Chapter 10
TEN
TESNI
The soft sole of my boot flattens on the sidewalk.
Shattered glass crunches under my weight as I slink into another step.
The torch taped to my shotgun loosens a faint and dusty light in this thick blackness. The beam reaches out only some metres before it’s engulfed by the dark.
I scan the light over the glass smearing the sidewalk before I angle it up at the face of the building.
The doorframes are hollow.
This place has been raided already.
Suspected it might be the case, since it’s a massive wholesale warehouse that has everything. And we need a lot. So we take the risk. This way, it saves us a few trips, and we don’t need to split up for supplies.
Behind me, the faint tap of fingernails on a gun’s edge is the signal—one, two, three.
Go.
Bee pushes me onwards with that signal.
The butt of the shotgun digs into my shoulder. I lift it up, bringing the torch’s white light to the broken doorway.
Shards are still stuck in the frame.
Carefully, I rinse the white dusty light over the jagged edges of sharp glass. The others behind me trace the light, see the danger.
I don’t need to look over my shoulder at them to know that. We have done this so many times now, it has become second nature.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap.
Bee’s answer. Our code. Two taps, pause, two taps: Yes/Ok.
It’s her acknowledgement, her way of telling me she sees what I’m showing her, the dangers of the glass shards in the way.
I move for the doorframe.
The glass crunches beneath my boots, muted by my slow, careful steps.
There is no other path to get into the Costco. The noise of the glass is a necessary evil, because the other way in is a jammed roller door. We checked, and found it rusted, stuck, and far too noisy to even attempt.
I stop at the edge of the frame.
The torchlight washes over the floor. I search for more glass, for a clear path. Then I raise the shotgun, and the light rises with it.
Slow, I rinse the white beam over the membership scanners, the checkouts, then the empty shelves.
I drop the light again, and rinse it, back and forth, over a scattered mess of cardboard boxes, ripped and fallen, on the concrete floor.
The signal comes from behind me.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap.
They see it, the obstacles in our path.
I lift my leg, then reach out my boot for the corner of cardboard. It flattens, inaudible, before I lean my weight onto it.
My muscles tense, breath stills—and I wait for the crunch of glass. None comes.
The layers of cardboard muffles me.
But the crunching glass is loud behind me, not terribly, but loud enough that I keep the shotgun lifted, finger lingering over the trigger.
Then—
Tap, tap, tap.
Go.
I push into step.
The cardboard is soft under my boots, sweatpants silent in the friction at my thighs. Even my backpack is strapped around my midsection to stop it from bouncing against the curve of my spine. That’s too noisy in the dense quiet of the blackout.
The quieter we can be, the better.
I wait for the softening of steps behind me to draw closer, and the tension sticks to me.
I scan the area.
Pallets are stacked to my left. Nothing on them but t-shirts, crumpled, fallen, sagged. I only linger the light over them for a heartbeat before I shift to the glimmer of cracked TV screens.
I slip past the tumbled crates, then twist around to aim my light and barrel down the lane.
My nail thrums on the metal of the shotgun.
Tap, tap, tap.
Behind me, they don’t hesitate.
I cover the lane.
Bee comes up to my back and aims her rifle down the other end.
In the narrow path between our backs, Emily and Ramona are ghosts whooshing by. They dip into the aisle bordered by cracked TVs.
Best to not wander the main lanes. They are too wide, too open. Too much visibility for anyone watching us, anyone who might spot us.
Weaving through the aisles is our strategy. Never out in the open.
Like rats.
Bee and I pull out of the lane and back up into the aisle.
She takes point.
Emily and Ramona keep their torch lights off.
I follow suit, pressing my thumb to the sliding button. Mine goes dark.
Bee aims her light down at the concrete floor. The toes of her boots cut into the gleam with each purposeful step she takes through the electronics department.
I spare no more than a glance at the iPads, the laptops, flatscreens. Then homewares, sofas and rugs and consoles. The next aisle we turn onto is rows of booze.
Bee pauses, then runs the light over the broken glass bottles.
Most of the alcohol has been looted, probably when the darkness was on the coast and riots broke out. Now, shards of glass litter the aisle, and there isn’t much more left than rum and flavoured gin.
It’s all worthless now.
Even if the urge to snag a bottle flickers through me—and it does—it’s a risk we can’t afford. As much as I like a drink, a snort, a joint, whatever, say I do take a bottle, and I indulge, what happens when another group finds us and I’m too fucked up to fight?
Like everything else in here, the liquor is snubbed, and the aisle opens out into rot.
The flimsy scarves fastened around our faces aren’t enough to mute the putrid stink of an abandoned deli. So we do what we always do when close to rotting food. Hold our breaths, tuck our mouths to our shoulders, and move that bit quicker.
The butcher section comes after, then the bakery.
Five months since the blackout, since all the power just stopped, and freezers died, and generators malfunctioned, everything in this long aisle is worthless, just like the fruit and veg stacked up on boxes to our left, so decayed that they are puddles now.
It’s left behind, fast, and we turn into the pantry aisle.
My heart sinks the moment we do.
Raided.
A few times.
Dried spaghetti litters the floor, and empty, torn boxes hang off the shelves—but then Bee lifts her torchlight and a slight breath unribbons from me.
Up on the top shelves, a few boxes are lined, untouched, out of arm’s reach.
The light washing over the shelves drops to mid-air, and Bee reaches out her hand to block the beam of the torch.
The shadow of her hand paints down the aisle.
She extends two fingers. Brings them back into her fist. Then extends two fingers again.
Groups of two.
My shoulder brushes Emily’s as I move down the aisle.
Bee watches me pass her by, a look that tells me not to go too far.
I nod in answer before Ramona follows me.
We spread out.
Practiced, organised.
We have done this so many times before.
I flick my flashlight on, then the others do, too, and in dusty light, we splinter off for different shelves.
I stop midway down the aisle.
I crouch, one knee planted on the hard floor, and slowly set the shotgun down at an angle, leaning on the metal barrier of the shelf.
The faint clatter of the same action comes from all over the aisle. We move as quietly as we can, but together, blended, and in this building of echoes, it’s too loud.
I cringe against it.
Then comes the climb.
I hate this part.
My lungs are still not recovered from the plague, and even something as feeble as climbing metal shelves in a Costco can turn my breaths raspy and bring about another fit.
So I take it easy, slow.
One shelf at a time, then I still, wait, breathe, before I move for the next one.
Ramona is working faster behind me, already rummaging around the upper shelves for food and packets left behind, overlooked in all the chaos.
She exerts herself too much. Doesn’t hold as much patience as she should. I always thought it was pride that made her that way, always got to prove herself or whatever shit fuels her.
My approach is unhurried.
I don’t compete the way she wants to.
I’m slower to reach the top shelf, and when I do, a smile warps the scarf wrapped around my face.
The leather duffel bag fastened to my belt is empty. But not for long.
I fill it with everything I find.
But with only a wisp of light from my shotgun balanced below, I can’t quite make anything out. I know by touch that the first two boxes are filled with cans, which I take until my duffel bag gets too heavy, and the third box is filled with crinkly packaging.
I just hope this is a goldmine I’m filling the duffel bag with, and not dog food.
Once the duffel is tugging down on me, I descend the shelves, back to the concrete floor, where my boots flatten softly.
Ramona is down from her climb already, zipping up her own duffel bag.
I throw a look up the aisle.
I’m the last to finish.
Bee is righting her weapon, and beside her, Emily is tightening the strap of the bag to her belt.
We carry them like that for a reason.
Easy to drop if we need to, like if we’re being chased. It’s deadweight at that point.
I watch as Emily comes down the aisle first.
Behind her, Bee switches off her torchlight.
Emily’s whisper is soft, “If we head for the chemist, we can split up there. One pair for the pharmacy, the other for pads, tampons, wet wipes.”
Bee agrees, “Watch your partner’s back.”
Ramona looks at me, a question—are we partners?
But Emily snags her with a jerk of the chin, and Ramona is quick to follow her down the aisle.
I aim my torchlight at their heels and shadow them, Bee right behind me.
Then—I pause.
Bee jolts behind me. Still, silent, the steady breeze of her breath brushes over my shoulder.
She doesn’t chide me for the sudden stop.
Instead, she traces my hooked gaze—right to the row of plastic that’s hanging on the hooks between the shelves.
Firming my grip on the pump of the shotgun, I reach out my hand, uneasy.
It’s hard to make out the label with the light angled away, down the aisle. But I know what I saw.
CB radios.
Radio frequences are interrupted by the blackout. Stations aren’t operating anymore. But that’s mainly because everyone is either dead or on the move.
I don’t know if these are any good, but I slip one off the shelf anyway, and force my pinkie through the hook hole in the plastic. It cuts at my flesh, and my teeth bare against the sharp pain.