Double Or Nothing

by Sean Patten

  Then again, my experience with the carjackers had sobered me up to that reality pretty damn quick.

  “Had something like that happen to me,” I said. “Cops pulled out a gun on me and my brother, took our car.”

  I hoped that commiserating with the group might help get them on my side. They glanced at one another, not sure what to make of this information.

  “Is that why you’re here?” I asked. “To get some supplies for Marley? Sounds like he might have a concussion. I bet you could still help him.”

  Really, the odds of that weren’t great. If he’d suffered brain damage severe enough to put him into a coma, that meant there likely wasn’t anything they could do for him without professional medical care. Still, didn’t hurt to ask.

  But their reaction was one I didn’t expect. Instead of getting excited at the news they might be able to help their friend, they instead glanced at one another with hesitation, as if I’d caught them in the middle of doing something they shouldn’t have been up to.

  “Um, something like that,” said the man in charge.

  “None of your goddamn business,” added the girl.

  The tension in the air increased. Without thinking, I clenched my free hand as if preparing for a fight.

  “Listen,” I said. “There’s a ton of people in the mall right now trying to bash down the front doors of this place and get in. If they manage to do it, they’re going to rush in there and take everything that’s not nailed down.”

  The group stared at me, saying nothing.

  “And there’s something in there I need.”

  “Yeah?” asked the man. “What’s that?”

  “Supplies,” I said. “Just like you. My older brother got hurt last night—hurt bad. Cut his leg on some glass. Need to get him some antibiotics, some things to close the wound, maybe some painkillers, and—”

  I didn’t get a chance to finish. At the mention of the word “painkillers” the previously dead-looking eyes of every member of the group it up as if they were all school kids that had simultaneously realized the answer to a question the teacher asked.

  “Painkillers?” said the man.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Some of the strong stuff. Something to take the edge off.”

  “Don’t think they got any in there,” he said.

  “What?” I said. “Are you kidding? It’s a pharmacy—they’ve got everything.”

  He said nothing at first, then glanced back to the rest of the group. They seemed to be having some kind of mental meeting, all of them on the same wavelength about something.

  And I was doing a little thinking of my own. At first, I’d assumed these kids had been a group of vagrants, hoping to break into the pharmacy to raid the place for essentials. But between their gaunt faces, stick-thin bodies, and the flash of excitement at the mention of drugs, I quickly put it together than this was a group of addicts looking for their next score.

  “Listen,” said the man as he stepped slowly towards me. “We called this place—we were here first. Whatever we find in there is ours.”

  “That’s not how it works,” I said. “You don’t get to claim the entire store. And none of you look like you even know how to get into the place. Maybe if we worked together—”

  “No,” said the man. “You’re not getting it. I’m telling you to back the fuck off.”

  He moved closer, near enough that I could smell the sweat on his unwashed skin, see the grime and dirt in his hair.

  My heart beat faster as my instincts prepared for a fight.

  But I decided to try one last attempt at reasoning with them.

  “Look,” I said. “We work together, figure out some way to get into the store. I’ll take just what I need, and you guys can have the rest. I don’t know about you all, but that sounds like a pretty damn good deal to me.”

  The man’s hand shot out towards me, grabbing onto the lever in my hand.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

  “Give it.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” he said. “Give it over.”

  I realized right then that the odds of reasoning with these people were slim to none. It was a fight-or-flight situation.

  “Not a chance,” I said. “Now drop it.”

  The rest of the group began to shuffle forward like a horde of the undead, their glassy eyes locked onto me.

  “We’re gonna use this to break the locks,” said the man. “And you’re going to get the fuck out of here before we kill you.”

  My hand, the one holding the lever, jerked up. The man’s went along with it, his sleeve falling down as his arm rose. I glanced down at his forearm, my eyes laying on a bone-thin limb, the skin sallow and paper-thin, red track marks tracing the veins up and down the length.

  If there was any question that these were addicts before, this answered it.

  I jerked my hand back, easily breaking the grip of the man. His eyes narrowed.

  “Big mistake,” he said.

  Decision time. It was ten against one. Sure, the ten were all miserable addicts probably in the throes of withdrawal and with barely enough strength to stand on their own two feet, let alone fight. But there were still ten of them. All it’d take would be one lucky blow to give me a wound worse than Steve’s.

  “Back off,” I said. “Last warning.”

  The man responded by stepping back, reaching into his pocket, and pulling out a small object. I glanced down at it and saw it was a jagged, mean-looking piece of metal scrap, orange speckles of rust near the edge.

  It was about the most makeshift weapon imaginable, but that didn’t make it any less dangerous. One nick from that would be enough to give me a death sentence’s worth of tetanus.

  The man held the scrap in my direction, the business end only a foot or so away from my face—close enough for me to see that it was plenty sharp enough to do some serious damage. His hand shook as he held it out, his eyes wide and frantic with desperation.

  “Give it over!” he said.

  I stayed still and calm. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was giving up my only means of defending myself. I had to make a decision.

  So, that’s what I did.

  With a quick, sudden motion, I swung the lever in an upward arc, connecting with the man’s wrist. Through the metal of the lever I felt the soft crack of bones breaking, splitting as easily as a soft branch.

  “Fuck!” the man roared, the piece of metal dropping from his hand and hitting the floor with a thin clatter.

  This was my chance.

  Shoulder-first, I slammed hard into the junkie, easily knocking him off his feet and sending him right back onto his ass. What I’d just done had been shocking enough to the rest of the group to give them pause. My shoulder still in front of me, I smashed my way through, blasting through the group and knocking them down like bowling pins.

  The screams from the man I’d hit filled the air as I ran as hard and as fast as I could, putting as much distance as possible between us.

  After a few minutes I glanced back, seeing to my surprise that they weren’t following me. Instead, they were standing around like before, staring like dead-eyed zombies at the delivery door. Only one of the women cared enough to give the man and his broken wrist any attention.

  Soon I reached the corner of the mall and took it. Once alone, I gave myself a chance to catch my breath. I didn’t like the idea of breaking that man’s wrist, knowing an injury like that could very well be a death sentence. Not like I had a choice, though. I’d been perfectly willing to work with them, but all they could think about was the idea that I might get in there and take some of the precious drugs they’d had their minds set on.

  I needed to figure out my next step. The mall was a no-go, and I didn’t want to risk getting lost wandering around the suburbs of Vegas.

  That left one option, and it was the last thing I wanted to do.

  I had to go back to the Strip.

  Chapter 7
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br />   My stomach turned at the idea of heading back to the Strip. If the way it looked last night had been any indication, by this point it would almost certainly be a total disaster zone. I’d managed to fight my way through a group of desperate junkies, but I’d gotten lucky.

  Don’t need to go right to the heart of the city, I thought to myself as I approached the road leading to the airport. Just stick around the outskirts, maybe find some pharmacy that hasn’t been totally looted.

  It wasn’t the best plan in the world, and far from the safest. But it was the best I was going to be able to do all alone.

  I stepped up to the road, bracing to run across and get into cover as fast as I could. With a deep breath, just like when I’d crossed before, I took off in a full sprint.

  This time, however, right as I reached the other side, a “ping” sound cut through the air. Right in front of me, a hole appeared in the middle of a road sign.

  Someone had taken a potshot at me.

  Didn’t need anyone to tell me what to do next.

  I ran as hard as I could, another cracking of gunfire sounding out as I made it to the other side. Once there, I rushed to the nearest housing development.

  A tall, concrete sound wall stood between me and the neighborhood, my gut sinking as I realized that there was no way to climb it. Another gunshot rang out, this one hitting the barrier with a small puff of pulverized concrete.

  I scanned the area, looking for any way to get across. Then, I spotted it—a tall California palm rising up right next to the sound wall. I’d never been much of a climber, but it was my only chance.

  One more shot popped off in the distance, the echo filling the otherwise still air. Once I reached the palm tree, I gave it a quick once-over to try to figure out the best way to scale it. After tucking the lever back into my waistband, I rubbed my hands together before grabbing onto the hard, rough surface of the tree.

  It hurt like hell to hold onto the trunk, but it wasn’t like I had any other option. Upon getting a good grip, I pulled myself up high enough to wrap my legs around the tree. There was no doubt in my mind that I looked totally ridiculous, but that was hardly my top concern.

  Bit by bit, I moved up the length of the palm. I was terrified, knowing that I was making such slow progress that I might as well have been a stationary target for whatever sick asshole had been taking shots at me.

  My chest burned as I took in breath after breath, my muscles crying out in pain. But gradually, I made my way up.

  Right as I reached the top of the tree, at the height of the thick, leafy fronds that sprouted from it, another shot exploded off in the distance. This one was close enough to sail past my head with a “whiz” noise, the nearby fronds waving to-and-fro from the impact.

  It was close—too close. The sniper was drawing a bead on me, each shot getting closer and closer. The next shot, when it came, likely wouldn’t miss.

  But I was at the top of the sound wall, close enough to reach over and grab onto it. My legs still wrapped around the tree, I stretched out my arms and took hold of the top of the rough concrete. Once I felt secure, I let my legs drop down underneath me, slipping just a bit.

  Now or never. Dipping into the small reserves of strength I had left, I lifted my body onto the top of the wall. But I didn’t have time to catch my breath. A glance down revealed a long stretch of green shrubs that looked dense enough to break my fall. I knew a stray sharp branch could very well puncture my skin as surely as any knife, but it was a case of either drop down or take my chances with the sniper.

  Closing my eyes and bracing, I rolled down off the top, falling down the dozen or so feet right as another shot rang out, this one connecting with the wall right where I’d been perched.

  My stomach went rollercoaster-sick as I fell, landing right onto the shrubs. The prickly ends of the branches scraped here and there, but a quick inventory revealed that none had done any major damage.

  I was safe. For now.

  Once I’d collected myself and muttered a silent curse at the prick who’d been taking shots at me just for fun, I rolled off the bushes and onto the soft grass below.

  I spent a moment laying there, staring up at the clear sky above. For a second it was almost peaceful, soft and cool and quiet enough for me to take a nap. I felt my eyelids go heavy, sleep taking hold of my limbs and coaxing me off to a long rest.

  No time for that. And not a chance I was going to risk dozing off out in the open like that. I shot up to my feet and assessed my surroundings.

  I’d landed on the other side of the wall, but not in an open space. A house was nearby, and I realized that I was in someone’s backyard.

  Being on someone else’s property was an insanely bad idea. If people were willing to shoot just for the hell of it, there was no doubt they’d be ready to defend their homes from a potential intruder.

  I glanced around, spotting another palm tree, this one with a trunk thick enough to hide behind. As quickly as I could, I took cover behind it.

  My entire body felt like it was in revolt, each muscle screaming out for rest. And as soon as that faded my stomach took over, the grumbling so loud that there was no doubt I was running on fumes by that point. I was starving and tired and lost, with no way to defend myself other than a piece of scrap metal.

  And on top of that, I was in someone’s damn backyard. I was having a hard time imagining how things could get any worse.

  A sliding door opening at the back of the house answered that question.

  “You hear that?” asked a voice that sounded like it belonged to an elderly man.

  “Hear what?” asked a woman’s voice, presumably his wife’s.

  “Some kind of bang in the bushes back here. Think someone might be in the backyard.”

  “It’s nothing, Tom. You’re being paranoid.”

  “Helen, the damn power’s been out for nearly an entire day! Why wouldn’t I be paranoid?”

  Okay, I thought. An older couple. That means worse comes to worst I can at least run from them.

  Then again, I was so damn worn out that the mere idea of trying to outrun anyone, even an old man, was enough to make my legs ache.

  “Just get back in here!” called out the woman from inside the house. “I don’t like you standing around out there!”

  Seconds passed like hours. Finally, with a sigh, the man shut the door.

  I carefully glanced out from behind the tree and saw that he was gone. There was a small fence to the side of the house, one that I could easily scale and use to get out into the neighborhood.

  The calm of the couple was something of a relief—it meant that the area on this side of the wall hadn’t yet descended into chaos.

  It was a strange idea to think about. Back before the pulse, anyone could have news from the other side of the planet delivered right to their phone, knowing about it the minute it happened. But without phones, the internet, or TV, this couple had no idea of what was unfolding less than two miles from their own home.

  But there was no point thinking about that. I needed to get out of that backyard and find a damn pharmacy. Steve was in dire straits, and he was counting on me. Not a chance I was going to die of a gunshot in some retiree’s backyard.

  Once I was sure the coast was clear, I moved closer to the house, taking cover under one of the windows. A quick glance inside revealed that I was outside of one of the bathrooms.

  Before I could do anything else, the door inside flung open and a frail, elderly woman with a puff of white hair on her head stepped inside. I dropped down, hoping she hadn’t seen of me. From inside I could hear her soft steps on the linoleum, followed by the soft sliding of the window above me opening up.

  “So stuffy in here,” she said, sticking her head out of the window.

  My heart raced as she looked out. One glance down and she’d see that I was there, hiding.

  Instead, though, she slowly brought her head back inside and went about doing whatever she’d come into the bathr
oom to do.

  I prepared to move, but a familiar sound stopped me in my tracks—it was the sound of a pill bottle being opened, followed by another, then another.

  The sink turned on, a rush of water splashing into the sink. It pained me to hear her waste water like that, knowing it was only a matter of time before the pipe systems would start to break down. But I kept quiet and still.

  The woman dumped a few pills out of the bottles, gargled some water, and—I assume—swallowed them. Moments later, the water cut off, the door opened and closed again, and silence returned.

  Pills. Right on the other side of the window could very well have been exactly what I needed.

  Without thinking I stood up, hopped through the window into the bathroom, and checked out the scene.

  It was a small, clean bathroom, a small pot of potpourri next to the sink, framed pictures of flowers on the walls. Compared to the substation it was a small slice of peaceful heaven.

  But I couldn’t stick around. I opened up the bathroom mirror and checked out the contents. Sure enough, there was row after row of pill bottles, small and orange and labeled with prescription information, the name “Helen Mayer” on each of them.

  I scanned the labels, searching frantically for what I needed. Then, I spotted it.

  Amoxicillin—antibiotics. It was exactly what I needed to help Steve. And even better, there was a large bottle of Oxycodone, the nearly industrial-strength painkiller.

  I took both bottles into my hands and felt the smooth plastic against my fingers. It was precisely what I’d been looking for. All I had to do was shove them into my pockets and get the hell out of there.

  But…I couldn’t do it.

  I thought back to the woman I’d seen, a woman who had to be in her seventies, if not eighties. She was frail and weak and, judging by the fact that she’d just taken the pills, still in need of this medication. They were there, mine for the taking. All I’d have to do is trade a piece of myself, to know that I’d robbed an elderly woman of something she needed.

  No. With a sigh, I set the bottles back on the shelf and shut the mirror. It’d been less than a day and I’d already seen some of the worst humanity had to offer. I wasn’t ready to add to it.