Dad sighed. “I just don’t know, Sherry. We’ll have to look around.” He walked across our lawn. The grass reached my thighs, and the neighbours’ lawns didn’t look much better. The blades of grass rustled as our steps parted them. Nobody had mowed here for years. What if we were the only people still alive?
I felt cold despite the sunshine. We arrived at Izzy’s front door. Dad didn’t bother to knock – he turned the handle and the door opened.
He glanced at me, his eyes flitting to my pistol. He lifted his shotgun and kicked the door wide, so we could look into the hall. Dust particles swirled in the air, tickling my nose. I held my gun with both hands. My heart was pounding wildly. Dad moved forwards, glancing around. “George?” His call sliced through the silence.
No reply.
I followed a couple of metres behind him as he walked to the back of the house and into their garden where the bunker was. Dad and George had helped each other building the bunkers – they’d been safety fanatics. Mom and Christine had always made fun of them. They’d laughed together about their “survivalist men”.
The iron doors were wide open, resting on the grass. Dad peeked into the bunker, then his shoulders slumped. “It’s deserted.”
We searched every cupboard in the house for something to eat, but found nothing. After that, we went through some of the neighbours’ houses further up the road – all deserted. We knew most people had been forced to search for shelter in one of the public bunkers in Los Angeles and its suburbs. Everyone had thought it would take only a few days or weeks until the rabies was contained. The government had said so. They had promised.
Only a few days, weeks at the most. It made me want to laugh. More like 1,141 days, and counting.
Why had they even bothered broadcasting their stupid warnings? Once, when they were fighting, Dad had told Mom that the government didn’t care about us and probably just wanted to keep us in our bunkers so we never found out how they’d messed up. What if he had been right after all? What if the government hadn’t wanted us to find out that they’d failed to contain the rabies, that they’d chosen to bomb an entire city without success? My stomach clenched at the thought.
Most of the other bunkers we discovered were vacant. We found only one that was still closed, but nobody reacted as we knocked and shouted.
We walked down the other side of the street. The heat had cracked the concrete and, with nobody to take care of it, grass was growing out of the cracks. My stomach growled. What if we didn’t find food and had to return to the bunker without anything? If the worst came to the worst, we’d just have to hunt some game, or a stray dog or cat.
Dad halted without warning and I almost bumped into him.
Two dead bodies lay on a lawn. I stumbled backwards.
They were mangled and looked as if an animal had ripped chunks out of them. Their skin looked marbled and their bellies were bloated, but maggots hadn’t yet hatched. The bodies looked kind of fresh, as if these people had died not long ago. Their flesh wasn’t parched from the sun like it would have been after days of exposure.
I barely recognized the bodies as two of our neighbours. Husband and wife. I didn’t know their names, but I’d seen them a million times – they’d always been really friendly. Even in death, their widened, lifeless eyes reflected shock.
A hiss escaped one of the bodies as gas fought its way out. The stench was horrible – sweet, rotten and acid all at the same time. I retched and clapped a hand over my mouth. Dad grabbed my arm and pulled me away.
“What happened to them?” I whispered.
Dad’s face looked grave. He’d known them better than me. “It looks like something attacked them.”
“Something?” I peeked up at him.
He looked at me with a pained expression. “It looks like an animal did it. Only I don’t know any wild animals in the area that would do something like that. Bobcats and coyotes might feed on humans, but they wouldn’t just rip their victims apart randomly.”
I swallowed down the lump rising in my throat. “Who did it then?”
“I don’t know, Sherry.”
He was lying.
“Do you…do you think a human did it?” The thought made me sick. Before the government had ordered everyone to hide in the bunkers, there were rumours about lots of murders in the area. Brutal murders.
Dad didn’t reply, but his lips pulled into a tight line. That was all the answer I needed. We both knew the bodies looked like they’d been attacked not long ago. So whatever had murdered them was probably still roaming around now.
I glanced over my shoulder as we walked back up to our car in the driveway, but I didn’t see anything.
“Sherry?”
I turned around.
A thick layer of soot covered the car, so it looked black instead of grey.
“Help me clean the windshield,” Dad said. He looked around for something he could use. I pushed my sleeve over my hand and started scrubbing the glass. Dad stared, then he did the same. After a few minutes, I could see inside the car.
Dad pulled the key from the back pocket of his jeans and unlocked it. The door creaked when he pulled it open.
“Perhaps we should drive around the area. We might find other people. Maybe even some food.”
Dad’s gaze was directed at the remains of Los Angeles. Sometimes it flickered to where the bodies lay, though they were too far away now to see more than just their outlines.
A roar rang in the silence.
I jumped and almost dropped the pistol. With shaking fingers, I released the safety catch and raised the weapon. Dad had lifted his shotgun and was searching our surroundings. The roar had sounded like an animal, only I couldn’t think of an animal that made a noise like that.
“Get into the car.” Dad sounded calm but his eyes couldn’t hide his panic.
I was paralysed – my legs, my entire body, numb. As if it wasn’t even there, as if I wasn’t there. Gone like everyone else. Iciness crawled into my toes, up my legs and spread into every fibre of me.
“Sherry, get in the damn car!”
This time my body did as it was told. I pulled open the door and slipped into the passenger seat. With a shaky hand, I jerked the door shut. The noise made me jump again. Dad slid behind the steering wheel, closed his door and put the shotgun between his legs. It took him three tries before he got the key into the ignition.
Another roar broke the silence, closer this time.
The pistol resting on my lap, I looked out of the side window. There was nothing. I turned. Something flashed in the corner of my eye. I wrenched my head back round and stared. Something had moved. A shadow. Where was it?
Maybe I’d imagined it.
Dad started the engine, but it died almost instantly.
“What about the others? Should we warn them?”
Dad shook his head. He turned the key again. Nothing this time. A dead click under the bonnet. “No, they’re safe in the bunker. As long as they stay there, everything will be fine. We’re going to search for food and maybe for other survivors, and then we’ll head back. If we’re home before tomorrow, your mother won’t have any reason to leave.”
Dad opened the door and got out. Without thinking, I gripped my gun and prepared to shoot if anything tried to attack. It was an automatic response. Grandpa would have been proud.
As soon as Dad lifted the hood of the car, he was hidden from my view. I rocked back and forth on my seat, glancing out of the side window. There was nothing.
Finally Dad snapped the hood shut and walked back to the driver’s side. I let out a slow breath. He slipped into the car and closed the door, then turned the key in the ignition again. This time the engine roared to life and Dad pulled the car out of the driveway. He glanced at the fuel gauge – we were almost out of gas.
As our home became a distant silhouette, I couldn’t shake off the growing feeling that someone – or something – was watching us.
I made my way across the b
each to where the waves touched the sand.
Wind blew my hair all over the place. Relief from the summer heat. I looked over my shoulder at the footprints I’d left behind. Another wave erased every trace of them.
As if I’d never been there.
The next wave rolled towards me. Cold water clawed at my skin.
My family lounged in the shade of a parasol. Dad had the newspaper in front of him. He hadn’t put it down all day.
I wished I could ignore the front page with its glaring headline announcing a new curfew after the latest rise in attacks. I wished this wasn’t the last day of summer.
Closing my eyes, I brought the popsicle to my lips. The sour taste of lime exploded on my tongue and seemed to fill every part of my body with a new energy.
It tasted like summer.
Los Angeles’ suburbs were deserted. No traffic. No smog. No people.
The sun was shining and it was getting warmer by the minute. It should have been a beautiful day.
Los Angeles had been full of life. Venice Beach with its bold skaters, its crazy tattoo artists, and girls in micro-bikinis. Or the Walk of Fame, with its mass of tourists stumbling over their own feet to take a photo of every star.
This city wasn’t Los Angeles. This city was dead, like the ghost town in the Mojave Desert we’d visited a few years back. It was like a corpse, sucked dry of any energy. A few birds sat on the pavement, and I saw a cat scurrying through the broken window of a shop – but they were the only signs of life. Where had everyone gone? Were they still underground, starving to death? Too afraid to leave their shelter? My breath caught in my throat.
There were more weeds and grass peeking through the cracks in the concrete, and soot and dirt covering shop windows. Cars were parked in driveways and at the roadside, waiting for their owners. Goosebumps rose on my skin.
Dad was silent throughout the drive. We were heading towards the grocery store where our family used to shop. I could still remember the route and yet it was nothing like before. The silhouette of a destroyed Los Angeles hovered in the distance. I leaned my head against the sun-warmed window.
There wasn’t a single car on the freeway. I did a double take. A group of wild boars crossed the street in the distance. Wild boars in the city? They used to avoid humans. I wrapped my arms around my chest. What if we were the only survivors?
The building with huge Walmart lettering came into view and Dad pulled off the freeway. Bombs must have hit this part of the city – so many houses had collapsed and wooden boards and huge chunks of concrete littered the streets.
Someone had sprayed Road to perdition in huge black letters on the facade of one of the buildings. It was the only sign of human life.
“Where are they all? Millions of people can’t have disappeared, can they?” I looked at Dad.
He kept his eyes on the road, then glanced at me briefly. “Maybe they’re hiding. Maybe Los Angeles and its suburbs have been declared a restricted area.”
“But why has no one told us? What if everybody’s gone? What if they’re all dead?” My voice shook and I could feel tears building.
Dad prepared to answer, but then he closed his mouth and frowned as if he was considering his reply. He let out a sigh. “I don’t think that Los Angeles is necessarily indicative of how the rest of the country looks. The rabies had only spread through parts of Canada and the southwest when we went into the shelter. The military should have managed to destroy the virus before it could get any further.”
“But what if they didn’t succeed? What if it spread all over the world?”
Dad shook his head. “No.” He paused. “No, that isn’t possible.” He sounded uncertain and that didn’t help to soothe my worries: the recorded message blaring out the same warning for years, deserted streets, no sign of other people. Panic rose up in my throat.
“How do you know? Maybe they’re all dead!” I could hear my voice becoming hysterical.
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 impo
ssibly 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.