The System

With the sun as their light, Grant began to inspect the bar. There were two abandoned drinks on the bar-top—a coffee cup and a brown liquor of some kind. The coffee had hardened to a block of solid sludge and the top was dotted with mold. White and green circles grew on the surface of the former liquid and crawled up the sides of the porcelain.

The dust on the floor was undisturbed by footprints until Grant’s and Lucy’s own shoes created a pathway of tracks.

“Totally vacant,” Grant stated the obvious. But he looked perplexed.

“The virus?”

“This place has been empty long before that.” He pointed to a bowl of fruit on the counter—formerly bananas, lemons, limes—they were virtually indistinguishable. Each one was merely a lump of green, dusty mold. If Lucy had touched one, it would have disappeared into the air. Cobwebs floated from the ceiling; the mirror behind the bar no longer displayed a reflection—the dirt and grime obscured every inch of its surface.

“These drinks were left here,” Grant pointed. “And the door was unlocked. There are open bottles on the ledge. They left in a hurry?”

Lucy felt a shiver crawl up the back of her neck and her arm hair stood on end.

“I’m going back outside,” she whispered and shuffled back out into the sunlight.

Without a word, Grant exited the bar behind her and stood on the street with his arms crossed. He looked up and down, his eyes sca

“This isn’t right.” Lucy called over the row of untouched supplies. “Unless…everyone here died before they thought about stocking up on things?”

“Or maybe it’s such a small town that no one thought of looting?”

“But look.” Lucy ran her hand over the top of a box of rice and held her finger up for Grant to see. It was darkened from the dust.

“Too much neglect. That box has been there a long time,” Grant said.

“Right.”

They left the store and stood once more in the center of the road.

“I’m confused,” Lucy admitted. “Isn’t there supposed to be something here? Anything? I feel like I should be searching for the next clue maybe.”

“Your father wouldn’t send us here for another clue,” Grant sighed and ran his hand over his hair. “That’s just mean spirited. No. What we’re looking for is either here…or it isn’t here anymore. Look, Lucy, I don’t think I’d want to stay here tonight and we’re almost out of gas—”

“No. There has to be something here.”

“So, Brixton. What are we missing?” Grant spoke into the road. Then he turned to Lucy, and he reached over and nudged her shoulder. “Don’t be discouraged. It’s not like we’ve seen the whole city.”

“Yes, we have,” Lucy replied and she waved her hand in a sweeping gesture in front of her body. “This is the whole town. There’s no one in the bar or the store. There’s no one coming out to greet us. There are no dead bodies. It’s just like everyone here vanished.”

Then Lucy raised her eyes and saw the post office. A wind-torn American flag flapped lazily next to its entrance, and a blue mail bin, covered in dust and mud, sat next to the entrance. She had an idea. “Alright, there’s one thing we can check.” She started walking swiftly toward the brick building; this time Grant followed her. When she reached the post office, she pushed open the single glass door and listened as a ti

The Brixton post-office was a single room with a laminate countertop separating the front and the back. Along the far wall were PO boxes and Lucy realized that the townspeople must not have had mailboxes, but rather traveled to this building daily to collect their mail. Its cash register was ancient and the drawer was wide open; stacks of ones and fives, and a single twenty, remained.

Without fear, Lucy ducked under the counter and waltzed into the belly of the mailroom. Several buckets of unsorted mail remained untouched on a back counter and Lucy reached in and grabbed a letter. The postmark was from two years ago. She tossed it to the side and grabbed another; same postmark date—two years before.

Lucy tossed Grant a small package and he fumbled to catch it against his body.

“What do you notice?” she asked him. He glanced at the white packaging and shrugged.

“Someone actually mails things to people in this city?” he asked and then he smiled at his own joke—his single dimple appearing for a moment. Lucy rolled her eyes.

“Date,” she instructed and pointed.

Grant looked down and read the postmark himself. “Huh,” was all he said in reply.

“Is that strange?” she asked.

Grant nodded, perplexed, and then he set the package down on the counter next to them. “So…everyone in Brixton’s been AWOL since before the attacks?”

“Seems that way.”

Lucy peered back into the darkened part of the post office—the rows of unclaimed, unsorted mail that sat in darkness, beyond the sunlight. She tried to see if there was anything more worth exploring. The back part of the building didn’t have windows and it was blanketed in stale, dusty darkness.

“This place creeps me out,” Grant said and he took a step back toward the exit.

“This whole town creeps me out.”

“Maybe it’s something about being around dead people’s mail. I don’t know.”

“Did you grab our flashlight?” Lucy asked. Back in the dimly lit mailroom she could see several large boxes wrapped with clear packing tape and showing evidence of wear on the corners. She glanced back at Grant; he rested his body against the back part of the counter, his elbows perched behind him on the counter. He shook his head. Lucy turned and took a tentative step into the shadows.

“What else is there to see?” Grant called after her. “Let’s go. The next empty place awaits our discovery.”

Lucy thought about heeding Grant’s advice, but she couldn’t help her curiosity; there was a certain voyeuristic allure about this place. Who mailed that package? What was inside? Would the person who mailed it assumed it found its way to the recipient; had they spent two years wondering why no one called to say thank you? Her mind wandered to unclaimed Christmas presents or birthday gifts—or maybe even something more sinister. She also thought about the supplies having already mentally catalogued the ca

She took a step further into the blackness of the room. Her eyes adjusted and searched out shapes. Lucy reached the shelving unit and tugged the package down. She rested it against her arms and read the packing label. To Izzy, it read. From a grandma without a return address. She wanted to open it, but Grant’s loud sigh deterred her. Lucy pushed the box back up on the shelf and stepped away.

“Maybe we could use this stuff,” she called to him.

“Yeah, sure, okay,” came Grant’s reply.

She sniffed and turned toward him.

Then she caught a shape out of the corner of her eye. A flash of fabric, a familiar outline.

“I think there’s a body back here,” Lucy shouted. Grant stepped away from the counter and craned his neck to look around her.

“Only twenty-five left to discover, I suppose,” he replied. Grant dug into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. He flipped open the lid and the wick erupted. Then he walked over to Lucy and tried to hand it to her.

“Why are you making me look at it?” Lucy asked and she crossed her arms.

“Hey, new rule. You find it, you examine it,” Grant said with a smirk and he pushed the flame forward.

“No way. We go together,” she said and then she tugged on the corner of his shirt and pulled him forward. He skipped a step and then bumped into her shoulder. Lucy lost her balance and stumbled into the shelving. It jiggled and then settled; none of the boxes spilled to the floor below. She righted herself and cleared her throat, then they started to move.