Heartland Junk - Part I: The End (A zombie apocalypse serial)

Chapter 7: Matches

I set the alarm on my phone for six hours later, 7:30 PM. If the voices didn't come knocking before then, it was the signal for dinnertime.

For our other dinnertime, we had a duffel stuffed with canned goods, a pile of frozen Lean Cuisines, and a twelve-pack of Coke, plus our personal gear. It was bizarre how quickly we'd adapted. I don't think we really knew what was happening back then, like it hadn't sunk in yet. For Rivet, and to a lesser extent, me, it felt like we were at the beginning of an adventure. Jennie's always been the efficient type, and that hadn't changed, but I couldn't tell what she thought about the whole thing. She took Titan.

"You know, I never thought I'd say this, but it's a good thing Rivet wasted so much money on that crappy Dodge," Jennie said, "because it probably won't have any trouble getting past... She trailed off, maybe high, maybe not quite ready to give voice to the thought. Rubble, destruction, bodies, Armageddon. I didn't know what she'd meant to say, but I knew what she meant by it all the same. At that point, we'd only seen one halfy—a half-changed person; Rivet coined the word. I think we were riding pretty high on what we thought was going to be a walk in the park. My chest still smarted, but I'd bandaged it up and thought I looked pretty fucking swag in my bloodstained shirt. Weren't we cool, making up witty names for dead people. We had no idea.

So here's how our gear stacked up, all tidy and packed away in three backpacks, plus one extra duffel:

Jennie—Six cans of food (peaches, red beans, black beans, asparagus, kidney beans, peas). Four bottles of semithinthetic opioid narcotics (outer pocket, for easy access). One large steak knife. One bag of dry kitty kibble (salmon). One flashlight. One pair of scissors. One black cat (asleep).

Rivet—Nine cans of food (sweet corn, pears, carrots and peas, sweet corn, black beans, sweet corn, asparagus, tuna, sweet corn). Two flashlights. One open pack of D batteries (seven remaining). One first aid kit. One steak knife. One shovel. One fireplace poker. One roll of duct tape (reflective orange). One length of twine. One cigarette lighter. One magnifying glass. One James Rollins paperback. One bandana (pink). One can opener. One fork. One spoon. One cooking pot. One water bottle. One miniature trowel. One pair of plastic safety goggles.

Me—Six cans of food (coincidentally, identical to Jennie's stash). One meat cleaver. One axe. One cigarette lighter. One bottle of cabernet sauvignon (dusty).

Duffel—Seven frozen Lean Cuisines (various flavors). Twelve cans of Coca-Cola. Twelve cans of food (pears, sweet corn, asparagus, asparagus, black-eyed peas, okra, sweet corn, peaches, black beans, tuna, black beans, olives). Scotch tape. Masking tape. One coil of braided rope. Three steak knives. Three forks. Three spoons.

Rivet groaned as he hefted his bulging backpack and slid his shoulders into the straps. We were at the front door, gathered around Janet's body. An eggy, sulferous smell had already begun to work its way into the air around it, and a few black flies were buzzing at its perimeter. Jennie kept swatting them away from where they were landing on her blood-tinged head wrap.

"Why'd you need an extra fork?" I asked Rivet. He looked at me through the safety goggles. They were that old-fashioned, boxy kind with a white elastic strap. He'd stretched the pink bandana over his scalp and tied it in the back. Just a safe, gay pirate.

"In case we get separated." Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I grunted. Sure.

"Everybody ready?" Jennie asked. She was in front, her hand poised over the doorknob. We'd already moved the shovel that Rivet had wedged behind the door. I shifted the axe in my hand. It felt good, solid. I nodded. My other hand held the duffel.

Rivet raised his shovel over his head and tapped it against the ceiling. "Onward and upward."

Jennie cracked the door a smidge. We crowded close, pressing our faces to the hair-fracture aperture. Rivet bumped his safety goggles into the doorjamb and cursed.