“I’m not going to forget,” Sam said, as I placed the olives in my satchel.
Later we began to walk out of the store, when something caught Sam’s eye.
“No way,” he gasped.
“What?” I asked, absentmindedly turning to see what he was looking at. He jumped over the store counter and stepped over the corpse of the owner.
“Check it,” he grinned from ear to ear, picking a strangely shaped black bag from under the shopkeeper’s desk.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Yes!” he laughed, ignoring me. “It’s not empty.”
He unzipped the bag to pull out a saxophone.
“I haven’t played in years,” he gawked. “I lost mine in the fire.”
“Oh,” my hand tightened around my satchel, “I wouldn’t put my lips on that.”
“No, I’m not going to. I have a box of old reeds hidden somewhere,” he said, putting the saxophone back in the bag and gracefully sliding over the counter, “and I’m going to look around for some disinfectant.”
“Sam,” I groaned, “why would you need that when we have a perfectly good rusty trombone at Base?”
“Pish,” he scoffed. He climbed through the aisles and finally lifted a purple bottle of disinfectant into the air.
We got to Base just before sunset. Base was originally a tourist lodge and it was constructed as a safe-haven by the last tourist in Tasmania; an American named Jacob Sampson. He was a bit of a genius. Before the zompocalypse, it would have been called a “gated community,” but now, un-gated communities didn’t exist, making the word ‘gated’ redundant.
Sam and I settled into our pad and I sat around, waiting for Sam to clean his new saxophone.
“Oh no,” I said, as he sat down, smiling widely, “this is going to be a nightmare.”
“Just sit back,” he said, “and let the music take you away.”
I sighed, and stood up, “Alright, but I’ll listen to you from the other room.”