A beautiful sunrise kissed and then blossomed over a new day. Daylight-orange met midnight-purple, the color ratio first higher for the latter but within the hour it had switched to be higher for the prior. Leaves flew from trees as if eroding it. Somewhere nearby the Croteau’s Adrian had taken a power nap and left a bloody print on the sidewalk behind. If Adrian was outside now, he’d see that it was likely going to be a calm but cold day, even with no apparent clouds to block the peeking sun. He could also mistake himself for the only one on planet Earth right now. Even with the standards of today it was eerily quiet and still, the gentle wind had waned out during the night and all was still.

Grotesque snores nasally left Adrian, unfitting for a man his size. He was still deep in sleep, and could go on for hours yet. It had only been four hours since his return home, not nearly enough to restore Adrian’s exhausted reserves of energy, but still his eyes fluttered open in brisk, sharp movements that then gradually became lazy. He had decidedly (the decision made only upon waking) been having a nightmare. Back in West Virginia, so many months ago…

Adrian’s vision collected and gathered, finally he could see the washer and dryer in front of him, dust covered all over save the few times he had rested a hand on it. He saw these fingerprints now and grew distracted, allowed his body to calm from the symptoms of night terrors.

He very seldom left the Croteau’s house. The first week after his discovery of it, he had stalked it outside and in, feeling ridiculously like a movie quality FBI agent on the heels of a perp, and bunkered away in the attic, readied with acutely placed impromptu weapons where he could advantageously have them easily at hand. One was most definitely a very well made cane, topped with a bauble of a toad. It was like this, hidden away upstairs amongst old, moldy smells that Adrian waited for a full seven days, outweighing his curiosity with his fear.

The only thing that came home in that week was a slice of his confidence. Not unlike a caveman breaching into light he descended from the attic with much less caution than on previous food breaks (he hadn’t even dared make bathroom trips necessary), and set out to fully explore what he had now acquired: The generator out back, but I’ll need gasoline…… Jesus, look at all of this food! He had stopped long to admire every bag of minute-noodles, the tin-packaged ham and chicken. The cans that had been stacked by type into neat triangular patterns (peas, carrots, corn, beans beans and beans…), and that was only the start of all of the food there (glossing over the jars of pickles that would continue to age)! But eventually he had moved on to further his mental inventory tally: This furniture is weird. I’ll get rid of the vases, dead and dying flowers and the kettles (although he never does). Makes me feel like a grandma…… A radio, hmm… he tried it, only then remembering he had no electricity in the house as of yet. Also forgetting that the radio in the car along the drive to Santa Monica had been nothing but dead air. Moving on: Those toilets upstairs will work for a while yet I bet, Santa Monica runs on a sewer, and it should stretch out to hear... and praise the day for that. He spotted a vinyl record player and a number of albums to choose from, several in his taste (Jimi Hendrix, Aerosmith and... no frigging way, Purple Rain by Prince!).

This last discovery, in the the thralls of enjoyment, brought on a break from rummaging in someone else’s belongings. It was a crisp memory to this day, all of these months later. Removing the disc, placing it on the spindle and watching it begin to turn. He cherished an immediate treasure, the turntable running off of both batteries or by use of a power cord. Before the dulcet tones soothed him, the spoken intro to Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” would plant a seed that grew into a grim, deep seated but repressed fear. Like a hole in a shoe that you only noticed on the worst of days:

‘Cause in this life

Things are much harder than in the afterworld

In this life

You’re on your own

He had walked gaily around the house, a child’s delight had filled him. The cupboards a hidden grotto, every unclosed door a portal to another world. On this day, he felt like a pirate king. Only a slither of regret, a trace of disgust lay in the back of his throat. Too long had he suffered, starved and hidden. I’ve been shitting into a bucket for a week, he remembered the stubborn thought before tossing it away, opening a bag of plain potato chips and enjoying the taste. He ate without manners, who was there to witness?

In the mudroom placed in the entryway there was a washer and dryer. Crinkling the aluminum bag as he bent, Adrian smelled himself. Sour tang filled his nostrils, and only now did he spot the greasy stains in the pits of his shirt. Maybe that will work, he thought while wearing a look of doe-eyed innocence (it had, briefly, but the detergent was nearly empty and ran out quickly). He had opened the washer and found it empty. The dryer, however, had a rather expensive looking pair of gloves in its drum. Clean as a whistle. He tried them on and, being someone inclined to appreciate quality, noticed the reinforced palm padding but how thin his fingers still were without still being exposed to open air. He gripped the dryer’s open-mouthed edge and knew he could use these. The possibilities ran in his head, were acted out in the following months once or twice, and repressed in the current day.

Present-time Adrian blinked. The sharp burn of exhaustion creased his eyelids. Adrian wiped them with his hands. His muscles seized through the work, as if dozens of tiny ropes tightened against his arms. His breathing was a thin and laborious thing, knocking the bone against a fresh bruise that was sickly blue and spreading on his shoulder. His feet, not having done anything more active than brisk walks for gasoline, throbbed steadily and begged to be untied from the damned boots that held them prisoner. Not yet. I can’t, Adrian thought. Let me lie down, let this be a dream for now. The rumbling in his stomach shattered any such illusion, as if on cue. It called out for bacon and eggs, sausages and orange juice. God, Adrian never wanted a slice of toast and some butter more than he did now. His mouth watered.

Now his feet grew sweaty and fidgety, the irritation the boots caused welling up in his mind with anxiety. The more he tried not to think about it, the further into his forerunning thoughts it pressed until finally he couldn’t take it. He sniffed, coughed, and regretted coughing. It shook his sore body with unexpected pain, then, with a quick reaction, he held still like a man afraid his tower of cards might topple. He stayed upright, the feeling of physical instability receding like one tide, and a sense of nausea rushing in like a new.

This was as short lived as Adrian’s patience to deal with it. He tucked in a leg with the vigor of a man at the end of his day, and with a hand he shielded against the rising sun’s light that was creeping its way across the door and now into Adrian’s line of sight. The other hand pulled at the knots of his boot, familiarity plucking at something like muscle memory, and he was thankful for small favors that both boots came off with mere tugs at his expertly tied laces. His feet sighed gleefully and rolled off steam, or was that his imagination?

Food, he thought. Again his stomach rumbled, and in it he heard more cries for foods he couldn’t obtain. Pancakes and pork chops, french fries and watermelon, ice cream and chicken wings. Flavors and images flashed across his mind and he felt them lucidly on his tongue and in his nose. He didn’t feel any repulsion at the flavor list because he felt them separately, not in tandem.

He walked to the pantry that was not unfamiliar with baring the hefty weight of food on its shoulders. It was empty, still. Adrian grimaced as if he took it personally, the fact that a magical fairy hadn’t restocked his wares.

It was a slow start, but Adrian stretched his limbs out and massaged life into them. He splashed water onto his face (also refilling his canteen from one of the few several gallon jugs that wasn’t empty and in storage, waiting for a literal rainy day). Walking to the sofa in the living room, he found the box of stale granola bars and the two wrappers from the ones previously enjoyed laying underneath of Kevin. Adrian was struck with momentary amnesia, forgetting not only that he brought Kevin here, but the whole exchange that they had shared. It came back to him vividly and quickly, with force enough to make him gasp in shock. It took him a generous handful of seconds to register it all and accept it again. Then he set out in motion again. He pulled the wrappers and the box out from underneath Kevin’s girth. Kevin’s chest heaved normally but otherwise he gave no response. He was much more still than last night. Adrian stuffed the wrappers in the box, took out two fresh (in the sense of being out of the box, that is) ones and stuffed them in a pocket. He stretched his limbs again, no longer excited at the aspect of eating. He was, however, glad that he had washed the taste of vomit out of his mouth with water, at the same time being disappointed that the taste of imaginary food didn’t last. The box of (four remaining) granola bars was placed beside one of the numerous vases, and Adrian went to speculate the time.

He stepped outside and smelt the crispness of autumn. The sun glowed and further probed Adrian’s still sensitive eyes. It had just recently broached the horizon, revealing its full fiery orb form. It’s about 7:30-8, he thought to himself. No later. Next he thought about Kevin, laying on his sofa.

Water was all he had to offer, he didn’t think dogs could have granola nor was there a way to give it to him. He also had nothing for himself besides half a day's worth of bars that he didn’t want to eat. This would be it, scavenging day. The day he had planned, anticipated and dreaded for months now. Although (and he’d never admit, but) he was a silent wisher against reality, he was too realistic not to recognize a depleted store of foods when the time came, and had planned out everything but the where of looting and scavenging for said food. Coincidentally, last night’s nap under the stars gave him that answer: Reggie’s.

He didn’t know where Reggie’s was, but he had an idea of where the area was. He passed through the main part of Santa Monica on his drive here, avoiding the small and sparse chaos-ridden areas. But he recognized that area in the picture of the newspaper’s ad.

An empty pop can blew down the street. Its rattle as it rolled and the pops as it hit loose stones jarred him nervously at first, it reminded him strongly of the person with the spray can last night. Through the connection of events transpired at the time he also thought of the jogging man, the man who seemed to be running a marathon. The man who disappeared with no corners or exits to duck behind, and the man making noise, shaking a can, that was following him down the street. Were either of them real? The question brought a fear filled with paranoia, it ate at him silently. He didn’t know.

What if they were real, both of those people, and he had been caught? Someone could be watching him on this very porch…

He shook his head, dispelling some of the paranoia that gripped his stomach, begging him to back away like the natural response to looking over a high ledge. He wanted to go back inside, but didn’t. Sleep teased him, the sandiness not leaving his eyes. Still, he knew he couldn’t rest. There was a full day of work ahead of him. If he left soon, he thought, he could get back with daylight to spare. Mostly to calm himself, he rattled off the task list:

Firstly, the gasoline would be gathered. It was the shorter trip, and after lugging food home over what he speculated to be a walk of an hour and a half, making it a three hour round trip plus the time it took to loot, he would want to go no further. His bed was also a high reason to get the gasoline; another night spent sleeping in front of the door might just cripple him. The locks would shut at the command of his remote control when the power came on, and from now on he would only put in a night’s worth of gasoline at a time. With regret-stuffed hindsight, he remembered letting gasoline go to waste when he first found the generator. He simply didn’t care back then, but he did now. Dammit, I’m a fool.

Secondly, food. God help him, if he could find berries along the way to the city he would probably be unable to restrain from weeping. If he found an untouched vending machine he might faint. But these were daydreams that only served to put a fresh coat of saliva on the walls and floor of his mouth.

Third of all, vitamins and maybe kibble for this damn dog. Reasonably ranked, he thought. He might claim responsibility for this animal, but this wasn’t the time it was before the country exploded. There couldn’t be any catering or pampering to this animal unless it fit the schedule, lest Adrian put his own health at risk.

Fourth, and as unlikely as he thought it might be, Adrian was going to keep his eyes open for a new easel. After these events, he could really use some alone time to just… create.

Adrian went inside, and gathered the necessities: coat, gloves, canteen, walking stick (unsheathed for the moment, although the sheath itself was equipped) and rope. These he routinely put on his person like a uniform. Next, and this with a more awkward grace, he criss-crossed a pair of empty duffel bags, the bag portions bumped against each hip and deflated as his arms adjusted to the hanging lumps. Lastly he put on a backpack, then sheathed the walking stick with the toad bauble. He looked in the mirror, and barked out a laugh. He looked like a camper-turned-hitchhiker-turned-hermit, who lost all of his camping inventory during one of the transitions. But, after testing his mobility with some degree of satisfaction and self assurance, he was ready.

---

Back outside the sun had risen the span of a finger’s width, painting the sky with a fresh layer of something more blue than the last time he was outside, not but ten minutes ago. Life had found its way into his limbs, a lot of the pain actually subsiding after a few mouthfuls of water. He had (with regret) eaten a granola bar and stuffed its wrapper in the growing collection inside the box and after thinking about it, brought another one to his pocket. He had wished the Croteau’s would be the sort to have a stashed handgun or even a knife, but if they didn’t have it looted, or hidden better than he could find it, he was sure they took it with them. If it existed.

The Croteau’s didn’t have much in the way of hidden treasure; the food was organized and presentable, the doors had been unlocked and the backup house remote left behind sitting on a hook by the door. Even the walking stick with the toad bauble was leaning against a plain color wall like it begged for attention. It wasn’t much of a surprise to Adrian that he wasn’t able to find a loaded handgun with ammo, not that he’d know how to use it regardless. A side mechanism of his brain thought of and noted to get a book on handguns for dummies. Just in case.

He started down the stairs and back the way he went last night, feeling slightly stupid as if he was in a post-apocalyptic walk of shame. At first his walk was brisk, but as he grew closer to the intersection his speed decreased. His heartbeat increased, muddling his sense of hearing. But he never stopped, save to duck and scout out the area. He gave himself that much credit.

His head swung about as he got to the intersection’s corner. It swung like each side of his vision was at war, his eyes gathering in everything. On the adjacent side he could barely see the three-inch blood stain his forehead had left. He grimaced and rubbed the few scratches that had crusted into scabs above his eyebrows gently.

Moving on, gaining speed like a locomotive burning coal, all the while keeping a lookout for mystery joggers or hidden taggers and avoiding a faint swimming feeling, he made a beeline for the gasoline. For the mailbox that held the gasoline, rather.

---

Temptation was too strong of a force. Or maybe curiosity, or maybe both. Often in life Adrian found it difficult to resist knowing the answer to a question. Did that taste good? Was this better over here? And just what was that noise he had heard? He didn’t always act out on these curiosities, because sometimes the impulses weren’t so strong and they would falter before he could do more than ponder, the strength an emotional reserve of energy being drained at the pull of a mental plug that he tugged at unknowingly with his emotional tension. Sometimes the question wasn’t answerable, He couldn’t gather the answer with his available resources. And sometimes it was fear. Cold, icy fear that would grip his stomach, squeeze, clench and twist.

He supposed that that was what bravery was. Walking through that icy feeling, trusting in those reserves of personal energy that only he could tap into and to keep walking when they had been drained. He didn’t consider himself brave, though. He fled a thousand questions, leaving them to be forever unanswered back in Virginia. It wasn’t even possible to face the questions lingering past the front door of the Croteau’s, most times.

But like an oily snake, curiosity slithered its way and was a feeling he couldn’t get a complete hold on, it grew into an overwhelming sensation. As he grew nearer the mailbox, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of that direction, either. He was now five steps, four, three, two… now he was within reaching distance of the wretched thing, but the curiosity thrummed. He had no damned idea why, but before he could grab that jerry can he needed to see the scene of the crime. His crime scene.

Slowly and with the grace of walking a graveyard at night, he padded around the corner of hedges. Where before he smelt beer, now he smelt nothing. The air was cool on his face, but scentless. He met the side of the house, sidling the wall facing-front. He gulped. It was nerve wracking, thinking about the expectant flood of emotions you would soon encounter. It built up in anxiety and finally he couldn’t sidle for one more second.

Emerging, he rounded the corner. He released a breath of air that a claustrophobic could relate to. His eyes refocused as his nervous system worked on the overheating problem it just experienced. Finally, he adapted and took everything in again: the shovel he was going to use, way in the back. The single broken bottle, the full ones now gone. It brought on a slew of more curiosities (how long after I left were they taken? Who took them, and were they still near?). He brushed them away forcefully, afraid he couldn’t handle them. He noted with distaste the feathers, only slightly windblown and starting to gather against the fence. Most were black. Some were red. Some were speckled. The body of the crow itself hadn’t budged, hadn’t been touched. The closer Adrian’s stultified feet got to it, he was able to pick up the faint smell of decay. A single fly crawled around and in and out of its torso. Adrian couldn’t stomach it and moved on.

He moved forward into the backyard mostly to avoid having to look at what was behind him anymore. But as that sickness passed, he decided to use the time and his clear head to look through the barn. The shovel was of no use to him, the Croteau’s had one back at home if it turns out he needed one. He pushed open the barn door that was splotches of old-wood-brown and old-paint-burgundy that was decorated in a chipped, splotchy pattern. It creaked miserably, the rusty hinge actually jumped and he thought that maybe it could be opened a handful of times more before deteriorating into a fine dust.

Inside of the small barn there was almost nothing of note, beside actual notes. It was extremely cluttered and cramped, musty slips of paper lay and hung everywhere. Most had measurements written on them (1 ½” x 3 ½” x 35” (8 pc), ¾” x 5 ¼” x 96” (2 pc), and 3 ½” x 3 ½” x 96” (1 pc) were some of the ones he read on the right side of an old wooden workbench before he put a passive glaze over that pattern of notes). The ones on the left and closer to the door were much more fresh and had a different, darker message to spread (“Vanessa - critically injured, Johnathon - missing, Benjamin - dead, Mom - dead, Dad - missing. God help us.” was one such request, “GODDAMN THIS THIS ISN’T WORKING” was exclaimed, and the last he saw, being the final one he could stomach, was “Today I buried Vanessa at the park. She loved...”. Through the early morning light he could see a fingerprint on the reverse side of this note. He flipped it, the dry imprint of dirt revealed itself. With a sudden gasp he dropped it.

It fluttered down, and a reflex of anxiety asked him to swipe for it. He did, marvelously catching it in between his ring and middle finger. The position of fingers brought his index one out, and it pointed at something red and square that Adrian hadn’t noticed on his earlier trip here to get the shovel. For a moment he didn’t feel anything about it. Perhaps it was an overload, too quickly brought on for his brain to handle. In retrospect, he felt rather annoyed by how likely he thought it was to happen. But barely a thought was registered about it right now, his hand dropping the note again and grabbing the handle he had been pointing at instead. It was one of those moments that you didn’t expect, but of course it would happen, and of course it would happen to you.

He grabbed the second jerry can, this one was newer than his. It was in much better shape, so he felt reassured that his was still in the mailbox. This one was three quarters full! What luck, Adrian thought he might have twelve, no… maybe even fourteen litres of gas now! That’s electricity for another handful of nights, and since Adrian was a proper rationalist he wouldn’t need to go siphoning gasoline for at least two months if he found a good hoard of food today. Which, with a gut full of new vigor, he knew he would.

Sweetness soured as he left the barn in haste. Almost in a jog to the mailbox, he spotted on the wall what he either didn’t notice or mistook for blood in his peripherals as he walked with it to the back of his head. On the wall of the house was a red spray painted “X”. Adrian’s eyes went wild.

He dashed without thinking, placing his feet without looking. He barely registered the body of the crow as it pressed down under his weight, and past the heart beating in his ears he didn't at all hear the puff of a caw it let out under his weight. That mark was bad, he had missed the tagger by minutes, probably! Maybe they even heard his battle and came inspecting. Adrian rounded the houses corner, making small checks at places he thought someone could be. The mailboxes handle was cool against his gloveless hand, he pulled it back. His jerry can revealed itself, too big to fall past the mailboxes mouth slot. With some elbow grease and cursing he pried it out, and dashed back toward the Croteau’s.

On the way back he stopped and cautiously checked most of the houses. For this block and the next, all of them had the spray painted “X”. The three blocks past those, that included the Croteau’s home and was near the intersection he feared but repressed for the moment, were not marked. This brought on a sense of ease as he stored the jerry cans inside, hiding them under the kitchen sink, and grabbing a moment to let his head calm down as he helped Kevin and himself to some water.