Apocalypsis 01 - Kahayatle

glass of the front window was broken and things were strewn out on the ground in front.
    I got off my bike and motioned for Peter to do the same.   I put Buster’s bag down on the ground and he ran out of it, dancing around a few seconds before going to lift his leg on a nearby plant.
    “I’ll go check it out.   You stay out here.   Give that fuzzy pink thing some water while you’re at it.”   I looked at Peter’s bright red face and heaving chest.   “Get your breath back while you wait too, would ya?”
    He lifted his hand weakly in agreement, but didn’t say anything.  
    I was pretty sure he wasn’t even capable at this point.   I needed to find some food for him in here if at all possible.   The kid had almost zero stamina and definitely no body fat to fuel his exercise.
    I picked my way over the rubble, Buster following me closely for a while before running off to check things out on his own.   I ignored him and instead focused on finding stuff we might need.
    I found some foil packed, dried meals behind the counter - they looked like damaged merchandise or maybe stuff someone had returned.   I guess none of the raiders had bothered to look back there, which is why there were still around … lucky for us.   I also found mini fishing poles and line and hooks, so I grabbed those.   There were three poles, four spools of line and a box of hooks.   But I really hit the jackpot when I got to the back part of the store.   This place apparently also did some sales in mountain bike and camping supplies.
    Buster must have sensed my excitement because he came running back to me all excited, bouncing around while I worked to drag the thing I’d found to the front of the store.
    I got to the glass door and said, “Get off your butt and help me.”
    Peter jumped up and ran over.   “What the heck? … What is that thing?”
    “It’s a mini trailer.   You attach it to the back of a bike and put your crap in it.”
    “Oh my goodness,” he said, jumping up and down and clapping, “it’s like we won the lottery or something!”   He couldn’t have looked more gay if he’d tried.
    I smiled at his happiness.   “Seriously, I think we did hit the lottery.   Now put your damn bag in here.   Make a spot for Buster Brown too.”
    “He’s not Buster Brown.   He’s Buster Pink.”
    I rolled my eyes.   “Whatever.”
    I went back into the store and grabbed the few other things that had caught my eye on the way out, making two trips to get it all.   I took a pair of military-style boots for Peter in his size, four pairs of work pants - two for him and two for me, socks, camouflage t-shirts, the last six pairs of work gloves they had, the fishing stuff, the damaged meals, a tiny single-burner camp stove with ten containers of fuel, one frying pan and a pair of tongs.   With the things my dad had already made sure I had and this stuff, we were all set.
    “Who’s going to tow the trailer?” Peter asked.
    “Me for now.   When you get more fluffed out, maybe we can trade off.”
    “How do we hook it to the bike?”
    “I’m not sure.   But there are some tools behind the counter and the instructions are here, so we can figure it out.   Hurry up, go get them.   I don’t want to hang out here any longer than we have to.”
    An hour later we finally had the thing hooked up.   Peter and I made a good team.   He read the directions and handed me tools while I did the work.   I’d never really considered myself a handy person before, but doing this made me feel confident.   Not only can I escape the clutches of cannibals bent on my destruction, I can also do mechanic-type work.   Next project: building a house in the swamp.
    “Come on,” I said, dropping the tools into the small trailer.   “Let’s go.”   I looked at the dog.   “Buster, get up in the trailer.”
    He just looked at me.
    “Get in the trailer, Buster.”
    “You have to use hand motions.   Show him what you mean,” suggested Peter.
    I pointed to the spot in the trailer that had been left empty for him.   “Get in there, you stupid, fuzzy, pink thing!”
    He jumped into the trailer and wagged his tail at me.
    “I swear to God, he’s smiling at me.”   I stared at the dog, frowning, worried for my sanity.
    “He is.   I can see it,” agreed a delighted-sounding Peter.
    “Stupid dog.”
    “He’s not stupid,” insisted Peter as he climbed on his bike.   “He’s brilliant.   And brave.