Free Survivor by James Phelan

truck—nothing, no living thing. I pulled out a couple of massive bags of mail, then tipped them out and folded the empty canvas bags into my backpack.
    I headed back along 49th the way I’d come, trying to work out my next move. I could radiate out from here and search for signs of Felicity. I looked back to 30 Rock, looming large behind me, the low winter sun hitting its zenith to the south; it would be warm up there in that tower, behind the glass, in that sun.
    â€œWhich way?” I said out loud, shuffling through the snow and kicking an empty Coke can. “Which way do I go?”
    Like I expected an answer. The mind draws conclusions from anything and everything, and I knew my own answer was what my gut was telling me: head south. Was that the pull of home? The lure of more sun in the day? Or did I need to head someplace else to get to where I really needed to go—check out places below Midtown I’d yet to see, look for easy routes off this island. But I resisted the call of the south—today I had to meet my promise, which was to bring food back to the zoo. Tomorrow was a different day.

    I walked into a darkened grocery store, the way lit by my flashlight alone. The dim daylight filtering through the front windows only penetrated so far. There were a dozen or so mobile phones on the front counter, their boxes and packaging ripped open and scattered around the floor, like someone had been searching for something. I tried a few—some dead, some missing their batteries, one working and showing no network. The landline phone was smashed, its pieces on the floor. The cash register was open and empty but for small coins.
    The first thing I did was to find some antiseptic and dressing, and some new gloves, and wash my newly cut hand by the light of the window, the wound not as bad as the bleeding suggested. I undid my pack, pulled out the two canvas postal bags and began to fill them with a mix of canned goods.
    A shuffling noise, coming towards me, made me want to run. My flashlight wouldn’t reach the entire length of the aisle. I wound the charge handle—the loudest thing I’d ever heard—and the beam grew brighter. I could just see—
    A dog. A Labrador cross. His big sad eyes shone back at me, ears down, face friendly.
    â€œHey, boy . . .”
    He didn’t respond, just watched me.
    I reached out to him and he growled, showing his teeth. He was lean but not skeletal; he’d been scavenging all these days. I looked through the shelves of tinned food, popped several cans of cat food and tipped them near him on the floor. He edged closer, wary, sniffing the air, his eyes never leaving mine as I backed away and left the store.
    After a few blocks dragging the bags behind me, I found a well-stocked deli. Its windows were blown in, and snow had drifted inside the broken glass and through the open door, filling the front half of the shop. I made my way through it slowly, carefully, until it was just a dusting on the tiled floor. The display counters were all dry goods, grains, and pastas, along with jars of pickles and preserves.
    I bagged coils of cured sausage and salami, some vacuum-packed portions that still looked good. The next fridge was overpowering in smell and contained cheeses—some wheels looked about as heavy as me. I collected as much as I could stuff into a bag.
    I had so far packed supplies for the zoo’s hungry mouths and plenty that was good for us. The other bag I filled with bagged and boxed grains and cereals, dried and tinned fruits, some staples. I added some containers of honey, long-life milk, and jars and cans of the odd delicacy—artichokes, olives, cheese, pickles; things I guessed Rachel might like. I looked forward to showing her all this food, taking my time to reveal it item by item, to share my spoils with someone, with another person like me.
    This would show Rachel that I was trustworthy, that I was willing to support her and