The Shop
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.....The Shop (children's story, needs a better title.)
.....Mum shoots the zom in Shampoos and Conditioners before the rest of us know it's there. Straight through the socket. Do not pass go. Do not collect £200. That's why she goes first. Her crossbow makes a hacking cough sound and we freeze as soon as we hear it: Sis at one end of a rot pond me at the other, its sludge of stains all that's left of whatever was 79p each. Bruv's by the door, and Dad's still outside in the small precinct double-checking we weren't followed. By anything.
.....Make Sure it's Dead
.....We wait in the echoey silence, listening hard as we can. After a few seconds we hear the zom asking a kind of gurgly question, then it stops. Three, two, one. Dad says they sound like a defrosted Turkey hitting the floor. I don't know what that is. Zoms fall like zoms, a kind of dull thud with a hint of squelch, depending on how long since they turned. But zoms are rarely on their own and their hearing is ridiculous, so nobody relaxes just because that one's dead. They can be pack animals or herd ones, Mum says, same as the people they used to be. Sometimes wolves. Sometimes sheep. So we wait and watch and listen, wondering if, somewhere, a zom is doing the exact same thing.
.....Waste Nothing
.....After a short forever Dad comes in and we take up new positions behind the rot pond. Still nothing. Mum makes a decision: cocking her crossbow, like a key rattling in a lock, she let's it hang from its shoulder strap and, drawing a boot knife, goes to retrieve the bolt. We hear the slurping noise the it makes as she pulls it from the socket after giving it a good stir. Scrambled brains. Mum walks silently to the top of the aisle, almost disappearing in the murk, looks both ways, then comes back. There's no sign that the zom was anything other than alone. Time to shop.
.....No Talking
.....The Supermarket is not a big as some, but it's gloomy like most. Maybe ten double rows divided across the middle into two sections. As usual we ignore the first two on the left, the rot aisles. Mum gives out the assignments with her knife and we all set off, Bruv and me to Crisps and Snacks.
.....Of course we're not the first here. Nor the hundred and first. Most of the shelves are empty, even crisps. Which is mad. Loud to carry, louder to eat. Turn you into zom bait and leave a terrible aftertaste. Anyway, it's not really food we're after. We grow vegetables here and there, guerilla gardening Mum calls it. Nothing you'd recognise as deliberate, nothing to catch the eye. And there are dogs everywheres, so we'll grab dinner on the way home.
.....There are still a few brightly coloured sweets tucked away on the bottom shelf on my side of the aisle. Bruv notices me noticing and grins. Not something he does often. We have an argument running, him and me, about what hurts worse: being bit by a zom or having Dad pull a rotten tooth out with his pliers. Bruv says its the pliers. Almost as bad as having the hand drill grind away before the hole is filled with stuff Mum and Dad shopped from a dentist. Before my time. I look at Bruv and his gappy smile and shrug a Don't Worry. I'll keep my whites pearly. As we approach the central cross-way Bruv stops and gives me a look. Snakes! I've missed something. I turn round and take a closer look, retracing my steps. Right there, in plain sight, a bundle of newspapers. Double Word Score! Good for reading, crosswords and wrapping things in.
.....Bruv has already made a start in Home Baking and has seven or eight bags of flour by the time I catch up. I spot some tinned fruit. No idea what it's doing here but I'm not complaining. We get lucky again because there's salt. I grab some boxes, Bruv the plastic containers. Snap!
.....We're the first to finish, as usual, so we wait in front of the double doors between the dried slime counters of Fresh Fish. At some point they've been locked by someone pushing a couple of brooms and a mop through their handles. Since they aren't broken it's safe to assume that whatever they wanted to keep out stayed out. Or found another way in.
.....Don't Carry More Than You Can Run With
.....Dad is the last to arrive and looks very smug as he approaches. He walks the last steps backwards so we can see what look like the boxes of two board games sticking out of the top of his rucksack. Jammy. We start to bag up. I get a flour, salt, two bottles of bleach, one of the tins and a newspaper to wrap it in. Mum's found two huge sacks of charcoal which she gives to Dad in exchange for a dozen toilet rolls. Sis gives me a couple of toothpastes and brushes and, Bingo! out of nowhere, a jar of dragon eyes. I love dragon eyes. And these are the best ones, crocodile green with red pupils. The label says Pimento Olives, but so what? The jar is glass so I carry it in my free hand; you never put breakables in your backpack.
.....Always Read the Label
.....We're still packing things away when Sis tilts her head and signals stop. She's got ears like a zom. We all get as quiet as we can and wait. Bad news. Sis is focusing in on Fresh Meat and Milk which is where the rot bombs live. Slowly, like she's being pulled by a magnet, she starts towards them. Dad sets down the sack of charcoal and goes after her, I can see his fingers opening and closing on the grip of his cutlass, the rest of us quickly finish packing and follow at a good two aisle distance.
.....Rot bombs are best avoided. Once upon a time they were animal parts, wings or fillets, steaks and sausages, all safely wrapped in see-through plastic. But now that they've been left to stew in their own juices for a few years they're these swollen, shiny, slimy-brown packages of what looks like you know what. And if they burst the stink is worse than zom breath.
.....Sis stops one aisle short and signals to Dad. He moves past her, checks the floor where she's pointed and then heads cautiously towards the large grey door with a rectangular glass window in it. He hesitates and then slow, slow, slowly eases the door open with his shoulder and slips inside. He returns almost immediately shaking his head. Nothing. At least nothing to worry about. Sis follows her ears and turns down the rot aisle out of sight. Dad waits for us to catch up. There are what look like blood smears on the floor, drag marks, and more of whatever it is on the door. Probably old, but it's hard to be sure, in the dim-light, so none of us step in it.
.....We're just in time to see Sis retrieve what looks like a bundle of clothes from the bottom of a rot trough. As she draws closer the it looks like the clothes are concealing a doll. And then the doll opens its mouth and closes it again. Sis has found a baby, and it's yawning!
.....It says something that I didn't notice Mum had left until she returned with a wire shopping basket filled with green and blue tubs. Stuff for the baby, I guess. And an A4 pad of writing paper. She put the tubs in Bruv's pack, replacing some toilet rolls, and carefully approached Sis. She held out the basket and Sis put the baby in it and then Mum gave the whole thing back to her. Her face! Mum leaves the A4 pad exactly where Sis found the baby. Later, Sis tells me that all that was written on the pad was, "Your Child is Safe." I wonder if she and Dad left a similar message when they found me?
.....Have You Forgotten Anything?
.....What happened next is nobody's fault – unless you want to blame the baby – but, for reasons we still bicker about, it's me that leads us out. Totally turvy. I've barely taken a single step before the zom attacks and I drop straight down, bum to heel. No idea why, but it works. Instead of grabbing me the zom snatches only empty air. It stumbles and I can feel its confusion. Everything slows and for some reason I take the time to carefully set the jar of dragon eyes down, then, as things speed up again, I shift a couple of duck steps to the side and send my cleaver crunching into its knee. The zom stops, as if about to scream and as I yank the blade free Bruv's axe cuts the air over my head and thunks, wickedly, into the zom's ribs. Bruv's swings again, and again and I quickly scramble-roll out of the way. There's one awful, How embarrassing is this? moment when I'm teetering on my back like a woodlouse, but I manage to complete the roll and I'm up on my feet. Just in time to watch the zom's head go bonk, bonk bonk down the paving stones. It sounds like a dropped plank. Three, two, one. It's all silent again, except for Bruv's heavy breathing. Wow, was he gory, dripping in zom stuff. Then the smell hits me. I look down and realise I'm pretty spattered too. I can feel it on my face, so rather than risk speaking I sign, Thank You.
.....Mum loads a bolt into her crossbow and everyone else keeps their distance from us. We all know what happens next. And it won't be fun. We'll go to one of our safe houses where Bruv and me will strip to our nothings and be thoroughly hosed down, inspected for bites or cuts and put into quarantine. Seven days. The usual drill. It's not just the biting you have to worry about with zoms, it's all the nasty infections and germs they carry. I tell myself to remember to ask Mum if we can go to the mall when it's over 'cause I really, really, really need some new underwear.
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Last edited by Richard G; 03-16-2025 at 07:31 AM.
Reason: typo (thanks Glenn)
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