She knew each unmoved landmark: Car driven into garage at ten o’clock. Body of man in pajamas on upstairs balcony straight ahead. The blue Volvo with the door open would appear on the next block. Right next to the house that burned down, an abandoned fire truck, its lights long dead, still sitting outside. The hose tangled forward and never retracted, the bodies of the firefighters MIA.
Many of the homes had been searched for supplies. The dead did not need cereal boxes and canned goods. They didn’t need their flashlights or their supplies of Ibuprofen. Darla never judged the homes she raided. A house four blocks away from the Kings sported an obese man who died in his bathtub. Naked and forever at rest in discolored water. Six homes down from the naked man was a beautiful, well-landscaped bungalow that turned out to be owned by a hoarder. Darla didn’t make it five feet into the house before unleashing a terrible avalanche of boxes and paper bags filled with garbage.
The lives of the dead were not interesting to her. She didn’t care what they were reading when they died. She didn’t care if they were alone or if a family died together. She noticed, but didn’t care, if there were animals left unburied, or tributes to animals who passed before their owners—immortalized for their short lives before anyone realized that they would follow closely behind.
No, Darla only cared if the dead had something to offer her.
Scanning the street, Darla saw nothing out of the ordinary. Nor did she hear a car or a truck. The distinct roll of an engine was absent. She ambled in the open, unafraid, for she was convinced that the new owner of their non-perishable supplies would not be stupid enough to stay where he could be found.
She checked each vehicle with her memory. Black mini-van at green house, unmoved. Red truck at tan house. Unmoved.
Then Darla stopped.
A rumble. White noise, but distinct. A car was running and from somewhere relatively close. The strange noise called to her and she tried to place it. Darla wandered through a yard, waltzing past an uncovered boat, the house with the open slider, the family of four all together in one of the back bathrooms, like they were hunkering down for a tornado instead of a virus. She emerged on one of the next streets over and scanned the familiar landmarks.
Darla froze.
She looked down at the ground and then back up again, as if the truck with its small utility trailer attached to the hitch was just a figment of her imagination. Four houses down, the truck idled. It couldn’t be real. But there it was—the door on the trailer raised up halfway and the inside fully stocked with their stolen food. Opening and closing her mouth like a fish, shocked that it would just be sitting here out in the open, Darla adopted a steady stance and brought her right arm straight out in front of her; her gun trained at the back of the trailer.
Then she lowered her gun and took three giant steps to the side to get a better look. Darla’s mouth dropped open and she let out an involuntary gasp of surprise.
“You’ve got to me kidding me,” she scoffed. And then she felt like a fool for not thinking of it sooner. How had they not assumed it before? How could the possibility have eluded them? “Of course.”
Written in swoopy letters across the side was:
From Up Above Tours. Beautiful Adventures Daily.
From inside a two-story house, Darla saw a rustle of curtains, and so she waited. After a few more minutes, a tall man emerged carrying a case of beer and nothing else. He whistled as he walked, moving his small haul with ease, and unaware that he was being watched. It was easy to see the resemblance even from a distance—the same sandy-blonde hair, the same lumbering gait. He sported no gun that Darla could see and she knew that shooting at him would be like firing upon a sitting duck.
Still, the duck stole their food.
She was conflicted.
The man tossed the beer into the back of the utility trailer and then closed the door, taking the time to latch it closed. Then as he started to walk back to the bed of the truck, Darla took long strides forward. Still, he had not noticed her. Darla realized that she was not dealing with a brave mastermind; she was fairly certain this overlooked member of their community was just an inept thief.
“Hey!” Darla finally called after him, unwilling to let him climb into his truck without acknowledgment of her appearance.
He halted and then turned. His eyes locked into Darla’s and he looked like he was about to pee himself as he registered her gun and her slow approach.
“You have some things that belong to me,” she called and her voice echoed down the street.
Me me me me
.
He brought up his right hand and waved once in reply.
Darla took her free hand and waved once back. “Yeah, okay,” she whispered to herself. “Whatcha gonna do now, huh?”
Before she could shout at him again, the man scrambled into the cab of his truck, put the car into drive, and screeched off down the street. The trailer swung and bobbed as he made his hasty escape, barely missing parked cars and mailboxes. Darla merely stood and watched him flee—he took a hard right, and then gunned it down the next street over. His panic was evident in the erratic escape, the noise of his truck fading into the distance.
She smiled.
He was heading home.
And she was pretty certain that he would be confident they couldn’t find him there.
Except, she knew exactly where he lived.
Clicking the safety on her gun, Darla slipped it into the holster, and stood in the street for a long, reflective minute, before turning back around and walking with quickened strides back to the King House.
It was going to be a strange afternoon.
Ethan made a face. And Spencer looked confused. Only Joey seemed to sense Darla’s excitement.
Darla had called the troops together in the den and relayed what she experienced.
“Wait, wait,” Spencer said, raising his hand. “You know this guy?”
“No,” Darla said, exasperated. “Grant…the kid you kept locked up in your school with Ethan’s sister? The one who went with her to Nebraska? Pretty sure this is
his
dad. Looked just like him and was driving the trailer we pulled a giant deflated hot air balloon out of.”
“Why didn’t you just shoot him?” Spencer asked. “Easiest way to get our food back.”
“I didn’t
want
to shoot him,” Darla snapped. “He wasn’t hostile. I know where he lives. Maybe we can avoid killing the small population that is left. Just a simple thought. Besides, I got the impression he wasn’t a threat. If he’s not dangerous, then he’s just stupid.”
“Great,” Ainsley said from the corner. “He and Joey can be buds. We can hum the Benny Hill theme song whenever they try to do anything together.”
“The Benny Hill song?” Ethan asked from the corner.
Ainsley looked at Ethan and rolled her eyes, “You know, Yakety Sax? That bumbling anthem that always plays when clowns are pouring out of a clown car…or during a clip-show when they show a montage of people getting hit in the balls?”
“I’m so glad you guys think so highly of me,” Joey chimed in.
Doctor Krause moved the conversation back on track. “What’s your plan, then?” She moved herself over to Ethan and attempted to do a round of vitals, but Ethan swatted her away; defeated, she sat down on the side of the couch next to him and waited. She looked between everyone and said, “Well?”
“Ambush. We’ll surprise him…drive our food back. Gloria and Teddy stay back with Ethan. We arm Ainsley—take her for appearance only. Beef up our numbers. We won’t even load her gun.”
“For
appearance
?” Ainsley cringed. “If it’s appearance you’re after, why don’t you dress my mom up in some leggings and take her instead?”
Darla ignored the dig. “Look…on the off-chance that this guy is armed and good with a gun and he happens to know we’re coming and takes us all out…then I’d much rather have a doctor stay alive to care for my son and Ethan in my absence.”
“Now I clearly know my value in this household,” Ainsley quipped. “Joey and I are going to form a least-appreciated club. None of you are welcome.”
“Yeah,” Joey replied and he pumped his fist. But he had no further retort.
Ethan frowned. “I’m even forgotten about for the least-appreciated club? Thanks.” Then he turned to Darla and narrowed his eyes, “If the cripple is perpetually stuck at home, shouldn’t I at least get a choice of company?”
“Goodness,” Doctor Krause teased. “I was never once picked last in dodge ball, you know. Y’all are going to give us a complex.”
“It’s not that,” Ethan added. “It’s just…that’s sort of a grim future for me. At least if I get Ainsley I have a chance of a pity hook-up.” He looked at Doctor Krause, “No offense.”
Doctor Krause grumbled her disapproval at Ethan’s lewdness, but Joey snickered and leaned over for a high-five.
“In your dreams,” Ainsley said, but everyone in the room noticed her cheeks turning red. So, she held her head up and put her hands on her hips. “I’ll go with you,” she quickly added to Darla.
“Ouch,” Ethan said and he stabbed an imaginary knife into his heart. “Fine. You’re going to make me do this the hard way. If you make it back from the trenches, you want to go out on a date? I know a place. It’s called my mom’s kitchen.”
Ainsley blinked twice. Then she turned to her mom, “Did you up his pain killers this morning?” She then turned back to Ethan, “Are you drunk?”
“I’m happy we get the food back,” Ethan replied with a shrug. “And yes…I may have gone a little heavy on the codeine.” He brought his hands up to demonstrate that he had imbibed a bit heavier than usual.
“What’s drunk mean?” asked Teddy from the corner, lifting his head up from a coloring book for a second before going back to his drawing.
Spencer grumbled, “Is everyone done? I have a headache, I’m tired, and I’m ready to get this bastard and our supplies. Forgive me for not having an invested interest in Ethan’s suffering libido.”
Darla, Joey, and a disgruntled Ainsley examined their weapon supply and then headed out the front door, slamming it behind them.
The Trotter farm looked exactly as Darla remembered it. The generator they used for the fan still sat in the middle of the yard; the barn remained open and the house still looked shut up and empty. The only difference was that the pick-up truck and the white trailer now sat out front—a beacon for the four survivors.
“Didn’t he think we’d notice a truck and utility trailer on our street?” Joey asked as they gathered behind the front shrubs.
“But we didn’t notice it on our street,” replied Ainsley.
Spencer maneuvered himself to the front. “All right, so we find a back door. Or head in through the garage. Or do we split up?” He craned his neck to watch the house. “We can’t assume he’s not armed.”
“We don’t split up. We stay together. Follow me,” Darla instructed and she motioned for the group to scamper across the yard, ducking and making a beeline toward the trailer. When they reached it, Ainsley was winded. She shot Darla a look.
“What? It’s a large yard.”
“Stay here,” Darla said and after a quick scan, she walked to the trailer and threw the door open. Inside was bare. All the spoils of war had already been carted inside. Shoved to the side in the now-empty space was an overturned wheelbarrow with mud caked to the wheels. Darla shut the doors and joined the clan. “We’ll have to load everything back up.”
“We should take everything he raided,” Joey added with a small bounce. “Leave
him
hungry.” He looked at everyone in eager anticipation.
Darla shook her head. “He’s entitled to the stuff he found fair and square. I can’t imagine if he’s been hitting up the same houses we already looted that he’d have much of anything. And he’s about to lose his goldmine.”
Joey grumbled, “I don’t know why you’re being so civil. This guy stole from us. You goin’ soft on us?”
“My job is to get our food back, not to start some war—”
“Hey guys,” Ainsley interrupted in a lazy drawl.
Spencer moved toward the front of the truck, his gun drawn. He peered toward the open garage. “A generator? Oh, hell yes. We’re taking the generator as payment for this guy being a pain in the ass.”
“Um, guys—”Ainsley said again without urgency.
“Spit it out, Ains,” Darla said while keeping her eyes trained on the porch.
“Yeah, um, the dude we’re looking for is just chilling over there,” she lifted her hand and pointed to a corner of the yard.
The man sat in a lawn chair, sunglasses on, holding a beer can. He didn’t move or wave, but they could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. His head was titled to the side and his cheek flat against his shoulder.
“I’m pretty sure he’s asleep,” she added and then dropped her arm, with her unloaded gun, by her side.
Darla grumbled and took off marching and as she neared the chair, it became clear that Ainsley’s prediction was true. There the thief sat, sheltered from view initially by a large weeping willow, in a plastic lawn chair; his head hung limp to the left and he snored on occasion with a throaty growl, his hands clutching his newest treasure: warm beer.
Raising her gun, Darla poked the muzzle against the man’s shoulder. He didn’t budge. She tried again, this time poking his cheek. He shifted in his chair, his beer can sliding down his hand an inch, but still he didn’t wake.
“What do you expect?” Ainsley asked. “Stealing our stuff was hard work.”
Spencer cleared his throat. “Come on, step back,” he said. Then without warning, he raised his hand upward and fired two shots into the air.
Bang-bang
, in rapid succession.
The deafening blast wakened the sleeping man with a jump and, startled, he flailed wildly, flinging his can to the ground, where it dropped with a thud, foamy liquid pouring out in a gush and seeping into the grass. Then he tipped over in the chair and scrambled backward, his eyes wide like saucers above his now-askew sunglasses. And when he settled, his breathing heavy, on the ground in a heap, he ripped the glasses free and stared up at his visitors with shock.