SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Refuse cluttered the basement landing, congealed paper, possibly an animal carcass or two mixing with the garbage, no indication anyone had descended for a decade. The teens gaped at the storefront—Ren’s hood drawn over his head, Óscar’s hair stuffed beneath a ratty baseball cap—fixated on the door. Bright sunbeams filtered three steps before tapering into the gloom.

“Come on, chicken.”

“Cabrón, I don’t know. I don’t want any trouble.”

A dry wind blew down the narrow street, stinking of burnt rubber. Behind the gate, the glass door teased from below, plastered with signs from another time. One in particular made Ren antsy. White background, big green letters. ABIERTO. Open .

he building sat on the outskirts of Ronda, blocks past the failing barricades where the ruins—mostly apartments—had burned during the fallout. Tattered sheets blew from balconies as dust devils twisted about the lane, remnants of the recent sandstorms. Ren, the taller of the two, gripped the gate and spread the gap wider.

“Óscar,” he pleaded. “Vamos, amigo. I’ve been stuck at home for a week dreaming about this place. You’ve been doing the same since the storms hit, admit it.”

Óscar adjusted his glasses and stared appreciatively down at the broken barrier. “You’re getting pretty good at opening these things, you know? Real pro, Ren.”

“Busting old locks is easy. You’d know if you tried. Now see if that door is open.”

“No sé,” Óscar replied and shuffled, uneasily. “We should tell someone. If mi padre finds out—”

“You and your padre. No one’s found anything like this in forever. We’ll tell them, we just won’t say we searched it first.”

Slipping from beneath his hood, Ren brushed his unkempt hair from his ashen face—dark brown tips lightened by the year-round sun—and wiggled past, knowing his friend would have no problem following. Although Ren’s body had filled out, Óscar’s remained rail thin. One of many wonderful side effects of starvation.

“I don’t know, we’re supposed to be getting agua.”

“What’re you so worried about?” Ren said, shrugging as he took the stairs. “There could be shoes, amigo. Ones that fit . Wouldn’t you like that? Or new glasses? Maybe even batteries.”

With a chuckle, Ren wiped the glass clean. Peering through the door he spotted dusty aisles and shelves. His heart skipped a beat. Lots of shelves.

“Ho-lee shit. A market.”

Óscar’s stomach growled like a feral cat. “A market? Don’t tease me. I haven’t eaten anything but gachas for weeks. I dream of oats. See anything else? Anything…moving?”

“You stay right there. I promise not to eat all the candy. Or is that chocolate con leche?”

“But what about them? If one of—”

Ren snorted. “No one’s seen a walking carcass since that skinny thing in the fields last June and you know it. The moribund are all in the cities, wasting away like we are. Come on.”

“But what about the stragglers? The ones who remember?”

Ren peered inside, his hazel eyes—green leaning toward gold—gleaming as he reached for the doorknob. Óscar was right to worry, yet Ren would be damned before he let fear drive him. Unlike most of the adults, who either locked themselves up or slunk away at night, leaving the safety of town for the villas in the plains, lured by the hope of farming dead soil.

The chime rattled as he opened the door. “My bad. That’s not chocolate. It’s Coca-Cola. Red cans, right?”

Óscar’s hollow belly gurgled as he shimmied through the gate.

Standing in the aisle, Ren took a bite of dry almond cookie and grinned. Plucking a can from the shelf, he blew dust and squinted at the label. ANCHOAS. Anchovies. The fact that none of the adults had unearthed a store on the outskirts of Ronda, nestled between the burnt-out buildings and spitting distance from the barricades?

Amazing .

Ren handed Óscar a second roll of cookies and laughed. For months he had eaten nothing but oats. Dry. Difficult to swallow. He barely remembered the tang of gazpacho. Crunch of paella. At a party once he had tried sheep’s milk cheese with jamón ibérico—but that was years before rationing. Now only occasions like Christmas or birthdays afforded broth-soaked oats.

Mouth full of cookies, excitement seized him and he shoved Óscar into the shelves, cackled and took off, laughing as he sent pasta bags spraying into the walkway.

“Come get me, loser!”

Rounding the aisle, he slammed against the refrigerator doors, snickering so hard his ribs hurt. An undiscovered market?

Find of the effing century.

“¡Ay cabrón!”

With a hoot, Óscar laughed and loosed his slingshot. The rock whizzed past Ren’s ear, smashing glass. Launching the anchovy can from his hand, Ren turned before it struck Óscar, plucked a bottle from the shelf, and blindly tossed the thing over his head.

He shouted—spittle flying, loving the sound of glass exploding on the floor—reveling in the joy of letting go.

Taking the corner, he hurtled over the front counter, avoided a jar of olives, and crashed behind the cash register. Suppressing laughter, he scrambled for anything to throw—energy pills, fútbol magazines, packs of cigarettes—and glanced directly into teeth.

Ren cried out, backpedaled, and on instinct, froze.

A desiccated clerk was slumped in the corner, draped in a ratty smock, revolver resting on its lap, shrunken finger on the trigger. A hole cratered the man’s skull where the bullet had passed.

Ren wiped crumbs from his mouth and exhaled.

At least this suicide isn’t messy , he thought as he peered over the counter. Unlike the family the boys had stumbled across last month. Seeing the crispy mother leaning into the oven, her three children in their beds—decapitated heads left on pillows above their necks—had given Ren nightmares for weeks.

Grabbing a dried stick of chorizo from the counter, he pushed the corpse away, cringing as the body crumpled. With a shudder, he turned to the shelves. Some tins had distended, their contents likely spoiled, but most jars appeared in great shape.

If the townsfolk knew, he would get busted. Only forty-two people left in Ronda, and almost a third from different countries. During Ren’s studies he’d read that thirty-seven thousand had crowded Ronda’s streets before the EMP—even more during bullfighting season.

“What are you, scared?” he called out. “¡El padre que te parió!”

“Leave my father out of it!” Óscar shouted, his mouth full of food.

Ren plucked a bag of nuts from the counter. Wrapped, sealed, canned. Rice, dried cakes, almendras. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, they would keep the discovery to themselves for a day or two. A couple of candy bars, maybe a soda pop. The thought made his pulse thrum.

“I’m eating chocolate!”

“No you’re not!” Óscar scrambled, and rushed closer.

Ren dipped down, stifled a giggle as he went cold—stalling all feelings like his mother had taught him, slipping into darkness—his natural gift, she called it, his ability to hide from the moribund as they preyed on emotion—staring blankly as he waited for Óscar to get closer and shot up, whooping as he let the peanuts fly.

The jubilant shout came off as cocky—Ren liked this newfound bravado, rearing its head often as he neared his fourteenth birthday—turning into a gasp when he realized the bag of nuts was hurtling toward a figure rising from the gloom.

Seated on the curb, Ren tossed a pebble into the street, watching it bounce beneath a car. Beside him on the sidewalk, Óscar fingered a hole in his sneaker.