'Not Enough Midnight' by Sean Dersen
He didn't know which was worse; the mugginess of the bruised twilight outside, or the yellow gleam and artificial cool of the interior of this forsaken building.
He checked around, uncertain of where to go. Then he saw the signs, dangling bat-like from the rafters, indicating this and that. Including the pharmacy.
He made his way through aisle after aisle of packaging; bottles, cans, plastic bags, meshed nets of fruit and vegetables. Everything at a distance, a slight remove. A second outside of time. He could relate to that.
Shouts. A mother and child, a toddler really. The child was being fed from the shelves. It had something brown smeared around its chubby mouth. It gorged itself. Feral, animal.
The shouts were from some uniformed functionary, all gut, tattoos and keys. They'd disturbed the sanctity of his church. The mother wheeled to face him, protective of her young. Her face was tired and alive at once. Panda eyes and snarling, profane mouth. Her neck pulsed with life.
The child stood in its trolley and peeled open another package direct from the displays.
He left them to it, and directed his attention to the chemist. He'd have to hurry.
Bandages. Additional sunglasses. Sunblock. Lots of sunblock. And a lolly for the kid.
He decided that he liked the woman's attitude. And the child had a certain rustic charm. He'd offer them a lift, he thought, and see where that would get him. After all, the long summer days gave him plenty of time to kill indoors.