There was a rustle of leaves, and a squirrel jumped onto a tree, skittered upward and out of sight.
“There are so many squirrels out here,” Thais said. “If we stop catching fish, at least we’ll have plenty of squirrel meat.”
“No, we won’t. We’re running out of ammo.”
“Then we should hunt bigger game—more meat per bullet.”
“We’ll have to,” I said. “Maybe I can build a smoker to help preserve the meat—might get lucky and find a tarp or something else I can use. I’ve never done it before, but I’ll figure it out.” I regretted not paying more attention to the jobs citizens were assigned to in Lexington City.
“But we can’t stay here forever,” I said. “We have to move south soon, and we’ll definitely need the bullets out there on The Road.”
“I think we should stay,” she said. “I want to stay here.”
“I know you do.” My voice was consoling. “We’ll talk about it later. I think I see a cabin.”
We stopped on the trail and gazed ahead through a clearing. On the other side, over tall stalks of yellow grass bending gently to the breeze, a structure sat perched on a rocky hill surrounded by engulfing trees.
“It could just be a shack,” Thais said.
“Whatever it is,” I said, stepping up to the border where the forest met the field, “we’re going to search it.”
We kept to the trees, going the long way around rather than cutting through the wide-open field and risking exposure. We weaved through a rock maze on an incline, and by the time we made it to the top, Thais complained that her feet were killing her.
The rocky ground became compact dirt, spreading outward in a curvy path, flattened by years of human foot traffic and possibly ATV travel. Trees were marked by circular reflectors, red and blue; faded red barrier ribbons hung from a bush here and there. Out ahead, a tire hung from a rope in a tree, and just beyond it there was a cabin, nearly unrecognizable from the overgrowth of vines that covered the front porch and the outside walls and almost the entire roof—a few more months of growth and we never would have spotted the tiny cabin from the bottom.
“Probably overrun by snakes,” I said. “A machete would be really nice right now.”
“Maybe it’s better around the back.”
“Hopefully.”
We went around to the back of the cabin where the overgrowth had been cut away; a porch overlooked the bluffs fifteen feet from the bottom step.
“Whoever owned this place,” I said in a lowered voice, “didn’t want it to be easily found, that’s for sure.”
“What if they still own it?”
“That’s what worries me.” I gripped her hand.
“Hello!” I called out before going up the steps. “Is anybody here?”
No answer.
“Do you smell that?”
I sniffed the air; the stench was faint, but it was there and distinct and that was enough to set me on edge. Only one thing could smell like that.
“It’s probably a dead deer or something,” I said.
I hope like hell that’s all it is. I tugged Thais’ hand.
I opened the back door with reluctance, expecting to find a dead body inside the cabin—better dead than alive, I supposed—and as sunlight spilled into the doorway, my eyes widened and my breath caught. For a long time, I couldn’t move. Thais stepped up beside me, and her hand involuntarily went over her mouth.
It was supply heaven. Where all the long-lost items needed for survival must’ve been taken and stored the day The Fever took its first victim. From floor to ceiling, against all four walls of the one-room cabin, there were metal shelves chock full of MRE’s (Meals Ready to Eat) and gallon jugs of water and five-gallon buckets of dehydrated food and boxes upon boxes of powdered laundry detergent and tea bags and coffee and a plethora of other things I couldn’t begin to name because my head was spinning like a happy drunk in bar.
Plastic crates were stuffed with tubes of toothpaste, toothbrushes, bottles of shampoo, boxed bars of soap, tiny bottles of mouthwash, body wash, every kind of wash one could imagine. On another shelf, there were canned goods and jarred jellies and pickled eggs and pig’s feet and God only knew what that black gunk was in other jars, and I was afraid to know. Rubbing alcohol; peroxide; boxes of Band-Aids; veterinary suture needles with nylon thread; cans of disinfectant spray; small bottles of bleach; one shelf was dedicated to hundreds of jars of spices and oils and powders.
Together, Thais and I homed in on the shelf on the back wall, turned our heads toward each other with wide eyes and said at the same time: “Is that…toilet paper?”
We just stared at the shelves packed with rolls upon rolls of heavenly white softness that was more valuable than any gold or silver or precious gemstones. I could’ve fainted if that was the manly thing to do—I got tired years ago wiping my ass with cloth and newspaper and leaves, and thought I’d never see another roll of toilet paper in my lifetime.
“I’m willing to leave everything else behind,” I said, mostly in jest, “to carry back as much toilet paper as we can.”
Thais laughed, shaking her head.
“Well, I for one would love to smell like a girl for a change,” she said. “And maybe have hair that doesn’t feel like hay. A little compromise is in order, I think.” She holstered her gun and crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at me.
I pressed my lips to her forehead.
“I happen to love the way you smell,” I said matter-of-factly, and then ran my fingers through her hair. “And your hair doesn’t feel like hay.”
“Well, just the same, we’re taking back more than toilet paper.”
Yes ma’am. I smiled, thinking to myself.
We scanned the shelves more closely, me taking one side of the room, and Thais taking the other, but neither of us putting anything into our backpacks yet—in the back of my mind I was thinking: Something’s not right about this.
“I don’t know, Thais, this place is too clean.” I turned from the shelf and looked at the wooden floor that appeared to have been swept. I turned back to the shelf and ran my fingers over the top of macaroni and cheese boxes wrapped in plastic. There was no dust. I looked up at the ceiling, and where vines and maybe even a few bird’s nests should’ve been, wooden beams were devoid of even a single swaying cobweb.
Upon realizing what my gut had been telling me all along, we stepped away from the shelves and went slowly toward each other in the center of the room.
I took Thais’ hand again. “I think we should probably get the hell out of here before whoever stocked these shelves comes back,” I said.
“Ah,” said a woman’s rasping voice from behind—Thais and I reeled around. “Yens must be tha couple stayin’ at tha Graham’s place. Esra! Com’eah!”
I stood frozen with my gun pointed at the old woman with long, silvery hair so thin I could see her lemon rind scalp as the sun beat down on her head in the doorway.