The Last One(74)

I hear Brennan stop, then a sliding sound as he extracts a box of what I assume are his coveted Lucky Charms. The sound of cardboard tearing, then plastic. I leave the endcap display and catch up to him. He’s munching on handfuls of oats and marshmallow, a blissful smile laid atop his chewing mouth.

“I bet we can find some powdered milk if you want an actual bowl,” I tell him. His eyes go wide with possibility and he nods, cheeks bulging. “But first let’s see what I want,” I say. Though several shelves are empty, the aisle still contains a slew of brands. I’m surprised sponsors have allowed this cohabitation upon the shelves. But I suppose they can easily blur whatever brands they want to blur. Lucky Charms is made by General Mills, so I run my eyes along the Kellogg’s brands, just because. And then I change my mind—do they have Kashi? A moment later, I find the shelf I want, the brand, and then the product. Two boxes left. I grab one and then we head off in search of powdered milk.

I’m about to dump the milk into my little cooking pot, when I think, Screw it. We might as well use what’s here. I lead Brennan to the paper-goods aisle and grab a pack of plastic bowls, followed by some spoons. We take our supplies to a display of plastic outdoor furniture surrounded by empty coolers, netted beach toys, and excited signage—SALE SALE SALE! I light a couple candles and we dine seated under an entirely unnecessary umbrella. The cereal I chose is sweeter than I remember.

After Brennan finishes his third bowl of Lucky Charms, he wipes his face and asks, “This is a good place to spend the night, isn’t it?”

He’s clearly seeking my approval. “Sure is,” I say. And then—why? I don’t know, it just comes out—“Smells pretty bad and I’m concerned about all the mouse feces, but other than that it’s good.” Bitch, I think, as I watch Brennan’s face fall. I want to apologize, but for what? He’s a cameraman, not my friend, and he’s not as young as he looks. I can’t apologize. Not directly. Instead I say, “Let’s explore some more. Figure out what we want to take with us for the final push.”

“Final push?” he asks.

“Yeah, we’re not far. Two or three days.” Miles, I think. So little distance separates us now.

“And when we get there, what happens?”

He probably knows that better than I do. My mood sours. For all my imagining, I know there must be a final Challenge waiting, something more intense than covering distance. Something the audience, the cameras, will find irresistible. At the thought I take out my lens and scan the ceiling. The cameras are easy to find, but I can’t tell if they’re normal security cameras or if the show has put up more sophisticated ones. Of the two I can see, one is pointed at us and the other toward the inactive cash registers. Because something is going to happen over there or for atmosphere? I’ll ready myself for the former. This is the perfect place for a Challenge, after all, because it feels secure.

Brennan and I comb the aisles. At first I don’t even consider searching the produce section, because it’s all gone to mulch, but then a display of potatoes catches my eye. Root vegetables—they last for ages. With a kind of shy hopefulness, I approach the potatoes. Getting close, it’s hard to tell. I almost draw my lens from my pocket, but then reach out a hand instead, preparing myself for rot.

There’s no way they’ll allow me this.

My fingers meet firm brown skin. The sensation is so unexpected I don’t trust it. I squeeze, lightly, then harder, and still the potato doesn’t give.

It’s not rotten.

I must have done something right, something incredible, to earn such a prize. The banner, I think. This is my reward for climbing the downed tree, for bypassing the motel. For being both brave and prudent.

I jog to the front of the store and grab a handbasket. I hear Brennan call after me, but I don’t answer. Within moments I’m picking through the potatoes, finding the “best” by some standard I can’t name. Really, I just want to touch them all. Then I move to the adjacent stand. Onions. Garlic. Ginger. For all the fabricated decay around me, all I smell is spice. Flavor. The next half hour is a manic blur as I scour the aisles and collect ingredients: lentils, quinoa, cans of sliced carrots and green beans, peas. Olive oil. Diced, stewed tomatoes. I attack the spice aisle—ground black pepper, thyme, rosemary, cumin, turmeric, dried parsley, red pepper flakes. The flavors don’t go together, I know that, and yet I want them all.

There are plastic-wrapped packages of firewood at the front of the store, five logs per pack. I clear a space on the floor near where we ate our cereal, then start a fire inside a dinky charcoal grill. “Isn’t that going to set off the sprinklers?” asks Brennan.

“There’s no power,” I tell him. I have no idea if sprinkler systems need electricity to work, but they’ve disabled everything else in this forsaken world. I’ll keep the fire small, just in case. I arrange the grill’s metal grate atop the flames, then set a pot of lentils to boil.

Next, I place a potato on a cutting board. I pause and lift my knife. I breathe out and slice through the spotty skin. The two halves fall aside, revealing a sheen of moisture on the interior flesh. I sit on a plastic chair, staring at the halved potato on its plastic cutting board beneath this plastic umbrella and feel a stirring like joy. Which is ludicrous; it’s just a potato. But there’s something about its organic realness amid all the plastic and preservatives that strikes me as extraordinarily beautiful.