Prospero's Half-Life

By Trevor Zaple

Richard Adams loves his job - or maybe he just wants to ignore everything that's going on outside of it. As the world rapidly turns into a plague-filled charnel house, Richard keeps on running his store as though nothing has changed. Even after he closes down for the last time, he can't quite bring himself to believe that everything has changed.

The world rapidly disabuses him of this notion. The realities of the new world create opportunists who will murder and enslave. Richard barely escapes from some of these opportunists with his life. Alone, he wanders the deserted countryside of southern Ontario. Company is scarce but booze is plentiful. By the time he wanders into the town of Brantford, his head is too dull to see things that should alert him. Things like garbage bags over the streetlights, fresh white paint over every scrap of the written word, and the footsteps that follow him through the empty streets.

He awakens in Purgatory, but he discovers that Purgatory is man-made. Pressed into service with a bizarre end-times cult, Richard finds a second chance at finding friendship and love amongst the ruins of the world. When an ominous evil bears down on them, however, will Richard be able to save those he loves? Caught between two overwhelming forces, Richard must choose, and the fate of everyone he cares for hangs in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trevor Zaple
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310660474

Trevor Zaple

Trevor Zaple was born in London, Ontario, in the midst of one of the periodic sessions of brutal recession that characterize life in Ontario. He grew up in the picturesque rural surroundings of Seaforth before fleeing to a series of dying industrial burgs across Southern Ontario. He has a bachelor's degree in Contemporary Studies granted unto him by Wilfrid Laurier University, which has about as much meaning as it sounds. He lived fondly in Toronto's Parkdale neighbourhood for several years before retreating to yet another dying industrial burg. He now lives with his wife and daughter in St. Catharines, Ontario.

Book preview

"Who wields a poem huger than the grave?

From only Whom shall time no refuge keep

Though all the weird worlds must be opened"

-e.e. cummings

ONE

When Richard pulled up to the darkened store front and saw that his was the only car in the parking lot, he knew that for all intents and purposes it was over. He was twenty minutes late.

Out of habit, he got out of the car and walked up to the front doors. He glanced back and noticed that his parking job was decidedly crooked. He shrugged. He’d stopped caring about those sorts of things days ago. The first layer of doors came apart fairly easily when he pried them open, but the second were locked fast. So. He paused for a moment. Someone had come in, obviously, but then had locked themselves in. He knew that it wasn’t simply a case of whomever last closed the store having not bothered to close the outer doors; Mohammed was a tight captain and would brook no loosening of the rules, even this late in the game. He tried an experimental knock on the glass of the inner door. When no one answered he did it again, rooted out of a morbid curiosity.

He waited for as long as any sane human being would have waited, and then three minutes longer. He was about to turn to leave, had in fact turned his shoulder slightly to the left, when he caught movement from within the dim confines of the store. A slim blonde figure in a green uniform shirt darted around the customer service desk and ran furtively towards the doors. Samantha had shown up for work, then. Richard smiled at that. What else had she to do, after all? He knew that feeling rather well.

Samantha, her pretty Dutch face streaked and leaden, fiddled with the lock and quickly pulled the doors open. She hesitated a moment and then stepped aside. Richard moved past her, a purpose to his stride, and divested his heavy leather coat onto the service desk. Samantha moved to close the doors.

Keep ‘em open, Richard told her without turning around. His voice was casual, light even, but it was a command nonetheless. He looked around the wide expanse of the sales floor. The lights were dimmed, and the laptop and LCD screen displays were powerless and silent. The digital picture frames were one, looping through the overly bright set of sample pictures. Richard suspected that this was merely because whomever had last left the sales department had forgotten (or not bothered) to shut them off. He pursed his lips. He had a momentary urge to look up who it was, so that he could reprimand them, but then checked himself. What was the point? Whomever it was, they were likely long gone by now.

He drummed his fingers on the service counter, and the sound echoed cavernously around him. He knocked his knuckles on the counter, relishing the way it ripped through the silence. When the music was off, the store sounded exactly like what it was built to resemble: a sprawling, mostly empty warehouse. He considered turning the music on and decided against it. If this was, as he suspected, his last day, he could do it without having to hear the most ubiquitous Billboard hits of the last three decades. If there was one good thing about the whole situation, it was that he might never have to listen to Mariah Carey again. Silver linings and small miracles.

He turned around. Samantha was still there. He paused, took a closer look at her. There were dark, deep circles under her eyes, and mascara streaks framing them. Her shoulders were slumped, and her head bowed slightly. Her hair, normally either delicately curled or immaculately straightened, was tangled and formless. She’d been doing a lot of crying, and likely not enough sleeping.

Who else came in today? he asked quietly. Samantha blinked and stared through him for a moment, not comprehending the question. Then she shook her head and a spark slowly came back into her eyes.

Mark came. Said he had some stuff to finish up. And… she bit her full lower lip, cutting herself off. Richard looked at her sharply.

And?

And Mohammed is here. In his office. I…I can’t go back there.

Why not? Richard asked, a little more harshly than he’d meant. Samantha recoiled ever so slightly.

He’s really, really sick, she replied, her voice near a whisper.

Richard swore under his breath. Why had the Old Man come to the store to die, he wondered. Probably wanted to go down with the ship, or something equally useless. Well. He’d have to tackle that problem later.

There was a store to run.

Richard picked up the phone, pressed the PA button.

Mark, can I have you to service for the morning meeting?

His voice boomed overhead, echoed solidly off of everything. He replaced the phone in it’s cradle, remembering at the last minute to thumb the release button first. There were few things he hated more than listening to a phone being hung up live on the PA system.

Mark appeared presently, walking up from somewhere deep within the store. He was a walking ghost of a man, pale to the point of translucence, dressed in a wrinkled green uniform that seemed to hang off of him. As he approached the service counter, Richard saw that there were sparse patches of stubble all over the southern half of his face. There was also a far-gone stare to the man’s eyes that Richard didn’t like much. He wondered what Mark had been doing and seeing these past few weeks, then decided that he didn’t much care. What he himself had been doing and seeing was more than enough for him to be concerned with.

There’s no response from the servers in Boston, Mark said flatly as he settled in to lean against the counter. Richard shrugged.

Do we have an internet connection at all?

Yeah, miracle of miracles. Some sites won’t respond but a lot are still up. They may not have been updated in a few days but you can still access them.

Hmm, Richard replied, only semi-interested.

My cell phone still works, Samantha reported.

Yeah, just nobody answers, Mark jeered. Richard shot him a deadly glance, to which Mark just shrugged in reply.

I still get Twitter updates, she said, stung and defensive.

Oh yeah, what do they say? Mark continued needling. 11:45 – Still dying?

Go fuck yourself Mark, she spat, her previously dulled eyes flaring into dangerous life. Richard stepped in to head this off.

Enough, both of you. We’re getting off-topic. Now, you said that there was no response from the servers in Boston?

Yeah, big fuckin’ deal, Mark replied sullenly. I mean, it’s not like we’ve sold anything the past coupla’ days. Even the looters are leaving us alone. Who the fuck wants a computer when they’re gonna be totally useless soon?

Much of our inventory is not geared towards the current situation, true, Richard admitted, "but there may still be a customer base out there. We need to be here for those people."

Did you go nuts or are you just being a dick? Mark snapped. There ARE no customers. No one is gonna come waltzing in here looking to buy the latest technology for their cutesy little fucking business. People are either dying or looting or both. So stick your morning meeting up your stupid, deluded ass. Mark started walking away, towards the doors.

Where the hell do you think you’re going, Mark? Richard yelled, his sudden anger palpitating his heart.

I’m leaving, he shot back, I’m done. Getting the fuck outta here before I end up as batshit as you! With that, he walked out of the doors without looking back.

You’re fired, you insolent little FUCK! he called out to Mark’s vanishing back, screaming the sentence-ending obscenity at the top of his lungs. He stared at the doors for a minute, trembling from the sudden upswing in anger. He knew he looked ridiculous, felt ridiculous. All of a sudden he felt awkward, and dreaded turning back to look at Samantha.

He was in charge, though, so he had to carry on. Samantha’s eyes were wide, but she seemed to recover quickly.

So do you think anyone will be here in today? he asked slowly. Richard blew his breath out in an explosive sigh.

Who knows. I suppose stranger things have happened he replied.

TWO

As it turned out, they did have one customer on that final day.

Richard spent his first three hours there tidying up loose paperwork and assorted debris; this after trying the door to Mohammed’s office and finding it locked and silent. Samantha spent the time situated firmly behind the service counter, staring out at nothing in particular. In the background, a retrospective of the Top 40 banged away. Richard had tried to avoid it but Samantha had in the end insisted, claiming it to be too creepy without it.

Richard also tried phoning other stores in the chain; the closest regional ones first and then radiating outward. Most gave no answer, either an endless ring or an incessant busy signal. When he called the store on Hamilton Mountain, he got the following exchange:

*ring*

(On the other end) Who’re you?

Richard paused. The voice was loud and belligerent. The better question, he replied slowly, "is who you are".

I’m King Dick, motherfucker! the voice on the other end screamed. I got balls the size of grapefruits!

This is Richard Adams, from Store 47. Do you work there?

Nobody works here no more, dickhead! the voice proclaimed, sounding somehow even more unhinged than he had in the beginning. We tied the managers up in the warehouse and the associates are running freeeee!

That was a bit much for Richard.

You…I’m sorry?

Tied ‘em up, the voice confirmed gleefully. Knocked ‘em out and now we’re torturing the dicknose motherfuckers ‘til they’re dead. The rest of us are paaartying ‘til we drop!

How many of you are still alive? Richard asked, mystified. The voice did not appear to be listening.

It’s one long orgy from dawn to dusk asshole! Got one of the sales girls on my dick right now! Listen!"

There was some fumbling of the phone, and then some wet slurping and smacking noises. This was followed shortly by a profuse amount of vomiting. Richard pulled the phone away from his ear in disgust. The last thing he heard as he hurriedly hung up was the voice screaming aw, you got blood on me!

He looked over at Samantha, feeling shaken.

Ah, he hesitated. Looks like we’re the only ones open for business. Samantha gave him a wan smile.

The morning passed slowly. Richard kept Samantha busy with cleaning the service area, and let her smoke inside. This was highly irregular procedure but after the phone call to the other store he didn’t want to take any chances. The company stressed employee safety over everything else.

At approximately half-past twelve a man in a greenish-brown Australian overcoat came through the front doors. Richard, who was dusting the laptops on the side wall of the store, turned quickly upon catching the movement from the corner of his eye. He watched the man walk into the store, stop in front of the hot-item sales displays, and look around as if unsure of where he was. He looked over the newcomer intently, scanning for a sign of a gun or some other weapon. His call to Hamilton Mountain had him on edge. He concluded that the man could have literally anything under his heavy coat and strode over quickly before any sort of trouble could ensue.

Can I help you? Richard asked the man, politely but firmly. He glanced over at Samantha; she was staring at the newcomer with interest. The stranger peered around mutely for a moment, his gaze lingering on the laptop wall that Richard had just come from.

Maybe you can, he said, his voice deep and raspy, as though he’d been inhaling gritty smoke for several days. He ran a thick, dirty forefinger over a stubbled chin.

First of all, he intoned, does your internet connection work?

It does Richard confirmed quickly.

Alright, I’ll need a laptop, every external hard drive you have, and any cords that I may need. He flashed a sudden wild grin.

Money is no object he chortled.

How will you be paying, sir? Richard asked him with automatic, bred-in suspicion. The stranger in the outback coat laughed loudly.

What the hell does it matter how I’m paying? he bellowed, seemingly amused. Richard started feeling very small.

If this emergency passes, he explained stiffly, I don’t want to get screwed by someone with fake credit cards taking advantage of scared people.

The big man laughed again. Are you for real, buddy? he asked incredulously. This is a permanent condition we’re in here. Do you live in this store or something?

Richard reddened. I don’t appreciate the attitude, sir he said between clenched teeth. His heart was racing, his mind wondering with grim curiosity whether there was a weapon of some kind stashed beneath that heavy overcoat. His mouth was all of a sudden very dry.

He reached into the low-slung pocket of his coat and Richard froze. A small jet of urine squirted out, seemingly the only moisture in his body. His mouth gaped open, empty of sentiment. He closed it swiftly when the stranger pulled a random wad of paper money out. He walked right by the petrified Richard and dropped the mess of currency in front of Samantha.

Daarlin’, he said to her in a folksy, country-boy affecation, why don’t you count that while we figure stuff out? Samantha giggled and began sorting through the sheaf.

Let’s go, buddy, he called out to Richard as he strode towards the laptop wall. I haven’t got forever. Power’s gotta go out sometime. Startled, Richard followed the stranger.

They stopped in front of the display of small netbooks. Richard waited for a moment to see if the man would say anything.

What are you looking for in a computer? he asked when the man stayed silent.

Not important, he replied gravely, still staring at the netbooks. It’s just a conduit. You got a conduit for sale? he asked loudly, and laughed as if that were the funniest thing in the world. Richard blinked, wondering if he’d inadvertently let a madman into the store.

Conduit, sir? he asked, feeling dull.

For the hard drives. Gonna download the internet. He was casual about it. Richard sputtered, and a nervous laugh escaped.

OK, sure, he replied, sure now that the man was insane. I have a few mid-range models that should service you quite well. I recommend that you start looking with the Toshibas…

Richard humoured him for quite some time. He seemed quite serious about it and asked probing questions about various components and options. He finally settled on a rugged, lightweight 14" model, ruminating loudly on durability and portability. To go along with it he selected a large hikers knapsack. As far as Richard could remember, it was the only one that they had ever sold. Into this knapsack he put the laptop and, as insisted upon, every external hard drive in the store.

Now, he said, after all of this had been brought up to the service desk, can I use your internet connection?

No, Richard replied firmly. The stranger looked shocked.

We have blocks on anything that’s not business-related, he continued apologetically. The stranger nodded, a sour look creeping over his face.

Maybe that Starbucks down the street, he mused aloud. Richard nodded quickly, trying transparently to prod him down this new path.

I’m sure their connection is still active, he assured the man brightly. You may even be able to make coffee while you’re at it. The stranger laughed at this.

Now, let’s discuss extending the warranties on your equipment Richard continued smoothly. An ounce of amusement flickered across the man’s rough, stubbly face.

Yeah, sure, he rumbled amiably, why not? Give me the longest service contracts you’ve got on the laptop and whatever you normally recommend for the hard drives.

Richard nodded to Samantha, who keyed the additions into her register. This took a moment, as the antiquated system demanded that she input each warranty separately for each hard drive. When she was done, she pressed the total button and issued an involuntary oh my god.

What’s the damage? the stranger asked, grinning widely.

Nine thousand, three hundred and sixty-seven dollars and forty-five cents she replied incredulously. Richard coughed politely. The man gestured impatiently for Samantha to count out the money. She did so, with professional speed, and soon had it divided into two very uneven piles.

This one’s yours she remarked, pushing the smaller pile towards the stranger. He picked it up and pocketed it without so much as a second glance.

Can I help you with anything else? Richard asked, adding a hoped-for note of finality to his voice.

Bill, the man grunted. Richard stuck out his hand.

Richard Adams he replied. The man laughed uproariously and Richard reddened.

No, the receipt, he said, pointing to Samantha, who was handing it over at that moment. Richard ground his teeth.

Richard escorted the man out, just as if her were the last customer before closing time on any normal night.

Troy Larkson, by the way, the man said, hoisting the knapsack onto his shoulders.

Nice to meet you, Richard replied, a trifle sullenly. Pleasure doing business.

Likewise, Troy Larkson said, giving a loose little salute with his right hand.

Richard did not watch Troy Larkson leave. He instead began very rapidly the process of closing up.

What were we thinking? he chastised to himself as he pulled the heavy steel gates across the front display windows. Any random person could have walked through those doors. We’re asking to be murdered.

Samantha did not reply. She was morosely re-counting Troy Larkson’s payment and marking the figures down on a reconciliation form. Richard had insisted on it, for completion’s sake.

I should have just closed up and moved on once I arrived. I especially had no right to endanger you like that.

Samantha shrugged. My boyfriend didn’t come home four nights ago. My parents and my brother are dead. My only friends are the people who work here, and they’re pretty much all dead too. I’ve had to hide in the corner of my bedroom furthest from the window with the lights off for the past week because I can hear crazy people in the streets all night. This seemed a lot safer than that.

Richard blinked. It was such a matter-of-fact tone that she used, as if it were a dry recitation of some mundane technical information.

I hate listening to the sick people, she continued, motoring along in that same too-level voice. "I hate that I have to listen to some of them die outside my window. I hate listening to them vomit, and groan, and I hate listening to the gunshots".

Where do you live? Richard asked.

Across from the hospital. There’s a bunch of people barricaded inside and they’ve been shooting any sick person who gets too close.

Richard said nothing. He wasn’t sure if there was anything to be said.

You can come see it if you want, she offered. If you don’t have anywhere else to be, I mean. It’s safe enough in the day, the sick people don’t like the light and the crazy people don’t seem to come out much in the day either. The people in the hospital will only shoot you if you’re on their side of the street.

Richard didn’t actually have anywhere else to go, and said as much.

My neighbours are all dead, and my family lives pretty far away. He paused for a moment. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to do after this he said, as if realizing this fact for the first time.

Well, this will give you something to do for a little bit, anyway.

I suppose it will.

I’ll warn you, there’s a lot of bodies on my street. I think that a lot of people thought that they could maybe get cured if they made it to the hospital, or something.

That makes sense he replied non-comittally. Are you just about done?

Sure she replied pertly. Want me to just leave it on the back counter?

Ah, he hesitated, and then mentally shrugged. Sounds good.

After making sure that the front of the store was tightly locked, Richard walked into the back to shut the music off and lock the electrical room. He’d finished doing this and was halfway back through the back warehouse when the PA came suddenly to life, scaring him close to an early grave.

Richard, I need to see you in my office. It was the voice of Mohammed, rich, dark, and cultured. He knew that some of the associates knew it colloquially as the Voice of Doom. For a brief, wild moment he considered ignoring the command and walking out of the store without a second glance. He knew, though, that he owed Mohammed at least a little more than that. In fact, he owed Mohammed a lot more than that.

He returned briefly to the front of the store.

You heard that? he said to Samantha. It was not a question. She simply nodded.

Well, I guess I’ll be back, then. A sudden wave of paranoia washed over him. You’ll wait ‘til I get back up here, eh? he asked her, trying to sound casual.

Of course, she replied, awkwardly. She met his glance briefly and dropped it just as suddenly. Richard nodded to himself and made his hands into fists. This was not something that he wanted to see.

THREE

Manager’s Row, that area of the store where the offices and training room were located, was chilly. At least, Richard suspected that this was the reason that he was shaking.

Mohammed’s door was, like he had last left it, securely closed. When he put his palm to the doorknob this time, however, he felt it turn easily, and the heavy door swung open.

Richard, he heard that dark, cultured voice say again. Come in quickly, and shut the door behind you. Richard shivered. There was a cold, sepulchural tone to his voice now.

The office of Mohammed Malani was just as neatly put-together as it had always been. The desk in the middle of the room was tightly organized; no paper out of it’s place, no debris of eating or drinking. The walls were lined with perfectly square frames. Some were pictures of family: two bored-looking, physically attractive children and a knockout of a raven-haired wife. Others were pictures of staff from days gone by: Christmas parties, summer picnics, important staff meetings. Richard was in more than a few of these, smiling and silently glad-handing for all that it was worth. Yet more were certificates and awards, for sales volume and community service. Stepping in and seeing it, Richard felt almost normal. At least, until he saw Mohammed.

He was as pale as his South Asian skin would permit, with blood-flecked lips and those tell-tale crimson eyes. They looked as though someone had taken his rich, expressive dark eyes and filled them to the brim with blood. His hands lay palm-down on the surface of his desk, as pale as his face but (as far as Richard could tell) unshaken. Mohammed looked at him steadily, his bloodied eyes unwavering. Richard felt awkward under that gaze, and felt a pang for days gone past. Before this sickness, this Emergency, such a steady, silent stare would have indicated that the recipient of the stare was in some fairly serious trouble. Richard himself had been on the receiving end of that stare a couple of times before, and even under these radically different circumstances he felt as though he were a child of ten again, called to task for breaking something important.

Richard, Mohammed spoke. I trust that everything is well? Richard blinked, unsure of what his superior meant. There wasn’t very much of his life that he could honestly characterize as well nowadays.

The store, Richard, Mohammed continued when he saw Richard’s confusion. How is business?

We actually had some traffic today, Richard replied brightly. It was quite the sale.

Give me numbers, Mohammed replied impatiently, twirling his hand in the classic get on with it gesture.

Oh, uh, let’s see, Richard stammered. It was, er, somewhere around nine thousand dollars, give or take a few hundred, I think.

Did you print out a duplicate receipt?

Ah, no

What is the standard procedure in cases like this?

Richard hesitated, and licked his lips. Ah, print a duplicate so that the numbers can be submitted quickly.

So what’s wrong with this situation?

Richard gaped, disbelief rising through him. He spoke before he could process it fully.

"What is right about this situation?"

Mohammed smiled quickly, revealing formerly bright-white teeth now heavily stained with ejected blood. It was a ghastly grin, a death’s-head, and Richard recoiled slightly.

Not much, my friend, not much he replied, his underlying laugh bubbling under with thick, choking blood. I’m afraid that this is the last day that we’ll be open for business.

Richard nodded, having already come to much the same conclusion.

You’ve given me a lot of good service over the years, you know, Mohammed. I couldn’t have run this store without you.

Richard nodded mutely once again. There was nothing that he could think of to say that would add anything useful.

What’s going on out there? Mohammed asked, leaning forward slightly. His bloody eyes widened intently. The news sites haven’t updated in days. There’s nothing but babbling on the radio, crazy people and idiots shouting about nothing into the mic.

I don’t listen to the radio, Richard said automatically, and Mohammed twirled his finger again.

There’s nobody out there, Richard stammered along. On the streets, I mean. I saw a car earlier, a little way off, but nothing else.

But someone came into the store?

Yes sir. Also, Samantha and Mark came into work today. I had to fire Mark.

With cause, I hope.

Richard’s mouth twitched. Job abandonment, sir. He made a scene and then walked out.

Mohammed nodded gravely. No great loss, there. What about Samantha?

She’s still out at the front of the store. I told her to stay away from the windows and page immediately if anything happens.

She’s been a good worker, too. Mohammed paused and stared at his desk. He didn’t speak quite a while, and Richard wondered with growing discomfort whether he had died or not.

Tell her she’s been excellent, and that I appreciate everything she’s done he said finally, his head flying up and bloody spittle catapulting off his lower lip. It hit the desk and Richard stared at it, slowly realizing after half a minute that he was unable to look away. It quivered noxiously, ropy spit and dark blood smeared on mahogany. That stringy spit he thought distractedly, that’s what you cough up right before you go. He did not remember where he had learned that.

Is…is there anything I need to do for you, sir? Ah, religiously I mean?

Mohammed waved his hand. I’m not religious, Richard. I think I’ll just stay here. At least I’m more or less comfortable.

Oh, ah, I just thought, er, since you were named,

Oh, the only reason that I’m named Mohammed is to pull my great-aunt’s nose. She was a very devout Christian and hated the fact that my mother’s family was Muslim. They were secular of course, and that’s where the joke is.

Richard nodded, only partially understanding. So you just want to be left here?

"JUST, he says. I will sit here, Richard, surrounded by the only things left that let me remember better times. My wife is dead, died two weeks ago. I didn’t tell you, he said, noting Richard’s shock, because it served no purpose for you to know. You would have worried needlessly about me, instead of concentrating on business. My children died both slightly before and slightly after that. Dying at home would be unbearably depressing, and dying here would at least let me die with success in my mind. Do you remember that book about thinking your way to success?

"The Secret, sir?"

That’s it. Absolute bullshit from beginning to end, written for middle management types just like me. It’s only real valid point was that it was important to deal with crisis by visualizing positive things. Which is exactly what I’m doing right know.

Richard felt his eyes growing wet. He blinked it away. I’ll lock up before I leave he said roughly, wanting very badly to leave as quickly as possible.

Lock it up tight, Richard, Mohammed replied, chuckling that clotted chortle again. Lock it so tight that it’ll take men a hundred years to break back in. I want them to have to work to find me, and when they do find me I want them to wonder hard about what it all means.

Richard fought to stop from sketching a salute. He had no idea how to end it, what the protocol on this was. He didn’t want to shake the man’s hand; even though there was an immense amount of respect present the idea made his skin crawl. Fortunately it was Mohammed who initiated it. He waved his hand curtly, dismissively.

Go along, Richard, he said, his voice low and tired. I need to rest, very badly, and you need to lock up and move along with your life.

Yes sir, Richard replied, very much relieved. Lights on or off?.

Off. Take care of Samantha, Richard.

Ah, I will sir.

Richard left, gently closing the door behind him. He fished his keys out of his pocket, and locked the door. The tumblers shifted home with a heavy finality, and he hurried out of Manager’s Row and back towards the front of the store. Samantha was sitting on the counter behind the service desk, several feet to the right of the nearest window.

Everything OK? she asked when he reached the counter. He nodded sharply and quickly changed the subject.

Are you ready to lock up and go?

Yeah, sure, Samantha replied, giving him an unreadable look. Let’s do it.

It took them fifteen minutes or so to shut the window-gates and prime the alarm. Richard knew that the alarm would be useless, ultimately, but it was all part of the routine, and he couldn’t escape it. As he keyed the lock on the outer front door, the sun peaked overhead at high noon. It was warm and bright, belying the scenes that Richard knew were playing out all around but refused to mentally acknowledge. He escorted her closely to the car, and kept a lightning-fast watch as she climbed into the car.

Point the way, he invited her, as he twisted the ignition into sudden roaring life.

FOUR

They had to take the back route to get to Samantha’s apartment. As they drove closer to downtown, on the other side of which she lived, cars began to choke up the street. Their owners had parked them mid-street and fled; some had simply parked their cars at unnatural angles and died in the driver’s seat. After a certain point it became impassable. Acutely conscious of the buildings on either side of them, and the blank, staring windows located on them, Richard had carefully backed up and turned around, opting instead to weave through the intricate side streets. Samantha directed him listlessly from the seat beside him, spending much of the time playing silently with the little plastic nametag on her green uniform.

Finally he had pulled around a blue Neon with broken windows and followed Samantha’s sudden exhortations to turn right, turn right. They’d found themselves in the large back parking lot of Samantha’s two-storey apartment building, one of three cars.

My neighbours Samantha had explained without much interest evident in her voice. They’re dead.

Now they were sitting in her small living room, silently awkward. Her apartment was brief, really the smallest that he’d seen since his student days. Her living room was bare, by what he was used to. Her couch and loveseat were both beat-up and dingy, upholstered in a pattern that had been popular at roughly the same time a Georgia peanut farmer had been getting elected to the White House. Her coffee table was being propped up by a compressed stack of magazines, and it’s sole decoration was an ashtray that was half full and surrounded by a halo of cigarette ash. She had a nice enough television, which they had off since there was nothing of any relevant use on anyway. Her front window was covered by thick yellow curtains, slathered with a nicotine