An abandoned, used record and video store is not a place that anyone would be interested in these days. Most people nowadays see it as a relic of a bygone era when humanity had enough time to waste. I, on the other hand, heavily disagree. Otherwise, I won’t be picking this damn locked door to get into this godforsaken place.

I can always shatter the glass, but it may attract someone or something, that won’t mind a piece of me—whether it be the Rotters or the Guerreros. The Rotters, if you ever watched a zombie movie, you’d know why they’d want me. As for the Guerreros, they are not fans of me wandering in their territory. They, and the rest of La Vega gangs, call me the media hunter, given my nightly activities at these old stores. I find the name kind of hokey, but I guess it’s one way to describe my . . . hobbies.

Click. There it is! About damn time! They make it look so damn easy in the movies. Though maybe I did too good a job since the door falls toward me. Just before it slams onto the ground, I catch the door and gently put it down. I don’t have to worry about the noise but I still need to hurry now. Now let’s check out what the hell’s in here and get out before someone notices there’s no door.

As expected, the store is a mess. Not that I blame whoever used to own the shop for not keeping the place tidy after the plague hit, but this place is especially bad. Many of the DVD cases and books are haphazardly strewn across the floor, the shelves sit empty, engulfed in dust, along with posters of old movies lining the walls. It’s like a tornado has gone through the place. This shop has seen better days, but I could say that about pretty much any place in this city.

What’s strange is the shop still has unbroken windows, and the door is mostly intact, minus the rust. Considering the lack of Rotters, if anybody was in the shop when the plague hit, I’d believe they were transported to Oz. Not that I’m complaining, but it’s still odd. Maybe the Guererros cleared them out of the shop when they claimed this territory, and I’m just overthinking things.

Among the books lying on the floor were strange little black-and-white comic books from Japan translated into English called manga. I took a couple since it’s hard to find these in one piece.

Most people think that the DVDs are in their cases on the shelves, but I know that they are really located in a drawer behind the sales counter, close to the entrance. Taking note of a couple of movies that catch my eye, I move to the sales counter near the entrance to see if the disks are still undamaged.

I honestly haven’t had any friends since I was a teenager, but the remaining few people I talk to ask me, “Why are you doing that? It’s just junk?”

I’ve learned a long time ago that these comics, these books, these movies . . . they are something special. They remind us of our humanity and what’s most important in life when we lose sight of it, which I’ve found to be incredibly easy to do in this world.

Shit! Out of the corner of my eye, I see a light coming from the entrance. When I was just about to find the DVD I was looking for, some Guererro patrollers noticed the missing door—not much I could have done to fix that. Trying to find a place to hide, I crouch underneath the sales counter, leaning into the shadows as much as possible. Their booted footsteps seem a lot louder now that I’m under pressure.

While my skinny frame allows me to squeeze into tight spaces, I can’t say it’s comfortable. That’s what you get for being tall, I guess. They’re just stomping around the store and ringing those annoying bells to draw out Rotters while barking out orders in Spanish. I’m pretty sure it’s protocol, but why even bother with the bells? There are clearly no corpses in the shop. I can’t understand a damn word they are saying. They haven’t even checked behind the checkout counters yet, despite passing it by when they entered. I’m not sure why they didn’t check behind the desk first, but I can’t expect them to just overlook that detail altogether.

I should pull out my sawed-off and wait for them to get close enough to take a shot. As I pull out the shotgun from the left inner pocket of my trench coat, all the memories start flooding back, none of them good. As I stare down the barrels, I think to myself, “What the hell did we do to deserve this life? Why can’t I forget the past like everybody else?” The flashlights are directed over my head; their voices, footsteps, and bells become louder. They are coming into range.

I hate that I have to do this; there aren’t many of us left. I don’t enjoy putting someone into an early grave. I wish I could say, “No hard feelings,” but I know that the buddies of whoever is unlucky enough to take the fall aren’t going to feel the same way. As the two men approach the desk, I resign myself to getting my hands dirty. It’s time to get back to work, old friend.

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Just before the two men reach the checkout counter, the sound of a rat startles them. One even starts unloading half his assault rifle magazine at the checkout counter before the other one shouts for him to stop. From what I can tell, the one who fired his gun—I’ll call him Jumpy—is a rookie, and the guy yelling at him to calm down is his superior, who’s probably there to watch out for his panicked ass. Poor sap, I honestly feel sorry that I’m about to end his night, permanently.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I jump out from under the counter and fire the sawed-off straight at the superior’s face. A robber (me), shooting the security (the two Guererros) from behind the checkout desk—what has the world come to? My shotgun is a powerful tool, knocking the man off his feet, with his helmet flying off his head while his face turned into jelly. I purposefully aim at his head; otherwise, the guy would have just turned into a Rotter a minute after death. Jumpy, noticing his partner’s brains on the floor, starts unloading the rest of his ammo clip in my direction.

While Jumpy is doing his best Rambo impersonation, I decide now will be a good time to slip out and try to walk over to the door while still crouching, my knees trying their best to take one for the team. When I finally reach the door, I suddenly feel something like a thousand wasps stinging my right side. I look down and realize a stray bullet ricocheted into my side. As a walk out the door, I hear Jumpy yelling into a two-way radio in Spanish. I may not be able to speak a lick of Spanish, but even I can tell he’s calling for backup. Damn it! I need to stop the bleeding on my side, but I can’t stay here. Goddamn it! I just have to get to my bike and get out of here. If the Guererros don’t kill me, the Rotters will have me for a midnight snack.

I can’t tell which is worse—the excruciating pain or the increased drowsiness from the blood loss. I can’t even say I’m walking, more like desperately dragging my feet. Is this what a Rotter feels like?

Shit! If this is it, should I just do the deed? I’ve seen what it’s like when someone becomes a Rotter, and it’s not pretty. I don’t know what’s worse: the initial death or having your personality replaced with nothing but animalistic hunger.

The thought of both makes me aim my weapon at my chin. No! Damn it! Lower the gun from your chin, Mathis, and get your ass moving.

Looking back now, I realize I really shouldn’t have parked across the street. I should have seen this coming and parked closer. Damn it, I need to stop crying over spilled cactus milk, I need to hurry. I think I hear aggressive yet sorrowful moaning in the distance.

I finally reach my bike, sit down on the seat, put the keys in, and drive off.

Stay awake, damn it! Let the vibration of the bike keep you conscious for just a little longer.

Sadly, I can’t just go back to my place. Jumpy saw me driving off; he probably has told his buddies which direction I am heading. I need to make a short stop somewhere and stop the bleeding quickly.

Goddamn! It’s times like this when I ask myself, Why the hell do I keep doing this?

It’s not like I have a family . . . I mean, I did, once. It hurts to remember. I’m just a lonely widower in my thirties, scavenging run-down stores for useless relics and stories from a past we’ll never get back. It’s times like this that I wonder if this is a life worth living or just an excuse to keep living . . .

Goddamn it! Eyes on the road! Shit! Now’s not the time to nod off.

I must be out of it because I see a bright-blue shooting star in the sky. Maybe it’s the blood loss, but it seems to be getting closer and closer. Oh shit!

The meteor smashes into the road in front of me, creating a hole that covers both lanes, and fills the air with dust. However, that’s not the strangest part. I seem to be okay—bleeding side notwithstanding. Good thing I have enough sense left to make an abrupt stop if the skid marks behind me are to be believed.

Shit! What the hell is going on? Why now of all times?

Clutching my side and struggling to see through the dust, I go to investigate the center of the crash and discover what appears to be a young girl. She looks somewhere around sixteen or seventeen, wearing what looks like one of those school uniforms I’ve seen in Japanese comics and cartoons. I can’t tell if this is a dream. But right now, again, I blame it on the blood loss.

While still trying to figure out what the hell is going on, a bunch of bright white cubes start covering her uniform. After a second, she’s now wearing a black tank top, gray cargo pants, and brown boots. Okay, seriously! What the hell is going on?

While struggling to rationalize what I’m seeing, I hear tires screech to a stop, boots running on the ground, and weapons being drawn. I knew this day would eventually come, but who would have guessed it would happen like this? With no choice in the matter, I put my hands up, the bleeding side not appreciating it one bit. While the Guererros are drawing closer, the girl in the crater pulls herself out, sighing as if she has just woken up from a rough nap. Immediately their attention turns from me to her. They guide her to their jeeps.

Despite my exhaustion from bleeding, the first thing I say to the two remaining Guererros is, “W-wh-what are you . . . ?”

Too bad, the words won’t come out. My vision starts to become fuzzy, and my legs start to buckle beneath me. I’ve waited too damn long to patch myself up, and now I collapse on the dirt road. Well, not sure if it’s been a good life or not, but it is my life, and it seems like it is just about run out.