I wish I could say I had nothing to do because I had been so displaced by the recent crises that there was simply no way to move about the world with any sense of normalcy. I wish I could say that I wasn’t working because I’d volunteered myself on the front lines, fighting against the rising tide of enemies. I wish I could say that I didn’t have any friends left because they’d all been eaten by zombies, not just because I’d been awful about keeping in touch when we didn’t see each other every day anymore.
So on a Saturday, two years after the end of the world, I went grocery shopping with my mom, precisely because I had nothing else to do. We climbed into our beat up car which still had duct tape all over the side windows. It had been my job to clean it off, but I never felt like doing it. I think I zoned out most of the ride there. Hopefully I said nothing that she would remember, because when there are threats around every corner, the only things you remember are either crucial to your survival or something that might kill you, and I don’t want to have said something on that drive that would’ve occupied any space that could be better used for anything else.
“What do we need?” She asked me, pulling a cart from the deposit. I’d read something a while ago about how seeing who puts the cart back when they’re finished is a moral test, because you gain and lose nothing except making another person’s life easier. I don’t know that I agree, because I’ve personally seen many assholes walk their carts back, and plenty of honest people running for their lives and not bothering with the carts. My mom would always put the cart back. I’d weigh the situation.
“I don’t know.” I responded. “I thought you had the list.”
She did, she always did. She was just trying to include me. I was there, after all. I might as well serve a little purpose. She told me to grab a few things and I did. The store was nearly devoid of people, but it had the same bright white lighting that grocery stores always had, and the shelves seemed pretty well stocked. I know this was a trick, they’d shut off more than half the store and consolidated the space so that it didn’t look like we were running out of things and people started panic-buying, but those were smoke and mirrors I was willing to fall for.
I’d moved home when this all started. Most cowards did. The people that meant something, the “main characters,” as I’m sure they thought of themselves, had stayed in cities, clumped in falling basements, probably cycling through the same love triangles to keep things interesting. In my brain it was like the Hunger Games out there, whereas here I spent most of my days in my room, doodling bad drawings or knitting lopsided sweaters. I’d donate the sweaters if I knew how, but for now they’re just in a pile. I don’t wear them.
I told people I moved home to take care of my parents. They’re not in bad shape, but I was the kid, that’s what you’re supposed to do when the apocalypse falls upon the world. In truth I moved home because I needed my mom. I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do, and I wanted to be taken care of.
I dropped the food in the cart, “are we doing anything else for the rest of the day?” I asked.
“Why? Is there something you want to do?”
“No, just curious.”
“You know, you could look for a job. Did you ever follow up on that one, the instagram one?”
“It’s content manager, Mom. And yes. But I haven’t gotten a response so they might be dead by now.”
“You need to work for it, hun.”
“Mom. Things are a little different from when you were my age.” I gestured at the empty store.
“I know, sweets, but I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine. No one’s going to hold it against me for having a gap in my resume during the apocalypse.”
“You are meandering, you need to learn some skills for the real world. When we get home I want you to make a plan.”
I could’ve kept this argument going, but I knew I wasn’t going to win. Besides, while we were talking, she had grabbed the rest of the things we need, and we were walking towards the exit.
The kid at the cash register was younger than me. These days this always made me feel bad. I spent my days doing nothing, and these children were braver than me, venturing out into the world each day for a necessary cause. I wondered if this kid still had a family. I avoided eye contact.
When we entered out into the parking lot, the reflective pavement blinded me for a couple seconds. I understood there had to be some sort of reason for them to do this, but it always surprised me, and I always spent the drive home cursing it out. My mom grabbed my elbow, presumably to steer me in the right direction. I shook her off, a leftover habit from being a teenager, when you had to pretend you were entirely independent. She gripped tighter. I turned. I suppose it now seems a bit of an insult that I confused a zombie for my own mother, but in all fairness I wasn’t really paying attention. “Goddammit.” I mumbled. If it had been most other days, I wouldn’t have done anything. People better and brighter than me had perished, and there would be no far reaching consequences if I just bit it now. But, today hadn’t been an awful day.
I thrust my elbow back and, in my one gained second, I looked up at my mom. She had an expectant look on her face, and I knew I’d be doing this fight on my own. I yanked and unclicked the knife in my pocket and jammed it into the creature’s throat. It fell to the ground, and I ran to the car. I yanked at the door handle. “Mom!”
“One sec.” She responded, fumbling in her bag for the keys.
I turned back, still pulling at the door.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that, it’s bad for the car.” She said, clicking the key.
I slipped into my seat and locked the door behind me. I took a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” She asked, looking into my eyes with such sincerity that I burst into tears.
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