The Other Life (5 page)

Dad pulled into the Walmart parking lot and stopped the engine before he turned to me. He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently. “Sherry, there are…there
were
six
billion people on this planet. They aren’t all dead. It just seems like we’re the only people because Los Angeles is such a mess. We’ll look for food and then we’ll try to
find out what’s happened and where everybody’s gone.” He smiled. “Okay?” His hand shook when he pulled the key from the ignition.

I took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Nothing was okay, and we both knew it.

“Good.” He let go of my shoulder and opened the driver’s door, checking our surroundings before he got out with the shotgun in his hands.

I followed him and let my gaze stray over the deserted parking lot. At least the store hadn’t been hit by bombs. Maybe we’d actually find some food in there. Close to the entrance of
the Walmart I noticed one lonely car – an old silver Lincoln.

Dad had parked in the middle of the lot, a fair distance away from the building. Anything out there would be able to see us. The confusion must have showed on my face.

“I want to get an overview of our surroundings, so we don’t get ambushed,” Dad said, sounding like an army officer.

Ambushed?

Our steps echoed in the silence as we made our way towards the huge glass doors. My hackles rose. It felt like we were on display. I flashed a glance at the Lincoln, then stopped. Slowly, I
turned back and took a closer look at the old car.

“Sherry?”

The Lincoln was clean – it wasn’t covered with soot. I looked at the windows of the Walmart, where a thick layer of black filth obstructed the view into the store. So why
wasn’t the car covered in soot too? It didn’t make sense.

“Sherry?” Dad’s steps came closer. He stopped beside me and followed my gaze.

“Someone used the car after the…” I swallowed hard. “…after the bombardment.”

Dad looked around, as if he was expecting the owner to be nearby, but everything was silent, except for the cooing of a group of pigeons sitting on the roof of the building. My body began to
prickle, as if millions of ants were crawling over my skin.

“Let’s look for a way into the store,” Dad said, with a nod at the grimy glass doors.

As we stood before them, I cleaned the soot from a section of glass and peered through. It took my eyes a moment to focus. Shelves were thrown over, and packaging littered most of the floor. The
store was a mess.

“Others have been in there,” I said as I stepped back. Hopefully they hadn’t taken all the food.

Dad tried to open the doors but they didn’t budge. “Let’s go round the back. Maybe there’s another entrance.” He led the way and I followed a few steps behind.

On the other side, the doors were destroyed. Shards of razor-sharp glass covered the ground and glittered in the sunlight. Something red caught my eye. I took a closer look. Bloodstains
splattered the concrete and some of the shards were smeared with it. I held the pistol a bit tighter. Maybe a stray dog had injured its paws.

Sure
.

Chills ran down my back.

Dad didn’t acknowledge the blood. Maybe he didn’t want to worry me.

Too late.

He was focused on the inside of the building. I took a step forwards, but he raised his arm, palm out.

I stopped and listened.

Silence.

1,141 days I’d longed for silence. But now that I finally had it, I couldn’t bear it.

Dad walked slowly into the building. I waited, my foot tapping a nervous rhythm on the concrete. After a moment, he glanced over his shoulder and gave a nod. “It’s okay.”

I jumped over the broken glass, careful not to step on it – the shards would easily slice through my thin sneakers.

The inside of the store was dim, the halogen ceiling lamps useless without power. The only sources of light were the two glass-fronted entrances. Because of the soot covering them and the
enormous size of the store, it wasn’t nearly enough.

It was impossibly stuffy. The early afternoon heat had warmed the air and the store felt like a sauna. I turned up the long sleeves of my shirt and the legs of my jeans.

“Sherry, come on,” Dad urged. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. His T-shirt was drenched and clung to his too-thin body. After the years in the air-conditioned bunker, we
weren’t used to summer heat.

Slowly we moved further into the store. Shelves had toppled, and torn clothes, destroyed books and shredded packaging littered the ground. Dad headed for the electrical products. What did he
want there?

He searched the shelves and the ground, tearing at boxes that lay in the litter. A few minutes later, he’d found a radio and some batteries. He pushed a few buttons and held the mic up to
his mouth with a look of elation. I leaned against a shelf of broken laptops as he spoke into the mic, then waited for someone to reply. His smile disappeared as he tried another radio and then
another, ripping them out of the boxes. He shook them, as if that would get them working.

The stench of something rotten carried over to us and I scrunched up my nose. Dairy products maybe. Or fruit. The putrid smell hung heavy in the warm air. I breathed through my mouth, but it
didn’t help.

“Let’s find the aisle with cans and cereal,” I said when I could bear it no longer. My stomach was growling like an animal was in there and the thought of cereal, or maybe even
candy, made it worse.

1,141 days since I’d had candy, even longer since I’d tasted the smoky sweetness of a s’more. Too long.

Defeated, Dad put the last radio back on its shelf and walked ahead to where the canned food was stored. The shelves were empty, but there were tins all over the floor. My stomach constricted
painfully, reminding me how long it was since I had last eaten anything.

I put my pistol in its holster and grabbed a can of sweetcorn. The colours of the label were faded to dull yellow. I flung it to the ground and stomped on it, hoping to break it open, but the
only result was a dent. I kicked the can, sending it flying across the aisle. My gaze settled on a pickle jar with a screw top. My stomach did a little somersault. Pickles weren’t my
favourite, but right then I couldn’t have cared less. I picked the jar up and tried to open it.

Glass crunched.

I froze and dropped the pickle jar. It smashed, and bits of glass, pickled vegetables and juice flew everywhere. The sour smell clogged my nose. Pickle juice seeped into my sneakers through a
small hole in the sole.

Crunch.

Someone was coming into the store. I scanned my surroundings, my pulse racing, the
thud-thud
of my heart banging in my ears. Dad clasped my arm hard and pulled me behind his back. My foot
slipped on a pickle. Dad’s fingers dug into my skin, keeping me upright. We listened. I went for the pistol, but my hand shook so much I was worried I’d drop it.

Crunch.

I stared at Dad, my eyes wide. Had they heard us? He put his index finger to his lips. I gave a tiny nod. My breathing felt so loud – could they hear it?

Something rustled in the neighbouring aisle. I backed up, away from the noise. Dad pointed his gun at the shelves that separated our aisle from the other. Maybe it was just a stray dog. Or a
wild boar.

More rustling. This time in both neighbouring aisles.

Maybe a group of wild boars.

Or maybe something far worse.

I pressed myself closer to Dad. A low grumble came from the aisle to our left. I bit down on my lower lip to keep myself from making a noise.

A creak. I lifted my head and saw the huge shelf above us tipping over. Someone…or something…was pushing it – and it would crush us.

Dad’s grip tightened and he dragged me after him. We ran down the aisle, stumbling over cans. Our steps echoed through the store, drowning out any other noises. Sweat drenched my body. At
the end of the aisle, Dad let go of me. I glanced at him in confusion. He shot in the direction where the grumble had come from. Once. Twice.

A roar rang out in the store, feral and angry. It sounded big. Dangerous. Terrifying.

“Run, Sherry!” he shouted as he shot again. “Run!”

So I ran. And as I did, I registered movement from the corner of my eye.

I ran faster, back towards the broken entrance of the store. Glass crunched under my sneakers and a sharp pain shot through my right foot. I ignored it and kept running.

Three years of cycling to produce energy had made me fit, but panic corded up my body and my throat felt strangled. The sun blinded me as I rounded the building and crossed the parking lot.

Our car came into view, finally.

I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see Dad behind me, but he wasn’t there. There was no one. Nothing.

I was alone. My steps slowed. I gasped for breath, my eyes searching the parking lot for a sign of Dad. Or something else.

Nothing.

I blinked at the building, my eyes wide. “Dad?”

Gunshots rang out in the silence.

“
Dad!
” I screamed. Blood hammered through my veins. Before I knew what I was doing, I had run back to the entrance. My arms were outstretched, pistol aimed at the inside of
the building. It was silent again.

My breathing was harsh and tears prickled my eyes. I took a hesitant step forward. “Dad?” I called in a shaky voice.

No answer.

After the sun, it seemed even darker inside than I remembered. My eyes had difficulty making out much. The back of the vast store lay in shadows.

I took another step forward and another, until I stood in the front area of the store. Dad was somewhere in here – he had to be. And he needed my help.

I took a deep breath, then I walked further into the store. My gun hand was still shaking. If Dad hadn’t stopped our attackers with his shotgun, how could I possibly do it?

Calm down. Breathe.

I headed for the aisle with the canned food, my steps slow and measured.

I glanced over my shoulder. Had something just moved? I turned and pointed the pistol in that direction.

A rack of cotton nightgowns spun very slowly. There was no wind in the store, so why was it turning?

I wiped sweat from my forehead. Get a grip, Sherry.

I took another breath and moved towards the aisle where Dad and I had heard the noises. The shelf hadn’t toppled over, it still stood in place.

I slipped on something. My right leg gave way and I landed with a heavy thud on my backside. Pain shot up my back. I’d dropped the pistol. It lay next to my left foot. I scrambled to my
knees and reached for it.

Then I froze.

The gun lay in a little puddle of blood. With shaky fingers, I grabbed it. The blood was still warm.

Oh God.

I took a deep breath. With a little retch, I wiped the bloody pistol on my jeans.

A rustling caught my attention, and I tensed. I couldn’t tell where it had come from. Slowly, I straightened up. Something rushed past the end of the aisle. I released the safety catch, my
breath coming in little gasps.

“Dad?” My voice quivered.

Clicking, not unlike the sound of Grandma’s knitting needles, came from nearby. Clicking – like claws on tiles.

“Dad!” I cried desperately.

The clicking came closer and I stumbled backwards. Something appeared at the end of the aisle. In the dim light, I could just make out a silhouette. It looked like a human, but was hunched over
and partly covered with grey hair.

Our eyes met. There was a flicker of yellow there, like a spark of madness. Or raw hunger. I took a step back. A big mistake.

The creature hurled itself towards me.

Never run from a predator, or you turn into their prey.
I remembered Grandpa’s words a second too late.

I shot twice. The creature roared, and goosebumps flashed across my skin.

Click-click-click-click…

Claws scratching the floor, spit flying, the beast closed in on me. Muscles rippled under its patchy fur.

I whirled around. I tried to shoot while I ran, but my bullets hit only shelves.

It was still behind me.

Something bumped against my calves and made me stumble. I fell forward and cushioned the fall with my hands. Pain shot through my arms.

This time I didn’t let go of the gun. I shot at the moving shadow and was pushed backwards. The back of my head hit something with a sickening thud. My vision went black for a moment.

I shot blindly until there weren’t any bullets left. My gun hand dropped down into my lap. A growling to my right made me shrink back, and I raised the pistol to hit the creature over the
head.

Shots in close proximity startled me and my eyes opened wide. My vision was returning slowly. Something warm was trickling down my neck and soaking my shirt. Blood. Maybe I was bleeding to
death.

Through the haze, I watched the creature drop to the ground. I scrambled backwards, not wanting to be anywhere near this thing, no matter if it was dead or alive. Bullet wounds littered its
hairy body, oozing blood. A milky liquid flowed from its eyes – it looked like it was crying.

Something touched my arm and a scream ripped from my throat.