I pause and sit there shivering, nursing the lighter in my hand with my thumb on the flint wheel. What if the couple was right? Not about demons and portals, but perhaps light has changed. When I think about it, it’s ridiculous, but what if? Something must have killed the Jeffersons and the cop outside my home. Regardless, the real problem is that someone may see the fire. I’m all alone, and the people around here seem to have descended into chaos. People attack each other over canned food. The part of my head near my ear is still sore, though it stopped bleeding. I can’t risk attracting too much attention. I escaped the thugs and whoever attacked me here earlier, but whoever the fire attracts may want to finish me off. I pat the gun in my pocket. Or force me to kill them.
It’s final. No fire. I have to look for food instead.
The floor is covered with the products the looters didn’t take. I’m on all fours when my hand brushes against something that feels like a biscuit. It smells and tastes like dog food, but I don’t care. Not far from it, I locate a half-empty bag with dog treats. Food at last! How come they missed it? Too picky even during the end of the world? I crawl to a corner and wolf down a couple of biscuits. To my right, a twisting metal staircase leads to the store’s basement. That’ll do for now. It’s the best shelter I can find in this weather.
It’s pitch black, and I stumble on shelves and boxes with every step I take. When I finally reach the end of the room, I devour the doggie treats one handful at a time. The basement is cold and smells of detergent, fake lavender and cheese, but at least it’s dry.
It’s only a couple of hours before dawn. I’ll spend the day here and seek more and better food tomorrow night.
I know it’s been hours. I can tell, because from where I sit, I have a clear view of the winding staircase and the wall next to it. An elongated light patch shines through the shop window and moves slowly across the wall. I’ve been staring at it since it appeared, though I must have fallen asleep more than once, because each time I look at it, the light hits the wall at a different angle. At least, I think it does. It’s safe to say that solitude and absolute quiet drives me crazy. Doing nothing drives me insane. I don’t know how much longer I can take this. How long until nightfall?
Voices!
Are they real? There’s noise coming from upstairs.
A bottle crashes. Brittle things crunch under feet. I’m not alone. I draw my knife and—to my surprise—the gun too. Strange how my instincts have shifted to violence.
The wall near the staircase is dark. How long did I sleep for? I’m pretty sure I had my eyes open the whole time. I have to be more careful. Anyone could have sneaked up on me.
Those upstairs argue about something. They sound angry, but their voices are like music to my ears. I just want to talk to them, perhaps ask for help. It’s better to go through this mess with others. There’s safety in numbers. That’s how humans are programmed to function and prosper. This solitude drives me nuts.
But a little voice in my head reminds me of last night’s attack.
“You’re hiding food, Pete,” a man says.
“I’m not. Doug, you gotta believe me, man.”
“There were two cereal bars on the counter,” a woman with a husky voice says. “Where’s the second?”
“How the fuck should I know? I can’t see my own hands.”
The woman screams and growls.
“Hey! Get away from me, you stup—” The man—Pete most likely—cries in agony. “You-you-you stabbed me. I didn’t steal … Doug, help me, man. I’m … bleeding.”
“I’m sorry, Pete. We agreed to share the food. You fucked up.”
“No, Doug, p-please, no. I didn’t. Plea—”
Another cry. Then quiet.
My heart is beating several miles per minute. My breath is stuck somewhere in my lungs. Did-did they just kill their friend? What will they do if they find me here? I take my gun out and aim vaguely at where I think the staircase is. My hand is shaking. If it comes down to choosing me or them …
“C’mon,” the woman says. “More food for us to split. Come on, Doug. There’s nothing here for us.”
“We killed him.”
“He stole from us. He ate the other bar without telling us. Now, move.”
Their footsteps crunch on the shattered front window as they exit the store, and I release a pent-up breath in a long and muscle-relaxing sigh.
Minutes later, I slowly make my way out. A heavy, panting breath comes from the other side of the store near the exit. I barely make out an animal—a dog most likely—next to the sitting and immobile figure of a man. Pete, most likely. Dead. The new reality dawns on me slowly. In this new world, there are no friendships. It’s all about looking after one’s self.
The dog is licking its muzzle.
“Leave him alone.”
The dog growls softly at me. It takes a step back, but doesn’t leave.
I reach down, grab the first thing near my feet, and throw it at the dog. “Scram.” The dog barked at me once and padded away.
Are dogs affected by light or is it only humans? If the light has changed, then it’s probably the same for every living thing, right? If not, then packs of dogs will soon roam the streets. And if there’s no more food for them, what will they hunt? Hunger can make you do all sorts of crazy stuff.
What about survivors stuck in the cities? What will they eat if this goes on?
I need to make a choice. Stay in the city and find out or leave for the countryside and hope to find more food there? If light has indeed changed and is somehow lethal, then staying in the city means I’ll have a dark shelter to live in no matter what. Sewers, subway tracks and stations, abandoned apartments. But no food. If I leave, then I risk exposure to light, but I’ll be able to forage or hunt small animals. What should I do?
Copyright © 2018 Chris Sarantopoulos.
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