Michael Czyzniejewski- Fiction

Polecatz

Randy and Gino were arguing about the best place to hold up in an apocalypse. Randy was firmly in the hardware superstore camp. Gino insisted on sporting goods. Randy said with hardware, they could build anything, fortify their position with lumber, with tools. Gino said a Bass Pro would have all the gear for survival, tons of nonperishable food, and, of course, weapons.

“Plywood ain’t gonna hold up like a thousand guns and a million rounds. We could eat jerky until our hearts exploded,” Gino said.

We were at the second checkpoint, fifty yards back. It would be an hour, at least.

Randy said there was food at hardware stores, too, the snacks by the checkouts. And cleaning supplies.

“Cleaning supplies?”

Randy took back the cleaning supplies.

“But the garden center. We could grow food. Plants make oxygen. Short term? Guns ‘n ammo! Long term? Give me fortified walls and terraformed sustainability.”

Some kind of commotion stirred ahead. A woman screamed. Someone told her to shut the fuck up.

“What about you, Jace? Lowe’s or Gander Mountain?”

I was wondering when they’d ask me. Usually they didn’t. 

“And don’t say ‘Polecatz’,” Gino said.

“It’s Polecatz, hands down,” I said. 

Gino groaned. Randy laughed.

I asked them to hear me out. Polecatz had as good a security system as any big-box store, cameras everywhere, ten locks on every door. Bouncers as big as tanks, loyal, bad-ass hombres. Ray, Jr., the owner, had an impressive gun collection, as many as you’d need. And food, a giant pantry, freezers full of chicken wings, mozzarella sticks, and three kinds of poppers.

“I suppose the strippers don’t have anything to do with it?” Gino said.

“We’d need to propagate,” I said. “Don’t pretend we wouldn’t.”

The screams ahead got louder. Then gunfire.

“We’re going to be here all day,” Randy said. 

We looked for a way to turn around but we were packed like sardines, seven rows across. This new melee was going to add two hours, minimum. Gino and I checked our guns, made sure they were ready to go. We had more in the trunk, but there was no point bringing attention to ourselves. We did still have to get through the checkpoint. 

“You’re also forgetting Polecatz banned you. For life.” Gino liked to bring this up. It was his go-to.

Randy put the car in PARK. “You might be the first person they shoot.” 

Shots rang out from behind us. Men, from some group I couldn’t identify, stormed past us, firing automatics. One of them yelled, “Freedom!” and all three of us laughed out loud. The soldiers redirected their fire. We ducked.

Randy said, “Ten bucks we see those guys hanging from the flagpoles when we get to the checkpoint.”

“No shit,” Gino said. “No bet.”

I peeked over the dash, the firing ceased. On cue, one of the rebels went up on a rope. I watched him kick, dangle, until he stopped. It took longer than I would have imagined.

Michael Czyzniejewski is the author of four collections of stories, most recently The Amnesiac in the Maze (Braddock Avenue Books, 2023). He serves as Editor-in-Chief of Moon City Press and Moon City Review, as well as Interviews Editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. He has had work anthologized in the Best Small Fiction series and 40 Stories: A Portable Anthology, and has received a fellowship from the National Endowment of the Arts and two Pushcart Prizes.