Survival

Chapter 2 Deals and Decisions

Vita crept over to the two-story house next door that had been spared the damage done by the raging storms. She wanted to check on the old widow, Mrs. Sanchez. Long, wild grasses had sprung up throughout the yards and concealed tripping hazards: crumbled bricks, holes, and corpses. She couldn't fathom how this vegetation thrived. 

Vita travelled across the yard with ease today, already knowing the route and its challenges. Side step the crumbled flowerbed and avoid the three lifeless ravens splayed on the ground. She tried to peek through the window's purple curtains to see if the woman was napping again, but her view was obscured.

Mrs. Sanchez's mystery illness had rapidly progressed the past two days. Vita's post-disaster group, Gunnar and Rob, took full advantage of the hoarder's altered mental state to build up their own reserves. The elder's kitchen and basement boasted rows of non-perishable cans, chips, drinks, and everything they really wanted. The thought of stealing from a dying woman didn't sit well with Vita, but as another wave of nausea stopped her in her tracks, she knew not much went down smoothly in this cruel new world.

She had played the decoy and sat through afternoon teas, listening to Mrs. Sanchez's disjointed stories and hallucinations. The woman's voice had this hoarse quality to it: smokers' trait without the habit. Rob figured that out after he raided the drawers. His temper flared; smashed walls and dishes covered the floor. The steeped tea concoctions, made from whatever was lying around the kitchen or garden, were likely candidates for Mrs. Sanchez's sickness. Fortunately, Vita could spit the liquid back into the dingy mugs when the woman stared off into space or at the unseen creatures that occupied it.

Yesterday, boils had sprung up on the woman's face and obscured her gentle wrinkles for the first time. They were about the size of a nickel. Rob and Gunnar wouldn't come for today's visit. They claimed it wasn't worth the risk and denied Vita's accusations of fear. Young men like themselves feared nothing, apparently. Guilt gnawed away at her conscience, from her unwavering nausea to her racing mind. Vita summoned up the courage to go and check on the woman's condition. At least that would make her feel like a half-decent human being.

"Mrs. Sanchez," Vita called and knocked on the door.

Silence. 

Repeating the action yielded the same result.

Vita shimmied the door open in case the woman needed some help. Stacks of shoes and magazines made the door hard to budge, but she squeezed though. The floorboards creaked as she walked through the aged entryway and toward the living room. A pungent smell overtook the typical mothball scent. Her nose wrinkled.

Peeling floral wallpaper distracted her at first until a snarl came from near the couch. That couldn't be human. Vita peered closer. On the hardwood floor, Mrs. Sanchez's body lay stiff. Her eyes bulged like someone had injected them with fluid while her hands were fixed in a clawed position, perhaps to fight off an invisible assailant. Her skin was littered with large scarlet bumps the size of golf-balls. Luckily, none in sight had broken open or begun to pus.

Dark beady eyes belonging to a mangy four-legged beast stared menacingly at Vita. She had interrupted the dog's feast. By the look of its protruding gut, it likely wasn't the first of the day. Its jaws twitched. Low growls filled the room. Yellow incisors glistened in the bright afternoon sun, streaming through the curtains. Vita closed her eyes and wished the owner of the full set of teeth was as lacking in life as Mrs. Sanchez.

Vita took a deep calming breath and stepped back. She kept her eyes on the dog and inched away from the scene until she collided with a warm barrier. Someone thrust a hand over her mouth before she could scream. Tears flew from her widened eyes, and she slowly turned. Maybe Mrs. Sanchez hadn't been hallucinating after all.