Summer's Sour Bounty

Rowen wiped a hand across his forehead, leaving a streak of grime and sweat. His t-shirt, once a decent shade of blue, now sagged, faded, and stiff with days of accumulated grit. He pulled at the collar, trying to get air to his skin, but the humid heat just pressed in, making him feel like he was wading through treacle. Beside him, Liza kicked at a loose chunk of concrete, sending it skittering across the broken pavement with a surprisingly loud clatter.

"Seriously?" she muttered, not looking at him, her gaze fixed on the shimmering road ahead. "Strawberries? We could be risking our lives for proper tinned beans. Or, you know, a functional can opener."

Rowen shrugged, adjusting the strap of his backpack. The old canvas dug into his shoulder, even through the sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt. "Granny June says they're good for, uh, 'morale.' And something about scurvy. Says the ones in jars she found went funny. Bloated. Bad sign."

Liza snorted. "Bloated fruit. Right. Because the twenty-first century's greatest killer is vitamin C deficiency, not, you know, the undead."

He offered a weak smile, kicking at a tuft of sun-baked weeds pushing through a crack in the asphalt. The irony wasn't lost on either of them. They moved with a practiced, almost bored caution, eyes scanning the broken windows of abandoned homes, the choked overgrowth of what used to be carefully manicured lawns. Every shadow, every sudden rustle of dry leaves, was noted, processed, and usually dismissed. Most things out here were just dust and the wind now. Most things.

"Still," Rowen said, the words feeling dry in his mouth. He swallowed, wishing he hadn't drained his water bottle so fast. "She really wants them. Said she saw a shipment come in right before… everything. To the old corner shop. The one with the green sign."

The 'old corner shop' was a generous description. It was more a skeletal shell of warped metal and splintered wood, its front window a gaping, jagged maw. The green sign, faded to a sickly mint, still hung precariously, half-torn letters spelling out 'GROCERIES & SUNDRIES.' It was a landmark, if only for its consistent ability to disappoint. Their settlement, a fortified enclave cobbled together from what remained of a community college campus, was a good three kilometres back, a sweat-soaked trek in this heat.

"Right," Liza said, a familiar exasperation in her voice. "The one we already cleared out, remember? Last summer. Barely got a bag of stale crisps and a very disappointing tin of cat food."

"She was specific about strawberries this time," Rowen insisted, feeling a prickle of defensiveness. "Said she remembered seeing the tins stacked up in the back. Near the loading bay. Small, you know. The fancy ones. Not the jam."

Liza rolled her eyes, but didn't argue further. This was their life: chasing phantom luxuries for their elders, navigating a world that offered only grim necessities. It was a strange kind of normal. The heat made everything sluggish, including, they hoped, the 'rottens' – their grim, shambling overlords. Most preferred the shade, the cool dark of collapsed buildings, but sometimes a lone one would just… wander. Aimlessly, endlessly.

As they rounded the corner of what used to be a community park, now just a fenced-off expanse of brittle, yellowed grass and rusted playground equipment, a low moan drifted through the still air. Rowen tensed, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the small machete strapped to his belt. Liza froze, her head tilting, listening. Her own weapon, a short, sturdy baseball bat, remained slung over her shoulder.

"Two," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "Maybe three. Slow. Probably the old kind. Cooked by the sun."

The moans were a symphony of discomfort, not menace. Drawn out, wheezy sounds that seemed to speak more of existential exhaustion than hunger. They peered cautiously around the last collapsed fence panel, revealing the rear of the grocery store. Indeed, there they were: three figures, grey and ragged, shuffling with painstaking slowness in the cracked loading bay. One had lost half an arm, another seemed to be wearing a tattered traffic cone on its head, askew. The third just slowly, rhythmically, bumped its head against a rusting dumpster.

"Right, so not exactly prime hunting stock," Liza whispered, a dry smile playing on her lips. "More like, 'Please, for the love of everything, just find a comfy spot to decompose.'"

Rowen found himself stifling a laugh. It was a nervous habit, this dark humour, a shield against the endless dread. It was how they coped. How any of them coped. Looking at the scene, it was less terrifying, more… pathetic. Three sad, slow things, trapped by their own decaying biology. They were closer to a really bad art installation than a true threat.

"We need a distraction," Rowen said, his voice low. "That side entrance, past the stack of pallets. It's usually unsecured."

He pointed to a narrow gap between a wall of disintegrating cardboard boxes and a half-collapsed brick wall. The moans continued, oblivious. One of the rottens suddenly stumbled, collapsing in a heap, only to slowly, deliberately, begin pushing itself back up. It took a full minute. Rowen watched, mesmerised by the sheer futility of it.

"Okay, plan," Liza declared, ever practical. She rummaged in her backpack, pulling out a couple of empty tin cans tied together with string. "You remember that old church bell? On the other side of that alley?"

Rowen nodded. "It's still there. Heavy. But it rings."

"Good. I'll take these and toss 'em down that alley. Make some noise. Draw their attention away from the shop. You try to get in, grab the strawberries, and get out. Quick as you can. If they get too close to the shop, I'll… improvise."

Her improvisation usually involved the baseball bat, applied with ruthless efficiency and a surprising amount of profanity. Rowen swallowed. "Got it. Don't worry about me. Just… try not to hit the bell too hard. We don't want to draw *everyone*."

"Right, because we're being subtle," she scoffed, but a glint in her eye showed she understood the balance. They needed just enough noise, enough movement to divert these three sad shamblers, not to summon a horde from the wider, silent city.

Liza moved first, a low crouch, hugging the wall, slipping into the alley that ran beside the grocery. Rowen waited, heart thumping a dull rhythm against his ribs. He counted slowly, to ten, then twenty. He heard the faint jingle of the cans, then a louder, metallic clatter as they hit the ground near the church bell. A moment later, the distinct, mournful *claaang* of the bell, dulled by distance and decay, echoed through the air.

The three rottens paused their shuffling, their heads, what remained of them, slowly turning towards the sound. Their moans intensified, a chorus of confused, eager misery. They started to shamble, with renewed, albeit still glacial, purpose, towards the alley. It was a bizarre, almost comical exodus.

Rowen seized the moment. He dashed across the loading bay, scrabbling over the stack of damp pallets, the wood groaning beneath his weight. The side door, a rusting metal fire escape, was indeed ajar. He pushed it open, a squeal of rusted hinges protesting the movement, and slipped inside, pulling it shut behind him.

Canned Comfort

Inside, the smell was worse: a concentrated damp earthiness mixed with the sickly sweetness of something long rotten. It was darker too, the windows boarded up or choked with grime. Dust motes danced in the sparse shafts of light that managed to penetrate, illuminating shelves picked clean years ago. He moved quickly, a trained instinct guiding him through the debris. Overturned shopping trolleys, shattered glass, the desiccated remains of once-bright packaging. The back storage room. That was the place.

He pushed through a swinging door, finding himself in a narrow aisle crammed with empty boxes and forgotten stock. A faint chill, almost imperceptible, suggested this area might have once been temperature-controlled. He saw them then, tucked away behind a collapsed shelf unit, half-buried under a pile of ancient, mouldy newspapers: a small stack of tins. Not big, family-sized tins. Small, individual portions. The good stuff.

His fingers brushed against one. The label, though faded, was clear: 'Sun-Kissed Strawberries – In Light Syrup.' Imported. Of course, Granny June would remember the imported ones. He carefully pulled out four tins, their cool metal a strange comfort in his hand. He wasn't sure why, but the act of finding something so specific, something so seemingly frivolous in this desolation, felt like a small victory. It was a whisper of the old world, a ghost of comfort.

He turned to leave, his heart feeling a little lighter, when a sound snagged his attention. A soft, wet scuffling. He froze, muscles locking. He hadn't heard anything on the way in. The sound came from just around the corner, where another narrow passage led deeper into what must have been the old freezer section. He held his breath, straining to listen. It came again, a dragging, scraping noise, accompanied by a faint, wet sniffing.

Damn it. One must have gotten through. Or perhaps it had been in here all along, tucked away in some forgotten corner, waiting. He considered his options. His machete was good for a clean strike, but the confined space, the unexpected nature of the encounter… he didn't want to risk a prolonged struggle. Not for four tins of strawberries.

He gripped the tins tighter, weighing them in his hand. Not quite heavy enough to be effective projectiles, but they could make noise. A lot of noise. He backed away slowly, carefully, trying to keep his movements silent. The scuffling grew a little louder, a little closer. He saw a shadow, long and distorted, stretch around the corner of the passage. It was definitely moving towards him. He imagined its blank, hungry stare, its ragged mouth a rictus of perpetual decay.

Suddenly, a thought struck him. A grim, ludicrous thought, perfectly suited to the world they now inhabited. He pulled one tin from his grip, hefted it, and then, with a silent, internal apology to Granny June, he hurled it with all his might down the passageway, past the corner, towards the source of the noise. It hit something with a dull clang, then clattered noisily along the floor.

A choked gurgle, a startled moan. The scuffling stopped, replaced by a new sound: a wet, tearing noise, followed by a faint, almost delicate slurping. He risked a quick peek. The rotten was there, on its knees, its head bent low. It was pawing at the crushed tin, making confused, almost desperate sounds. It had been attracted by the sound, yes, but also, perhaps, by the lingering smell of something sweet. A desperate, primal lure in its dead brain.

Rowen felt a strange mix of disgust and dark amusement. Even the rottens had their pathetic, simple desires. They weren't monsters, not really. Just sad, broken things driven by instinct. And now, this one was 'eating' a tin of strawberries. Or at least trying to, in its own gruesome, fumbling way. He slipped past, quiet as a ghost, making his way back to the side door. He could still hear Liza's distant bell, a faint, rhythmic clang that promised a clear escape route.

He emerged into the blistering afternoon sun, blinking rapidly, the light a shock after the gloom of the shop. Liza was waiting, leaning against the church's crumbling wall, the baseball bat propped casually beside her. Her face, framed by sweat-damp hair, was streaked with grime, but her eyes held a spark of mischievous relief.

"So?" she asked, a smirk playing on her lips. "Strawberries? Or did you get lost in the exciting world of industrial shelving?"

Rowen held up the three remaining tins, a faint triumph in his gesture. "Three. Cost a tin to get out, though. Some poor bastard's trying to eat a can opener."

Liza barked a laugh, a sharp, surprising sound that cut through the silence. "A fitting end. Better than being eaten by one. Right?" She pushed herself off the wall, retrieved her bat, and gestured back towards the road. "Come on. Let's get these to her before she starts talking about her childhood again. My ears can only take so much."

They began the long trek back, the sun still beating down with relentless cruelty. The air thrummed with the buzz of unseen insects and the distant, almost imagined, moans of the rottens. Rowen glanced back at the grocery store, a squat, broken silhouette against the brutal blue sky. He thought of the rotten, still fumbling with the strawberry tin. It was a stupid, meaningless act, but in this world, that was often all there was. A small, absurd goal, a small, absurd obstacle, and the faint, unsettling comfort of knowing you'd survived another day to do it all again. He didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second.

The metallic tang of rust was strong in the air, a constant companion. He shifted his pack, the weight of the tins a small, precious burden. Ahead, the heat-haze danced over the tarmac, making the road ripple like water. It looked like an endless stretch, leading them home, but also leading them into another day, another week, of the same brutal, comical reality. The world was still broken, still hungry, and beneath the relentless summer sun, it was always, always watching.

The distant horizon, a blurred line where the city once stood proud and vibrant, now just looked like a jagged, mocking grin. And somewhere within its teeth, things were stirring. Always stirring.