When they arrived at the abandoned strip mall, the sun had risen and the wet heat was intensifying by the minute. The white letters that hung on their destination were mostly missing. It read: WALMART. The parking lot was too shallow for the weighed-down canoe, so they got out and waded, pushing it alongside. Half-sunk shopping carts and abandoned cars dotted the expanse. Oil slicks swirled on the water’s surface. Garbage floated. Phyllis had foreseen this; they both wore waders, not because they were squeamish about getting wet, but because the stagnant water was filled with trash and sewage and dead things. Evidence of previous looters was clear: plywood torn away from windows, broken glass, graffiti. The damage looked old and worn, which set Phyllis somewhat at ease. But not completely. They were exposed here—there was no getting around that. She felt for the gun she wore in a homemade shoulder holster and tried to remember why she’d thought this was a good idea. The hot metal was comforting. She’d strapped it on that morning feeling certain she wouldn’t need it, but what-ifs governed her entire life. She had never not paid them heed. What if she did need it? She fingered the leather straps she’d scraped and tanned herself. This skin used to belong to a deer. Now it belonged to her. How delicate life is, she thought. How unjust.
They entered the building easily, stepping over splintered plywood and shattered windows. Inside, a foot of water rippled. They brought the canoe with them, nudging it down the flooded aisles, filling it with whatever useful scraps they could find. The store was dark and hot. Turning around, Phyllis saw that the hole they’d entered through was a blinding sunburst amid all of these shadows.
“Shoulda brought a flashlight,” she said. “Stupid. Maybe we’ll find one, though—wouldn’t that be something.”
“Or…” Wanda reached down and brushed the water with her fingertips. A glimmer spread across the surface so quickly it reminded Phyllis of lightning. For a brief moment it was bright enough to see everything. They stood in an aisle that used to be full of hair products but was now mostly empty shelves, the canoe floating between them, the illuminated water lapping at the thick rubber of their waders.
“Don’t do that,” Phyllis hissed.
Wanda looked surprised. Hurt. The light went out almost immediately. The aisle darkened. “Do what?”
“You know what. Not here. Not where anyone could see.” Phyllis knew immediately that she should have said this differently. But she was scared. She hadn’t been this exposed in a long time, and all she could think about was the gun pressing into the soft flesh of her side, the postman throwing rocks, the curious stares of the fishermen as they helped Lucas into the trawler. The roll of the deer’s eyes as she crept forward to end its suffering. The fact that they were women was enough to mark them as prey—if anyone saw Wanda’s light, they’d never forget it. How could they? They would hunt her; she was certain of it. Not because they’d understand it or know how to use it, but because humans are a peculiar sort of predator, cruel and curious. More interested in pinning specimens to a corkboard than watching them flutter.
Wanda waded on, tugging the canoe behind her, careful now not to touch the water. “Didn’t know it was a crime,” she mumbled. Phyllis opened her mouth to bring context to the moment, to remind Wanda that while the things she brought forth in the water were extraordinary—in the most literal sense of the word—that specialness only made it more important to stay hidden. Just as they hid the house, the mouth of the driveway, the garden, so too they must hide Wanda and the things she could do. But she’d already disappeared down the next aisle. They would talk it through later, she promised herself, when they didn’t have to whisper.
In that dim warehouse, a place that used to be overflowing with products and people, the only sounds were the soft ripples of water as Phyllis and Wanda moved down the aisles, surveying empty shelves, picking through trash, occasionally finding something of use. Wanda whistled to get Phyllis’s attention and held up a coveted six-pack of soap. Phyllis flashed her a thumbs-up as Wanda nestled her treasure into the canoe. They spent hours in this way, squinting at the cavernous, mostly empty shelves, feeling around at the very back for anything that might have been missed by previous scavengers.
Eventually, the canoe could take no more. They waded out into the parking lot with their load and climbed aboard where the water was deepest, navigating back onto Highway 1. A lazy current caught hold and Wanda took advantage of it, the sun beating down on them, smudges of an afternoon thunderstorm lurking to the north. Phyllis heaved a sigh of relief and began to sort through their bounty. She was pleased with what they’d found. “Not bad,” she said, picking up a box of casing nails, giving them a shake, then setting them back down. Wanda only grunted, leaning into her stroke.
Neither Phyllis nor Wanda saw the young man watching them from the roof of a nearby building as the current hurried them home. Shading his eyes against the bright noon light, Corey lay close to the hot shingles until they were almost out of view, then slithered back from the edge and down the fire escape, the metal burning his hands. Inside the decrepit fast-food restaurant below, behind the defunct fryers and darkened heat lamps, he found his sister, up to her thighs in polluted water, still looking for nonperishables among the wreckage.
“We gotta go,” he said quietly, pulling her outside to their raft. Neither of them had waders. There was a lot they didn’t have. The water caked their clothes and skin in a gray film. “Brie,” he hissed. “Hurry.” She clambered aboard as fast as she could, not wanting to upset him. It was never a good idea to upset him. He shoved the raft out into the parking lot, then hopped on and picked up the quant pole.
“Why?” she ventured.
“Like Dad always says: easy pickings.” He smiled at her: cold, joyless. His sister didn’t smile back. She pulled a cap down low over her face and said nothing.
Chapter 56
Assuming Bird Dog will give chase, Wanda paddles as fast as she can for the maze of the swamp. As long as she’s caught out on the open water, she’s vulnerable. But if she can just make it to the ruined buildings and the twisted mangroves and the tangled palms, she might be able to disappear. There is Phyllis’s voice in her head, telling her to run and hide, run and hide, run and hide. So without pausing to hear the words Bird Dog is saying, without looking over her shoulder, Wanda churns toward cover with every shred of energy she has, every muscle engaged in propelling her toward the trees. The canoe darts across the water like a quick-finned fish, a metallic streak in the darkness. Her ears are roaring with her own breath, Phyllis’s pleas to go faster, faster, faster drowning out her own thoughts. It isn’t until she’s among the tangled mangrove roots that she realizes Bird Dog hasn’t followed her. Brie. Whatever she calls herself now. Wanda holds her breath and stays very still to listen, but there is nothing to hear except the usual night sounds. It doesn’t make any sense. Why lure her here if she meant to let her get away so easily? Wanda tries to decide whether it’s safe to go home—but that would involve trusting her own senses, and how could she trust anything her brain tells her after such obvious self-sabotage?