"Where did they go?"
"I'm, I'm not sure. But we should get out of here."
"Nonsense. It's just a few of them."
"Well, where there's one, there's always more."
"Look, under normal circumstances, I'd agree. However, we need supplies. This place is our best bet. Now stop your whining and get looking."
"O-o-okay. Let's go."
The trio set off down the darkened hallway. The woman leads the way, followed by the man and their dog. Two red beams pierce the inky darkness, the light giving the already creepy location an ominous feeling. As they walk, they pass multiple closed doors. They stop only to check if they are locked. If not, they quickly scan the room and leave, always mindful to turn the knob locks as they go. They don't want anything surprising them from behind. For most survivors, that is a lesson they learned only after the shit hit the fan. For these three, it has been the standard operating procedure since they were teenagers investigating strange happenings. They'd never have imagined that the ghouls they always searched for and debunked would one day rise from the dead. They make good time down the long, dank hallway.
"There." The woman points her light toward a set of double doors. Blood smears one of the small, high-set windows.
"Look. B-b-blood. Listen, I think this place has been picked clean. We're not gonna find anything. We should just t-t-turn around an' go back to the van." The tall, thin man shakes visibly. His shaggy hair falls in front of his eyes. He absentmindedly pushes it aside with his left hand. In his right, he holds a well-worn Mossberg shotgun. It's a handmade sling wound around his firing arm. Its rail-mounted light shone down on the floor. His left-hand returns to the weapon held at the ready. Ready for what?
"We have to check. This is the first one we've come to that still has its gates down. It took us forever to get in, but now we're here. We have to check." The woman pushes her black-rimmed glasses up. Her eyes took in the door while simultaneously scanning the hallway. In her hands is a custom military-issued M4. Her tac light never left the doors in front of her. "Besides, if anything were there, Scoob would tell us. Right Scoob!" The Great Dane's ears prick at the sound of his name, and he looks his big dark eyes toward his human. His tail wags just barely. He doesn't know what the two are saying, but he knows he'll stay with them no matter what. "See Shaggy. No need to worry. Scooby Doo's got our back. Now let's go."
The pair inch ever closer to the door. After each movement they make, they stop, listening for the sounds of THEM. Silently, they make their way. All that's left is to open one of the doors. The woman turns to look at her partner; they speak no words, and their eyes convey all they need to say. Her hand goes out to the doorknob. It turns, making no sound. She whispers, "On three. One. Two. Three." She quickly pushes the door open. She brings her weapon up and puts her back to the door, ensuring it opens to the wall and that no unwanted guests are behind it. Her partner enters shotgun up, scanning side to side. Taking his cue from his people, the dog brings up the rear. Ears are ever vigilant for the sounds of THEM. The giant warehouse stands before them. Each aisle was a darkened alley where the unknown assailant could lie in wait. That's not what strikes them first. No. It's not visual. They expected the warehouse, after all, it is a COSTCO. No, what takes them by surprise is the smell. Rot and decay hold the air hostage. The cost is nearly wrenching with each intake of breath. If it's terrible for the people, it's 100 times worse for the dog. His brain realizes that his nose, his most trusted sense, will be useless. He lets out a small whimper. As if hearing the dog's thought, "It's okay, Scoob. You'll hear 'em." The man pats the big dog on its head.
"Okay, Shag. This is good."
"Good? I think I'm gonna puke."
"This means that there was food left. There might be something left for us. Now, we need to find the canned section. And if we can, we need to find water and perhaps toiletries."
"Well, if it's like every other Costco, the cans should be down that way." Shaggy shines his light in the direction of the aisles. The red beam was unable to penetrate down the never-ending corridor.
"Scooby, come." The dog responds to the command. Looking, it's human in her eyes. "Scooby. We need you to be in front. You gotta listen, okay. Use those ears. Listen." The words are indecipherable to the dog, but this isn't his first time with these people. He's been at it a long time. "That way, Scoob." The dog turns in the direction of the woman's hand. Together, they move as one. Shaggy brings up the rear while the woman takes the front. They work their way down the side, scanning the aisles as they pass. Everywhere is evidence that someone else had been there before them. The security doors may have been down, but the disarray inside speaks volumes. Empty cans are strewn about, and glass bottles are broken. Boxes were torn open."Here." They come to the end of an aisle. The sign reads canned goods. It's no different from the rest. The lower bays have been stripped bare. Most of the upper levels look to be in shambles. The visions of pallets filled with cases of food are far from realized. "Look for anything we can use."
"O-o-okay."
They work down the aisles, looking in each bay and grabbing any can that is still sealed. Scooby stays with Shaggy as he goes. He finds an unlabeled can and brings it to his friend. "Good job, Scoob. Who knows, maybe that's some Alpo for ya." Another pat on the head, and the dog continues looking.
As Shaggy fills his backpack, he scans the area constantly, always knowing where his partner and dog are. At the end of the aisle, he looks up. His dog comes trotting to him with another can, carefully carried in his large mouth. Nudging the man's hand with his big head. "Good job, Scooby." He looks but can't see his partner. He watches intently, feeling an ever-growing knot form in his gut. "Velma." No response. "Scoob, where's Velma?" The dog looks around as if he, too, is worried. "Velma? Scoob, this isn't good." From deeper into the store comes the sound of crunching glass. As if it was stepped on. The pair turn their eyes in the direction of the noise. "Velma. This isn't funny." The sound of something hitting metal resounds through the cavernous space. "Scoob." The sound resonates again.
The man walks back into the canned goods aisle with the dog following. He stops in front of the bay where he last saw his partner checking. "Find Velma." The dog puts his nose to the stained and darkened concrete and circles, searching for a scent trail. He goes stiff as he finds it. Pointing towards a bay labeled as once holding a pallet of pork n' beans, Scooby looks back to his person. "Good boy. Go." The man and his dog make their way into the space and through it into the next aisle. They cross two aisles. Going through the bays, stepping over now empty pallets. Mindful of each footfall, not through the worry of noise but injury. A twisted ankle here could be the end. Through three bays. Four. At the fourth, the large dog stops. Its hackles raise, lips pulled back, revealing large, sharp teeth. A low, almost imperceptible, growl emanates from his throat. Shaggy freezes in his tracks. Shotgun to shoulder, he brings his light to bear in the direction in which Scooby's eyes are locked. Scanning from eye level down, he settles on something moving. It's hunched over something. No someone.
It turns at the sound of the dog. Its eyes are sunken. Lips are torn away, showing broken, cracked, and mangled teeth. It responds with its own gurgling growl. Un-swallowed blood pouring from its mouth. It struggles to stand. Its left ankle is set at an unnatural angle from being broken long ago. It wears the soiled uniform of an employee. The tactical light shows it in sickly shades of pink and red. Shaggy knows that it's really black and brown from blood and bile. He keeps the light of his weapon set on the head of the thing, unable to see who the victim is.
As it gets to its feet, Scooby's growl grows louder. "Easy, boy." Without warning, the thing lunges. Its movement is answered by the shout of the shotgun. A hot slug enters its head and blows out the back. It is now genuinely lifeless body hits the ground as hot tears begin to stream down Shaggy's cheeks. He knows he must look. He must keep his promise to never let one of THEM turn her. He gathers the courage and lowers his light at the half-eaten shape on the ground. The corpse before him is that of an old white male, also wearing a Costco uniform. His head was split, and it looked like he was smashed with something. No, not broken, he fell. A clump of hair and skin dried on the support structure of the aisle. A sigh of relief goes through Shaggy. He can see it all in his head.
The two employees were probably working when it all went south, maybe cleaning floors or unloading some now-long-gone delivery truck. They locked themselves in here and have been trying to survive ever since. Somehow, one of them got infected. Perhaps they let the wrong person in.
Nevertheless, the young guy got bit, turned, and chased down his coworker. He lowered his weapon and reached for his dog. "It's not her." His hand made circles on the big dog's head. Where is she?"
"Where's who?" Shaggy turns, bringing up his weapon. The light revealed his small friend behind him. "Woah. Hey, it's okay, Shag. I heard the gunshot. You okay?" The shotgun falls to his side. He runs and lifts his partner, his friend, off her feet.
"Don't you ever do that again? Okay."
"What?" Confused, she looks at him. The indirect light from the flashlights made it hard to see his features. But the shaking of his body and the choking of his voice let her know he was crying.
"Just don't do it again. Promise." He puts her down. She brings her flashlight to bear, seeing the pain in his eyes. She's unsure what he wants her to say, but she can see it's important.
"I promise, Shaggy."
"Can we get out of here now?"
"Yes. Let's go."
They make their way carefully back to the van. Grabbing a few more things along the way. After they load their gear, the three drive off. To where? Wherever the mystery leads.
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