From the dirt, we turned north on a narrow paved road which would
take us to the four lane main drag that had been our customary route to the
community where we picked up most of our supplies. This particular stretch of highway was in
need of repair due to frost damage, but with no construction crew to take on
the project, we would just have to keep our eyes open and dodge the
potholes. I wondered, as the wind
whistled past my helmet, how long it would take for the rest of the country to
be taken over by nature to the point where all things human, would revert to
their original wild nature, cement to stone and sand, city streets to trees and
grass. What about the world’s
libraries? Would they contain the
knowledge necessary for someone to learn how to redo what we once took for
granted or as in the movie, The Time
Machine, would that knowledge simply turn to dust? I could drive a truck and possibly handle a
paving machine with time, but I had no idea how to prepare a road bed, where to
get that heated asphalt, how to mix cement in large enough quantities to be of
any use on a large project such as a highway.
In short, without some expertise, our little world was in trouble.
We hadn’t been on the road for very long before coming to a familiar
interchange from months ago, so decided to take a look around. Stopping at food stores was always
interesting, because there was such a smorgasbord of things still fit to eat. Sometimes, the building reeked of rotten,
decaying flesh and vegetables, but with the passing of time, most of the odor was now gone. We remembered an especially large store just
off the highway whose interior had seemed as large as a football field. I can still remember shopping there many
years before when I had lived and worked nearby. Even then, when I was much younger, it was a
tiring trip around the aisles. What I
especially liked about that particular place was their fresh fruit and
vegetable sections. There were too many
bins to count, all along the south wall of the building. In the fall one could purchase pimento
peppers with their thick red walls. We
roasted them, peeled the skin and soaked them in balsamic vinegar and oil for a
day or two before feasting on them with toasted artisan bread. “Boy! I could sure go for some of that,” I
said out loud to no one in particular.
The store had been badly damaged, leaving several large holes where
the enemy had entered and wiped out all the shoppers. It was ironic that they had attacked a
grocery store, took the shoppers and left the food. And I could never understand why they had
left the meat.
We entered through the front door, which was difficult, but not
impossible to open. The holes provided
fresh air and some light to the interior, although not as much as I had
expected. The aisles were strewn with
clothing, canned goods of all sorts and in some instances, parts of the
overhead lighting was now covering the once immaculate floors. Miraculously, some of the shelving was still
standing, the goods, still intact and although more than likely out of date,
probably safe to eat if the cans were not swollen. We found this particularly true of potato
chips. Amazing the effectiveness of the
preservatives in those bags!
“Warren, Hon!” Lise called.
“What is it Lise?” I asked returning to ascertain what she wanted.
“This whole section of corned beef.
It’s empty,” she said, “Does it make sense to you that maybe it was on
sale the day of the invasion?”
Without thinking through what I was saying, I agreed. Then I noticed that there were a few empty
cans of it nearby both on the shelf and also on the floor.
Lise followed my eyes and sensed what was on my mind. “So, when do you think they had the sale,
Warren? Before or after they were
attacked?”
“Look at the hole in the north wall. It looks like someone tried to
fix it. There was a survivor,” I added.
“Or survivors!”
“Yeah,” I said. “But for how
long? And where are they now?” I began to get an edgy feeling. I was remembering what happened the last time
we met survivors. “Lise, come on. We need to go back to the bikes.” I took her
hand and gave her a slight tug. Lise
grabbed a few more bags of well preserved snacks as we headed back to the front
door.
The motorcycles were where we left them. We put on our helmets, hopped on, started
them up and took off. I headed for the
highway, entered from where we had left it and drove under the overpass parking
on the west side. Lise pulled in behind
me. I pulled over to check the saddle
bags. I reached in and pulled out my handgun
and holster, and began to strap it around my chest. Looking back to Lise, I was about to suggest
that she follow my example, but she wasn't on her bike. Looking around, I didn’t see her
anywhere. This hadn’t happened before, so
I began to get worried. I needn’t have.
“Pst! Over here, Warren,” I
heard her voice say from somewhere behind me near where the embankment began to
climb up, sloped toward the overhead roadway.
“Come on over here. I have
something for you.”
“What could you possibly have for me over there?” I replied, now
able to make out her head poking out from behind a concrete pillar.
“How about this,” she said, jumping out from behind the pillar
revealing a totally naked Lise, wearing nothing more than a big grin. She seemed to have no hang-ups over her nude body. Still, it was
difficult to believe that I had known this creature intimately for only a day
and a half. She did a couple of jumping
jacks, before darting back behind the column.
“Get over here now,” she commanded teasingly and with that darted into
the uncut grass and
pampas beside the road.
I was thinking that this was probably not the best place or time for
such an encounter, but quickly deleted that thought, as I realized that anyone
seeing us in town, would most likely not have followed us and considering how
heavy the traffic had been for the last three years, how unlikely is was that
we would be seeing anyone today.
However, I still took my gun with me and laid it nearby after a brief
wrestling match with wiry Lise.
***
The sun was still high as
we returned to the bikes. Lise
obligingly strapped on the holster and tucked in the gun and snapped up her
leather jacket. I led the way back to
town, but made a left at the intersection where the store had been. There was a chain of tire stores and I wanted
to check out the large one ahead on our left.
“Why are we going in here?” she questioned.
“Just a hunch! As you
observed back in the store, someone had been there after the attack. That someone may still be alive. Also, there may be more than one and they
might possibly be timid or afraid of strangers or worse.”
“Yeah, but so what?”
“Think about it, Lise. When
people get scared, they can sometimes act irrationally. They do sell guns here, so I’d like to check
it out to see if any appear to be missing.
We may have to defend ourselves in case someone takes us for the enemy
and they’re armed,” and then added, because I really didn’t know, “assuming
someone is still alive, that is. We’ll
check the sporting goods department.”
“This place is pretty messed up.
Hon, I’m going to check out the camping section. I remember seeing jerky and other dried foods
at the other store when we were shopping, the day of the attack. I’m sure it must be still good, and we could
use the food.”
“Just watch yourself, sweetheart.
We don’t know where we might meet up with someone,” I cautioned.
“Will do,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared behind
another aisle.
As I'd suspected, the display case was smashed, the locks were broken,
and only a few, almost useless, pellet guns remained. The thoughts of a rendezvous with a paranoid
survivor didn't imbue me with confidence, especially if it were one who probably
carried a loaded shotgun. And we didn’t want
to have another encounter with the likes of Daniel’s former friends. Yet, the idea of abandoning someone, because
they were afraid didn't sit well with me either.
Didn't we experience the same sense of fear every time we'd heard the
snap of a twig, or the plunk of a dropping pebble? If this person was alive, we'd have to
risk finding him or her. And yet, we had
to be very careful. We didn't want another
encounter like the one we'd had with the three young men who visited our
camp.
Lise returned empty handed. I
hadn’t given much thought to the food items she'd been searching for
until I saw her. “There wasn’t a thing
there Warren. Even the camp gas and
things like that were gone,” she said. I
could see her gears working. “The guns
are gone, too. Aren’t they?” she
continued.
“Lise, someone's definitely been here before us. So now we know a couple of things. Someone undeniably survived the attack and
they’re armed. And could be dangerous,”
I added. “I did find something useful
for us, though,” I added. I handed a
couple of boxes of ammunition to Lise
and we started for the door.
The two of us sat down on our bikes in the parking lot and
considered our next move. No one had
taken a shot at us, but then we hadn’t seen anyone yet, either.
“Lise! The empty cans on the
floor. Did that look recent?” I
questioned.
“I’m not sure. I really can’t
say.”
“I’d like to tool around a
bit and see if we can spot any other unusual…out of place things.”
"Are you sure you want to hang
around here? We might run into whoever
it is and not like them."
"On the other hand, having
picked up guns and food is the same thing we've been doing. Are we unfriendly?"
"Okay, let's hang around and
see what pops up. But let's not do it
for too long. This place is starting to
give me the creeps. If we do hang
around, what exactly will we be looking for?”
“Maybe repairs! Most of the places are pretty beaten up.” It seemed simple
enough. “If something has a repair, we'll assume
that someone fixed it after the invasion.
Agreed?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But isn’t
it possible that someone just happened to make some repairs on their place
before the invasion and it just looks like it happened afterwards?”
“Yes, that is a valid point of view, but perhaps, we can still assume
it took place after, and check it out, just to make sure. Can you agree to that?”
Lise nodded her head and we left the tire store parking lot and
drove down the main avenue, a six lane highway. We took our time navigating the
streets. Some buildings had very little
damage, but none appeared to have been restored in any way. We turned around and headed back in the
direction of the grocery store, and before entering, circled the building a
couple of times looking for anything strange.
There was nothing of note. All
looked like a battle zone. Brick lay
here and there, wood lay rotting on the asphalt parking lot. Windows were shattered and small shards of
glass lined our path. We parked in front
and re-entered the store.
***
We decided to return to the canned meat department for a second look
to see if we could in some way determine if the survivor was still shopping at
that particular establishment. Seeing
that most of the canned goods had already been taken, we decided to look
further. After all, people usually eat
more than canned beef or pork. What we
determined was that a lot of food was gone, but the odd cans lying around didn't account
for the amount of missing food items. As
we approached the jams, something with a lot of sugar and surely well
preserved, I heard a noise behind me that brought on a familiar sensation on my
arms and the back of my neck. A low
growl greeted me as I turned to face what appeared to be a very skeletal Golden
Lab, its hackles raised and looking pretty mean. “Don’t move,” I instructed Lise in a
whisper. The poor animal was obviously
malnourished and in need of something to eat, but I wasn't
interested in either Lise or myself becoming his meal. The dog took a couple of tentative steps
closer. A Lab, normally a friendly
canine, was more likely to lick a person to death than chew on them. They seemed to lack the maliciousness of some
other breeds, but there was no telling how this one was going to behave. A couple of more steps and I was sure it was
going to charge. I remembered a story
that my younger brother had told me when he had experienced an angry dog that
was protecting his territory. He had
simply shouted to the dog to sit. It had
worked. But would this animal, one that
had been on its own for three years, with no human contact, still respond to
commands? I decided there was nothing to
lose. “Sit!” I commanded. The dog stood still, but did not obey. My cousin, a good friend and dog owner from
the east had once told me not to repeat commands, but to simply say the word.
“No!” I ordered the second time. Meanwhile, I didn't take my eyes off the
creature. It cocked its head to one
side. Was it trying to remember
“Human?” Was it trying to recall
something from a distant past? Then,
like a well trained pet, down it went, tail scuffing along the floor.
Lise, who with trepidation had been observing my canine instruction
lesson 101, was now in awe at my success.
“Where did you learn to do that?” she questioned.
“First time,” I answered.
“Lise, very slowly grab one of those peanut butter jars from the shelf
and hand it to me.” She slid it into my
hand. Continuing to keep the dog in
sight, I twisted the lid open and peeled back the paper seal. It didn't smell like anything
I'd want to eat, but my experience with dogs told me that this animal
might not care. I hunkered down to the
floor and put some peanut butter on my hand and clicked my tongue, using sounds
I had used years before when I had had my own large breed who loved to eat this
stuff right out of the jar. The lab
lowered itself to the floor and began to crawl towards me. I could see a certain amount of fear in its
eyes, but the way it was moving its mouth told me that its nose was working
just fine and wanted what was in the jar.
When it was within about three feet of me, it stopped moving, fear
overtaking hunger. I placed some peanut
butter on the back of my hand and reached as far as I could towards its
face. It inched forward, tongue
stretching for my hand, until it made contact.
Slowly at first, then rapidly it cleaned my hand. I spoke gently to the dog and slid the jar
between us. Turning to Lise, I saw her
placing her gun back in its holster.
“I wasn’t going to let it get you,” she said. “The poor thing!” Lise squatted down and moved ever so slowly
to find her place beside me. “What are
we going to call him?” she asked.
“Him? Call him? What are you talking about?” I asked. “Do you think we are going to keep it?” I did a quick check. Yup, Lise was right. It was a he.
“We can’t take him on our bikes.
Besides, just because he eats off my hand and takes a jar of peanut
butter from us, doesn’t mean he wants to marry us,” I insisted.
“What if we find some other people here? We can’t take them back on our bikes either,”
Lise retorted.
I ignored Lise’s last remark and began to recall a time many years
earlier when my friend, Sparky, arrived at our front door. He was so cute, with the most beautiful
markings, I couldn’t resist taking him.
My children were delighted to have a puppy. In no time, he was house trained and was so
attached to me, that when he was small, his nose often rested against my calf
muscle as I walked around wearing shorts, Sparky apparently on an invisible
short leash. He had been purported to be
a medium breed, but the salesman either lied about his heritage, or he was an
aberration, a variety of the same breed with new features presenting
themselves.
When there was nothing to do, Sparky often simply sat nearby in some
shady spot with his eyes on me, waiting for my next move. If I moved away, he got up and followed. Sometimes, he liked to jump at me and snap
his teeth so close to my hand that I thought he was going to bite me, but he
seemed to know his limits.
I'd always wanted a dog that liked to jump in the river or lake. I had envisioned Sparky darting out into the
water to fetch sticks and swim with us. But
he didn’t like deep water. “Slim!” I mulled the name over in my mind.
Yes, a lab would hopefully have a different view about water, like
that stupid lab that lived at the camping spot we stayed at one summer. I'd been trying to fish, but the camp owner’s lab
kept splashing around at the shore line scaring away anything big enough to fit
onto a plate. And then it had the nerve
to get as close as possible and shake itself dry. In an attempt to get it away from me, I had
picked up a rock and tossed it about half way across the river and the dumb animal
went after it. I was afraid it was going
to drown; it was out there swimming for nearly twenty minutes looking for that
rock.
“Warren, are you listening to me?”
What was it she had been talking about? Oh yes.
“True,” I thought, but said nothing to Lise. “You know, there’s probably a whole selection
of food in the pet section, unless some other animals have found it first. Slim!” I said, turning and heading in search
of dog food, this time loud enough for her to hear.
“What?” Lise asked.
“Slim? Slim what?”
“If the lab wants to hang around, we’ll call him Slim.”
“That’s a stupid name for a dog,” she replied.
“Well, take a good look at him.”
“What if he was fat before and now puts all that weight back
on?” I had to laugh at that. Thoughts of this dog putting on enough meat
to be considered fat was more than my imagination could handle. Besides, even people are sometimes
purposefully and ironically nicknamed the opposite of their stature. A tall fellow being called Shorty, was a good
example. So, “Slim,” it would be. At least until Lise had her way.
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