The Wanderer

Aisle six looks good, he thought. The wheels on the trolley squeaked and rattled, the basket was coated in a thick veneer of rust. He turned into the tinned veg and fruit aisle and was greeted by empty shelves. Little over two dozen corroded tins remained, their paper labels rotten and faded. The trolley creaked and groaned and one of the wheels spun around dragging him to the left. Mice squeaked and scuttled under the edges of the bays. He pointed his torch at the high shelves, the least likely to be plundered or covered in mouse droppings. A film of greasy dust coated everything. He climbed up the shelves, the cheap metal bowing under his weight, and fumbled in the dark. His hand grazed a box and he pulled, the cardboard tore, damp and mouldy, but the contents came too. Twenty-four tins of spaghetti hoops in tomato sauce. Jackpot, he thought stacking them up in his rust eaten trolley. He continued down aisle six checking the few remaining tins on the low shelves. Burst, empty, or co…