They moved toward the staffroom with the same low, careful pace as before, their steps muffled against the tile. The floor felt sticky in places, pulling faintly at the soles of their shoes, the hum of the refrigeration units a constant undercurrent.
The staff room was cramped, its single flickering tube light casting a dull pallor over the chipped lockers and the spill of cold coffee across the table. Eli's eyes scanned the space—empty, still, no sign of struggle beyond the mug toppled onto the floor.
The door hung ajar, fluorescent light spilling through the narrow gap in a pale strip. The bulb inside buzzed faintly, its rhythm uneven, like it was struggling to keep the room lit. Paolo stayed half a step behind, favoring his injured foot. His limp made a soft, irregular scrape with each step. His eyes darted to every shadowed corner, checking the darkness behind mop buckets, the space between stacked boxes.
Eli's jaw was set when he stepped inside. His gaze swept the room in sharp, practiced arcs. "I want to find the security guard," he said quietly, almost to himself, as if the words might disappear if spoken any louder.
Paolo frowned. "Why? What's the point?"
"If he's here…" Eli's eyes moved to the far wall, where a jacket hung limply on a peg. "There's a chance his pistol's with him."
They split without discussion, each checking a side of the room. Drawers stood open and empty, their contents either looted or abandoned. A chipped coffee mug lay in shards on the floor, the spilled on the floor. A clipboard with a half-finished shift schedule sat abandoned on the desk, its corners curling. An open locker smelled faintly of aftershave and damp fabric, but there was no body, no guard, no holster—nothing to suggest where he'd gone.
"Maybe he made it out," Paolo said, rubbing the back of his neck. He tried to keep his tone light, but the sound fell flat against the stillness. "Maybe he bolted when it started."
Eli crouched to look beneath the reception counter, fingers brushing through the dust, then straightened slowly. "Could be," he allowed. "But if he did, he didn't leave the pistol where we could use it. That's the real problem."
Paolo's eyes followed a faint trail of smudged footprints that led into the back corridor. "And the staff? Where'd they go?"
Eli's gaze lingered on the marks before he answered. "Some of the… things we ran into earlier," he said, his voice measured, careful. "Might not have been strangers. Odds are, they had something to do with this place."
Paolo's mouth tightened. His gaze slid away. "Feels like we're digging where we shouldn't."
They turned back toward the aisles. At the counter, Eli took a small plastic basket from beside the register. He began moving through the cramped rows with quick, precise motions, scanning each shelf like he was mentally mapping its layout.
The aisles smelled faintly of cardboard and stale air. Eli swept packets of instant noodles into the basket, stacking them to keep space open. Canned goods followed: Soups, beans, tomatoes, meats such as tuna, meatloaf, and sardines. He inspected each can for damage before putting them in the basket. Protein bars came next, stacking them like miniature bricks.
Paolo trailed behind, taking a slower, more curious approach. He pulled boxes of matches from behind a dusty stack of candles, added two lighters, then found a small roll of duct tape wedged between bags of chips. "Never know," he muttered, tossing it in.
Eli moved to the household section—soap bars, tissue packs, wet wipes, toothbrushes, and toothpaste. He added bottles of antiseptic alcohol. His hands worked automatically, almost surgical in their care.
Near the drinks aisle, Paolo stopped and tilted his head as Eli added several bottles of Coke—both large and small—into the basket.
"Coke? Really?" Paolo asked. "You stocking for the apocalypse or a birthday party?"
Eli didn't look up. "A little sugar keeps the hands steady. Caffeine keeps the eyes open."
Paolo smirked. "Fine. But if you drink it all, I'm writing it on your headstone."
They reached the freezer section. Frost rimmed the handles, and the glass doors were cloudy with condensation. Paolo wiped a sleeve across one and peered inside. "What about grabbing a load of meat? Would be nice to eat something that doesn't come in a can."
Eli leaned over the chest, scanning the frost-covered contents: a few packs of sausages, a box of nuggets, a small bag of frozen vegetables. The freezer's hum was louder here, almost oppressive. He picked up a bag of ice, letting the frost bite at his fingers. "We've only got the small cooler," he said. "Too much and it'll spoil before we use it. That'd be a waste." He set the ice into the basket, then selected three sausage packs and the nuggets. "This, we can keep cold. Enough for a couple of meals."
Water was next. In the far corner, stacked along the bottom shelf, sat six ten-gallon jugs, the plastic slightly dusty but still sealed tight. Eli crouched and lifted the first without trouble, setting it aside with a dull thud. Paolo grunted as he picked his up, the plastic crinkling in his hands.
"You sure we need all six?" Paolo asked, breath coming heavier now.
"Better too much than not enough," Eli said without hesitation.
When Paolo's limp grew more pronounced, Eli glanced over. "Sit for ten minutes. Let that foot rest."
Paolo shook his head. "If I sit, I start thinking. Moving's better."
"You'll move fine until you can't," Eli said. "And if you slow us down, we're in trouble."
Paolo huffed out something halfway between a laugh and a groan. "You're worse than my doctor.
"I am a doctor," Eli replied, deadpan.
"Fine—ten minutes. But if anything moves, I'm up."
Paolo blinked at him, then let out a short, amused snort. "Right... Forgot who I was talking to."
"Deal," Eli said, almost smiling.
By the time they reached the car, the boot was already full. Paolo eyed it and gave a low whistle. "We're gonna need a bigger truck."
Eli folded the back seats down to make way for more supplies. He slotted the jugs of water side-by-side and tucked the ice and meat into the cooler. Then he went back inside for a moment and came out carrying two flattened cardboard boxes he'd scavenged from near the storeroom door.
"Cardboard?" Paolo asked.
"Helps keep things from rolling around," Eli said, snapping one open and folding the flaps into place. He began loading the smaller items—protein bars, canned goods, hygiene supplies—into it with precise stacks. The second box he used for anything fragile or odd-shaped: bottles of Coke cushioned between packets of noodles, the duct tape wedged into a corner.
"Neat freak in the apocalypse," Paolo said under his breath. "I'll alert the press."
"Neat means fast," Eli replied without looking up. "If we have to grab and run, we won't be digging for what we need."
When he finished, he slid the boxes into the Hummer's rear space, the fit was tight but secure. He grabbed some smaller bottles of water—1.5 liters and a few 500ml—for quick use, then handed one to Paolo.
"Drink," he said. "Walking thirsty makes everything harder."
Paolo took a long swig, then smirked. "Y'know, you might have a bit of a stockpiling problem."
"Better a stockpile than an empty shelf," Eli replied.
Paolo's smirk faded into something quieter. "Think he really made it out?"
"Maybe," Eli said, meeting his eyes. "Until we know otherwise, we plan like he didn't."
Paulo stayed watch at the end of the aisle, eyes scanning the windows again as something faint—footsteps?—brushed the edge of hearing before disappearing. Neither spoke, but their movements quickened just slightly, every sound beyond the store walls a reminder they weren't alone.
Eli tensed and said, "Alright. Let's get moving."