Looking dazed, a group of about twenty or so undead began walking toward me. I sat still, letting them get a fix on me. Once they had clustered closely, I lobbed another grenade then tore out of there. It exploded with a bang that made my ears ring. Once I had gotten out of harm’s reach, I stuffed a cartridge into the Colt. I hit the gas, speeding back onto Main Street. I was then thankful I had spent my youth and early adult life in fencing practice. With balance and dexterity that can only be acquired over time, I managed to drive with one hand and shoot with the other. I set off a spray of bullets into the remaining undead who wandered about aimlessly, confused by the sounds. I peeled the bike around and made a second pass, shooting any newcomers drawn in by the sound. At last, after several more shots, I didn’t see any more of the undead moving. The place was still.
I pulled the bike into the parking lot and unsheathed the shashka. I stared at the building. I was only thirteen when my grandmother and I had come to the community center for a white elephant sale. Ethel, who was manning a food pantry benefit table, had asked my grandma if she could bring by a few donations. Grandma always had more knick-knacks than anyone could need. She’d come up with a box full of trinkets.
“What is a white elephant sale?” I remembered asking my grandma.
It was a windy spring day. It had been raining all morning, and light mist still dampened the air. Much to my teenage embarrassment, my grandma had donned her heavy yellow rain slicker and put on a plastic rain bonnet. She also wore three pink curlers in the front of her hair. No matter how long she wore those same three pink curlers, her bangs never curled. I stayed huddled under a partially broken black umbrella. Grandma had tried to give me a rain bonnet, but I couldn’t take the humiliation. I’d opted for the umbrella instead.
“Ehh, it is like a yard sale. People sell their junk to each other,” she replied as we walked toward the entrance.
“But why white elephant?”
“All a white elephant does is stand around, eat, and get looked at. What good does it do anyone?” she answered as she pushed open the door.
The room was full of treasure hunters, tables loaded down with tchotchkes, and town busy-bodies.
“Look around,” my grandma directed as she headed toward Ethel’s table.
I waved at Summer who sat beside her mother and then went on a hunt for white elephants. Grandma was right. The place was full of junk. I passed table after table of figurines, old, dirty toys, out-of-fashion gowns, half-broken luggage, and assorted crafts. On one table, however, I found something unique. Mr. Beecher, a reptile of an old man, had recently closed up his antique shop. Displayed on his table, he had a number of left-over oddities. At once I was drawn to an old sword that lay amongst fishing gear, pocket knives, antique pens, and stainless steel lighters. I lifted the sword, but Mr. Beecher cautioned me.
“Careful, little Ruskie, it’s sharp,” he said.
I glared at him and pulled the sword from the scabbard. It was like love at first sight.
My grandmother came and stood beside us. “A shashka,” she said. “Where did you find that?” she asked Mr. Beecher.
“Auction,” he replied simply.
“What you want for it?” Grandma asked him.
Now Mr. Beecher looked serious. “Twenty.”
“Ehh, no, no, no. I give you ten.”
“Fifteen.”
“I say I give you ten so I give you ten.”
My grandmother never lost a negotiation. After a few more tries, Mr. Beecher finally consented, and Grandma started digging around her sewing bag for the money. Ten dollars did not seem like much, but for an old woman looking after a young girl, it was a fortune.
“Just look. Only someone like that would buy a sword for a little girl to play with,” a woman sitting at the table next to Mr. Beecher whispered to her friend. The friend, a woman in a bright pink dress, laughed.
The three of us looked at the women. Giggling, they looked away. I recognized the woman who had gossiped about my grandma. She’d been to our house before. My grandmother looked long and hard at them both. She then turned, smiled at Mr. Beecher as she handed him the ten, and nodded to me that it was time to go. Her hand on my shoulder, she directed me toward the door.
“Thanks again,” Ethel, who had not heard the rude comment, called with a wave.
My grandma smiled at Ethel but paused as we passed the gossips. “Next time you ask me if your husband is cheating, I won’t lie to save your feelings. Talk to your friend. She knows more about it than I do,” Grandma said. “You see, Layla, fools are not sown, they grow by themselves,” she added and then we left.
With my white elephant in hand, I smiled up at my grandma.
I moved toward the door of the community center. A few of the fallen bodies twitched. A woman whose arms had been blow off by the grenade snapped at me. A snarling man who’d been blown in half pulled himself toward me. With a heavy heart, I made short work of them. I climbed onto the collapsed roof and carefully made my way to the door. Before I reached the entrance, two more undead appeared. Taking careful aim, I shot them.
When I got to the door, it was locked. I paused for a moment and then knocked.