The Other Life Read Online Free PDF Page B

listened.
    Silence.
    1,141 days I’d longed for silence. But now that I finally had it, I couldn’t bear it.
    Dad walked slowly into the building. I waited, my foot tapping a nervous rhythm on the concrete. After a moment, he glanced over his shoulder and gave a nod. “It’s okay.”
    I jumped over the broken glass, careful not to step on it – the shards would easily slice through my thin sneakers.
    The inside of the store was dim, the halogen ceiling lamps useless without power. The only sources of light were the two glass-fronted entrances. Because of the soot covering them and the
enormous size of the store, it wasn’t nearly enough.
    It was impossibly stuffy. The early afternoon heat had warmed the air and the store felt like a sauna. I turned up the long sleeves of my shirt and the legs of my jeans.
    “Sherry, come on,” Dad urged. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. His T-shirt was drenched and clung to his too-thin body. After the years in the air-conditioned bunker, we
weren’t used to summer heat.
    Slowly we moved further into the store. Shelves had toppled, and torn clothes, destroyed books and shredded packaging littered the ground. Dad headed for the electrical products. What did he
want there?
    He searched the shelves and the ground, tearing at boxes that lay in the litter. A few minutes later, he’d found a radio and some batteries. He pushed a few buttons and held the mic up to
his mouth with a look of elation. I leaned against a shelf of broken laptops as he spoke into the mic, then waited for someone to reply. His smile disappeared as he tried another radio and then
another, ripping them out of the boxes. He shook them, as if that would get them working.
    The stench of something rotten carried over to us and I scrunched up my nose. Dairy products maybe. Or fruit. The putrid smell hung heavy in the warm air. I breathed through my mouth, but it
didn’t help.
    “Let’s find the aisle with cans and cereal,” I said when I could bear it no longer. My stomach was growling like an animal was in there and the thought of cereal, or maybe even
candy, made it worse.
    1,141 days since I’d had candy, even longer since I’d tasted the smoky sweetness of a s’more. Too long.
    Defeated, Dad put the last radio back on its shelf and walked ahead to where the canned food was stored. The shelves were empty, but there were tins all over the floor. My stomach constricted
painfully, reminding me how long it was since I had last eaten anything.
    I put my pistol in its holster and grabbed a can of sweetcorn. The colours of the label were faded to dull yellow. I flung it to the ground and stomped on it, hoping to break it open, but the
only result was a dent. I kicked the can, sending it flying across the aisle. My gaze settled on a pickle jar with a screw top. My stomach did a little somersault. Pickles weren’t my
favourite, but right then I couldn’t have cared less. I picked the jar up and tried to open it.
    Glass crunched.
    I froze and dropped the pickle jar. It smashed, and bits of glass, pickled vegetables and juice flew everywhere. The sour smell clogged my nose. Pickle juice seeped into my sneakers through a
small hole in the sole.
    Crunch.
    Someone was coming into the store. I scanned my surroundings, my pulse racing, the thud-thud of my heart banging in my ears. Dad clasped my arm hard and pulled me behind his back. My foot
slipped on a pickle. Dad’s fingers dug into my skin, keeping me upright. We listened. I went for the pistol, but my hand shook so much I was worried I’d drop it.
    Crunch.
    I stared at Dad, my eyes wide. Had they heard us? He put his index finger to his lips. I gave a tiny nod. My breathing felt so loud – could they hear it?
    Something rustled in the neighbouring aisle. I backed up, away from the noise. Dad pointed his gun at the shelves that separated our aisle from the other. Maybe it was just a stray dog. Or a
wild boar.
    More rustling. This time in both