Grants Pass Read Free Page B

created suddenly an abyss. I turned and fled
from the building, holding the paper like a talisman.
    The area immediately outside was
empty, a small pool of captured sunlight; the warmth baking into my shoulders
bared by the thin straps of the tank top I wore. I was also wearing an ancient
pair of jeans, the fabric little more than threads at the knees. On my feet
were Renee’s black stiletto Gucci heels.
    The paper I had taken from the lobby
wall was crammed with tiny print. Several pieces were on the flu, as well as
newspaper clippings on the plagues worldwide. At the bottom was a journal
article, written by a girl named Kayley the previous May. In it she outlined a
sketchy plan to meet in Grants Pass if the end of the world ever eventuated.
    I folded the paper carefully and
tucked it into the pocket of my jeans. It was then that I noticed the complete
and utter silence.
    For me, New York has always meant
noise. The ever-present music of traffic, yelling voices, the thump of bass
from the clubs. Today, there was none of that. Just the eerie, flat silence
that crowded at my ears, pressing against the hollow of my throat, close as a
lover.
    I ran then, heedless of the stiff
leather scraping at my heels, the screaming of my calf muscles. I blanked in
and out as I ran.
    Lines of cabs still neatly parked in
their lanes as though waiting for a change of lights, their drivers still
behind the wheel, faces swollen with the putrid gases of death.
    Black.
    A woman sprawled on the sidewalk,
her hands reaching out for a nearby newspaper stand, now empty. Her fingers
were heavy with gold rings; her lacquered nails the color of blood.
    Black.
    A group of children huddled around
the still form of a dog. Their limbs were locked over the matted fur, stiff and
blue. I tried not to see the ragged holes in the dog’s sides where the
children’s teeth had been.
    Black. Black. Black.
    I stopped at an abandoned newsstand
and helped myself to a chocolate bar, digging change out of my pocket to leave
on the counter. No newspapers were left. I walked down the street, looking
upwards at the buildings to try to orient myself. I didn’t want to look down at
the sidewalk or street anymore. When my feet nudged against something solid, I
felt my way around without looking. I focused instead on the taste of the
chocolate, the rich creamy sweetness. It was warm, half melting in the packet.
    It hit me then that it was summer;
that the dead would putrefy rapidly in the heat. Suddenly the chocolate tasted
rancid, and I tossed it away half eaten in a trashcan.
    My sense of direction clicked in
then. I was only a few blocks away from Central Park. I walked them quickly,
eager for the refuge of the park. I passed a hot dog vendor on the way. A hot
dog, complete with mustard and ketchup, sat on top of the stand. Next to the
food, a large black bird eyed me before dipping its beak to the sausage,
tearing away a shred of pink, gristly meat. I shooed the bird and took a bottle
of water from the cart. I didn’t leave any change this time.
    Strangely, the park was almost
empty. I passed only a few corpses, splayed out as though sunbathing. Their
eyes had dried to opalescent pools in the bright sunlight, lending them the
aspect of surprise, as though death had snuck up behind them. Gotcha.
    I swigged from the already warm
water as I walked, feeling a thin sweat break out on my forehead. The sky above
was completely clear, a gorgeous summer day. A month ago, there would have been
dozens of people sunbathing here.
    I came across another of the black
birds after a few more minutes of walking. This one was perched on a small rise
in the lawn, gazing steadily at me as I approached. It didn’t move when I moved
close, not even when I attempted to shoo it. When I looked over the rise, I saw
why.
    They were a family, united by rigor
mortis into a single unit. The baby was wearing denim overalls, unsexed. The
father was dressed in full army regalia, camouflage useless