through the new-smelling clothing reveals one of the thugs slinking out of the gem and mineral shop, gun raised.