Crash by Michael Robertson Page B

She then grabbed his arm, which made him jump. She didn't let go, and her grip was surprisingly strong, causing him pain even through his padded sleeve. Staring for a moment longer without speaking, Chris started to wonder what he'd have to do to remove her and considered a rabbit punch to her large, wrinkly nose.
    Her eyes refocused, and she finally answered his question, "Oh no, dear, I'm waiting for the shop to re-open." She smiled and let go of his arm, but the memory of her bony fingers remained.
    His eyes narrowed, searching for the irony in her statement. There was none. "But it's empty. There hasn't been food in here for weeks."
    "I know, dear, but I'm sure things will change."
    She seemed pleasant enough, but she was thin, like a prisoner of war, and he had to wonder if a lack of food and water had driven her mind away. "You do realize that the supermarket won't re-open, don't you?"
    Snorting air from her nose, her shock-white hair wobbled as she shook her head and laughed. "Of course it will. Waitrose never let their customers down."
    Looking at the empty shelves one last time, Chris shrugged and said, "I hope they come back soon, love."
    She smiled and stared into the middle distance. "Oh, they will."

    Once home, Chris removed his jacket and could see a red mark where the woman had grabbed him. Rubbing it, more to banish the memory than the blemish, he sat at the kitchen table and opened the newspaper. The latest article in 'Situations Vacant' was about farming on common land and the legal rights that every citizen had. It was a well-written and informative piece that clearly laid out all of the laws and how it was possible for anyone to use the land. The only downside was the footnote. As Chris read the overly detailed article that explained what looters did to the young family who were growing their own food, he felt his blood drain as if the plug had been pulled on his body. Regardless of the law, the paper advised against anyone wasting their time cultivating something that would be stolen from them. These kind of violent stories were cropping up with ever-increasing regularity, and it added to the mild anxiety that sat in Chris' stomach like butterflies. Shaking his head, he muttered, "Things are getting worse."
    Diane then walked into the room, the clip of her tall heels bouncing off the flagstone floor in the hallway. Seeing that he was reading the paper, she asked, "Any jobs?"
    Chris sighed, finding the interruption irritating. He then said, "No. Is there ever?"
    Her skinny lips wrinkled. "There's no need to take that tone with me."
    Grinding his jaw, suppressing the urge to hit her, Chris said, "Well, it was a bit of a fucking stupid question, Diane. There's an old woman outside Waitrose waiting for it to re-open. Maybe you should go and join her as you wait for the tide to turn."
    Sliding both her engagement ring and wedding band from her finger, Diane placed them on the large wooden table.
    Picking them up, surprised that they were still warm, or even warm in the first place on her reptilian hands, Chris said, "What's this?"
    "My engagement ring and wedding band." She lifted one eyebrow and added, "Obviously."
    His face fell, and his eyes glazed. "I can see that, but why are you giving them to me?"
    "It's jewelry, and that's the new currency. You may be able to get a loaf of bread for them. It's more than they're worth anyway."
    "What do you mean? I paid thousands for these rings."
    "Their previous value is irrelevant--you know that. Their sentimental value isn't important either." She stared at him for a moment, and he returned her glare. She then added, "We may as well make some use of them."
    Without giving him a chance to respond, she spun on her heel and left the room. The perfume she'd taken to bathing in due to the absence of running water, choked him like chlorine. The clip of her heels on the white floor smashed into his temples like a pickaxe.

    When Diane screamed, he didn't rush. Instead, he