The Sound

by James Sperl

  The woman raised her porcine head from the comfort of a dingy recliner, where she had been perusing a years-old copy of Revolver.

  “Welcome to Natty's drug emporium,” she said with a blank stare. “I'm Natty. How can I help you?” Her baritone voice further diminished her femininity.

  Jon stepped up to the counter and passed his eyes over shelves sparsely populated with pill bottles, unidentifiable liquids, and miscellaneous boxes of first aid. He looked from them to the two beefy men, who stood behind Natty and delivered stares devoid of emotion.

  “I'm looking for antibiotics,” he said.

  Natty looked over the trio standing before her. “What're you trading?”

  “Gas.”

  Natty returned to her magazine. “I've got gas.”

  Jon responded confidently. “Sure. For now.” Natty peeked at him from over the top of the magazine's pages. “But that bottleneck ten or so miles down the road you're probably relying on for fuel? It's running dry. My friends and I emptied a lot of vehicles just yesterday, and quite a few others were already drained. Pretty soon you'll have to travel farther—a lot farther—to fuel up.” Natty lowered her magazine. “Or we can deal now, and you can put it off for a while.”

  Natty scrutinized the group again.

  “What're you offering?”

  “Ten gallons for three cycles.”

  “Three cycles?” Natty gave a phlegm-soaked laugh. “You've got stones.” She held up two fingers. “Two. Take it or leave it.”

  Jon bobbed his head. “Two it is.”

  Natty tossed down her magazine then held out an arm. One of the men, a thick-necked brute with a slickly shaved head and a full beard, stepped forward and took it. He hoisted Natty to her feet. Her bones cracked, as she hobbled to the counter.

  “What's your pleasure?” she said.

  Jon shrugged. “What do you have?”

  Natty rolled her eyes as if the entire transaction were entirely too pedestrian.

  “You name it: Amoxicillin, Zithromax, Cefalexin, Augmentin...”

  “I'll take the Augmentin. Both cycles.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  She nudged her head in the direction of the other man without looking at him. The man, who greased back his coal-black hair over pierced ears and bone-pale features, glared at Jon. He peeled away through a small doorway draped with colored-glass-beaded curtains.

  “That all?” Natty's eyes flitted to Valentina.

  “That's all.”

  “Fair enough. Soon as I receive payment, you'll be good to go.”

  Jon thumbed over his shoulder. “We'll go right now. You wouldn't happen to have a dolly or a wagon, would you?”

  Natty held out her hands and accompanied the gesture with an insincere smile. “Sorry. I'm just a lowly pharmaceutical peddler.”

  Jon nodded thoughtfully. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

  Natty lifted her shoulders and canted her head. “We all do what we do.”

  “Ain't that the truth.” He stared down the sludgy street, gauging it. “All right. Probably take me twenty, thirty minutes to haul it back.”

  Natty leaned onto the counter, her face the epitome of apathy.

  “I'll be waiting with bells on.”

  Jon chuckled. “Okay then. Come on, guys,” he said to Valentina and Evan.

  “Actually,” Valentina said suddenly, catching Jon in mid-step, “I think I'm going to stay here.”

  Jon shot his eyes to Natty before landing on Valentina. “What? No way. Come on. We can get this done and be on our way within the hour. I'm not leaving you here alone.”

  “I'll be fine. I just...I just need to ask a couple of questions.”

  Jon frowned. He glanced at the unnamed bottles and canisters of who-knew-what lining the shelves behind Natty.

  Valentina read his hesitation. Every wrinkle in his face advertised suspicion. She plastered on a smile. “Look, I know what you think, but...but it's not that. I swear. I just need to ask this lady something. That's all.”

  Evan turned to his father. “I can stay with her, Dad.”

  Jon shook his head instantly. “No. No, I'll need your help carrying everything back.” He stood square to Valentina. “What's this about, Val?”

  Valentina fidgeted. All she wanted was two minutes of unchaperoned time to do what she needed to do. Was that so much to ask? She got that her recent history precluded her from receiving Jon's—or anyone's, for that matter—unwavering trust, but she wasn't a child. She didn't need a babysitter.

  “Because,” Valentina began, “it's...it's personal. I don't want to talk about it.” She looked up and down the street as if afraid to be overheard. “Especially not here.”

  Jon crossed his arms. “I don't know. This feels weird.”

  Valentina shrugged unconvincingly. The world felt like it shrank around her.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Natty barked. “You two are a couple of the most dimwitted lot I've come across in some time,” she said, alternating between Evan and Jon. “And that's saying a shit ton when you take into account this place.”

  Jon looked at Natty, half in shock, half from being startled by her booming voice.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Does the girl have to spell it out for you? She's on her period. Probably, what, day two or three?”

  Valentina nodded hesitantly, even though she had finished her monthly cycle almost two weeks ago.

  “That's what I thought. Puffiness, discomfort. Isn't it obvious?”

  Jon and Evan exchanged clueless glances.

  “My guess is she's down on product.” Natty stopped abruptly and leaned toward Jon and Evan, her tone dripping with condescension. “That means she don't got no tampons. I'd wager, too, that she's interested in some birth control or pain relief. Maybe even some herbal remedies or a handful of morning-after miracles.” She grinned wide, exposing deep-brown teeth. “It may be the end of the world, boys, but a girl still needs the occasional cock to get her fuck on. Am I right, sweetheart?”

  Valentina used the opportunity to feign humiliation, even though she felt none in the slightest. She nodded coyly.

  “Ah ha,” Jon said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I see.” He turned from Natty to face Valentina. “Is she right?”

  Valentina bugged her eyes and lifted her shoulders simultaneously: Duh!

  “My apologies then. We'll, uh...we'll fetch the fuel and leave you to your personal matters.”

  He scrutinized Valentina again. It made her uneasy. She couldn't decide if his focused stare was a result of trying to recover from a rare moment of ignorance, or if he sized her up over the veracity of her—well, Natty's—claims.

  Jon took a step toward her and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “We'll be back as fast as we can. Stay here.”

  Valentina tossed her head playfully. “Yes, Dad.”

  Jon didn't smile back. “Come on, Ev.”

  The two walked off at a brisk pace. Jon looked back over his shoulder twice before he and Evan disappeared down one of Orion's many streets.

  “Well,” said Natty, a predator's spark in her eye, “now that we're alone, why don't you tell me what you need?”

  Valentina didn't know why she decided to play dumb, but she did.

  “Huh? I don't know...What do you mean?”

  That eye roll again. “Please, hon. Your left foot's been a-tap-tap-tapping since you got here, your eyes are carrying a load of luggage each, and you've been scratching at the same spot on your forearm for the duration. You really gonna play stupid with me?”

  Valentina pretended to check Jon and Evan's progress so she could sneak a glance at her arm—a patch of red, irritated skin blazed from her forearm beneath the hand that clawed at it. She looked at Natty guiltily.

  “I just need something to, you know, get me through.”

  Natty nodded. “Get you through what, sugar? The End of Days? I'm not sure anyone's got enough product for that.” She c
ocked her head and examined Valentina. “What's it been so far, amphetamines? Snow?”

  Valentina chewed her lip. “Yeah. Mostly. Anything I can find, really, so I don't have to sleep. But I'm down. Haven't been able to find much lately.” She caught herself scratching at the red spot.

  Natty pushed herself up from the counter with effort. She eyed Valentina for a long, uncomfortable moment before she finally turned to the bearded man.

  “Get Arlin.”

  The bearded man was through the beaded door in an instant, leaving Valentina alone with Natty. A pack of drunken men cat-called her as they passed by, but Natty's deathly glare encouraged them to move along.

  “Where're you coming from?” she said, as she pulled a box of Tampax from a shelf and extracted six tampons.

  “Oregon.”

  Natty raised her brows. “Oregon, huh? Seen a lot of folks from the west out this way. Most heading for one of the big three: New York, Philly, or Boston. Which one's flipping your switch?”

  Valentina hesitated. “Um, none of them.”

  Natty reacted genuinely. “None? So where're you headed?”

  Valentina faced a conundrum. Did she tell this woman, this stranger, about her and her friends' plans? She couldn't imagine that divulging what little she knew could be an issue. After all, they didn't know where they were going. All they had was a name. Valentina didn't see any harm in sharing that.

  “Ashland.”

  “Ashland?” Natty said, frowning. She placed the tampons on a page ripped from a magazine and rolled them up. “What's in Ashland?”

  Valentina shrugged. “Not sure, really. I've just heard there might be some people there who can help with what's been going on.”

  Natty froze then burst into laughter. “What's been going on? You mean our heavenly alarm clock and all the unwitting devotees it's taken into its celestial embrace?” She tried to cackle some more but exploded into a round of wet, deep-chested coughs. “Sugar,” she said once she recovered, “there's not a soul on God's green earth knows what's going on. I've heard enough stories and theories in the past weeks to fill a book, and not one of them has the first drip of piss for merit. The only theory that seems to hold water is that they get you when you sleep. But there's ways around that. You know about hot-bunking, don't you? Shift sleeping?”

  Valentina nodded vehemently, but it felt contrived. She wanted this transaction to be over. She wanted to be away from this woman and out of Orion, but not only had she not gotten what she came for, Valentina hadn't addressed the issue of how she would pay for it.

  A shirtless man in gray denim jeans pushed through the beads. “What is it, Ma?” he growled. “I was gettin' on to—” He stopped dead at the sight of Valentina and fingered a lock of shoulder length oily hair over an ear.

  “Arlin,” Natty said, “we have a customer. Why don't you show her what we have. Top shelf. None of that cut shit we sell to the other delinquents.” Natty smiled, her eyes moving over Valentina's body with lecherous desire. It was almost enough to make Valentina turn and run. Almost. “She looks like someone who can afford the good stuff.”

  Arlin's tune changed in the flick of a switch.

  “My pleasure,” he said. He flashed a toothy smile absent three teeth. He sidled up beside his mother and leaned forward conspiratorially. “I got me some brand new shit makes all that other stuff look like baby aspirin. Make you fly without ever leaving the ground, and the ride's more intense and lasts a fuck of a lot longer than anything you can chop on a mirror. Best part? The crash is less harsh. Like landing on a pillow made of clouds. How does that sound?”

  Valentina swallowed dry air. “Sounds...really good.”

  “That's what I thought. Just follow me on back, and I'll get you squared away.”

  Natty lifted the counter top and allowed Valentina access. She gestured for Valentina to follow Arlin.

  Valentina entered the decrepit booth even though every cell in her body screamed at her to turn tail and flee. But Arlin's hook was too tantalizing. Something stronger than coke? Than meth? And with a painless crash on the back end? It sounded too good to be true—and it probably was. But even if Arlin was blowing smoke, Valentina was sure he had something. And anything was better than nothing.

  Arlin peeled back a section of the beaded curtain for Valentina and grinned stupidly. Valentina pursed her lips and ignored the rising fear that spread inside her like wildfire.

  Then she walked through the doorway.

  CHAPTER 34

  Clarissa, Rachel, and Andrew had scoured the entire northern half of Orion and hadn't found anything that even remotely resembled a pharmacy. One would have thought that a place like Orion, where the average visitor looked like a recent parolee, would be rife with them. Drugs and medical supplies should have been a high-demand commodity, yet they found zilch.

  Maybe there were no pharmacies expressly because drugs and medical supplies were in such high demand a voice inside her head reasoned.

  Clarissa hoped Valentina and the others had better luck.

  But where Orion failed in pharmaceuticals, it flourished—much to her surprise—in consumable goods. More shopfronts than Clarissa ever expected to find hawked food for trade along Orion's northeastern quadrant. And not just the usual cache of expired groceries and recently butchered forest meats—actual food.

  One booth sold freshly baked bread. Another offered milk and cheese. A third displayed a healthy selection of cured pork salamis and beef. Were it not for the occasional vendor to remind everyone that the world was still in crisis—Clarissa didn't think she would ever forget the storefront that offered dog meat, its shop adorned with the carcasses of countless unlucky strays—the experience would have felt like a farmer's market.

  The young family trading fruits and vegetables turned out to be the find of the day. Their impressive selection, which ranged from tree and vine fruits to root and vine vegetables, looked fresh and made them stand out from the other stalls.

  The couple who ran the stall—an attractive pair of rugged twenty-something-year-olds—appeared accustomed to trading post life. The husband, a solid man seemingly built for physical work in a hard-scrabble world, worked alongside his wife, whose chestnut brown tresses and easy doe-eyed stare made her a stunning natural beauty that belied her calloused hands and too-lean physique.

  The attractiveness of the couple had momentarily captured Clarissa's attention, but it evaded Andrew, who only had eyes for the wide selection of produce. He beelined it over to a wicker basket full of sugar snap peas, picked up one, broke it open, and smelled it. Satisfied with its quality, he consulted the booth's trade chart, which the couple had posted on the exterior of the stall.

  “I see you accept fuel,” he said to the young man. “That still in effect?”

  The young man stopped from separating good apples from the bad ones.

  “Yeah, we accept fuel. Like the sign says, we'll consider almost anything if we can find a use for it, but the need for gas is always in effect. Most of what we do to tend the land involves machines. And machines need gas. I could go out and scavenge like everyone else,” he said, flinging an arm out of the stall, “but I can't do that and this.”

  Andrew held up the peas. “These come from your farm?”

  “My family's. Three generations strong. My folks and my aunts, uncles, and cousins work and guard the land. Corrine and I run the trade point.”

  The young woman looked up from sorting strawberries and smiled. Clarissa thought it made her even more beautiful. Beside her, a young girl, perhaps seven years old, looked up from a crayon drawing and grinned cautiously. Clarissa waved at her. The girl smiled and waved back.

  “Your crops are impressive,” Andrew began. “I haven't seen such variety and freshness in quite awhile.”

  The young man nodded appreciatively. “Thanks. My dad's always striving for quality. Even now. Believes that if we offer inferior selection, people will take that as cause to negotiate. And we just can't.�
�

  Andrew regarded the trade chart again. “So this is set in stone, I take it.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “A gallon of fuel for eight ounces of produce? That's pretty steep.”

  “It is. But like I said, we're not using mules and oxen to till and harvest our fields.”

  “I didn't realize tractors used much in the way of unleaded these days.”

  The young man chortled. “Well, that's because many don't unless they've got an all-fuel engine, which we don't. We've got two diesel-dependent tractors collecting dust at the moment. Had to retrofit a Silverado and a Ford Super Duty to handle some of the farm apparatus. It's not optimal, but it's keeping us in business. You don't happen to have diesel, do you?”

  “Afraid not,” Andrew said, as he passed his eyes over crates of apples, carrots, potatoes, and zucchini.

  Clarissa and Rachel moved up beside him.

  “So what do you think?” Clarissa said.

  “I say it's worth it,” Rachel offered. “It's not every day we come across produce of this quality. Hell, it's not every day we come across produce at all.”

  Andrew nodded contemplatively. “I'm inclined to agree. We managed forty-seven gallons yesterday. I figure we could part with, what, twenty and still be in good shape.”

  Clarissa dropped her head in mild surprise. “Twenty? Don't you think that might be too much? That'll only leave us with twenty-seven gallons for both vehicles, and that's not including what Jon ends up bartering. We may end up with barely enough to fill both trucks.”

  Andrew tossed his head from side-to-side. “It's a risk, but our resourcefulness has fared us pretty well so far.”

  “Yeah, Clar,” Rachel said, turning Clarissa to face her. “Besides, when are we going to find food like this again? When's the last time you ate a fresh fruit salad? Or even a salad for that matter? Carpe diem, sister.”