Crazytimes Page 5

  Because the sky is more visible, I’m able to see more and more meteors—or whatever they are—sail through the air and crash to the ground. Boom, boom, boom. They’re scattered all over the city, appearing suddenly from the rusty haze above and crashing into streets, parks, and homes. Puffs of yellow smoke float upward a minute or two after they land, and they go in various directions like before. A couple of them have crashed pretty close to me, but I’ve been lucky enough to avoid the smoke, not to mention a direct hit.

  A pair of squirrels dash in front of me and run off into the distance. They don’t scurry up any trees; it looks like they’re just running as far away as they can, as quickly as they can. It occurs to me that these are the first animals I’ve seen all day. Normally I’ll encounter at least a few dog walkers, either on my walk to the bus or outside the shop, but I don’t recall seeing any today. And just like that, a guy wearing nothing but a belt and a cowboy hat appears with what looks to be a dead cat slumped over each shoulder. He runs up to a cherry blossom tree and kicks it, then screams in pain, drops the dead cats, and begins hopping up and down on his other foot. I take a hard left and pick up my pace a bit.

  I pass by a supermarket and think about going in, until I see through the windows how many people are already inside, most of them attacking each other with weapons, pieces of shelves, even canned beans and cartons of milk. Most of them have that look that’s become ubiquitous in just a matter of hours. I wonder if I’ll escape that fate myself, if I even manage to stay alive.

  I also see a number of people lying unresponsive on the linoleum floor of the market. Some appear to have bulging, purple-marked necks that still heave on their own, while others look uninfected but still dead. So as much as I want to take my chances and sneak inside to grab a jug of water, I decide it’s too risky. The shelves look fairly picked over anyway, from what I’m able to see. No sense in putting myself that close to harm’s way.

  Seven or eight blocks later I reach Homestuff, a big-box home project superstore, and I think about the bookshelves I never got around to building at home. I wonder if my lack of follow-through on projects like that contributed to the reasons Isa left. I wouldn’t be surprised. I should’ve been a better guy, a better partner. I guess I realize that now, although I couldn’t tell you if it just dawned on me, or if it’s a conclusion I’ve slowly been coming to over the last few months.

  I wonder about her—if she’s still at the bakery, or if she’s at home. I don’t even know where she’s living these days.

  I approach the store from the parking lot, scoping things out before I go inside. It looks fairly vacant, though I doubt it’s empty. From what I can see through the glass door, the shelves look pretty well-stocked. It’s a surprise, but a welcome one.

  I imagine they’ve got bottled water in there. It seems like the sort of place doomsday preppers would frequent, as they ready their bunkers for the sort of day that finally came today. But I guess all the work that needed to be done before doomsday arrived was already done, and in theory all those folks are locked away underground by now. Hopefully they left some supplies behind for me. I wonder if they’ve been affected in their bunkers anyway, if they’ve mutated, if they’re tearing each other apart underground.

  The Homestuff door has a sensor, and slides open when I get close enough to trigger it. It emits a low chime as it opens, and I freeze one step in on the concrete floor to see if the sound summons anyone. It doesn’t, and I’m thankful.

  I move cautiously down one aisle, then another, and find no one, which is nearly as shocking as anything else I’ve seen today, but I won’t waste time sweating it. I look up too—this is one of those stores that’s essentially a huge warehouse, with metal shelving units rising what must be thirty or forty feet up, packed with boxes and planks of wood and every diameter of PVC piping you could possibly need. I keep thinking someone’s going to jump out at me from behind a water heater, or from inside a display model of a refrigerator. It doesn’t happen, though.

  I find a small section offering a few different kinds of backpacks, and grab a canvas one off the wall. I also find some elbow and kneepads—the kind roofers use, I think. And there’s a sporting goods section, where I find a chest protector that seems light enough, and even if it’s only fabric and stuffing, it looks like it’ll offer some level of protection. I think maybe a helmet would be a good idea too, but I don’t see any.

  Then I discover cases of bottled water, miraculously untouched. I tear into the outer plastic casing, still trying to remain quiet, and twist the cap off a bottle. I chug it down in a matter of seconds, realizing water has never tasted so good, then set the empty down on a shelf, and pour half of another down my throat. I toss eight or nine more bottles into the backpack, and figure that’s about all I can carry with relative ease, then I slide a few cases of water deeper into the back of the shelf they’re on, and move some other items in front of them, to keep them hidden. Who knows—I may need to come back here later and get more.

  Somewhere in the process, I realize the knife I had taken from the Chinese restaurant is no longer with me. I remember thinking I might lose it when I tucked it into my belt, and then I wonder why I didn’t just secure it better. Knife-wielding rookie mistake, I guess. I wonder where I could have lost it, but realize there’s no sense in trying to figure it out. It’s not like I’m going to retrace my steps and go back into the madness downtown.

  So I have one more thing to shop for, apparently. I need something sharp.

  9

  OF COURSE THE thing I’m looking for would be at the very back of this massive store. I’m still amazed at how utterly devoid of people it is. This place probably has everything one could need in an end-of-the-world scenario, except maybe food. Although there are some snacks in one of the aisles. Mostly trail mix. About fifty varieties of trail mix. And a few energy drinks. But my heart is thumping just fine, thank you very much.

  That is what we’re dealing with here, isn’t it? The end of the world. Sure feels like it. But who knows. I feel like there’s nothing I can be completely sure of right now.

  Could I hole up in here? Seems like it could be safe. Maybe.

  No. Way too much space to defend. Too many directions for others to come from and too few paths to take if I’m caught halfway down an aisle. And way too many things for crazies to grab and use as weapons.

  And should the cavalry come rolling into town, would they even find me deep within the bowels of this gigantic place? Better to get what I need and find somewhere else cozy to barricade myself in.

  Along the back-most aisle, I see what I need. Knives. Hand scythes. Machetes. Perfect. I suppose I could grab some firearms just as easily, but I wouldn’t know what the hell I was doing with them. I’d likely shoot myself in the foot, either figuratively or literally. Plus, who wants to carry ammo around? Ammo that makes loud noises and calls attention to itself. And also runs out. Plus, guns jam. From what I’ve read, at least. Never happens in action movies, of course, but that would probably be my luck.

  I might as well stick with something I know how to use. Sharp things. I can stab and chop with the best of ’em. I’ve already done it today, I feel like I’ve got the experience I need, and I’m prepared to do it again.

  As I approach the back wall with the knife display, I hear something. It’s the smallest sound, but I’m hyper-sensitive to my surroundings right now. I jump back into one of the aisles and crouch down behind a giant cardboard box, and I hear the noise again. It’s a soft sound, but it repeats. Footsteps. Careful footsteps. It’s someone approaching as quietly as they can, trying to sneak up on me. But they’re not quiet enough.

  I wasn’t able to grab a knife before ducking away, so I’ve got to rely on my hands and feet to defend myself. Maybe I can heave the backpack at my attacker.

  This other person—it sounds like just one person—is in the next aisle over. The shelves are packed full, so I can’t see through to scope out what they look like, but I b
race myself. I stand a little taller and get ready to pounce the moment they round the corner, and suddenly there’s movement and I jump out. I swing the loaded backpack around from behind me, both hands on the top strap, but I pull up at the last second and smash the pack into the endcap of the aisle instead.

  “Holy shit!”

  It’s Jenny. The white rims of her glasses look scuffed and dirty, and she no longer has her hat, but otherwise she looks good.

  “Trey!” she gasps, then takes a deep breath. “Oh man, I thought I was dead there for a second.”

  I take a moment to catch my breath too. She reaches out toward me and we hug, both happy to find another survivor with their wits about them.

  “You’re alone?” I say.

  “Yeah, I decided to head out this way when shit started getting crazy downtown. I went to the falafel cart a couple blocks over and this dude started swinging fists, so I ran. Then I went to the deli instead, but the people there were just talking gibberish to each other, like it was normal, and drooling when I tried to order—like, literally drooling all over the counter, and laughing like a bunch of loons—so I bailed on that idea too. Eventually I went back to the shop and saw all the blood. I figured you were dead too.” She pauses and huffs. “Glad you’re not. What the fuck is going on?”

  I wish I had an answer for her. She’s seen the meteors too, so we both know that much. We talk about the yellow smoke and the purple marks and the crazy laughter and the bulging mutated bubbling flesh, but that’s all the info we have.

  “I mean, why would these meteors turn some people into crazy killers, and make other people just regular boring-crazy, and meanwhile you and I are fine?” she says.

  “I don’t know. Isa used to think people were slowly going crazy already. She used to say it was something in the water.”

  Jenny bobs her eyebrows and tilts her head to one side, as if to say the idea sounds reasonable. “So maybe regular crazy is from the water and killer crazy is from the meteors?”

  “Could be. And maybe some of us have a natural genetic defense against whatever this shit is.” I start looking through the store’s selection of knives and other sharp tools. The hand scythes look really fucking cool, but I’m not sure how practical a curved weapon like that is going to be in close proximity. “Who knows what kind of germs are out there, in the water, or out in space. Ya know? Not everybody gets the flu every year, right?”

  “True,” she agrees. “Some people never get chicken pox their entire lives.”

  “Who the hell knows. Maybe the meteors aren’t the cause of it anyway. Maybe they’re another result.” But I abandon the thought there. We have no way of knowing what’s happening. We’re not scientists. We don’t have any data. This is all just speculation.

  I start examining the machetes and begin thinking maybe that’s the way to go. An eighteen-inch blade is plenty sharp, and long enough to keep someone a safe distance away. Suddenly I remember the look on Kia’s face back at the shop when she was swinging the guillotine blade around, and I shudder. It’s an image I hope to block out completely one day. For now, though, I feel like I ought to keep it in my mind. It’ll help keep me alert, and hopefully keep me alive.

  Jenny starts going through a display case full of knives and building up a pile of the ones she likes. None of them look like they weigh too much, so I guess it can’t hurt to stock up. Maybe I’ll grab a few for myself. But I’m keeping a machete as my primary weapon. It just feels right. I tie the sheath onto my leg at first, then realize having it strapped to my back might offer a quicker retrieval of the blade, so I do that. I have to take the chest protector off first, then I tie on the machete and slide my backpack on over it.

  “Did you see these?” I ask, turning to model the pack. “They’re in aisle three or four, I think. Want me to grab you one?”

  “Oh, yeah, that would be great,” she says. “Then I guess we oughta roll, huh?”

  I agree. It can’t be too much longer before someone else shows up here, and the likelihood of them being friendly seems pretty low.

  “I have a place in mind that might be safe,” she says as I move farther away. I pretend I don’t hear her, though. I’d rather we not start screaming to each other across the store. There’s still a chance someone could be lurking nearby.

  I move up and down aisles three and four, then aisle five, and finally I find the backpack display. In aisle six. Apparently I had grabbed the last one in this particular style, but I find another one that’s similar, with plenty of compartments, and it seems like a good choice.

  I head back toward Jenny and the knives, but decide to make a short detour on the way and load her bag with some packages of trail mix and a couple bottles of water.

  I hear a clatter a second before I reach the back aisle again. Sounds like Jenny dropped a knife on the floor or something. Then I turn the corner.

  “Jenny? What are you—”

  She’s standing there on one leg, her opposite foot pressed against the inside of her thigh. A yoga position? Except she’s juggling knives.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Just dropped one.”

  It takes a second, but I realize there are a few drops of blood on the concrete floor in front of her, in addition to the fallen knife.

  “Are you okay?”

  She’s juggling the knives by their exposed blades, with each touch slicing into the skin of her fingers and palms. She doesn’t react to it. It’s as if she doesn’t feel the cuts, but flecks of blood are starting to fly all over as she continues.

  “Check it out,” she screams in a terrible attempt at a British accent. “I’m a bloody jugglah!” Then she starts laughing.

  It only takes another second for me to notice the purple crisscrossed lines on her neck. Were they there before, hidden by her hair? Or did they just appear now? She seemed normal when we first ran into each other, I didn’t even think to examine her. Her eyes weren’t spinning then, but they are now.

  She must have inhaled some of that meteor gas at some point. But when? I wonder how long it takes for the reaction to set in.

  She tosses all the knives up in the air at once and spreads her arms wide, yelling “Ta-da!” and showing me her blood-drenched, sliced-up hands. The blades cascade down around her like rain. The butt of one hits her shoulder but she doesn’t seem to notice. Then she reaches up to scratch her neck, smearing the purple lines with red. She continues to laugh emphatically, and won’t stop.

  Oh Jenny. Not you too. I think I say it out loud, but I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t stop her from suddenly turning violent in the midst of her maniacal laughter, and she begins picking knives up off the ground to throw at me.

  Luckily she has terrible aim and nothing hits me. She keeps trying, but I guess since her eyes are spinning in circles, she probably doesn’t see much more than blurs of light and shadow. I hold the extra backpack up in front of me to block anything that comes close. When she runs out of the knives she had chosen from the display, she goes right back over to it to get some more.

  Her head cocks to one side suddenly, and even from behind, beneath her long hair, I can see the flesh of her neck and shoulder begin to bulge, bursting outward like a series of small bags inflating in rapid succession.

  I consider charging at her, but my legs freeze up, as if they’re second-guessing the thought.

  She turns back toward me, and her aim has improved. Knife after knife sails in my direction, and I use the backpack to knock away the ones I can’t dodge. I think about running, but even if I get away from her, she’ll still be around to hurt others. Or kill others. I have to take care of her.

  I lead with the backpack shield held up high and pull the machete from the sheath on my back as I dart toward her. She only has time to throw one more at me, and I manage to knock it to the side as I dive at her, bringing the long blade down onto her shoulder. She screams, although I’m not sure it’s from pain. Blood sprays and yellow ooze leaks from the wound, and I see
I’ve nearly taken her arm off with one swipe. The machete is lodged inside her shoulder now, though, and I can’t seem to extract it with any ease. She looks down at the wound and laughs, spitting, like it’s the most hilarious thing she’s seen in a week.

  I press forward and we crash into one of the display cases. Glass shatters down on both of us. Jenny grabs a knife from the case with her good hand and swings it around behind me. I feel something wet run down my back almost instantly and I think she’s gotten me, then I realize she’s just stabbed into one of the water bottles inside my pack.

  I can’t pull the machete loose so I let go, take a step back, and grab the wrist of her wounded arm with both hands. Without thinking, I tug violently, then raise a leg and place my foot against her sternum. I push and pull and the machete falls, clanging to the floor as her arm separates from her body. I’ve still got both hands around her wrist, and I beat her repeatedly in the face with her own severed arm, using it like a club. Blood spatters everywhere, dotting the display cases and the shelves and the floor, and I don’t stop until her laughter stops and finally she’s lying still.

  10

  ONCE I’VE GATHERED a few knives and swapped my backpack for one without a hole, I’m out the door. I grab a few extra bottles of water too, because I’m not sure when I might be headed back here after all.

  If I run into someone, I wonder what the best course of action should be. Do I keep a low profile and try to pass unnoticed? Or do I act extra-crazy in the hopes that even the crazy ones will avoid me? Or do I destroy everybody and everything in my way? As the hours pass, it seems more and more like it’s the end of the world, and kill or be killed is the code to live by.

  I take River Road, which oddly enough, runs alongside a train line instead of a river. For some reason I feel like that might be less inhabited than other streets, and once I’m there, it seems like a good decision. It’s not completely vacant, but there aren’t too many people, and most of them are far enough away that I have plenty of time to alter my route and avoid them if I want.