He smiles wryly. “Thought you said you didn’t need me.” He takes another long pull from the jug. I cross my arms over my chest and tap my foot. He can be so infuriating.

One more devious smile and then he sets the jug down. “No sign of anyone except the footprints. Must’ve heard us come in, checked us out and took off. His trail leads out a lower window. Just curious ‘bout visitors.”

“Why didn’t he want to talk?” I ask, the hairs on my arms still standing up.

Clay shrugs and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “Probably as scared of us as we are of him.”

I shake my head. “I wanna get out of here.”

Clay pulls the can opener out of his pocket and hands it to Ethan. “We have to get gas and that’s going to mean digging through this hell hole. We do that after we eat. We’re safer in here than out there if there’s something to fuss about.”

I say nothing, but can’t shake the feeling of dread.

We open the canned corn and eat until our bellies are stuffed. Then we fill our packs with water jugs and a hose and bucket Clay found in the janitor’s closet. Clay scrambles over the window ledge and jumps down. I pass Ethan to him and then lower myself down.

The bright daylight lances my eyes. I cover them and squint into the distance. The scene outside is just as creepy. The street is deadly silent. The buildings sit as lifeless and desolate as ever. A few birds call and a squeaky hinge squeals from somewhere downtown. Penetrating tragedy is the only thing that would leave a town this empty. Yet, someone survived. Who is this stranger slinking around in the night? Then a gruesome thought grips me. Maybe he killed all these people. I scan the dark windows and alleys as we walk.

We head down the abandoned street to the big yellow sea shell billboard that Clay says marks a gas station. When we find it, the roof covering has collapsed and has mangled at least half of the pumps. Clay fiddles with a remaining pump, pushing buttons, looking into the metal nozzle, but even if the tanks still had gas, with no power, they won’t pump. I watch as he scans the busted concrete until his eyes light on a metal disk nestled in the pavement. He heads into the little shop attached to the gas station.

“What’re you doing?” I call.

He returns with a long metal rod, rusted, but still sturdy. Then he sets to digging out the cover. When he dislodges the cap, we all gather around the hole. It’s an underground tank. Clay picks up a pebble and drops it in the dark hole. It clanks against metal. This gas station is tapped out. Of course it is.