Behind the man, the human chain begins to cheer. Russell rolls down the window to shoo him away, but it’s taken as an invitation. As the loner approaches, I think he’ll reach through the window and grasp the crooner. Instead, the man slams his fist against the hood.
“The road’s closed,” he screams. “No one passes.”
Russell nods in agreement, reassures him by saying, “I’m on your side, man.”
The man has finally noticed Russell’s ghoul paint. His upper lip pulls back in disgust. “You Goddamned freaks,” he shouts.
“Step away from the car,” an officer calls. He draws his gun as he steps forward. Rosita screams from the backseat and places her palms flat on the glass. I’m suddenly taken over by survival tactics my father taught me. Anytime I was approached by some authority figure from town, I was told to run through the same internal list. Be polite. Cooperate. Assume you are in violation of something. Do not bring unwanted attention down on the church. I follow Rosita’s example and place my palms on the windshield. Her shallow breathing seems obscenely loud in the quiet.
“Step away from the car,” the officer says. I can’t tell if he’s noticed the man isn’t armed. The gun stays on target.
“Fuck you, pig,” the man screams. He swings a haymaker reminiscent of something from a John Wayne western. The trooper tackles him to the ground and slaps the bracelets on his wrists while another officer approaches my window. The protesters hiss and shout insults as the cop wrestles with the man. A random bottle sails through the air and smashes against a nearby cruiser. Another officer points his firearm at the crowd in warning. This is answered with lobbed rocks and more bottles that shatter in front of the man’s feet.
“Road’s closed,” the officer says to me. He shines his Maglite on Russell. If the ghoul makeup shocks him, he suppresses it well. “I’m going to have to ask you to go back the way you came.”
The cop smells like sweat-drenched polyester and morning breath. I guess no one has showered this evening. Caroline leans toward the front like she wants to ask a question, but Victor pulls her back. Russell whips the car around and drives away. A flash erupts from the backseat as Rosita takes a picture through the tinted glass. Inside the confines of the car, the light is blinding as a supernova. My retinas are imprinted with spheres of red long after the bulb is extinguished.
“Wrong lenses for this dark,” Rosita says to herself.
“Put it away,” Russell yells.
Several protesters break from the chain. Bottles and rocks continue to rain down on the police. Most seem aware that this rage is misdirected and refuse to unhinge from their link. These bodies hold fast, leaving the group divided. I watch in the rearview as the police move in with clubs held high. Before the two lines converge, the groups become dark shapes indistinguishable from one another.
RESUPPLY
Day One of the Contamination
When we pull up in front of Shaheen’s Grocery, I realize all the cops are in the wrong place. Frantic shoppers extend out the open doors in a line that’s crushing the weak and elderly against the door frame. Through the storefront windows, I watch men and women run down the aisles grabbing cases of bottled water. One couple stands in the frozen food section, the man heaving items into a shopping cart held by his wife. They’ve amassed perhaps twenty dripping bags of ice, but the man keeps loading until the buggy sags under the weight. A woman in a bathrobe holds five 2-liter bottles of soda to her chest. Each one is a different flavor. In the produce section, a man fills his coat with heads of cabbage that become leafy cleavage. The orange shaft of a carrot protrudes through his coat buttons as if he’s been impaled by an organic arrow. The cashiers are under siege, conveyor belts and scan guns unable to operate fast enough. Eventually, people begin to slap money down next to the register and leave.
In a few moments, the situation will escalate into looting. I’m about to tell Russell to just drive on, but he turns toward the backseat.
“You girls stay here.”
Russell jumps out of the car, dirty spats smacking the pavement as he runs for the door. I look in the back and see Caroline leaning her forehead against the window. Each of her shallow breaths fogs the glass.
“You okay?” I ask. “Because we need to get home.”
It’s probably already too late. I don’t think we can get past the protesters again to retrieve the truck. That leaves Russell’s hearse the only available vehicle. Rosita must recognize some desperation in my voice. She leans forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. Even through the fabric of my shirt, her palm is warm and sweaty, somehow more alive than any skin I’ve recently felt.
“She’ll be okay,” she tells me. “She’s just a little fucked up.”
Out the window, I see Russell push against the crowd to get inside. I consider climbing behind the wheel and driving on to find a less populated store, but the bastard took the keys with him. A smile spreads across Victor’s face as he watches the chaos inside.
“I guess this is what it takes for people to wake up,” Victor says. “Years of mines caving in, the mountains blasted away till it floods with every hard rain, cancerous chemicals in the groundwater, and now this. We gotta do something to make it stick this time. People can’t just ride it out and forget.”
“What are you talking about?” Rosita asks.
“I’m talking about rich boy in there,” Victor says. “He’s the key. We need him to deny his birthright. If he don’t get his head crushed in aisle eight.”
“You should go help him,” I say, but Victor doesn’t move. One of his arms is wrapped around Caroline’s waist. His eyes travel from this trapped appendage back to me.
“Somebody’s gotta stay here with the girls,” he says. “Keep them safe.”
Rosita rolls her eyes at this, but I’m not bothered. It’s just more of the same condescension I’ve always known. An average man burying my face in the dirt to make himself feel stronger. If he wants to humiliate me, who is going to stop him? The world’s reverted to survival of the fittest.
I look out the window again and see Russell has made it inside the store. Rosita will protect Caroline if I leave, but I’m worried about the guitar case. Victor isn’t the sort above sneaking a look inside. What if he finds the record while I’m fighting over supplies? Maybe it doesn’t matter. It’s not like he could listen to it now, but there’d be questions later.
“Will you be okay if I go help him?” I ask Rosita.
She nods, so I climb out on my cane.
Inside the store, a woman drags a chubby little boy past me as they sprint for the coolers in back. A father points to shelves as he shouts to young sons who move like soldiers receiving orders. Dropped cans of Coke and packages of shrink-wrapped meat lie in the aisles. The floor is sticky with spilled soda, so I move slow, depending on my cane. My back aches again, but I push through it. I don’t have any pills with me, so relief won’t come anytime soon. I can suffer through the pain. I’m more worried about losing the new song. It’s still there, playing low just under the surface of this commotion.