It’s not like I’m stupid.
I lean my bike against the brick wall along the side of the Maverik convenience store, far away from the abandoned cars near the gas pumps. The faded sign makes me giggle. Adventure’s First Stop. They have no idea.
Grandad would be furious if he knew what I was doing—too risky, he’d say. But he’s never been an eleven-year-old girl stuck in the mountains above Heber with her brothers and Grandad for three long years.
Free at last.
I jimmy the side door like Matt taught me and enter through the employee entrance, not the big glass storefront where anyone can see. It opens into a small office with a row of lockers, a shift manager’s desk, and faded OSHA posters. Wedged under the doorknob of the door leading into the store is a metal folding chair, a poor man’s barricade. I don’t think anyone’s been in this room for a long time.
Good.
In the store, I know better than to expect things like Ding Dongs and slushies. Today I have no hope for Bic Lighters, Peperoni Stix, or batteries.
But every girl deserves ChapStick.
I want things my brothers don’t scavenge, like notebooks and pens. Maybe some magazines. Toilet paper would be heaven.
Maverik’s was heaven.
I remember Maverik’s impossibly bright rows of chips, candy, and soda, a couple of Grandad’s dollars in my pocket. The world was full of possibilities then.
Maybe it could be again.
Only good things come from Maverik’s.
The dead body is a bummer.
As I step toward it the smell hits me first, roadkill left too long in a sweltering crockpot. I swallow hard to keep last night’s rabbit stew down, but it’s a near thing. I pull my shirt over my nose, grab a push broom from the utility closet, and use it to sweep the body aside, scrunching arm and leg bones together next to the lockers until there’s a clear path through the office and between the doors that lead from into the store and to the outside.
As Grandad says, always have an exit plan.
I don’t look closely. Male, female, it doesn’t matter. In jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie, dead is dead—and this one’s been dead since the beginning.You don’t get beef jerky–light unless you’ve had all the moisture sucked right out of you. Only Thirst does that. The hollow-husked bodies Thirst leaves behind are straight out of Grandad’s movie collection.
I am Legend
The Road
Contagion
28 Days Later
Those movies taught me that locking yourself in a Maverik’s back office is really kinda stupid. The Sportsman’s Warehouse on the other end of town would’ve been better.
But maybe a lot of people thought that.
Being off the mountain and back in Heber is messing with my head. Heber was a small town, but not quite Hicksville. It had rodeo grounds, soccer fields, fair days, Starbucks, Walmart, Maverik, and a bowling alley with the best ice-cream shakes. But three years after Thirst appeared, it’s a ghost town.
I wrench the chair away from the door, open it, and slip from the office into the store, leaving the door open behind me. One look and it’s obvious critters and the elements have finished what looters started. What’s left of the glass in the front wall is hazy, a milk-blind, cataract white. The hood of a Chevy Impala stands stalled halfway to the Cheetos aisle, guarding barren shelves with signs for chili-lime sunflower seeds, BBQ Corn Nuts, and special-edition Milky Ways. Fluorescent blue and orange stains pool under the drink station, but there’s so much dust, the floor’s no longer sticky. Raccoon prints and mice droppings run along the countertops.
As I pass the Impala, I don’t look to see if the driver’s still in the car.
I’ve gotten good at not looking.
I don’t know what’s worse: the death stench wafting or the sinus-scalding odor of carnivore pee that hits my nose like a Mack truck when I get closer to the counter. Something big like a bear has marked the store as his territory. I listen, but don’t hear wuffle-snorts of warning or movement from the shelves or behind the counter.
Maybe it’s gone.
I hold my breath for a couple of heartbeats and get ready to drop my backpack. If a bear decides to eat me, there’s nothing I can do except run and hope he’ll be more interested in my pack.
Stay or go?
Go is safer. Avoid confrontation. Live to fight another day. I hold my breath and count to ten, my ears on fire as I listen, listen, listen.
Nothing.
I sigh.
Stay. I’m fine.
A bear would’ve eaten me by now.
It takes just a few moments to make sure there’s nothing left to scavenge besides dented shelving units and rusting Impala parts.
Nobody needs shelves or car parts.
At the compound, Grandad has tons and tons of storage racks stocked floor to ceiling, everything hidden underground with solar lighting and custom ventilation.
Three years ago, we arrived at Grandad’s in the middle of the night. The ink not dry on his learner’s permit, Matt had white-knuckled Mom’s Suburban up the mountain passes and through snow packed deeper than the running boards. Standing on his porch, Grandad looked at us kids and sighed. “Your father’s a fool,” he said. “But at least I raised your mother right. There’s beans and macaroni waiting. Get your gear. Tomorrow we set snares and start practicing with the bows. Preparation is everything.”
In the morning, KSL showed video of National Guard units leaving Camp Williams, headed out to enforce a state-wide quarantine to stop the spread of Thirst. But by then, Thirst had gone airborne, spreading coast to coast and from Peru to Canada. Nobody’s sure who blew the dam at Deer Creek, flooding Provo Canyon, or who took out Highway 40 at the Mayflower exit, cutting Heber off from Park City two days later—at least we never heard. Grandad said it was country folk who knew the city hoards would come. A week later we watched the Salt Lake riots and the Provo inferno on TV until KSL stopped broadcasting.
The country folk were right.
In the mountains, winter settled in.
Three years last fall, and we still have plenty of salt, fuel, tools, game, and clean water. Grandad says his preparation worked. Even the garden’s doing well.
But scrub-oak leaves are tough on your bum.
I walk around the counter, pulling at drawers and tipping over the save-a-penny cup, searching for a forgotten pen or magazine. That’s when I see them: three cougar cubs nestled under empty cigarette racks.
Behind two sleeping balls of fluff, a set of bright blue eyes peek at me; a mouth yawns wide. It blinks twice, then bristles like water in a hot skillet. Ears pinned and tail twitching, as it hisses and chirps like a bird.
I want to hug it and squeeze it and name it Fred.
Instead I back slowly and don’t run until I reach the office door. I bolt through the office and yank open the door to the outside.
Outside, my first clue is my bike is missing.
The second is the arm that wraps me in a strangle hold; the third is the hand that covers my mouth.
“Told you I saw a girl,” says a man. “Told you.”
“Shut-up, Cleet. Can’t you see I’m busy here?” says the man throttling me. His B.O. is enough to choke a moose. Not even the lingering scent of campfire smoke dampens it.
He leans into me, his rotten tooth and dog-crap breath rank against my cheek. He lets go of my mouth just long enough to strip away my backpack and pulls me tight until his ribs dig into my shoulder. “You, missy. I got you. You know that, right?”
His hand covering my mouth tastes like wood ash and gasoline. I try to hold my breath and nod at the same time.
“We got your bike, and we got your pack. Now we got you.”
I hold still, still as a deer in the bush. Grandad taught me that.
“Show her the knife, Cleet.”
Cleet comes around my side, a too-skinny dude in a ratty biker jacket, waving a twelve-inch bowie knife. It’s the kind of knife that Dan calls a Texas toothpick and Jerry calls a letter opener. He walks up close and holds the blade against my face, the point just under my eye. He’s breathing hard and fast.
“See this, missy? See it? Wanna feel it?”
If I kick him in the nads, he’ll drop like a sack of potatoes, the knife forgotten with the glass on the asphalt. I almost raise my knee to do it, but I remember Grandad’s words.
Wait.
Cleet presses the knife, and I feel the skin under my eye split.
“I’m gonna do it, Butch. I’m gonna cut her eye and squish it like a grape.”
Blood starts to trickle. I feel more than hear Butch’s sigh, his chest expanding against my shoulders, the great gush of fetid air falling over my face like a cloud of gnats.
If Cleet’s crappy knife or Butch’s trench mouth gives me an infection, I’m gonna be ticked. To stretch the Neosporin, Grandad’s partial to swiping cuts and scrapes with alcohol on a cotton ball. Lots of alcohol. His way burns like hellfire, and no scuff is too minor. Fight infection before it starts is his mantra. I pray every day that Bobby finds more ointment.
Butch shakes his head. “Take a chill pill, Cleet. Let’s not damage the merchandise, capisce?”
Cleet pouts. “You said the next one’s mine.”
“Cleety, I’m not saying we’re not going to have us some fun. But be smart. Park City pays top dollar—”
Cleet brightens. “This little weasel is our ticket?”
Butch plays it cool. “Mebbe. But her value goes down if you snick her eye out quicker than a snot rocket.”
I watch the madness dim in Cleet, banked like a fire against a cold winter night. It won’t take much for the ember to flare into a raging wildfire, but for now the promise of trade is enough for him to pull the knife away. “Hear that, weasel? We gonna have fun!” He hocks a loogie from deep in his sinuses and spits. It spider-webs across my nose.
“Blast it, Cleet,” roars Butch, flinging his hand off my mouth. “You almost got me!”
I feel warm goo slide off my nose, cross my lips, and drip from my chin.
I think about still water, about clouds over the reservoir, about the cougar kits in the convenience store, about anything at all except what’s oozing down my face. Grandad has prepared me for this and much worse.
I hope there’s still rabies vaccine in the med cache. I think I’m going to need it.
“Ugh! You gross son of a gun! It’s running down her neck and onto my arm!” Butch shudders.
Cleet giggles.
I want to reach up and grab Butch’s greasy hair and whip him over my shoulder, but I don’t.
Patience. You’re still okay.
“Sweetheart,” says Butch, “we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
Hard. Please be the hard so I can bite your nose off and shove it—
Butch tightens his arm against my throat. “The hard way’s my favorite,” he says as he licks the side of my face.
I make a mental list.
- Hammer fist.
- Primary target.
- Go noodle, then twist, turn.
- Finish with a round house kick to Cleet’s head or maybe step into his circle, take his knife, and gut him like a fish.
So many options.
Cleet giggles again. “You said hard.”
Wait. I have to wait.
Butch sighs again. “Get a zip tie, knucklehead.”
Cleet steps out of my view. Zippers swish open. A can of soup clunks to the ground and rolls near my feet, bumping against a large shard of glass. With no easy way to grip it, I file the broken glass under last resort. Sliced palms take a long time to heal.
The can, however, is just the right size for brain bashing.
Butch shifts his weight, impatient. “C’mon, you idjit. I ain’t dancing with her all day. Get me a tie.”
“Ain’t got none,” says Cleet.
“Check the side pocket.”
“Nope.”
“Then get me a rope or something.”
Cleet says, “All we gots is your spare shirt. You want me to cut it?”
“Are you crazy? Cut my shirt?” says Butch.
“You know, into strips. We can tie her.”
I feel Butch shake his head. “You’re a few fries short of a Happy Meal, ain’t cha?”
“Wha—”
Butch shouts, “Her pack, stupid!”
Cleet picks my pack off the ground and jiggles it. “Right. I kin slice this into strips. Good one.”
Butch is so angry he forgets he’s holding me. As his body relaxes, my brain shouts Now! Throw your head back, break his nose, rake his shins with your boot heel, turn and jab him in the Adam’s apple.
Run.
But I don’t know how many Butches and Cleets there are or where they’re camped. If I run, someone will chase. Someone may find, and I can’t risk that.
Grandad’s rules. The life of the one for the many. Always.
I force myself to be still like a deer, like a rabbit, like a mouse.
Butch snarls, “For the love of Pete! Open it and see what she’s got.”
There’s not much. It’s not a real backpack, just the one I used for school once upon a time. I carry it light, so things are easy to find. When Cleet shakes it, a multi-tool, a LifeStraw, a baggie of elk jerky, a lighter, a roll of duct tape, and a metal water bottle tumble out.
“Duct tape. Bingo,” says Butch.
Bingo. Just like Grandad said.
Butch gives my whole body a shake to tell me he means business. “Put your hands in front,” he says. “Don’t try anything funny. Cleet? Do her.”
When Cleet comes to wrap my wrists, he sees something in my eyes. Or maybe it’s something he doesn’t see. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t hesitate to punch me square in the jaw. “What’re you looking at?” he says.
It’s my wake-up call.
I let my head snap back and roll my shoulders forward. My spine sinks. Weak, weak, weak. Beaten. Cowed.
I whimper, the first sound I’ve made since I ran out of the store.
“Hey! What did I tell ya about the merchandise?” snaps Butch.
“She’s gettin’ uppity.”
“She’s eighty-five pounds soaking wet. I think we can handle her.”
“I cut you once, weasel. I’ll cut you again,” says Cleet.
I tremble and close my eyes.
He snorts, satisfied, and winds tape around my wrists so tightly my fingers start to tingle.
“Do her ankles, too,” says Butch.
When he’s done, Butch releases me. I take my first non-B.O.-tainted breath in ages. The air is sweeter than peaches.
“Sit down.” Butch shoves me against the wall, and I slide to the ground, trying to avoid bits of glass and road rash on my elbows. I taste blood from the punch. A tooth feels loose when I poke it with my tongue. None are broken, though. My lips start to swell, but at least he didn’t hit my nose.
I like my nose.
I spot my bike, dumped at the base of a chain link fence and useless with its tires slashed. Now I know it’s just the two of them. They have no need for a solitary bike and no reason to keep it for trade.
Clanless.
It’s a wonder they’ve survived this long.
Cleet opens the jerky bag and starts gnawing. “Umm,” he drools, “teriyaki.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
“Gimme that.” Butch swipes the baggie and inhales. “Garlic.” He takes a bite. “Sugar, red pepper, salt. Where’d you get spices, girlie? You got people? You got supplies and stuff?” He kicks at my pack. “This ain’t survival. This is day-tripping. Where’s your stash, missy?”
“Butch.” Cleet hands him my water bottle like it’s the Holy Grail. He’s taken off the top and caught a good whiff.
Butch buries his nose. “Tequila.” He turns to me. “What’s a kid in the middle of Heber doing with tequila?”
“Gimme,” says Cleet. “That jerky made me thirsty.”
“Wait a minute. I want an answer.”
“Disinfectant,” I mumble. “Germs.”
“You think I’m stupid?” says Butch. He raises his foot to kick me.
“Trade!” I scream. “Samples for the buyers.”
Butch nods. “The liquor store on the far end of town was empty. You people took it all, didn’t ya? You got it hidden somewheres, probably with all the smokes in town too. Profiting off people’s needs.” He kicks me in the ribs, and I feel something pop. “I hate goody-two-shoes like you.”
I breathe through my nose, counting the beats as my lungs fill, praying I don’t barf as pain radiates like a nuclear bomb.
One last chance.
“Don’t drink it,” I say.
“Oh, honey. Wouldn’t think of it.” Butch takes a healthy slug. “Whoowee, that’s good. Here Cleet, wet your whistle.”
Cleet takes a long, deep swallow.
Butch grabs it back. “Slow down, son. Somebody’s got to be the designated driver.”
Cleet titters like a woodpecker, the tequila revving his madness to blow.
Butch rocks his head back like he’s downing shots instead of guzzling from a water bottle. He smacks his lips and sucks his teeth. “Man, that’s good. I’m betting blondie’s family is squirreled away in the hills nearby. They’ll pay dearly, won’t they, sweet’ums? Shoot, they’ll probably thank us. It’s not like they have a use for booze and cigarettes.” He shakes the half-empty bottle in my face. “Ever drink it?”
I shake my head no.
“Speak up,” he snaps.
“No,” I whisper. “Grandad calls it the devil’s drink.”
“Ha! He’s right. We’re a couple of demons, Cleet and me.” He lifts the bottle to his mouth and misses, splashing a little down his front.
Cleet tries to grab it, but Butch won’t let him. “C’mon, Butch! You said we was going to have fun.”
Butch laughs. “You’re right. Here. Drink up. There’s plenty where that came from.”
Cleet drains it and holds the bottle upside down. “Oops. All gone.” He grins and collapses in a heap.
Butch staggers over. “C’mon, ya skunk. Get up.”
Cleet doesn’t move. A fine sweat beads on his brow, leaving a sheen on his ashen cheeks. It’s not until his lips turn blue and he starts to shake that Butch falls down, too. In the heat of the afternoon it doesn’t take long for the foam to dry on their lips and chins. When their bladders and bowels release, I know it’s time.
I lean back and scoot up the brick wall until I’m standing. Raising my arms high over my head, I bring them swiftly down while forcing my wrists apart. The duct tape splits as my elbows slide past my hips, just like I’d practiced with Grandad.
Hands free, it’s nothing to rip the tape from my ankles and repack my stuff. When I find the lid, I screw it on the empty water bottle and stuff it back into my bag. I’ll have to be extra careful until I can refill my metal bottle from Grandad’s special barrel.
But there’s still a lot of duct tape on the roll.
On my shoulders, the pack feels too light.
The evening shadows stretch to the roadside; I’ve been gone too long. Matt’s probably on his way to find me. I check my bike—even though the tires are trashed, the rims are unbent and everything else looks good. New tires aren’t a problem; Grandad has them stacked high and deep in the mechanic room.
It will take longer pushing the bike, but I decide I’ll walk it along Main to Arby’s, our meeting place in town. Matt can throw it in the back of the buckboard and haul it the rest of the way home.
I give the parking lot a last glance and decide to take the knife. It’s clunky, but Jerry will think it’s funny, especially if I can find paper and write letters for him to open.
I almost chuck the can of soup into the bushes. Cream of Celery? Really, people? But as Grandad says, waste not, want not. It’s still a fine brain basher.
As I move off, I spot Mama Cougar across the street, slinking along the porch of Timber Ridge Dental. When she realizes I’ve seen her, she drops the rabbit she’s carrying and yowls, the sound of fingers on a chalkboard and a goose on a grave. Her kits answer like banshees.
Live humans make her nervous.
I look at the meat I’m leaving and smile.
It’s a good day to be a cougar.
Lehua Parker‘s work can be discovered in quantity at lehuaparker.com.
