The Survivors (Book 1): Summer by V. L. Dreyer

peering suspiciously at the ambiguously-named function building.  
    Of course, 'Fish N Chips' stood out, in its bright blue and w hite TipTop colours, now so faded that it looked far less appetizing than it had long ago.  I decided to skip that one; abandoned takeaway joints were a haven for rats and cockroaches.  There was rarely anything worth salvaging in them anymore.
    Across the road, another small storefront attracted my eye, one that was simply labelled 'Ohaupo Store'.  The front window was smashed, the faded Lotto logo barely visible through the spider-webbed glass, and the old magazine racks that framed the doorway were tattered beyond all recognition.  Old spray paint proclaimed a mixture of biblical end-of-days prophecy and faded swear words.
    Still, despite the damage, I drew my taser and approached the doorway with silent-footed caution.
    The door swung in the wind, squeaking rhythmically with each gust.  I paused and drew a deep breath of the clean, cool air, made pleasant by last night's rain, then ducked through the doorway into the waiting stench.  Crouching just inside the entrance, I waited until my eyes adjusted to the dark, breathing shallowly through my mouth to keep the inevitable stink at bay.
    The place appeared to have been ransacked.
    Not surprising.  In the riots during the final days of civilization, many places had been devastated by the panicked populace as they tried to flee the cities, or by the undead who simply didn't know any better.  Most of those people were dead now, or they were like me – picking a living from the ruins of the old world.
    Regardless of the destruction, I snuck deeper inside with my taser at the ready.  Most of the time there was still something left in these old, trashed general stores.  You just had to know where to look.
    Glass crunched underfoot as I crept along the end of the aisles to check for unwelcome guests of any stripe.  The only sign of life was a nest of mice behind the counter, full of angry babies that hissed at me when I passed, but to them I was big and scary, so they fled when I got too close.
    Behind the counter, I spotted a closed door.  I moved closer to examine it, and found that it was made of solid steel with a modern lock.  It was still intact despite dents that spoke of repeated attempts to burst it open.  I tried the handle and found it firmly locked.  A quick hunt turned up no keys nearby, so I would have to return later to try and figure out a way inside.  It would take some creativity for me to get through that.
    I was always up for a challenge – particularly since there was probably a storeroom back there with stock that didn't fit on the shelves, which could well be a gold mine for someone like me.  As it was still sealed, the chances were extremely good that no one else had gotten in there yet.  I added the location to my mental map and moved on.
    Picking over what was left on the store’s shelves did not yield quite the bounty that I hoped for.  Most of the tinned goods were long gone, and the dried goods were well past the point of being remotely edible.  Piles of decay sat in what had once been displays of fresh vegetables, and rancid-smelling slivers of glass was all that was left of the preserves.
    Even the cash register was cracked open, and hung sad and empty inside.  A tiny mouse stuck its head out of one and squeaked in horror, then fled back into its sanctuary.
    That's not to say the store was useless, though.  In the back of the store, I found a small stash of hardware that no one had thought to steal during the riots.  I came away with half a dozen knives, two metal can openers, and a few small hand tools.  To a scavenger like me, those kinds of things were a treasure trove almost as exciting as an entire crate of tinned spaghetti.
    I stuffed my treasures into a plastic bag liberated from behind the counter, and left the store behind.
    ***
    By midday, I had picked over most of the other stores in