Don’t talk to me about equal rights. I got it from both sides. The quiet, almost apologetic racism from white America, and the more flagrant disapproval from my own race, simply because I refused to live up to what they’d been conditioned to think an African-American should be. My peers thought there was something wrong with me simply because I refused to act like a thug.
And even on good days, when I’d faced down each and every one of the stereotypes that comes with being a black man—even then I’d be met with a whole bunch more prejudice because of my sexual orientation.
Think that it’s hard being black? Try being a gay black male sometime.
Hamelin’s Revenge not withstanding…
The biggest stereotype of all was my steady employment. People either expected me to deal drugs, live off welfare, or be a fucking limp-wrist hairdresser. I don’t know why. There’s nothing about me that’s either gangsta or feminine. Maybe they’d watched too much New Jack City or Will & Grace. I had a good job on the assembly line at the Ford plant in White Marsh, and I kept it. Thing was, it didn’t keep me. That’s what led me to the Ford dealership with a gun stuffed in my waistband. And I was living with the guilt of what I’d done there up until Hamelin’s Revenge came along.
I was thinking about that very thing when Alan and I looted the Safeway.
We showed up at the Safeway’s parking lot in the middle of the night and found a dozen other well-armed people with the same plan. We grabbed two shopping carts and joined in before the shelves were picked clean. The cops weren’t around, and neither were the zombies. The other looters ignored us, busy making due for themselves. Four of them stuck together in a group. The others appeared to be loners.
The meat department and the produce aisles smelled like an open sewer. The stench of rotting vegetation and spoiled meat hung thick in the air. I heard a droning buzz, and noticed that the butcher’s display cases were covered with fat, sluggish flies. Thousands of tiny white worms burrowed through rancid steaks and hamburger and pork chops. I remember wondering as I watched them if Hamelin’s Revenge could spread to insects—mosquitoes, ticks, or other bloodsuckers. I hoped not. If it could spread to them or to the birds, we were pretty much fucked.
But then again, we were pretty much fucked anyway.
The fruit and vegetables in the produce department were covered with fuzz and slime and more flies. We held our breath when we passed through the aisle, and again when we cut through the dairy products section. Exploded cardboard milk cartons were thick with green-blue mold and the stench was overwhelming. A fat man in a soiled T-shirt sat on the floor, his back against one of the coolers, and ate spoiled milk with a spoon, scooping it from the carton like cottage cheese.
“Hey,” Alan said, “you’re gonna get sick, dude. That shit will kill you.”
The man smiled sadly. “I hope so. I ain’t got the guts to shoot myself, or to let one of those things bite me.”
“Suicide?” I frowned. “Why die at all?”
The man shoveled another spoonful of sludge into his mouth. It dribbled down his chin as he replied, “Don’t you guys see? We only got two options. We can join them or we can feed them. Either way, we’re dead.”
A tear slid down his cheek. We walked away without another word.
“He’s just given up,” Alan said when we were out of earshot.
“Fuck that,” I said. “I’m going to fight.”
“You ever wonder why?”
“Why what?”
“Why we fight to survive? Why we sit in your house going stir crazy? I mean, what’s the alternative? Shit ain’t gonna get better. It’s just gonna get worse. Why bother?”
I didn’t have an answer for him.
Alan and I filled our carts with bottled water; canned vegetables, fruit, and meat; dry goods like cereal and oatmeal; batteries; aspirin; hydrogen peroxide; antibacterial cream; bandages; vitamins; cigarette lighters; matches; and other things we could use. He grabbed a few small propane cylinders for my grill, but I made him put them back. Even if we’d had fresh meat or veggies to put on the grill, the smell of cooking would attract predators—living and otherwise.
A fly landed on Alan’s forearm as he reached for a box of granola bars. He gave a small, disgusted cry and slapped at it. When he took his hand away, the insect was squashed all over his arm. He let it fall to the floor, and then wiped his arm on his shirt. I wondered if he’d been thinking the same thing I had about the bugs.
“You ready, Lamar?” He shoved his cart forward.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
“Home?” He snorted. “Is that what it is these days?”
I didn’t answer.
We now had enough goods in our two carts to last us a month. Maybe more if we rationed. I figured we’d hunker down and stay barricaded inside my house and wait to see what happened next. On our way to the exit, I added a case of warm beer almost as an afterthought. We passed by the cash registers. It felt weird not paying. Then we got the hell out of there. Our fellow looters weren’t arguing with each other, but the whole place had an underlying mood of fear. It felt like any moment the whole store could explode.
Or the zombies could show up.
We were on our way back home when it happened. The streets were deserted, except for abandoned vehicles. Most of them were either wrecked or shot up. A few had been burned. The damp pavement shined. It had rained earlier in the day. With the power out, there were no lights to mark our way, but the moon was full and round. Its dull glow was strangely comforting. Broken glass crunched under our feet. The wheel on Alan’s cart squeaked. Somewhere, a dog barked. A distant gunshot echoed off the buildings. A plane passed overhead, red and blue lights blinking in the darkness. I wondered who was on it and where they were going. The wind shifted, bringing the smell of decay. It was the end of August and summer would soon be over, but the days were still sweltering, the nights barely tolerable. The heat really compounded the stench of the dead, but that was a good thing. You could smell them coming before you saw them. We sped up our pace.