by Scheer, Ron
I took all of the bottles and stuffed them in my shirt anyway. If the cache wasn’t here, something in one of these containers might help Sawyer.
There were two more doors in the hallway. Both led to bedrooms furnished with kid-sized beds and dressers. I spent a few minutes in each, opening drawers and checking closet shelves, but came up empty-handed. It was time to try the basement.
Back through the kitchen and down the stairs. Even with the candle, the steps were tricky. I stumbled once, but grabbed onto the handrail before I fell and cracked open my skull.
At the bottom was a room I couldn’t see the far end of. Walking the perimeter, I checked doors as I reached them. I searched two more bedrooms before I came to a locked door.
Why would someone have a locked door inside their own house?
I answered my own question. Because there was something behind it that could be harmful to the other people in the house.
I’d seen the games and toys in the closet, meaning the two bedrooms upstairs were for children. It only made sense for the pharmacist to be careful. The door didn’t have a handle of any kind. I assumed it would push open when the lock was released. The lock was an electronic keypad, something I’d only seen in movies. Beneath the key pad was a small silver cover.
Pulling the cover loose, I found a corroded nine-volt battery. I wondered if I could make up a bunch of salt water cells to activate the lock, but realized power wasn’t going to do me any good without the right combination.
I reached to my back pocket for the pry bar. It wasn’t there. How could I have missed that falling out? I couldn’t believe it. The pry bar was heavy, it was awkward, and it didn’t really fit in my back pocket. It wasn’t surprising that it fell out, just that I hadn’t noticed it missing. I had to find it.
Thundering up the stairs to check the garage, I smiled when I found a pry bar hanging from a pair of hooks on the pegboard. It was identical to the one I’d been using.
Back in the basement, I tried slipping the pry bar between the door and the jamb. A soft ping reached my ears when the pry bar made contact with the door.
Huh? That sounded like metal on metal.
Taking the tool, I knocked it against the door. A much louder bang followed. The door was steel. I tried like crazy to get the pry bar to slip between the door and jamb, but it was too tight.
The steel door and the strange lock made me positive the inventory from the pharmacy was inside. I stood outside the door trying to think of a way in. I knew the meds were in there, they had to be, but that door was solid steel. I was so close, only one doorway away. I slammed the pry bar into the wall in frustration.
To my surprise, the tool punched right through the drywall and tinged off something hard. Twisting and turning, I jerked the bar free, leaving a hole about the size of my fist.
I held the candle closer to the hole and almost singed my face trying to see what was behind the drywall. I was going to have to make the hole bigger.
It took a minute or so of grabbing and pulling to open it to about a foot square. This time when I held the candle up, I saw cinderblocks mortared together.
I smacked the exposed wall with the flat of my hand. I’d need a sledgehammer to get through there…or would I?
I didn’t have to make a hole big enough to get my whole body through, not if the lock on the door was equipped with a latch on the back side. All I needed to do was bust open a hole big enough to get my arm through.
I was pretty sure I’d seen a hammer on the pegboard in the garage, and I needed more light. Out in the garage, I found a claw hammer hanging right where I thought it would be. I searched the garage a little further hoping to find a sledge hammer. No luck.
In the kitchen, I gathered cups from the cabinets. The saddlebags held everything else I needed to make light. I made three trips up and down the stairs carrying water-filled cups. Back upstairs, I dripped a bit of wax on the kitchen counter and stuck the candle in it. If I took it with me, it would get blown out the minute the door opened.
Outside, Fred was standing in the yard asleep. She awoke enough to give me an irritated snort. The medicines from the bathroom cabinet were still in my shirt. I stowed them. Then I grabbed the saddlebags and returned to the house, where the glow of the candle led me into the kitchen. Picking it up, I went downstairs.
I made the batteries and hooked up the bulbs. Then I went back to the wall and ripped out chunks of drywall. By the time the glow from the LEDs was bright enough to let me see what I was doing, I’d made an opening big enough to work in.
I blew out the candle so I didn’t waste it, grabbed the hammer, and attacked the wall. The first few blows only sent tiny pieces of concrete flying in my face. There was nothing I could do about the sharp stings, so I kept on pounding.
A few hits later, I was rewarded with a chunk half the size of an apple. I kept at it. After forty swings, my arm was sore. After sixty, blisters puckered my hand. Blood from several cuts left trails in the concrete dust plastered to my arms. In the dim light, it looked black.
Stopping to catch my breath, I wiped the grit out of my eyes. The lights illuminated the dust hanging in the air as I surveyed my work. The cinderblocks were like square eights laid on their sides. I’d broke through the first half of the concrete block to the hollow, and had started swinging on the back side, but the hammer wasn’t long enough for me to get a solid hit on the back half of the block. In order for me to break it out, I was going to have to remove the front half of the surrounding blocks.
It was slow, but it was working. I took up the hammer and went back at it.
I don’t know how long I pounded those bricks. It was long enough that the sharp sting of flying concrete no longer bothered me.
The hammer punched through the back of the block. It wasn’t enough to get my hand through, but I was close. Just a few more swings.
When I was satisfied the hole was big enough, I dropped the hammer. The rough edges of my excavation scraped across my forearm as I slid it slowly through the hole, forcing my arm in to the shoulder. The painted steel door was cool to the touch as my groping fingers searched for the thumb lock I hoped was there.
Up, down, and sideways, I reached. I couldn’t find the lock.
Great. What a waste of time. Now what am I going to do?
I began to pull my arm out of the hole when something banged against my wrist. Pulling my arm back a bit further, I felt the thumb latch under my fingers. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned the lock.
Click.
I pulled my arm out of the hole too hard and too fast. The rough concrete gouged my forearm. More blood leaked out of me, but I didn’t care. I was too busy looking at the door.
It was swinging open.
Chapter Twenty
Right away, I put the hammer between the open door and the doorframe. I wasn’t sure if the door would lock if it closed, but sticking my arm through that hole again wasn’t on my top ten to-do’s.
I wanted to rush right in to explore, but charging in blindly—literally—was a terrible idea. With my luck, I’d knock over a shelf and damage whatever medicines might be in there, if there were any inside.
It was time to find out.
Reaching in my pocket for a box of matches, I began striking them. I went through the entire box and was halfway through the next before a flame flared. I relit the candle and walked in.
The room was a small cube. I was about an arms-length shy of being able to reach from one wall to its opposite in every direction. Metal racks crammed full of glass bottles, plastic containers, and cardboard boxes of every size stood against two walls. The third wall was littered with empty bags, marked for flour, rice, and beans. The fourth was covered by gun cabinets. A small wooden table with a single chair sat in the middle of the room. Piled on the table, chair, and the floor around them were boxes of ammunition.
Turning in a full circle, I let the candle light up as much of the room as it could. I noticed the crumbs of concre
te that littered the floor under my hole. Had I made my opening six inches to the left, I’d have destroyed a shelf of bottles.
All of the boxes, bottles, and containers were labeled. Not that I could read them. The names were eighteen letters long and they all seemed to have an X or a Z in them. The sight of those names doubled my already racing heartbeat. Grabbing the closest box, I set it on the floor, and opened it with slow, steady fingers. As excitement coursed through my blood, I remembered to stay calm. I didn’t want to damage whatever might be inside.
Within were four quart-sized plastic containers. I took one out and held it close to the candle. This wasn’t the small blue pill bottle I was expecting. Around the container’s neck, a strip of clear plastic sealed the contents. It took a bit of prying and tearing with my fingernails to get the strip off. I unscrewed the top and poured some of the contents into my hand.
“Yes!” I exhaled in satisfaction.
In my hand were half a dozen small capsules, red on one half, white on the other.
I looked in awe at the packed shelves. The entire inventory from the pharmacy was at my fingertips. Now to find the right medicine for Sawyer. I pulled the papers out of my shirt and, with the aid of the candle, began to read.
I wasn’t a doctor. I didn’t understand most of the information. There were more than a hundred different kinds of antibiotics listed. How was I ever going to know which one Sawyer needed? Even if this room only held half of them, there was no way to bring it all back. Worse still, how much medicine was enough? Would one pill do the job, or did I need fifty. There was no way to know, but I didn’t want to leave any of them behind.
I walked the shelves, comparing the names on my pages to the names on the products. Every time I found one that matched, I set it on the floor. It was slow work until I realized the medicines on the shelves were arranged alphabetically. That helped a lot, but I still moved a lot of containers to get to the right meds that rested behind or under other medicines.
My candle was more than half gone by the time I stopped looking. I had twenty-two choices. Fifteen were packets of pills individually encased in plastic bubbles. Six were in sealed quart-sized containers. And the last was a half full box of tubes that I guessed held some kind of cream.
One glance at the pile on the floor showed me the saddlebags wouldn’t hold everything. I needed to find some way to carry it all.
I’d seen some plastic feed sacks in the garage when I searched it earlier. They might work, but they were old. I’d prefer something less prone to falling apart.
Time slipped away. I needed to be back before Dr. White started sawing on Sawyer’s leg. I hurriedly searched the rest of the basement. At one point the flame of the candle and the blackness of the night turned a walk-out sliding glass door into an imperfect mirror. For a heartbeat I didn’t know I was looking at myself. My hair stuck out every which way, and the distorted image of my face appeared wavy and splotchy. When I realized it was my own reflection, I swallowed my heart and moved on. Eventually, I found myself back at the stairs. Instead of wasting more time searching, I’d get the bags from the garage.
My hand was on the door to the garage when the candle flame reflected off the polished side of the five-gallon stockpot. I smacked my forehead, grabbed the pot and its lid, and rushed back down the stairs.
I filled the pot with the meds. I needed to get back to Sawyer, but I knew the mayor and Frank would have lots of questions about the guns and ammo. Pulling open the glass doors of each of the cases, I began counting. Pistols, shotguns, and rifles abounded. No wonder there were so many boxes of bullets.
All those guns made me think of Chane. I pictured myself riding Fred through the Scavengers camp with pistols blazing. In my mind, I reached for Chane’s outstretched hand, pulling her into the saddle behind me. I could almost feel her arms wrap around my chest and the weight of her head as she laid it against my shoulder. It was a great image, but unfortunately I didn’t have the time to dwell on it.
I knew I should grab everything I could carry, but the pot wasn’t bottomless, and Millie was getting her new knives. I could hear the mayor saying, “You idiot! You brought back cooking knives, when you could have brought back guns?” I didn’t care. Millie spent so much time looking out for me, it was time I did something for her.
I took one handgun, the one that most looked like Sawyer’s broken pistol. I started a quick search of the ammunition. Two boxes I first took to be bullets were actually unopened packages of rechargeable batteries. Next to them was a hand-crank generator. I slipped several packages of batteries into the pot. The generator was too big to take. Searching through the boxes of bullets, I eventually found the right ones for the pistol. The bullets and the gun went into the pot.
Gathering Sawyer’s bulbs and wires, I stuffed them in his saddlebag. Then I rushed up the stairs with my arms full and stopped at the kitchen counter for the knives. Some of the longer ones wouldn’t fit, but in the end I stowed nine good sharp knives.
And yes, I cut myself.
After thinking about it, I decided to tie the pot and its contents by itself, and use one of the feed sacks from the garage for the rest of my haul.
Fred woke again when I attached the saddlebag. She snorted and stamped her hoof. I was sleeping! I patted her on the shoulder. “You’re not going to like going back to town tonight either, but we gotta do it.”
I struggled to tie the stockpot onto the saddle. It took several tries, but in the end a cleverly tied rope around the stockpot, over the lid, and through the pommel did the trick. I used the last of my rope to fasten the sack behind me.
One final trip back to the house to lock up and put the key back under the rock, and I was done.
Fred snorted again. This I took as, Do we really have to do this?
“Sorry, Fred, but if you ever want Sawyer back in the saddle with both legs still attached, we’ve got to hurry.”
Horses weren’t supposed to be able to understand humans, not their words, anyway, but her agreeable whinny made me wonder. Riding her down the gravel drive, we turned out onto the road. Having the big pot in front of me wasn’t comfortable, but at least I didn’t have to worry about it falling off.
Without the moon in sight, I looked around in the sky for the Big Dipper and the North Star, glad I’d listened when the teacher explained how they moved. Going by their position, I guessed that dawn wasn’t far off. I’d been in the house longer than I’d realized.
Dr. White said that if Sawyer’s leg wasn’t better by today he would have to amputate. He hadn’t said what time, but the doctor, like most of the townsfolk, was an early riser.
I nudged Fred into a trot. It wasn’t quick enough to get us to town before sunrise, but going any faster was too risky. The stockpot was awkward, I wasn’t a great rider, and Sawyer would never forgive me if something happened to Fred, even if the medicines worked.
The only thing that kept me awake was being in the saddle, and even with Fred trotting my eyelids wanted to droop. Was it possible to fall asleep on horseback? The quiet didn’t help. The only sound was Fred’s hooves. All else was silence. Not a bird sang or cricket chirped. No howls from the coyotes. No breeze rustling dead leaves, nothing. It was like the land was holding its breath, waiting to see if I’d make it back in time.
My mouth was cotton ball-dry and tasted of concrete dust. I wanted a drink. Fred could probably use one too, but I wasn’t about to stop now.
The darkness gently faded. As the minutes wore on I began to see farther. “C’mon Fred,” I said and kicked her into a canter. Putting one hand around the big pot, I held on tight to the reins with the other.
We made excellent time, and before long the underground home came into view. Minutes later we turned onto the asphalt. The top arc of the sun cleared the horizon. I had to hurry. For all I knew, Dr. White was already holding a bone saw in his hand and Sawyer was strapped to the operating table.
We were coming up on the outskirts. This wasn’t the s
low, easy approach of yesterday’s ride. Thoughts of the mayor skittered through my mind. I pushed them aside. There would be time to deal with consequences later. After Sawyer got his medicine.
I ran Fred all the way through town. We passed several people on the street. A few of them shouted at us, but we were moving too fast for me to understand them. A growl rumbled through my stomach. I shrugged it off. There wasn’t time to be hungry. Later, after I’d delivered Sawyer’s meds, I could stop and see Millie. I let myself picture the shine in her blue eyes when I traded the stockpot and knives for my breakfast plate.
We rounded a corner, the infirmary now in sight. When we finally arrived, I spent forever untying the knots holding the stockpot and the sack to the saddle. Jumping off Fred, I ran to the door fumbling with the pot and the sack. Prying the door open I flew through the doorway and ran up the stairs and down the long hallway to Sawyer’s room.
I crashed my shoulder into the door. It hit the inside wall with a bang. I stepped into the room with the good news ready to burst from my lips.
That was also where it died. Sawyer wasn’t there. Instead, sitting there looking straight at me, were Frank and the mayor.
Chapter Twenty-One
For a full second I stood in the doorway. Where was Sawyer? What were Frank and the mayor doing in his room? What was going on?
My feet worked faster than my brain. I sprinted down the hallway still holding the stockpot.
“Dillon, wait!” The mayor’s voiced chased me down the hallway.
I didn’t stop. My brain caught up with my feet. If Sawyer wasn’t in his room, there was only one other place he’d be. In surgery. The thud of heavy footsteps echoed behind me. A glance back showed Frank and the mayor charging down the hallway behind me. I had to reach Sawyer. I didn’t have the time or the breath to explain that I wasn’t running away from them, I was running to Sawyer.