Authors: David Berardelli
The Safeway’s big sliding-glass doors were partially open. They’d probably
stopped in that position during the last power blip and hadn’t been reset. Most of
the store was dark, while some parts flickered beneath erratic fluorescents. A
large, heavyset black woman leaned against one of the registers, watching me
with unseeing eyes. If I hadn’t seen her blink, I would’ve thought she was dead.
To my left, Jim, a slender guy around thirty, watched me through the window
of the manager’s office. I waved, but he didn’t move. I’d shopped in this store
hundreds of times during the last ten years and had seen and spoken to him often.
But now his face showed no recognition. His eyes displayed a fixed gaze. I’d
learned to recognize the signs. When the light leaves the eyes and is replaced
with a heavy glossiness, death settles in quickly. Jim probably had become
affected a few days ago.
I grabbed a cart and pushed it down the aisle, passing a few other shoppers
who were moving so slowly they’d probably be dead before they finished
shopping. A tall black man around seventy faced the glass refrigerator door,
staring blankly at the racks of assorted beers. I edged toward his left, pulled it
open, picked up a six-pack of German pilsner, closed the door, and hurried down
the aisle. Just before I turned the corner, I glanced back. He still hadn’t moved.
I grabbed cans of tuna, chicken, baked beans, and several packets of beef
jerky. I dumped them in the cart and headed back toward the front of the store. So
far, so good. I seemed to be the only one moving about normally. The store
remained quiet. If the cashier still hadn’t moved as I was ready to leave, I
wouldn’t have to pay for my purchases.
Then I stopped cold.
Three large punks in filthy jeans, leather vests, and do-rags blocked my path.
They all had long, greasy beards and stunk of B.O., cigarettes, and beer. Two of
them wore nose rings. The third had several studs piercing the flesh at the ends of
his eyebrows. All three wore ear studs. Two of them had switchblades tucked into
their belts. The third gripped a pair of brass knuckles in his right fist.
They were standing still.
My guts churned, and my feet turned numb. I had no idea what to do, because
I wasn’t sure they were doped. Their glossy eyes suggested they might be doped.
Or, they might be hyped up on something. I hadn’t noticed them when I walked
in the store.
They were spaced a few feet apart, giving me just enough room to slip by. If
they were playing possum, they could easily kill me if I moved closer.
Backtrack!
It seemed my only possible escape.
I turned the cart around and hurried back down the aisle.
Just then, one of them zipped past me, stopped, slammed his scuffed boot
onto the bottom shelf of my cart, and waved his switchblade at my face.
“Money,” he said flatly.
Terrific. The world’s been destroyed and I’m about to be mugged
.
My pulse pounding, I glanced behind me. The others had crept up to us,
stopping about five feet away. The punk with the switchblade held it out. Its
razor-sharp blade glittered in the sputtering fluorescents. The other continued
gripping the brass knuckles.
I was trapped.
“Your money, motherfucker. Everything you got. Give it up.” His large, filthy
left palm moved toward me. A heavy whiff of BO raked up and down my face.
The other two didn’t move, but their eyes stayed on me.
My military training, long forgotten, quickly snapped on. The punk facing me
was obviously still functioning. My cart separated us, but he could easily kick it
aside and lunge at me with his knife. The other two stood within easy access of
my back, with nothing separating us. This made them even deadlier than the first
guy. If I wanted to get out of this alive, I’d have to confuse them.
“You really want money?” I asked.
“Give it up.”
“Why?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t
you
have money?”
“Give it up, motherfucker.”
“Did you try the office?”
“Huh?”
“Back there.” I pointed. “The office. They have money there. Lots of it.”
He turned in that direction and squinted. “Off-office?”
“A small room with filing cabinets, a copier, computer, phone, safe, and
money. Lots and lots of money. Piles of it.”
“P-piles? M-money?” muttered one of them behind me.
“It’s Monday,” I said. “They keep it in the safe until Tuesday, when they take
it to the bank. But right now there’s no one to take it. Even if there was, the banks
aren’t open anymore. All that money’s gonna stay right there, in the safe.”
“Safe?” The one with the brass knuckles scowled.
“Bank?” muttered the other one behind me.
“Ain’t no fucking banks open no more,” corrected the thug in front of me.
“There’s probably ten thousand bucks in that room,” I said, “right behind the
glass. And no one to take it out of the safe.”
“Ten …
thousand
?”
“At least.”
“How d’ya ... know?”
The one facing me fought to keep his eyes open. He shook himself. His
tattooed arm had lowered. Now I could see it. He was doped, but not yet severely
enough to prevent him from functioning. He blinked, and when his eyes focused
on me again, they’d turned glossier. The process was accelerating. The last of his
adrenaline might have flushed through his system when he’d raced past me.
“The m-money, m-motherfucker. I’ll ... c-cut ... you ... up.”
“Why don’t you try the office?”
He was squinting again. He’d obviously forgotten our earlier conversation.
“Wh-what’d ... he s-say?” mumbled the one behind me holding the
switchblade.
“Said ... s-said ... off ... office.”
Someone behind me began snoring.
A switchblade clattered on the tile behind me. The brass knuckles clunked to
the floor a few seconds later.
The thug facing me opened his mouth. A soft groan escaped his throat. He
lowered his arm. His blade fell from his grasp, smacking the floor. His head
lowered.
The two behind me had become living statues. The other just stared at me
with glossy eyes.
The cashier didn’t move as I pushed my cart through the glass doors and
disappeared in the muggy, sour-smelling darkness.
I had crammed my clothes into the back seat of my classic black Mustang,
filled the trunk with beer and the canned foods I’d taken from the Safeway the
night before, and left my apartment without looking back.
My first stop—and the most painful part of the trip—was to find a
replacement vehicle. The Mustang had been my pride and joy. I’d purchased it
nine years earlier from one of my customers and kept it in mint condition. I hated
to leave it but I couldn’t take it with me. I had no idea what I would encounter
along the way, so I needed something that would give me good gas mileage, more
personal security, and allow me enough room to sleep.
Rather than drive north and take Highway 50 all the way to the coast, I
decided to head south and hunt for a vehicle in St. Cloud. I knew that area well.
I’d lived there before moving to Orlando and knew where the best van
dealerships were located. I figured that as soon as I found a suitable vehicle, I’d
get on 192 and drive east straight to the coast then pick up I-95 and head north.
I drove down South Orange Blossom Trail to Kissimmee and turned left on
192. The fog had lifted, and I saw very little traffic. Sidewalk activity consisted of
street punks emptying the pockets of someone lying on the ground, and a couple
of skinny stray dogs sniffing the ankles of a man standing motionless at the
corner.
I stopped at St. Cloud Motor Works, a large dealership located on the western
side of town. The lights in the showroom still shined brightly. I didn’t know if
they were hooked up to a functioning grid or being powered by a generator.
A long row of SUVs, pickups, and luxury vans in the front lot faced the main
drag. A good prospect sat at the far end, near the telephone pole. It was a tan
three-seater, with plenty of storage in the back. It had double rear doors and a
sliding side passenger door, and the engine was small enough to conserve gas.
The third seat was removable—another plus. It would be perfect for my needs.
I turned toward the building and nearly bumped into a salesman who’d snuck
up on me. He was tall and well-dressed, about forty, and hadn’t shaved in several
days—a clear sign that something was wrong. His grin was lopsided and sloppy
—another sign.
“I’d like this one,” I said.
He nodded slowly. “Wanna ... wanna test-drive it?”
“Got the keys?”
He reached into his jacket pocket. His hand stayed buried.
This was going to take a while.
“Nice day,” I said.
He nodded. “Yeah. Nice. Hot, but nice.”
“It’s always hot.”
“Yeah. Hot. Florida, right?”
“Been working here long?”
“Yeah. A long time. Real long.”
I decided not to say anything else. Each time he spoke, his hand stopped
His hand finally reappeared. A ring holding at least a dozen keys dangled
from his index finger. He brought it closer to his face and began the painfully
arduous task of selecting the right one.
This would take a while as well. That was okay. If he switched off, I’d take
them from him and find the right one myself.
Nearly five minutes later, he pulled a key from its metal clasp and handed it
to me. “I’ll need ... I’ve gotta get your ... your ... your …”
“Driver’s license?”
He grinned awkwardly. “Yeah.”
“Don’t you need to put a temporary plate on this first?” I didn’t want to take
the van with him standing here. “Just in case I get into an accident?”
He squinted at the deserted highway. “Hardly any traffic anymore.”
I shrugged. “One never knows.”
“Sure. Yeah. Better safe…”
“You got it.”
He turned, took a step then turned back around and blinked. “What ... am I ...
s’posed to get?”
“We need a temporary tag.”
“Oh, yeah, a … tag.”
“No problem.”
He turned around again, awkwardly. “Be ... right back.”
I watched him for about ten seconds. I figured it would take him at least five
minutes to reach the building. Using my penknife, I transferred my tag from the
Mustang to the van. I didn’t think I’d encounter any cops along the way, but I
wanted to be prepared.
I loaded my supplies into the back. Forcing myself to ignore my prized
Mustang sitting in the grass, I backed out of the space and pulled out onto 192.
The salesman still hadn’t reached the front steps of the showroom.
The local Walmart would be my last stop before I reached the coast. I could
probably spend the night in one of the RV parks in the Cocoa Beach area. After a
good sleep, I’d be ready for my thousand-mile journey.
I turned off 192 and cruised down one of the residential streets running
perpendicular to the main drag.
Rows of one-story stucco homes, each with its own tiny front yard, extended
as far as the eye could see. I stopped in front of a small yellow ranch. A darkbrown SUV sat in front of the garage door. I listened for a few moments but
heard only a distant barking dog and some birds chattering away from the pines
across the street. A careful scan of the neighborhood revealed no sign of life.
The front door was locked. I went around to the rear of the house. The back
door was locked as well, but the bathroom window was partially open. I pulled
out the screen, pushed the sash open all the way, and climbed through.
No sign of life in the living room, kitchen, dining room, or hall. In the master
bedroom, a thin young guy around thirty sat on the edge of the bed, watching me.
He wore only his stained undershorts. A pair of black socks lay on the carpet at
his feet. A slender, naked woman about the same age stood in the shower, gazing
at the tile.
Two wallets sat on top of the dresser. One contained a hundred bucks, the
other nearly two hundred. I took half from each.
They’re gone now,
a voice inside me said.
They won’t need anything
.
I reluctantly pocketed the rest of the cash and felt a stab of guilt. I was no
thief.
These are extreme times
, my interior voice added.
Those still functioning need
to survive—this means you
.
It didn’t matter. I couldn’t overcome my feelings. I pulled out the wad back
out of my pocket and left them two hundred bucks.
I checked the dresser drawers next. Three handguns lay hidden among two
stacks of tee shirts. I selected two of them, found them loaded, and pocketed
them. I checked the third, verified it was loaded as well, put it back among the
shirts, and closed the drawer.
I went back out to the kitchen and found another two hundred bucks in a
cookie jar on the counter. I took half and dashed outside before I could change
my mind.
The Walmart was practically empty. The few people in the aisles slumped over
their carts, gazing dumbly at their purchases. They weren’t any more animated
than the mannequins decorating the women’s clothing section. Other than a few
lifeless clerks and about two dozen others lying on the floor in Produce, I had the
place to myself.
I left the store pushing two carts filled with supplies—a first-aid kit, sleeping
bag, gasoline can, flashlights, batteries, lantern, cooler, butane grill, canteen, bug
spray, binoculars, a box of MRE, a can opener, and a hunting knife.
I’d managed to acquire more than a thousand dollars of supplies without
having to pay. My cashier had forgotten how to ring me up, and the store
manager was too busy trying to remember where’d he’d put the key to the office.
I felt sorry for them but was greatly relieved. I could never have paid for
everything with the few hundred in cash I carried in my pocket.
I stashed the stuff in the back of the van and slipped behind the wheel. Then I
coasted down the center of the parking lot to the entrance that would take me
back to 192. Just then, about fifty yards to my left, at the east end of the parking
lot, a slender figure paced frantically. Not an unusual sight in normal times but in
these circumstances an unforgettable image.