Robby moved the seat up until he felt comfortable behind the wheel. When he got out to the main road he realized he didn’t really know where he should go. On the water heading south and west was easy; on the roads he needed a route to follow. He found a Maine atlas in the pocket behind the passenger’s seat, but without a flashing “you are here” dot, like the one on the GPS in the boat, it was of no use to him. He studied the map briefly to try to guess where he was. He was anxious to get moving.
Depending on how far south of Portland he’d gone in the boat, he figured he should either hit Route 77 or Route 9 if he headed west. He adjusted the rearview mirror and saw the glowing green “N” in the corner. At least with a compass he would know which way to turn. Robby took a left.
The roads were mostly empty. When he did see another car, it was usually off to the side of the road in a ditch or crashed into a tree. He slowed down the first few times and then sped back up when he saw eyeball splatter on the inside of the windshield and a slumped-over form behind the wheel. He navigated down narrow streets, lined with big houses and big yards.
Robby felt better when he reached the road sign marking the next road as Route 77. He still wasn’t exactly sure where he was, but if he followed that road he would be able to find his way to the highway. From there he could decide on his course.
A bead of sweat formed on Robby’s forehead. He realized the heat was up all the way. He pulled over and took off his jacket, dropping it on the seat over his backpack. Robby relaxed his grip on the steering wheel a little and leaned back against the seat. Some of the tension dropped from his shoulders. One of the displays on the dash told him he could drive another three-hundred miles before needing to fill up.
Robby slowed again when he saw the supermarket. On the island, their grocery store was small and old. Robby had only been in a real supermarket a few times, and this one was bigger than any he’d seen. The lot was empty save for a few cars. The same light dusting of snow showed no footprints or tire tracks, so he pulled in and stopped right near the door. Only dim lights were on inside.
Robby put the SUV in park and detached the remote for the door locks so he could take it with him, but still leave the vehicle running. He tested it—unlock, lock, unlock, lock—before shoving it in his pocket and grabbing his jacket and backpack.
He peered through every window and studied each mirror before jumping out of the SUV. It idled quietly as he locked the doors and walked towards the doors of the supermarket. The snow squeaked and crunched under his boots.
The automatic doors didn’t open, and he couldn’t push them open. The sign read, “Closed—Thanksgiving Day.” He tried a number of things—his flashlight, his boot, the standing astray by the bench—before he found a brick behind the wheel of the last shopping cart. With the brick, he smashed the lower pane of the glass door. It made a terrible racket, and Robby looked around nervously for the better part of minute before convincing himself his vandalism hadn’t summoned the authorities—whatever authorities might remain. He ducked through the door and found himself in the produce department. He grabbed a basket and nearly sprinted through the store.
He found one body, back near the meat section. The woman wore a blue short-sleeve shirt tucked into tan cargo shorts. She was face-down near a scattered pile of cereal boxes and a hand cart with more inventory. Her hair was pooled around her head, but Robby could see a little blood seeping out around the edges. He gave the corpse a wide berth and trotted down the next aisle to grab crackers and cookies. He tried to fill his basket with filling, non-perishable staples. His hunger drove him towards stuff his mom would call junk. He didn’t want to get anything which required cooking.
The basket was too heavy for one arm by the time Robby made his way to the door. He set it down on the floor and jogged back to the second aisle for a can opener. Robby tucked the tool into his backpack and ran for the basket. A shadow passed by the front window of the store and Robby froze between the cash registers.
He panted as he squatted, waiting to see if something would pass by the windows again. The basket scraped on the tiles as he pushed it ahead of him so he could get a better view. When he heard a “click,” from the back of the store, he whipped around, saw nothing, and then spun forward again.
“Small stores only, next time,” he whispered to himself through clenched teeth.
With the basket clenched to his chest, Robby ran in a low crouch towards the broken door. The broken glass scattered on the mat made for terrible footing as Robby tried to pass the basket through the the lower half of the door. When he’d negotiated the basket and his own body through the door, he stopped again. The SUV still sat there, idling. He leaned down and looked under the vehicle—he couldn’t see anything on either side. Unless someone was standing directly on the other side of the tire, he was alone.
Robby clicked the remote twice. The lights flashed and he heard the clunk of the locks. He hauled the basket to the rear passenger’s door and tossed it on the seat. After slamming the door shut and sprinting halfway around the back of the SUV, Robby’s foot slipped on the thin layer of snow. He hit the parking lot with his right elbow and hip. A tingle shot all the way up to his shoulder. He scrambled to the driver’s door and lurched inside, locking the doors and glancing at the back seat simultaneously.
Robby stabbed at the accelerator as he put the SUV into gear and it bucked forward. A mile later, he finally slowed down and pulled into a big open parking lot, where he could see in every direction. Most of the crackers found their way into his mouth, but more than a few crumbled and decorated the upholstery before he finished.
It took almost half a bottle of water to wash down the crackers, and Robby realized he’d forgotten to get more to drink at the grocery store. This bottle was packed by his mom back on the island. His house seemed half a lifetime away from his stolen SUV sitting in an empty parking lot.
Robby sighed.
He could try to find a convenience store now, but he decided to get on the highway and make some progress first. The signs for the entrance ramp stood just up the road. Robby brushed himself off and put the vehicle into gear.
CHAPTER SIX
Inland - SUMMER (five months earlier)
Dear Karen,
It’s funny that I was just recently writing you about meeting new people. I’ve met a bunch of new people recently. Well, I’ve only actually met a few, but I’ve certainly seen a bunch. That new plant growing out back has commanded the attention of a determined and humorless branch of the federal government. I’m not exactly sure what their organization is called. They haven’t given me very much information. They’re positioned all around the house, and they ran a bunch of trucks out back to deal with the vines.
I’m not allowed to leave the house for anything. Every night, someone comes in and restocks the kitchen and drops off the mail. I found out if I leave my outgoing correspondence on the counter, it’s gone the next day, as long as it’s stamped. They haven’t yet snuck in and stolen my pad of letters to you, but I wouldn’t put it past them. I know what you would say—“Sounds like your dream life.” I miss going to the store though, and I miss talking to the toothless woman at the gas station. I even miss dealing with Phil on the phone. He was supposed to approve my estimate, but I haven’t heard a word from him. It will probably reduce my odds of getting more work, but I may have to call Phil.
You’re probably wondering how a silly little vine out back made me a prisoner in this house. There’s really not much more to the story to tell you though. One day they showed up and asked me about the vine, and then later the same day they were crawling all over the place. I’m not supposed to contact anyone about it because it will “cause a panic.” I guess they’re right about that part. I am a little panicky about the whole situation.
Somehow my computer is still able to create a “secure” connection to my clients, but when I trace the packet flow I can see it going right through their servers. I wish I knew how they managed that little trick. I can’t get an unadulterated connection to anything on the internet. If I try to get a message out, I’m certain they’ll block it before it even leaves the property. They’ve jimmied the phones as well. If I call someone I can hear a delay before the person responds. I tried to tell Stavros to stop by, but he said there was static on the line and hung up. I called him back and was able to talk to him with no problems, as long as I didn’t mention the vines or the government visitors. Hell, they may come in an tear up this letter, even though I don’t have anywhere to send it.
I miss you terribly, but I’m glad you didn’t stick around for this. You’d go crazy, trapped in this house.