Tip-toeing forward, Grant and Lucy shuffled toward the shape. They bent down and Lucy’s breath caught. She thought she was immune to the discovery of bodies, but there was something about the dark and the orange flicker of the lighter, mixed with the unsettling nature of the entire town, that made this particular venture more hair-raising.  The body was turned away from them—there was a mass of tangled hair; the body wore a long flower dress and a khaki vest.

“It doesn’t smell,” Grant noted and Lucy realized he was right. The odoriferous victims of the virus had become commonplace and impossible to escape. Rotting flesh, the stink of melting organs and decomposing flesh, replaced other smells; their noses had adjusted to the shift, especially in larger cities, but Grant was right—and Lucy only now realized it: the town didn’t stink.

Lucy leaned over and touched the dress and the body rolled backward to the floor with a small crash and a rattle; the hair sloughed off and fell to the floor, exposing a white skull. She let out a small scream and her hand flew over her mouth to stifle it. This body was a skeleton. Its jaw hung open, all the teeth were intact, but there were gaping holes where this person’s nose and eyes used to be. The khaki vest had a small patch on it that read “Brixton Post Office” but the clothes looked tattered and moth-eaten. Around the skeletal ankles were white socks and the body was still wearing its orthopedic shoes.

Grant moved their light up and down the bones. Then his hand stopped at the skull. He took his free hand and reached over and stuck his pointer finger into a dime-sized hole near the temple.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Grant noted and he popped his finger back out. “Plot twist. She didn’t die of the virus.”

“Shot?”

“Execution style.”

“And left undiscovered? In the middle of an unlocked post-office?”

Grant stood up and flipped off the lighter. The darkness enveloped them and Lucy let her eyes adjust. Then she felt Grant’s hand on her shoulder and she fumbled around for his hand, letting him help her up off the ground. Then still holding on to him, they walked back toward the light in front. Lucy and Grant ducked back under the counter and then out to the road, leaving the skeleton behind them.

“So, let’s get this straight,” Lucy started, squinting at the sudden brightness. “The whole city of Brixton disappears. Leaves mugs and drinks and cash unattended. They vanish.”

“Except they didn’t vanish,” Grant said, his eyes scanning the town, his brows furrowed as he scanned each building. “They were murdered.”

“The whole world’s been murdered,” Lucy pointed out and she put her hands on her hips and tried to follow Grant’s gaze. “And one dead person in a post-office doesn’t mean that everyone died that way.”

“You wanna bet?” Grant asked and he snapped his head back to her.

“Not particularly.”

“But you admit that there’s no one here. Right?”

Lucy shrugged.

Grant started walking back down the middle of the street, bypassing the library and heading toward the church and its bell tower.

“Where are you going?” Lucy called after him.

He turned and pointed toward the church. “I want to find the rest of the bodies.”

Grant’s instinct was mostly right. Inside the church they found five more skeletons. All with bullet holes in their temples. Two of the remains were in a pew; at one point they might have been sitting side-by-side, but as their bodies withered down to just the bones, they now slumped together at an odd angle; one skull resting on the other in a perpetual state of embrace. Lucy picked up a hymnal and flipped open the pages. Each row was outfitted with a Bible and a hymnal and a collection of offering envelopes. Layers of dust covered everything—the fabric on the pews, the bones, the floor.

Another skeleton was crumpled near a wooden pulpit. Two more huddled together in a baptismal. Lucy and Grant found a small spiral staircase off to the side of the sanctuary; they climbed it, taking the steps slowly, feeling their way. The door at the top opened up to the bell tower. From there, they could see their car and each and every building in Brixton. Everything was silent and void of life. In the distance, they saw the rolling Sand Hills.

They climbed back down and exited the church.

Maybe they’d never know the details, but the broad story of what happened to Brixton was clear: Each and every person in this small town had been systemically wiped out with a single bullet to the brain. Lucy didn’t want to venture into the single-room schoolhouse next to the church and she begged Grant to just leave it be, but Grant would not be deterred. He pushed open the doors and stood for a long moment, counting with his finger. Then he shut the doors and met Lucy back down the steps.

“Four little ones. Two adults. That’s half the town. I bet if we searched every house and every building we’d find everyone.”

“No. I don’t want to. And I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t look like these people were hiding…it must have happened fast,” Grant noted.

“Why would my father send me here? This feels like a joke. A cruel, awful, horrible joke.”

“We haven’t really been looking for a message…maybe that’s what we need to do. Go back and see if there’s a message here for you.”

“Grant—” Lucy started and she could hear the whining in her voice, the admission of defeat, and the worry that all of this would be nothing more than a dead end. Which was worse? Facing her father and her fears? Or realizing their entire trip had been for nothing? She threw her hands up when she saw Grant’s glower; he had such an intolerance for her moodiness.

“We’re here, Lucy. We’re in Brixton! And we’ve been here for less than an hour…so, maybe hold off on the defeatist attitude until after we’re sure there’s nothing to find. Okay?” Then he smiled and raised his eyebrows—a ta-da—an invitation to make it a challenge; he would match her step by step. He never just let her stew and sulk, and it simultaneously irritated and impressed her.

Lucy paused and glared at him; she crossed her arms over her body and dug her heels into the dirt.

“Come on,” he said and rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to fight with you,” she stated and raised her chin.

“Perfect. I’m not going to fight with you either. You know I’m right. Don’t do that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing…where you make up your mind that something is going to be one way and then throw a fit when it turns out to be another way…and then five minutes later realize that it’s not the—” he stopped and frowned.

“You were going to say the end of the world, weren’t you?”

Grant made a face.

Lucy smiled despite herself. “Anyway,” she continued. “It’s not being defeatist if we are, indeed, defeated, you know?” She wanted to explain her desire for a quick exit. But even as the words left her mouth she realized that even she didn’t sound convinced.

Grant walked over to her and put two hands on her shoulders: she tilted her head to look up at him as he towered over her. “Same conversation as before. It’s always the same.”

“It’s just…you’re right…I guess, it’s not what I expected,” she admitted. “That’s all.”

“Yes, because all of this would have been so easy to expect. Please, Lucy. This is an easy fix. Abandon expectations.”

Lucy waited a second and then nodded.

He dug her hand out from her crossed arms and gave it a squeeze, then spun Lucy around and began pulling her back toward Main Street.

“Library. Then houses. No stone unturned.”

“We have maybe an hour or so before sunset.” She nodded toward the sky.

“Then we camp.”

She shivered. “I don’t want to stay here, no way. It just doesn’t feel right.”