CHAPTER 4: Starbucks

  Nora was all business as she loaded up her battered old pack, checked her boots, and tightened the webbed belt holding her shotgun and two huge knives. She looked like the final boss in a feminist slasher movie, and frankly, I was okay with that. If you had to pick one person to walk through the post-apocalypse with, a traumatized ex-gun shop owner with zero fucks left to give seemed pretty solid.

  “We’ll go a couple of blocks west, then we got three miles south,” she said, squinting at a sky that was more overcast than not. “There’s a housing project we can skirt. After that, we take Sixth Street all the way down. Fewer idiots, hopefully, less open ground, and come at the coffee shop from the back.”

  I nodded in agreement. My stats put me physically just shy of a comic book superhero, but Nora’s paranoia was justified. The crows were already back in force, black flecks crowding the telephone lines and feasting on last night’s leftovers. The air smelled like burned plastic, wet, and copper.

  We stuck to the alleyways, vaulting fences and ducking low where the eaves gave us some cover. There were bodies in most yards, some fresh, some already swollen and leaking. I tried not to look too closely. After a block or two, I realized Nora was taking the lead, her sensory sweep almost as good as mine. She didn’t speak, just pointed or jerked her chin, and I followed.

  The first mile was uneventful. As we neared the high school, I saw three kids—well, late teens, but younger than me—dragging a shopping cart loaded with a couple of car batteries, junk food, and what looked like two PlayStations. They saw us, paused, and started whispering furiously.

  Nora kept walking. I did too, but my eyes never left the trio. When we were maybe fifty feet away, the smallest kid—a girl with shoulder-length red hair and a blue bandana—pivoted and leveled a .22 rifle at us. Her hands shook so badly she almost dropped it.

  “Stop!” she yelled. “Just stop right there!”

  Nora’s posture didn’t change, but her voice went flat. “You really want to try that, kid?”

  I put a hand out, palm down, and said, “Don’t. You… survived. Nobody here wants more blood.”

  The girl’s face was pale, lips blue. “Give us your weapons and ammo. Just do it. We need it. And food… spare clothes, if you got 'em.”

  Behind her, the other two boys—brothers, judging by their similar features, with one clutching a crowbar, the other a kitchen knife.

  “You realize that none of that stuff is going to work, right?” I said, gesturing at the shopping cart, trying to defuse the situation by changing the subject. “All electronics have been fried. I doubt even those batteries still have a charge.” Both the girl and crowbar turned to look at kitchen knife. “You said you could get them to work, Sean … what the hell?” Said crowbar. “You know I’ve been messing with electronics since I could walk … besides, my class said that I could bring new life to old tech. Maybe I don’t know how yet exactly, but I’ll figure it out. I always do.” Said Kitchen Knife, glaring defiantly between Crowbar and Rifle.

  “Look, guys, nobody wants to hurt anybody. We’ve all been through enough shit for ten lifetimes the last few days. I’d be happy to give you plenty of food, although there should still be tons of all over the place. The winter clothes I can’t help with directly, but North Country Sportswear up on Highway 83 is where I got all this stuff. Or you try Wal-Mart?”

  “We started at Wal-Mart… we live near there and almost got our heads blown off. Some sort of gang is holed up there taking potshots at anyone who comes too close.” Said Crowbar. “That’s why we need the weapons. They got all the food, and we have no way to fight back. Target’s probably no better.”

  With a glance towards Nora, I responded to the girl. “Almost right across the street from the sportswear store is a gun shop … EZ Guns. I was there not twenty minutes ago and there are still a bunch of weapons lying around. Ammo is scattered all over the floor, though, so that may take a bit of time to get sorted.” Nora heaved one of her signature dramatic sighs and turned to the girl. “Look, you three seem like good kids. We’ve all had to do some shitty things the last few days, but we don’t have to make that our whole lives going forward. Go to EZ Guns. In the back storeroom, there are stairs down to the basement. Plenty of good stuff still down there. But do me a favor, only use that shit to defend yourselves. Nobody wants to see more dead kids. We’ve all had enough of this bullshit.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Um … thanks, ma’am,” said Rifle, finally lowering her firearm. “C’mon guys, let’s go.” She said to the brothers, turning to head north.

  “Hold up a second.” I said, causing all three to stiffen, probably fearing the worst. “We are in a bit of a hurry at the moment, trying to get to her son.” I said with a jerk of a thumb towards Nora, but I would really like to talk to you about your class if you’d be willing… Sean.” I had almost called him kitchen knife, but caught myself at the last second. “If you really can get our old tech working again, I’d be thrilled to help in any way I can.” The three exchanged glances, whispering amongst themselves. Of course I could hear it as well as if they were shouting, but I didn’t let on. They seemed fine with it, but had no safe place to go where I could find them. “Hey Nora, is it okay if they hang out at your place for a bit? Just until we see your son safe?” “Fine by me.” she replied and started walking quickly southward. “The mobile home behind the gun shop. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I gave an awkward little wave as I turned to hurry after Nora.

  We didn’t see another soul until we were nearly at Starbucks. Shockingly, it looked like there was a legitimate block party going on. Probably thirty or forty people were casually walking around, sipping on drinks and chatting. There were even a couple of charcoal grills going. Nora and I both stopped, stunned at what we were seeing. Both of us were fearing a battle royale, but had walked up on a high school football tailgating session. If not for the fact that half the people had blood on them visible even from a block away, you’d never know we were in the apocalypse.

  The uncanny normalcy of the Starbucks scene paralyzed us for a good ten seconds. It wasn’t just that people were standing around in broad daylight, talking, laughing, even crying and hugging. It was the fact that nobody seemed even a little afraid. Two months ago, I would have said it looked like a college town on a lazy Saturday morning—maybe a post-5K donut social. Now, it was a fever dream, like the System had skipped to the "rebuild civilization" phase early and see if we noticed.

  Nora was the first to move. She stalked down the block with the same surly purpose as an alley cat on a mission, shotgun in one hand and a face that promised violence if anyone tried to stop her. I trailed behind, feeling absurdly out of place with an AR-15 slung lazily across my back and enough ammunition in my pocket dimension to supply a small revolution.

  Half a dozen people clocked us as we approached. One guy in a faded Vikings hoodie pointed, whispering to the woman next to him. She was missing three fingers and held a half-eaten burger in her remaining hand, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Neither of them looked particularly scared.

  About fifty feet from the party, a shimmering blue haze flickered around the edge of the Starbucks property, visible only if you looked just a little to the side. I noticed that nobody was standing too close to it.

  As we stepped through the nearly invisible blue haze, a notification popped up:

  STARBUCKS IS A DESIGNATED SAFE ZONE. NO HOSTILE ACTIONS WILL BE TOLERATED. VIOLATORS WILL BE RECYCLED.

  Underneath, in smaller writing:

  NO SMOKING INSIDE. NO SHOOTING THE BARISTA.

  The inside of the Starbucks was packed. And the lights were still on… and it was warm! The chalkboard menu had been replaced with could only be described as a pillar, reminiscent of the self-serve ordering kiosks at McDonald’s. A System screen—strobing, slick, and animated, with a scrolling list of “Today's Quests” and “System Shop” adorning each of the five pillar sides, with long lines for each screen. Although people were constantly adding to the lines, they moved ridiculously fast. It took my brain a minute to catch up with the fact that when people reached out to touch the screen, the screen went black, then maybe two seconds later they walked away. Odd to say the least. There were slices of cake behind the counter glass, and every table was full. People sat in clumps, talking in low voices or just staring at their hands as if they were still trying to believe any of this was real. I half expected to see a tip jar labeled “FOR THE END OF THE WORLD.”

  Behind the counter, a young guy with shaggy brown hair and a Starbucks apron worked the register with eerie calm. He had a makeshift bandage over one eye, although no blood was visible. His movements were unnaturally smooth as he calmly handed out coffee and cake to the long line of customers. No money changed hands, but after half a second of thought, I remembered that the only currency that mattered anymore was mana, but I did not know how it was transferred. He served a coffee, then wiped the counter despite nothing having been spilled. I realized with an involuntary shudder that I hadn’t seen him blink in the ten seconds I had been watching him.

  Nora bypassed the line, which resulted in some quiet grumbling, but nothing even remotely resembling aggression. This new world was apparently either shoot you in the face, or smile and wave, with not much in between. She stopped in front of the counter as if she’d just run a marathon, breathing hard. “Kevin,” she gasped, nearly frantic as she inspected him, obviously knowing that something was dreadfully wrong with her son.

  Kevin briefly turned to her. “Please wait your turn in line ma’am, I will be with you as soon as possible. Thank you for choosing Autonomous Multiverse Integration Systems Inc.” He turned back to the customer at the head of the line.