H1Z1 - Chapter 2

As we stepped through the door, it seemed as through eerie was the word for the day - Wad-Mart is usually a zoo on a Saturday morning, even if it was this early. Obviously, with the flu scare, no one was venturing too far from their hovels, but I don't remember the store ever seeming this empty.

Doors automatically sliding closed behind us, Bill and I immediately aimed ourselves to the back right of the store and the outdoors section. We rarely shopped anywhere but the outdoors section, unless one or the other of us needed a new shirt or my wife dragged me, kicking and screaming like a distruptive two-year-old through the store on a shopping expedition.

"Dad," he asked, and the tone in his voice made the hair on the back of my neck stand up even further, if that is even possible. "Where is everybody?"

"I'm not sure, Son," I replied, shaking my hand free of his so he didn't notice how sweaty my palms had suddenly become. "Let's just go get some shells and get out of here."

As we strode with purpose down the aisle between the electronics and toys, I scanned the cashier stands at the front of the store. This place was huge - a warehouse, more than anything, but I could usually see a cashier at one of the 30 or so check out stands. I thought I might have seen someone's head way down at the other end of the store (it seemed like it was half-a-mile away), but I couldn't be sure. One of the reasons I loathe this stupid store so much is that they have so many check-out stands, but it seems like no more than three are manned at any given time.

'Great,' I thought. 'Only one line open. Good thing we seem to be the only people in the store.'

"Why are we the only people in the store?" my mini-doppelganger echoed.

"We're not the only people in the store, Son," was my automatic, thoughtless reply. "At least, I don't think we are.

We rounded the corner to the outdoor aisle and went directly to the shelf of brightly colored boxes designed to entice us to "Buy this ammo! None is better than ours!"

"Grab two boxes of the skeet-load," I instructed, watching as Bill scanned the labels, diligently trying to find the right kind of shells. He hesitated at the middle shelf of boxes, which were not the right ones, before his hand darted one shelf down to the correct loads just before I reminded him of what he was looking for.

"Wow, these are heavy, Dad," he grunted, hoisting the boxes under his arm.

"I know, but when you think about what's in there, you understand why.

"Did you check the box to make sure it was steel shot, not lead?" Bill was envirenmentally minded, and I had explained the differences between lead and steel shot to him, and the repercussions of all that lead in the ground at the range.

"They're all steel now, Dad, you know that!" was his reply. I never could trip him up when it came to things like this - the child had a mind like a bear trap.

"Why don't you grab a box of 20 gauge, too, Son?"

His eyes almost glowed as he nearly whooped out, "Really?"

I'd only let him shoot a few times, but he was a natural at it, remained calm and focused on the range and we had taken the range safety course together. I knew he was not only able, but that he really enjoyed shooting with me on the occasion I could smuggle him out from under his mother's watchful eye.

As he addded the box of 20 gauge shells to his pile, I turned to look at the gun counter and froze. Staring back at me was a woman in a Wad-Mart uniform. She wasn't moving, just staring, except she seemed to be staring through me - her eyes were glazed looking and didn't move around. She just stared. I noticed something else, but it didn't quite register at the time - she was drooling. In fact, a thin line of slaver ran almost all the way down her chest to the bottom of her blue vest. Her mouth was open and there was a kind of wheeze coming from her throat - not exactly breathing, not exactly coughing. But her chest barely moved - she sort of shuffled toward us. Lurched might more be the word.

"Dad? ..." I could hear the raw edge of terror in Bill's voice.

"It's ok, Son. Just be calm.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" I asked, taking a step toward the corral behind the gun counter where she was standing.

She wheezed. She didn't talk, didn't answer - it seemed like my voice registered in her head, but she didn't seem to understand what I had asked.

"Ma,am?" I asked, beginning to feel that edge of fear in my own mind.

"Dad, let's go," Bill urged, tucking the boxes of shells under his arm and tugging on my shirt sleeve.

"Just a minute, Son. I think this lady needs our help."

I took another step toward her and she lurched toward me again - spittle bubbling in her mouth and a froth beginning to spill from her lips. A bloody froth.

"Lady! Can you hear me?" I shouted, torn between getting closer and turning tail and running.

My spine felt like a rod of ice - my blood, however, burned as it raced through my limbs. I could not only see that there was something terribly, terribly wrong with this woman, but, and my mind balked at this realization, I could smell something wrong with her.

"Dad! No!" Bill spurted as I reached out to touch her. She was burning up - I could feel heat through the sleeve of her blouse as I gently shook her shoulder. Her eyes were still looking through me, but she seemed to recognized my touch and lurched toward me again, hitting the little swinging door of the corral and stumbling.

It took me a minute to understand that I was hearing a feral growl from deep in the back of her throat, but by this time, instinct had taken over and I jerked my hand away, subconsciously wiping it clean on my shirt as I took a step back from her.

"Dad, we need to go!" Bill said, pulling harder at my sleeve.

"Yeah, Son. Yes. I think we do," I said, backing away, eyes not leaving the slavering, lurching woman as she bumped against the corral door over and over, not seeming to realize she had to unlatch it to get out from behind the counter.