Milk Run

This is fine...

“Honey,” Sophie called from the kitchen, “we’re out of milk.”

The refrigerator door closed softly, and the pale light winked out. From his seat in the living room, Josh could see that the kitchen was dark again, both from the lights being off, and from the metal shutters that covered the windows, blocking out the streetlights outside.

For a moment, he heard the rise and fall of sirens wailing in the distance.

Josh sighed. “Soph, we’re watching a movie…” He gestured from his armchair at the frozen TV screen, King Kong looming over the jungle, glaring at a fleet of helicopters bearing down on him. “Kong’s about to…” he paused, smiled, “…go bananas.”

He laughed. Sophie didn’t.

The refrigerator opened again, the slant of pale light reappearing in the dark kitchen. “Did you remember to put gas in the car?” she asked idly, her voice echoey, her head in the fridge.

He sighed, annoyed, sagging lower in his chair. “There’s gas in the car, and in the cans in the garage too.”

“But is the car full?” she asked pointedly.

He grunted, hesitated, “Full-ish.”

There was a long pause. He could feel her eyes on him from over the edge of the open refrigerator door. He didn’t look; he remained steadfastly focused on the TV.

“So, we should fill it up, right?” she asked finally, heavy with implication, a prodding implication he tried to ignore.

“It’ll be fine,” he said, attempting to brush it off, to douse the flames before they caught.

There was another long pause from the coldly half-lit kitchen. From the corner of his eye, he could see her standing there, a slim silhouette leaning out around the open door, caught in the pale light of the refrigerator, bare legs and a tousle of dark hair. She stared at him, but he refused to look over. Then, a grunt, and “Did you read the text from the neighborhood group?”

Josh rolled his eyes, getting more annoyed. “I don’t care what those wannabe Batmans are doing.” He pointed at the screen, exasperated, “The movie is still paused, by the way.”

“They want to form a neighborhood patrol group.”

“Yeah, I bet they do. I’m sure they’ve got all the super fancy gear too,” he rolled his eyes. “Matte black. Specially made. Very expensive. All suited up and ready to go fight the scourge of infection. Super manly men. God damn heroes, all of them.”

“All right, fine,” she said, an indulgent tone to go with her indulgent look. “We should still get the car filled up,” the fridge thumped closed again, the cool light going out, “just in case we decide we need to leave… or if there’s a shortage again,” she added, more pointedly than the last time. She stood in the kitchen doorway in an almost too short t-shirt, with her long dark legs, and a pair of white socks that bunched thickly around her ankles. A nearly empty milk jug hung from one hand. She added a pointed look to her pointed tone. “One of us should probably go fill up the tank before the morning rush. Plus,” she held up the jug, sloshing it around, “I wanted to have some milk with the cookies I made.”

He perked up from his slouch, wary, with narrowed eyes, “You made cookies?”

“I’m making cookies,” She said, then shrugged, “…I will make cookies,” she clarified, “We also need kitty food… and toothpaste.”

He slouched back down in his chair, extra low, chin on his chest. One of us should go, she had said, one of us means me. “Didn’t we just go to the store?”

“We forgot some things,” she said.

“We,” he scoffed.

“Plus,” she plowed on, “we…” she emphasized, “should also get some toilet paper and some paper towels, if there are any.”

Sitting up suddenly, j’accuse! “I told you we should’ve gotten that bidet attachment,” smug, “It’s better for the environment too,” he added, giving her a haughty look.

“Mmmm-hmmm,” she said, unmoved, “and did you order one?”

A long pause, “They’re currently sold out.”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” she said.

He sank back down into his armchair and let the silence sit, resolutely focused on King Kong frozen on the TV screen. Somewhere outside, beyond the metal window shutters that covered the big picture window of the living room, there was a long scream, like a high-pitched growling, an animal-like screech. They both turned toward the window and stared silently for a long moment, as the shriek trailed off. They didn’t say anything. They just listened.

Josh finally turned back to her, gestured at the TV, “Are we going to watch this?”

“I want milk,” she said. “I have cookies.”

“Yeah, but… I just hate going to the store…” he said, “especially during all this shit.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else,” she said, “but we still need toilet paper, and cat food…” she held up the jug again, “and milk. Can’t you go?”

“Can’t we wait?”

“I want milk and cookies.”

“I don’t have any pants on,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” she smiled, pointing, “I can see your little buddy poking up out of your boxers there, Flash Gordon.”

Josh snorted and looked down. His penis was hanging out the opening of his boxers, flopped across his lap. He raised his hips and shook, bouncing it, “How about you come here and take a closer look.” He waggled an eyebrow at her.

She smiled, shaking her head, amused, as she set the empty milk jug on the counter, and sauntered over. She knelt on the couch and crawled across the cushions toward him, leaning out over the arm at him, fluttering her eyes. “Tell you what,” she stretched out her arm and poked at his penis with a slim finger. It twitched in response, started to stand up, “how about you and your friend go and get me some milk, kitty food, and some toilet paper… if they have any… and some gummi bears too… and when you get back, I’ll be naked and waiting… How ‘bout that?” She sat back, shook her curly mop of hair and struck a very burlesqued sexy pose, shoulders back, chest out, softly biting her lower lip, and fluttering her eyes at him. He smirked. She laughed, big and bright, breaking character. “Come on, do it,” she pushed, reaching out, poking his arm.

“What if…” Josh considered aloud, with a sidelong look and a raised eyebrow, “you give me a blow job first?”

She sighed, smiling, relenting, “Fine. Come on,” getting up from the couch and padding across the hardwood floor to the bedroom.

“Woo-hoo!” Josh raised both his fists in victory. He groaned as he levered himself up from his chair, sore and slow from being stuck inside and sitting for so long, and shuffled after her, his erection leading the way.

#

Josh pulled on his topcoat, settling the thick leather and chainmail collar down on his shoulders. The coat was heavy and hot, and feeling a little tight around the middle after the last couple of months quarantined at home. He sucked in his gut, pulled the coat together, zipped up, and buttoned the collar tight around his neck.

Sophie watched from the bathroom door, swishing mouthwash. She spit wintergreen loudly into the sink. “Yay, best husband!” she said. She stopped, dug in her mouth and pulled out a squiggly little hair between her pinched fingers. She grimaced, “Ugh,” and flick-flick-flicked it away. She tipped back another swig of mouthwash, swish-swish-swished, winked at him, and then leaned over the sink and spit. “Yay, best husband!” she repeated.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, groaning as he bent over. The topcoat was definitely tighter than the last time he put it on. He reminded himself to get back to his morning exercises as he stepped into his boots. Definitely tomorrow, he thought, chainmail jingling as he bent and snapped on the shin guards. He straightened, breathing a little heavily.

“Don’t be grumpy,” Sophie chided, “I sucked your dick.”

“I’m going, aren’t I?” He dropped his Sun Torch flashlight into one pocket, and his collapsible baton and heavy keyring into the other. “Don’t think that means that you don’t have to be naked when I get back though,” he said, playfully firm, then winking, as he scooped up his heavy gloves with the chainmail sewn to the back.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, I’ll remember,” She lifted the hem of her t-shirt teasing, doing a little dance with a little smile, then, “Do you remember what you’re supposed to get?”

“Yes,” he said, exasperated.

She raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Cat food…” he counted off, “toilet paper, if they have any…”

“If they have any,” she repeated.

“And…” he said slowly, stalling, searching his memory.

She re-raised an eyebrow, lips together in a small frown.

“Gummi bears!” he blurted, pointing at her triumphantly. “See, I know.”

“Milk!” she yelled.

“Oh yeah… milk too.”

“Should I write down?”

“No, I got it.”

She stared at him for a moment, then, “I’m writing it down.”

“I got it,” he assured her, leaving the room. “I’m going now, or I’m not going!”

She shook her head, a small smile, “You’re so aggravating,” following him to the back door, drumming a quick patter with her palms on his chainmailed shoulders. “Drive safe, baby,” she said. “And be careful. Come home soon.”

“I will,” he said, and swiped the security pad, unlocking the garage and flipping on the backyard floodlights. They came on with a loud snap and a whoomph. In the screen, he could see the backyard suddenly bathed in a bright purple-white glare, catching a glimpse of something pale and long-limbed as it scrambled away, up and over the fence.

“Fucking assholes…” he muttered.

“Is it gone?” she asked, a nervous tinge.

He nodded, peering out into the back yard.

“There’s been more of them lately,” she said, peering past him and at the screen.

He shook his head, “It’s just a few selfish assholes who thought they knew better.”

She grimaced and grunted, unhappy, unconvinced.

“It’s fine,” he looked back at her, “milk, cat food, toilet paper, and gummi bears, right?”

She hemmed and hawed, reconsidering, watching the screen and the now empty backyard bathed in floodlights, “Maybe we should wait ‘til tomorrow…”

“It’s fine.” He waved her off, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “I’m all dressed now. I’ll go and come back, really quick. No big deal.”

“Hey,” she touched his arm, he barely felt it through the thick leather and chainmail. “Promise me…” she said, eyes intense, “promise me, like, you’ll be careful. Don’t be a hero.”

He smiled, hoping it was reassuring, “I will. I promise.”

“Okay…” deep breath. “Okay, good,” she gave him a quick kiss. “See you soon. Don’t forget the milk.”

He opened the back door, “Bye, baby,” and he stepped out, closing the door firmly behind him, listening as Sophie flipped the bolts inside.

Clack-clack-clack, thump-thud.

Outside, he could smell smoke.

There were a couple of places in the neighborhood that were nothing but burnt-out skeletal frames now. They had been that way for a while though, days old, maybe weeks, too long ago to explain that smoldering ashy reek he could smell now, or the ragged tendrils of hazy smoke he could see drifting lazily through the shine of the backyard lights. He stood on his backsteps for a long moment, quiet, looking and listening to the surrounding night.

Beyond the bright glare of his flood lights, the night was an almost impenetrable darkness, but there didn’t seem to be a pulsing orange tint to it that would mark a fire burning somewhere nearby, at least not that he could see. A year or so ago, he would’ve just assumed the smoke was from someone BBQing, or maybe from someone sitting around their firepit.

But that was then…

He could see that most of his immediate neighbors were home, safe behind their metal shutters, thin lines of light seeping out around the edges. He could see a few bright halos from porchlights, and a couple of upper-level apartments windows without any shutters, their interior lights shining boldly out into the night like beacons. Everyone was inside, as ordered. There were even a few streetlights still on too, but as he watched, one flickered and went out.

Otherwise, it was a dark night out.

It was quiet too, of course.

There was no sudden swell of music or voices as people left the bar down the street. Hardly any cars drove by. An empty-looking city bus rumbled past. Everything felt wary, like the world was crouched, prey listening for a predator, barely daring to breathe. The news said people were moving out of the cities to compounds out in the country, places where people could control their contacts, pool their supplies, wall out the infection. He and Sophie had talked about that, of course, but… it just seemed like an over-reaction. It’s better to stay home. Better not to give in to panic. You can’t live your life in fear, right? You just stay in at night, only go out for essential things, and limit your contact to only the people who you knew were safe. Most of all, keep an eye out for the infected. The Government was on top of things. The end was in sight.

So, until then… wait it out, hold the line.

Easy enough. Life goes on.

Still… the neighborhood did seem darker than it had been a few nights ago, quieter too. And it did seem like there were more streetlights out now too, and maybe a few more houses that were just dark spots on the street at night, like they had been abandoned… or cleared out.

So one thing Josh could say for sure, that smoke wasn’t from a BBQ.

That worried him, but then… everything worried him now. He was constantly worried, but what was he supposed to do? Scream? Curl up in a ball? Nobody else was, so maybe he was overreacting. Besides, they still had things they had to do… work, pay bills, seeing friends… not to mention shit like this. And, he was already starting to feel hot in his heavy topcoat, his armpits felt hot and damp. He should get to it, this errand wasn’t gonna do itself.

The wind was cool on his brow. He tipped his face up to it, letting it ruffle his too-long hair. He was overdue for a cut. The breeze felt good.

The night was quiet, nothing but distant sirens.

Then…

Beneath the electric buzzing of the backyard’s bright purple-white lights, beyond his fence, he heard a leafy crack and rustle. Spinning toward the sound, he saw a dark shape scuttle across the street to the burnt-out wreckage of his neighbor’s house, its nails scritch-scratching the asphalt. It was fast, half-glimpsed, hunched over, and suddenly swallowed by the shadows on the far side of the street. Standing on the back steps, he raised up on his toes, peering over his fence after it, searching the darkness, unsure if he was seeing a bush, or a shadow, or…

Hmmm… Nothing. Whatever it was, it was gone.

A few weeks back, Paul, their neighbor behind them, had approached Josh in the alley while the sun was bright and shining above. Still, Josh maintained a safe distance. Paul told him that he wanted to clear out the vermin from the abandoned and burnt down houses nearby. Clean them out, and board them up. Maybe lay some traps too in case they came back.

“It’s good for the neighborhood,” Paul had said. “It keeps our property values from falling, and besides, it’s not like the city’s gonna do it.” He had been leaning on his garbage can, having caught Josh while he was bringing his out own for pick-up day. “They got a huge backlog as it is, and no money, never mind the manpower, so… it’s up to us, right?”

As Paul was saying this, Josh had glanced over his shoulder and across the street at the burned-out house that might have once been an unlicensed daycare before the infection. He and Sophie had never been able to tell. What had that lady’s name been again? Pam? Jan? Barb? He couldn’t remember. Either way, she was long gone now.

“Do you know how to do that stuff?” Josh had asked.

Paul had snorted with derision. “My brother-in-law does it for a living in Omaha, and that guy’s a fucking idiot, so… how hard can it be?”

Josh had laughed then too, raising an eyebrow, “Famous last words…”

Paul had just shrugged, “Still, can you help?” he had asked. “I’ll actually do it. I’ll go in, clear any out if they’re in there. It’ll be daytime, so it’ll be fine. Plus, I’ve got lumber to board it up too, and some old mink traps. It’s just… I need some back-up.”

“I mean…” Josh said, non-committal, edging away, “sure. I guess, just let me know…”

They hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

Now, as Josh stood on his back steps, hearing glass shatter from the direction of the old daycare, I should call Paul tomorrow, he thought, and remind him about boarding that place up. Of course, now that he thought about, he hadn’t seen Paul in a while…

More glass tinkled and broke in the darkness across the street.

He lingered a moment more, then crossed the yard to the garage. The interior lights flickered on as he entered, quickly shutting and locking the door behind him. The fluorescent lights shone off their stacked bicycles, their waiting garden supplies, their extra lumber and iron grates, the replacement doors and windows, the biodegradable lawn and leaf bags. He swiped the security pad and the backyard lights thudded off. He would have preferred to leave them on all the time, but those specialty bulbs are so goddamn expensive. Through the steel mesh over the garage window, the yard was as dark as the far side of the moon. He thought he saw movement in the dark shadows on the side of the house, behind the big box of his back-up generator.

He squinted out into the darkness, leaning against the window and cupping his hands over his face, but couldn’t see anything.

#

Driving down the street, he finally saw it. There was a house on fire a few blocks away. The flames were bright. It was pouring black smoke into the street.

That explained the smell.

The radio murmured quietly about climbing death rates, climbing infection rates, and how some cities were being overrun with infected, while others with more aggressive counter measures were showing a decline. There was talk of national curfews and possible vaccines, all of which brought endless debate, endless grandstanding, endless accusations. There were reports that an anti-lockdown Senator and their family had been infected, that small towns and suburbs were manning armed roadblocks and executing anyone suspected of being infected, that bodies were hanging from freeway overpasses, and farm fields hid mass graves. There were mentions of highway bandits and train robbers, all affecting national supply lines, and a seemingly endless litany of reports about riots, fires, floods, a tornado somewhere in Indiana that had destroyed a shelter in the middle of the night, and a collapsed apartment building that might have been blown up. On and on and on, a droning dirge, another day in Plague America...

Josh wasn’t listening.

He slowed down, his eyes on the fire.

The house was an old Queen Anne, all wood and stone and tasteful iron curlicue bars over the many windows. There was a big wrap-around porch, and a round brick tower. It was elegant and flamboyant, and quickly being consumed by flames. Josh could feel the heat through the glass in his window. Fire Trucks lined the street, lights pulsing bright red like a beating heart. There were firefighters in gleaming reflective yellow striping aiming water onto the neighboring houses, keeping the fire from spreading, while others stood in a line facing the flames, their axes in hand, the curved edges shining silver in the firelight. The fire roared, and dark figures writhed within the house, flailing, burning like torches.

A blackened body lay on its stomach in the front yard, shreds of smoke rising from it. It raised its head, mouth open, bright teeth bared. Shuddering, straining, stretching its arms out, it slowly dragged itself across the lawn.

Josh rolled past, trading quick looks between the road and the burning house. As he watched, a fireman stepped through the red-tinged smoke, their face covered in a gas mask. They stood over the burnt body as it pawed weakly at their boots.

As he watched, the fireman raised their axe high and brought it down hard.

#

The Lund’s grocery store parking lot was lit up, except for a far corner beneath a flickering light pole. There were only a few cars at this hour, and they were all parked as close to the bright rectangles of the front entrance as they could. Josh joined them, his car flashing as he hit the lock clicker. An old man in Lund’s green was pushing a long line of rattling carts across the lot, leaning hard over the handlebar, and moving with slow trudging steps.

They made it to the front door at the same time.

“Ope!” Josh dodged back, “go ahead,” he gestured, smiling.

The old man looked up and returned a tired smile. He was thin, short, and hunched over, very wrinkled, and mostly bald, with big pink ears. He gestured to the door. “Oh no, sir, please, the customer’s always first.” He was out of breath, his brow damp, his stringy gray hair plastered to his head. “These take a bit to get in, no need for you to wait out here. You should get inside.”

Josh paused. “You all right?”

The old man nodded, “Just tired. It’s been a day…” He motioned across the parking lot towards the handful of carts marooned at the far end, “almost done.” His Lund’s-branded topcoat was missing some buttons and flapped on him like a sail. The collar didn’t have chainmail either, just thinly padded vinyl. One pocket was torn, and dirty stuffing spilled from it.

“Is that the only topcoat they had?” Josh asked, shocked, scandalized.

The old man shrugged, “We’ve got new ones on order.”

“Damn, man…” Josh shook his head. “Should I… Do you want me to, like… talk to the manager?” he asked, hesitant to overstep, to get involved.

“Oh no,” the old man said, “It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Please, no,” the old man said, a little more firmly, “it’s fine. They’re good to us here, and I’m almost done for the night.”

“Okay,” Josh said, grimacing, hesitant, “well, thanks for… helping to keep things running during all this…”

The old man sighed, “Yeah, well, I don’t have much choice, but you’re welcome.”

Josh nodded. The silence dragged, sirens a few blocks away. “Okay, so…” he motioned at the store, “I guess, I gotta, y’know…” The old man nodded. Josh went in, the automatic doors swooshing open. The grocery store was searingly bright and as cold as a freezer, and he inhaled the chill air of relief.

#

Josh stood in the empty deli section. The glass was dusty, and the counters were bare, nothing on the shelves save for a few jars of weird cocktail pickles. He walked slowly, his cart squeaking and rattling, his head cocked and his eyes toward the ceiling, trying to catch the tune of the quiet muzak. He listened, muttering nonsensical words, trying to catch the beat, trying to fall into the lyrics.

He snapped his fingers. “You Oughta Know,” he nodded, satisfied.

He trundled up and down the aisles. There was plenty of cat food, so he picked up a couple of stacks of cans. He also bought several cans of soup too, because it seemed like a good idea. He grabbed a tube of toothpaste, not their usual brand, but you take what they have these days. There was no toilet paper, of course, but there were several boxes of Kleenex, with aloe even, so… good enough. They only had the crappy kind of gummi bears in the candy aisle, the ones that were too hard and thick, making them difficult to chew, not the squishy soft ones that felt like they had been in the sun all day, or maybe in a warm pocket. He bent, pushing through the racks of crackling bags, each one feeling like a single lump of gelatin, hoping to find a bag of the good juicy soft ones in the back, all while thinking of maybe just giving up and getting some of the crappy kind, so he could get this done and get home, but he had to at least check, at least so he could say that he did, and if they didn’t have them, well… maybe they could microwave the crappy ones and soften them up...

 A thud startled him, glass rattling.

He spun around, toward the sound, toward the big window in the closed down and half empty-looking little Starbucks coffee nook on the other side of the line of registers.

There was a man outside on the sidewalk, standing at the window.

He was shirtless and filthy, his ribs showing. His arms dangled as he slowly swayed where he stood. He was so pale he seemed to glow, so pale he made the night around him seem darker. He was bald, there were dark circles under his sunken eyes. He was smiling as he stood there looking in. It was a smile somewhere between the eager anticipation of kid peering into a candy store, and a belligerent drunk about to break something; he looked like a man stuck in a happy dream, one foot in a hallucination. It was a wolf’s grin, somehow vacant, but malicious. Hungry, but also… absent. As Josh watched, the man pressed one fish-belly pale palm to the glass, tapping his long dirty nails rhythmically. Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap. He flattened his face against the window and dragged his tongue up the glass, leaving a smeared trail.

His sharp teeth caught glints of light.

“Hey!” A short, round man with a small mustache rushed over from the line of registers. He was wearing the classic Assistant Manager uniform of green polos and khakis, and his name tag read Ted. He struggled briefly with the clasp of the little chain strung across the entrance to the coffee nook, before giving up and clambering awkwardly over. He was almost too short, he had to stand on his toes and struggle, his foot catching on the chain in his rush to climb over it, turning his hero’s rush into a fumbling running trip. Pulling free, he stumbled to the window.

The pale man’s sunken eyes rolled toward Ted. He clung to the glass, quivering, mouth open, shoulders shaking as he panted, faster, faster, the glass fogging in quick huffs.

Ted smacked the window. “Hey! Hey!” again, “Get out of here!” he smacked the glass again, “Go! Get!” He pointed in the general direction of away, out into the darkness. “Go!” The pale man smiled and showed his long teeth, his face and hands pressed to the window.

He licked the glass furiously.

“You fucking… scumbag…” Ted muttered. “Stop! Stop it!” The pale man continued licking, greasy trails of spittle gleaming in the halogen streetlights. “Fine! You asked for it!” As he fumbled a long flashlight from the clip on his belt and pointed it at the man.

A shutter-quick flash of purple light hit the pale man right in the face.

The man immediately screeched and flung himself back, flailing and panicked, trailing little wisps of smoke as he dove aside.

Then it was quiet.

Josh watched as Ted pushed up on the glass, craning his head up and down the street, shining the strobing purple light through the window, back and forth, for a few more moments. Finally, snorting, satisfied, and sparing one last look, Ted backed away, slow cautious steps, his flashlight held in one hand by his cheek, and his other held out straight before him like a javelin ready to throw, the point of his finger leading the beam, one last sweep. He turned away from the window. Then, he suddenly spunback around, hi-yah, furiously pointing the light.

But there was nothing there.

Ted straightened, clicked off the flashlight, and smoothly holstered it on his hip like a samurai sheathing his sword. He sniffed, nodding to himself, and re-tucked his green polo as he turned from a job well done. His climb back over the coffee nook chain was just as awkward. He stumbled free as the old man from the parking lot shuffled past. “Hank,” Ted called. The old man stopped, a resigned slump to his shoulders. “I chased off an Infected with my trusty Sun Torch,” he said, patting the flashlight on his hip. He pointed at the old man, giving him his best steely-eyed look, and gave a quick little chin raise of a nod, “You be careful out there.”

The old man sighed, “I will,” he said, dry as the desert, and shuffled off.

Josh grabbed a few bags of lumped together Gummi bears and tossed them into his cart. There was a woman in the frozen foods section, staring at an empty shelf behind the cold-fogged glass, and quietly crying. Josh pushed his cart past her, eyeing her. She was wearing a lot of layers, a big bulky coat, a thick sweater, and flannel pajama pants. Always being cold due to restricted blood flow and a lower body temperature was an early sign of infection, not to mention fugue states. Of course, the grocery store’s air conditioning was also set at fucking ridiculous for early spring, and maybe she really had been looking forward to having some frozen corn nibblets for dinner and had just discovered that it was not gonna happen tonight…

Still, he gave her a wide berth. Social distancing can save lives.

Josh kept a wary eye on the woman in the round mirror in the upper corner of the store until he turned the corner at the end of the aisle.

There was a lot of skim and 1% milk in the dairy section, but only a quart of 2%, so he took that. There was ice cream. Three varieties. He grabbed a pint of Cookie Dough and a pint of Karamel Sutra, but left the Chubby Hubby. Sophie always made the same teasing joke whenever he brought that kind home, and frankly, he didn’t appreciate it. He put the ice cream in the cart and reminded himself again about getting back to his exercise routine.

Definitely tomorrow…

Overhead, the Muzak morphed into a pipe organ version of ABC by the Jackson Five.

#

There were more sirens in the distance as Josh walked to the car with his groceries. Across the lot, the old man was shuffling between the flickering streetlights, slowly pushing the last of the grocery carts from the far end. Josh fumbled through his keys, checked around and under his car, and then quickly unlocked the doors and set his bag in the back seat. He slammed the back door, and was about to duck in the front seat, but he paused.

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly prickled, a shivering chill down his back, like a deer sipping at the water’s edge, catching the wolf’s scent on the wind.

Be Aware! Avoid Infection!

Down the street, branches rustled and something broke from cover. A shadowy flash darted across the empty road, and into the bushes at the far end of the parking lot.

Shit! Eyes wide, panicked panting, his heart thundering. Shit! He put his back to his car, his head on a panicked swivel. If you see one, he heard in his head, there’s others. They hunt in packs. He dropped his keys in his pocket and pulled his baton out with one hand, his Sun Torch with the other. He held them both out in his shaking hands, breathing hard, turning one way, and then another, craning and peeking.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but the cool spring breeze and the sound of distant sirens, and the squeak of the old man dragging a cart back from the shadowy edges.

He could still feel it. That animal awareness of the predator, a tickle at the base of his neck. It made him hunch. Danger. Be alert. Run. His head gibbered warnings at him. Be careful. Don’t be a hero. Run. Run. Run! The first reported cases of infection from the Ambrogio virus had happened in Batagay, a speck of nowhere somewhere in Northern Russia. The news said that it had most likely had been locked in the permafrost, and released as global temperatures started to rise, the frozen soil unthawing for the first time in maybe thousands of years. Josh had read speculation online that claimed the neck-tingle was nothing but a long-buried instinct, something just as old and just as long forgotten, but now, like the infection, was back too.

Now, in the moment, it made sense…

His hackles were up. He was feeling that buzz at the base of his neck now, just like his small, heavy-browed ancestors probably had while sitting around their fires, their evening chatter interrupted as they all turned, suddenly aware, their throats dry, as they peered into the quietly growling dark beyond the firelight.

His breathing was fast, his hands were shaking as the adrenaline burned through him. Time to get in the car… time to get in the car… time to get in the car… The car! Get out of here. He shoved his flashlight back in his pocket, his hand was on the car door handle, the door was open, the interior light clicking on. The ting, ting, ting of the door chime.

Far across the lot, the old man squawked with sudden shock and fear.

It was tiny and quick in the larger silence of the night. The sound of the grocery carts spilling over in a jangling crash was a cacophony in comparison.

Then he heard a growl.

He looked. The old man was down, wide-eyed, scuttling back, trying to push away, trying to hurry, but his feet were slipping, scraping. A second man loomed over the old man, closing in with slow, stalking steps. The second man was wearing tattered pants and nothing else. His skin was as pale as the moon. It was the man from earlier, the infected guy that had been licking the window. He was climbing over the downed carts, his black toenails and bony fingers curling in the metal grates. His mouth was open wide, and getting wider, his jaw cracking as it did. His teeth were rows of jagged fangs.

They shined like silver in the parking lot lights.

Josh looked for help, looking toward the grocery store in a wild, helpless panic. The double doors, that rectangle of clear white light was only thirty feet away, but it seemed like a thousand miles, a whole different world. He could see people standing just inside the entrance, far away in their crisply cool air-conditioned world. It was Ted the assistant manager, the cashier girl with the hangdog eyes, and a curious customer or two. They all stood in a clump, wide-eyed faces staring back, mouths perfect little Os.

“Help!” Josh yelled, gesturing toward the Infected’s low growl, the old man’s reedy whine, and the sound of the metal grocery cart scraping the asphalt. “Hey! Hey! He needs your help… Your… your guy! He needs help!” Gesturing with his baton.

The people in the doorway just stared back.

The Infected stepped down off the overturned cart. He crouched; nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. Josh watched him get down and crawl toward the cowering old man. He watched the man’s long pale fingers curl into the cuffs of the old man’s pants as he climbed slowly up and over him. The old man shook and shivered, and covered his head, frozen in place. Long ropey strings of drool hung from the infected man’s lengthening jaws.

Josh heard the infected’s hiss become a low chuckling growl.

It’s the bite, Josh remembered, the Ambrogio virus comes from infected bodily fluids, caused by the strange toxin that coats their teeth. It bonds with red blood cells, hulking them out, making them spread the infection at high speed. It wreaks havoc on the body, turbocharging everything, changing the host physically, reshaping them, and burning out their minds, making them crazy for blood, making them into… vampires.

It’s the bite…

In the official Government commercial, Tad Havoc, Acting Secretary of the Infectious Disease Epidemiology, Prevention, and Control Division, steps up to the camera in his sharply creased and pressed fatigues, his gleaming black pompadour whooshing back in a shellacked swoop, and his stubbled jaw sharp enough to slice a can of Bud Lite right in half. He whips off his gigantic, mirrored aviator shades and glares out at the world, his eyes were weary, resigned, really small, and a little too close together. “Keep it tight,” he growls, “don’t let them bite.”

Don’t be a hero, Sophie had said before he left.

The old man jerked and kicked and whimpered. He tried to ball up and cover his head with his arms, but the infected had pinned him down, covered him. He peered through the bars of his arms, finding Josh across the lot, his wide eyes pleading.

Josh was running across the parking lot before he even realized it, his boots thudding on the asphalt. What the fuck, dude, what are you doing…

He was sweating buckets under his heavy topcoat, his body slicked, rivulets running down his face, the chainmail jingling. He was already breathing hard, the weight of the coat and the weight of his body, it all felt like he was running underwater. He felt slow and old. The baton was in one hand, his fingers curled painfully tight. He was digging for the flashlight in his pocket with the other hand.

Shit, shit, shit…

And then he was right on top of them, a burst of rage like an explosion in his head, fire rushing through his limbs as he reared up, swinging his baton down from high up over his head. It whistled as it cut the air. The infected hadn’t even looked up at Josh’s approach. He was on top of the old man, leaning in close, mouth open and nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply, lost in the moment, drooling thick mucousy strands of saliva onto the old man’s head.

He leaned down, bent for the old man’s neck.

Josh’s baton cracked off the back of the infected man’s head, a burst of lack blood spraying in a fan. The force of the swing throwing Josh forward, making him trip over the pile. He hit the asphalt hard, the air punched out of him, his flashlight skittering away. The Infected man screeched, knocking into Josh as it flailed back, falling, spraying blood, all while the old man kicked in a panic, trying to scramble away. Josh was tangled up in them, trying to stand, rolling over, and swinging awkwardly back behind him. A tremor shot up his arm as the baton caught the Infected under its eye, tearing skin, more sludgy black blood spraying, splattering Josh’s topcoat, warm droplets splashing across his face.

His blood slick baton slipped from his hand.

Josh was already feeling too tired, already too weak, his burst of strength a distant memory. He wheezed, crawling, dragging himself over the concrete. He drew a deep breath in a shuddering whooping gasp of air and hacked out a string of rough coughs like hot needles in his throat. He got to his hands and knees, shaking and coughing, and turned back as the Infected man looked up from a double palmful of black blood pouring from its head and through its fingers. It locked eyes with Josh, glaring angrily at him through the wet ruin of its face.

The old man was crawling away, huffing and panting.

The Infected lunged. Josh put his arms up, and they crashed together, rolling. The Infected clung to Josh, head snapping forward, fangs clacking together inches from his face. Josh pushed, his arms trembling. The Infected man’s skin was cold and clammy, like rubber with steel cables moving beneath. His nails scraped down Josh’s topcoat, popping on the chainmail. Josh leaned back hard from the lunging bites, hot drool and black blood splattering him. He managed to get an arm up under the man’s distended jaw, pushing the man’s head back as he roared over Josh, his teeth glittering like blades in the bright light of the parking lot. But the man was strong, and he pushed back, slowly closing the gap between them, his bloody face getting closer, his neck straining, his mouth stretched open wide.

Hissing. Grunting. Spitting and biting.

Josh’s arms shook. He strained back away, grimacing, turning from the man’s hot breath, his splattering saliva, and the coppery reek of blood. He twisted around and suddenly spotted the flashlight. It was close. Josh cried out as he lurched towards it. He lunged, reaching, fingertips barely touching the handle, sliding off. The flashlight slowly rolling away, and just out of reach. “Shit…” trying again, trying to hold back the infected man as he tried to reach the flashlight, his fingers just missing.

A thud shook them both, Josh felt it tremble through him. A splattering rain of blood hit him in the same moment, the same moment that the infected man howled and lurched away. The pressure and push were gone in an instant, relief flooding through Josh, and he sagged, falling back, gasping, his arms shaking.

The old man stood over him, clutching Josh’s battered, bent, and bloodied baton.

“You all right?” the old man breathed.

“Yeah… yeah, I… I just… I…” Josh said, breathing hard, chest heaving, lying on his back in the parking lot. The stars spun overhead, a bright scatter of twinkling lights on a great dark curtain. He gasped relief. He panted with it.

He heard a low growl down by his feet, and he remembered where he was. A dump of adrenaline blasted through him, panic like rocket fuel, his heart ramping up, hammering in his chest. He scrambled over onto his hands, hurling himself across the pavement, a half lunge, half crawl. Throwing himself at his flashlight, he scooped it up, scraping his fingers on the asphalt as he fell on his side, knuckles stinging, his arm out. He thumbed the flashlight on.

Purple light speared the Infected man mid-lunge.

The man screamed, and flinched back, hands shielding his face. His arms and head and chest all started to smoke. His flesh bubbled and split, long crimson fissures opening. His skin curled up in blackened strips, peeling back, lined with bright orange embers that soon gave birth to flames. He howled and flopped over, spasming, flailing in his rush to get away from the light, nails scrit-scratching on asphalt as he staggered and fell and stumbled away. Josh held the purple light on the man, the skin on his back bubbling and smoking, turning black, sloughing off in wet sheets as he raced away across the lot, howling, flames beginning to wreath him like a halo. Josh stood slowly, still following the man with the circle of purple light, following the bright light of the flames and the trail of smoke into the bushes at the parking lot’s edge. He followed, pointing his light into the smoke-hazed shrubbery.

And found a crowd of hunched figures waiting there.

They were crouched in a slowly swaying tangle, filthy and skinny, and as pale as the moon. Their eyes glowed like silver coins in the darkness. Josh gasped and swept the purple light over them, fast, a quick and panicked back and forth, back and forth, trying to hit them all. The crowd hissed and flinched, shrieking, scattering in a rush, the bushes shaking, a burst of shadows fleeing into the surrounding night.

“We have to get back to the store,” Josh said, backing up, watching the bushes, blindly feeling for the old man behind him. “They’ll be back… I’m almost out of charge. We gotta go.”

“It’s too far,” the old man said, limping, holding his knee “My leg… I can’t run.”

Sirens blared, the night suddenly alive with lights and noise.

A black van with darkly tinted windows and reflective silver and orange letters on its side that read IDEPCD, turned hard into the parking lot, orange lights flashing, sirens wailing. It leapt up over the curb, engine roaring, sparks flying off its undercarriage as it bounced across the lot.

Someone in the grocery store must have called the IDEPCD hotline.

Josh had seen them on the news, of course, many times, and he and Sophie had binge-watched the Netflix show with William Fichtner, Daniel Kaluuya, J.K. Simmons, Angela Basset, Anya Taylor Joy, and 50 Cent. It had been pretty good, better than he’d expected. Especially 50 Cent. The jingle from the IDEPCD hotline ad played in his head as the van slid to a halt beside him and the old man, a din of screeching tires and revolving orange lights, big engine rumbling. For the light of day, in the dark of night, call 1-800-Vam-pie-ure.

The wailing siren cut off.

For a moment, the jet-black van just hissed and ticked, orange lights pulsing. Then its sides uncurled like a clenched fist, and a clutch of figures in black armor made of hard angles and mirrored visors rushed out. They had sun torches like clubs, and short spears with gleaming silver tips that sparked and snapped with electric blue arcs. They rushed out into the world.

Radios crackled.

A man stepped from the van, dressed in black armor and a perfectly slouched beret. A massive mustache spread beneath his very obviously oft-broke nose like the wings of a mighty eagle. He lit a stubby cigar and puffed it alight, and glared around the parking lot, eyes squinting through the curl of smoke. He strode along after the troopers, shouting and pointing, pointing and shouting. The troopers spread out, rushing across the pavement, trampling through the bushes, branches thrashing. The Infected scrambled loose, a burst of hissing and screeching and flailing pale limbs. The Troopers stabbed and beat, roaring obscenities, and from within the foliage, Josh saw the bright flashing snaps of electricity from their strikes, and the plumes of fiery embers bursting up into the night sky as they found their mark. The screeches lessened, and eventually trailed off. Fading cinders fell under the streetlights like ashen snow.

“Huh,” Josh said over his shoulder toward the old man, “It’s just like the show, right?”

The old man didn’t answer. When Josh looked, he was grey-faced, and gasping. He was clutching at his chest, swaying.

“You all right?” Josh reached for him.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” the old man said shakily, warding Josh off. “I’ll be fine.”

Josh watched the old man for a moment, unsure, helpless, before finally just saying, “Hell of a way to end your night, right?”

“I’m off in two hours,” the old man said, his voice reedy and weak.

A pair of medics in ball caps and black jumpsuits with reflective silver and orange piping jogged over to them, carrying bulging medical bags. They poked and prodded at Josh and the old man. They sprayed something antiseptic-smelling in their faces, squirt-squirt-squirt, a close look, and then one more squirt. The medics roughly checked their clothing for tears, for bruising, for broken skin, for bites. “Scary night, huh?” one said, shining a flashlight in Josh’s eyes, a blast of yellow first, and then purple. “Is that okay?”  Josh nodded. The purple light lingered on Josh’s face. “How ya’ doing? You okay? Huh? Dizzy maybe?” They peppered Josh and the old man with questions, leaning in, peering close. “Numbness in the limbs? Sudden dry mouth? Necrotic veins? That means black lines up your arm…” they demonstrated by drawing splayed fingers up their own forearm, “No? Can you feel my beating heart in your head? Would you say that you can smell the blood rushing through my veins?”

After a moment… “Uh… No,” Josh said.

“No,” the old man added.

“How about rapid heartbeat?”

The old man and Josh exchanged a glance, “Well, I… I just rolled around with a…”

“So… yeah?” The medic asked, suddenly interested.

“Well … there was like a…” Josh pointed to the pavement, “I was just in a fight with a vampire, like a minute ago, so…”

The pair stepped back at that, their bodies suddenly tensed, their hands on their holstered guns. “Potential!” one of them shouted over his shoulder.

Over by the van, the man with the mustache turned their way. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and his stubby little cigar lit up like a miniature sun. He raised a hand and snapped his finger, “Hup!” His voice cracked like a whip. He pointed at Josh and the old man, as he exhaled a massive cloud of smoke.

The armored troopers of the IDEPCD charged from the bushes, thundering boots on the pavement, racing forward, boxy shotguns in their hands. “Get down! Get the fuck down! I will fucking kill you! Get on your fucking knees, asshole! Get down on your god damn knees!” The troopers surrounded them, an undulating circle of black armor, square jaws, and mirrored visors, all screaming and jabbing. “Get the fuck down! Hands in the air! I will fucking kill you! Do you hear me? I will shoot you in the fucking face!”

Josh dropped to his knees, instant panic like greasy fingers choking him. “I’m down! I’m down!” He raised his shaking hands. “I’m not infected!”

The old man groaned as he eased his way down to his knees. One of the troopers shoved him over, and he sprawled out on the asphalt hard, squawking.

“Hey!” Josh yelled, reaching for the old man.

The circle lunged in, screaming. “Don’t fucking move! Don’t you fucking move!” They pressed in, the double barrels of their matte black shotguns shoving Josh, punching him back and forth. “I will shoot you in the fucking face!”

“I’m sorry!” Josh hunched, flinching, ducking, and trying to raise his arms as high as he could in the tight confines of his topcoat with its thick leather and chainmail. “I’m sorry! Sorry!” He was sheened in sweat beneath his gear, slick with it. His heart was pounding in his ears and behind his eyes, galloping away.

The old man climbed to his knees, and slowly raised his hands.

“Stop,” Captain Mustache sneered, a low bass rumble, and the armored circle shrunk back a hair’s breadth, a growling beast barely restrained and called to heel.

“Do it,” he said, puffing his cigar, the tip glowing like a forge.

The medics each held out a long test tube, “Spit,” and then they all waited quietly, shotgun barrels yawning like the darkest of tunnels, as the medics shook, shook, shook the tubes until the liquid inside turned blue.

“They’re good,” one medic said, giving a thumbs up.

“Let’s go,” Captain Mustache twirled a finger, and turned away. The circle of armored troopers raised their weapons and trotted back to the van.

Josh hesitantly lowered his arms, exchanging unsure glances with the old man. “We’re good?” he asked. “We’re not infected?”

“Probably not,” one medic said cheerfully, as they packed up their gear.

Josh’s face fell. “Probably not?”

“Yeah,” the medic nodded, shrugged, “yeah, probably, the spit test is usually pretty reliable,” still nodding. “Hold on a sec…” He set his bags back down again, dug inside his jumpsuit, and then held out a couple of crumpled pamphlets. SO, YOU THINK YOU MIGHT BE A VAMPIRE was emblazoned across the top, over a cartoon Dracula flinching away from the sun as his disappointed-looking family stood by the door, obviously ready to go on a picnic. “In the next couple of days, if you start feeling sensitive to sunlight, or you find yourself getting thirsty, no matter how much you drink,” he tapped the pamphlet, “just call that number.”

“Derek! Vikram!” Captain Mustache yelled, a deep bass bullhorn that boomed across the parking lot, demanding obedience, and the medics both looked over. The armored troopers were loading into the van. “We got a full house!” he boomed, “Let’s roll!”

Josh and the old man each silently took a pamphlet.

The medic shrugged, “Another busy night.”

“Sure,” Josh said, and the medics trotted off. Josh and the old man exchanged another look as the van roared its engine and spun a quick doughnut. Fishtailing, tires screeching and smoking, orange lights flashing and siren wailing, it shot out of the parking lot, down the street, and off into the night. The pair stood alone for a moment.

The old man sighed, “Assholes.”

“Hank!”

They turned to see Ted, the assistant manager, standing in the bright rectangle of the store’s entrance. He cupped his hands to his face. “Don’t forget that cart!” and gestured toward the far end of the lot.

Hank handed Josh his bent baton, “And so it goes…” he shuffled off.

“Yeah,” Josh said, flicking spatter from the baton, “thanks for… y’know… your service,” and turned toward his car, the door still open and the dome light still on, his groceries waiting.

#

Wispy tatters of smoke still hung in the canopy of trees as he turned down his street, making the streetlights hazy. The Queen Anne was now a burnt shell, scraps of smoke clinging to it like gauzy flags. There was only one firetruck left, a handful of firemen lazily spraying the wreckage with a steady stream of water. Another pair of men were tossing black body bags into the back of an IDEPCD panel truck. As he drove past, the radio reported that the President was planning on fast-tracking new potential cures for testing, despite objections from the scientific community over the President’s sources and their complete lack of scientific credentials.

A dark shape rushed across the gleam of his headlights, hunched and scurrying and diving for the shadows on the far side of the street, and then it was gone.

#

Josh drummed his fingers along the steering wheel as the garage door rumbled up, the inside bathed in purplish UV light. He waited in his car as the garage door rumbled back down, waited an extra minute to make sure nothing had slipped in with him, then clicked off the UVs, and shut the car off. He grabbed the groceries, and paused at the door to his backyard, flipping on the UVs there for a moment, before hurrying across the yard to the backdoor.

“I’m home,” as he shut the door and threw the locks.

Clack-clack-clack, thump-thud.

“Hey!” Sophie called out happily, he heard her bare feet on the hardwood floor. “Welcome home, Mr. Big Hero! Check it out!” her shadow filled the doorway, “freshly shaved!” she announced. “Ta da!” The kitchen lights snapped on. Sophie was standing in the doorway, completely naked. She had her head back, chin up, and one hip cocked. Her arms were raised above her head, jazz fingers splayed and shaking. Her hair was up in a sloppy bun, her dark skin was shiny-slick from the bath, and she was completely hairless from the nose down. “Do-do-do-doooo-do-do-dooooooo,” she sang, starting to do a gyrating burlesque dance, wiggling her butt around, and her eyes finally fell on him, “do-do-do—Oh my God!” she jumped, jiggling. “Holy shit! Is that blood?” Goggling, “Is that ash?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, “I ran into an infected outside the store… I chased it off. Pretty much saved a guy.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”

“You saw one? Josh! Are you okay?” she said, wide-eyed.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he waved her off, but paused, the memory of the clutch of pale bodies crouched in the bushes, swaying together, eyes like shining silver, rising in his head. A shiver ran through him, “there were a couple of them… actually…” he added in a small voice.

Sophie gasped, “A couple? Josh! How many?” her hands to her chest.

“It was hard to tell,” he admitted, “a few.”

“How many?” she asked, demanding.

“I dunno… a dozen maybe…”

“A dozen!” she screeched, “Oh my God! Josh, the grocery store is so close to us! We can’t stay here. We have to go! We—”

“Sophie. Sophie! It’s all right.”

“All right? How is it all right!” She was yelling now, stomping her foot, flushed and wet-eyed, her nakedness forgotten.

“It’s all right, baby,” his hands up, making calming gestures, “the IDEPCD Cleaners showed up. They took care of it.”

She stopped. “The Cleaners? Really?” she said, breathing out, “Like the show?”

“Uh… sort of,” he said, “They were… a little more serious.”

“Well… that’s kind of… cool, I guess.”

“Eh...” Josh made a face.

She shrugged. “Fitty Cent was really good in that show,” she added absently.

“He was,” Josh agreed.

“So… Did you… Did you take the test?” she asked, her whole body nervously clenched.

“Yep,” he nodded, “it turned blue.”

She exhaled, like she was releasing a long-held breath, “oh good,” shaking out her hands, “oh good.”

“I’m gonna use the basement shower,” he gestured at the stairs.

“Please do,” she said, “and leave your stuff hanging in there so I can spray it down later,” and she gave him a weak, but relieved smile, “Then I’m gonna check you for bites.”

“I was checked,” he said.

“Well, maybe I’ll… check you extra,” she winked and smiled at him. “I’m glad you’re home safe. Go shower,” she pointed toward the basement stairs. “I’ll put away the groceries.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, unbuttoning his heavy topcoat.

#

Josh let the water roll over him, standing under the scalding hot stream of water for long after all the black swirl of blood and ash had slipped down the drain. The memories of gleaming silver eyes in the bushes, the hot breath stinking of meat and blood on his face, the sound of teeth snapping closed as he leaned away, the nails scraping at his chainmail, thin arms pulling at him, it all crowded in his head, and he shivered in the steam and heat until his skin was red.

He climbed the stairs almost an hour later, clad in a pair of gym shorts and an old T-shirt, toweling his hair. The kitchen was dark, the groceries were put away, and the house was quiet, save for the quiet murmuring flicker of the TV in the living room. There was a tray of cookies on the stove, still warm and fragrant.

“Oh, don’t mind if I do,” he said, inhaling their scent, and then putting a perhaps too large of a stack on a napkin. He added another. Vampire hunters deserve as many cookies as they want. He hesitated and then added another. I’ll bike tomorrow. “Ooo… ooo… hot,” juggling the heat on his palm as he strolled into the living room.

Sophie was on the couch, a curled-up lump under a blanket before the flickering light of the quietly murmuring TV. Abraham the cat was a furry circle laying on top of her hip. Both of them were snoring. One bare foot was stuck out from under the blanket, hanging off the edge of the cushions. The baby blue polish on her toes was almost all worn away.

The President was on TV, a repeat of a press conference from earlier in the day. He was rambling and gesticulating in the bright light of day, a cheap carnival barker announcing a new task force for the Ambrogio virus. Josh paused and watched as the President pointed to his very drawn and waxen-looking Vice President. Sweaty and pale, the Vice President’s eyes were half-closed as he swayed slowly, not reacting as the President named him as the head of the new task force, or even when he repeatedly referred to the Vice President as “just like the guy from that one movie. You saw it. People loved it. Loved it. Wesley is in it. Good friend of mine, Wesley Snipes. Don’t know if that’s his real name. I doubt it. But anyway, he loves me. Very smart man. He once said to me, Sir, he said, tears in his eyes, sir, you should be President. Now I am, and my Vice President… he’s a lot like Wesley was in that movie, but if Wesley was white, so even better for him, I think. That’s not racist either. This is just the truth. I am very loved within the Black community. They love me there. They have their problems, of course, but they love me, so that’s good for them.” He continued, asking the reporters if they knew the movie he was talking about, ignoring their answers as he explained how “Wesley did the kung fu just like some kind of Chinaman,” while doing a few stiff chopping motions, swaying and jerking about until he was sweating enough for his make-up to stain his shirt collar. He finally stopped, breathing hard, and faced the camera, grimly intoning, “People of America, know that we continue to hold the line, and that no one,” and at this, he paused, holding up a single stubby finger, and repeated with a very stern look, “no one in this White House has been infected yet.”

Josh dug the remote out from under Sophie’s sleeping warmth. She grumbled at his probing fingers. He sat back in his chair with a grunting sigh, safe and warm and more than a little sore, home again, home again, jiggety-jig, changing the channel as the reporters erupted over the word “yet” until King Kong filled the screen again, roaring as he beat on giant lizards. The cookies were hot and gooey, and he gasped and blew around hot mouthfuls, chewing.

Sophie stirred, her head rising slightly up off the armrest, and squinting down the length of the couch at him from beneath the piled clutch of her blankets.

“Hey,” she croaked.

“Hey,” he smiled.

“Sorry, I got cold, and then I got tired, and…” she shrugged under the blanket. Abraham stretched and yawned mightily on top of her, and then laid his head back down again, closing his eyes. “…now I’m stuck. You got the bad gummies, by the way.”

“All they had,” Josh shrugged. “I figured, better than nothing.”

“Did you fill the car?”

Josh froze, a hot lump of wadded-up cookie almost in his mouth in the sudden realization that he had forgotten to get gas. “Uh…”

Sophie snickered, “worst husband ever.”

“I got the gummies and ice cream,” he said, “and milk!”

“Moderately decent husband,” she amended.

“Thanks for the cookies,” he said around another hot mouthful.

Sophie grunted, shrugged beneath the blanket, “I’m a fantastic wife.”

He swallowed. “We still have half a tank in the car.”

“Mmm-hmmm…” from under her blanket, laying her head back down. She was quiet for a moment, and then, “We really should think about getting out of the city.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said, having another cookie as King Kong roared on TV. Outside, something scraped across the metal shutters that covered the big window next to him. It was a long, drawn-out squall, a high rasping squeal that ran the entire length of metal. The cat looked up, eyes narrowed and ears flat. Josh turned up the TV, as a truck rocketed past outside, orange lights flashing around the edge of the shutters, its sirens wailing.

“This is fine,” he said, bathed in the light of the TV.

END