Come Whatever Storms

by J. M. Snyder

  No response.

  Yesterday there had been mean laughter and the sound of guns being cocked in warning. Today, no one answered Ronnie’s call. Even the wind seemed to cease for a moment, the trees around them falling silent.

  Now Ronnie’s hand dropped to his waist, and he unholstered the gun. “Stay behind me,” he muttered to Court, who nodded in agreement. Unarmed, there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

  Together they inched forward. Adam and Dizzy fell in behind them, Dizzy watching the road they’d just traveled to make sure no one circled behind and cut them off. Court kept a hand on the small of Ronnie’s back, fingers itching to fist in the material of Ronnie’s shirt and pull him back. “I don’t really think…”

  “Shh.” Ronnie raised the gun and flicked off the safety.

  Court pressed his lips together to keep quiet. Each step they took ratcheted his fear up another notch, until he felt as if every nerve trilled with emotion, and every hair stood on end. When Adam accidentally bumped into him, Court jumped with a small yelp of surprise.

  “Hush!” Ronnie warned.

  In a tense group, they edged through the gap offering the only route south. Court kept expecting the man in the orange jumpsuit to leap out at them, gun blazing, a war cry tearing from his throat. Nothing happened, though. Somehow, that was worse.

  Halfway through the gap, Court began to see the road on the other side of the cars. He peered over Ronnie’s shoulder, straining to take in everything at once, but all he saw was a wedge of highway between the bumper of the nearest vehicle and Ronnie’s profile. The wedge widened as they moved, showing rumpled blankets and scattered supplies strewn across the road.

  Then, the blood.

  The road was awash with it. Bright and sticky, and at this hour, already crawling with flies. When the wind shifted, Court caught a sniff of the coppery stench and felt it tickle the back of his throat, making him want to throw up. “God,” he moaned, pressing close against Ronnie. He’d seen enough, but for some reason, he couldn’t seem to look away.

  It smeared the tarmac, pooled in broken asphalt, and ran off the road in rivulets to soak into the sandy shoulder, darkening the dirt. It stained the bedrolls and streaked the sides of the cars. When they were fully past the blockade, Court saw bodies torn apart, limbs still encased in jailhouse clothing, weapons used and discarded during the fight. Quickly he looked around, counting. Three full bodies, dead and obviously mauled, one still wrapped tight in its bedding. He’d probably been the first victim, Court surmised, after whatever guards had been posted were disposed of by the animal that did this. Five arms, or what he thought were arms. A pair of legs half-dragged under one of the vehicles, either trying to get away or tucked there for a later meal. And one body propped up against the side of a car, covered in blood.

  Not a body. A torso really—the man’s legs were missing. Court leaned closer, recognizing the tattoos exposed by the torn sleeves of the jumpsuit the man wore. The shotgun lay in front of him, as if on the lap he no longer had, but Court knew it was the same guy who had stopped them the day before.

  Gripping the back of Ronnie’s shirt, Court moaned weakly, “God.”

  “You said that already.” Ronnie swept the area with a glance and then turned past Court to the others. “Let’s see if we can find any food, any working weapons, any ammo. Be quick.”

  Behind them, Dizzy grunted. “No wild animals in these parts, eh? What do you think now?”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Adam said, staring at the carnage, eyes wide behind the frames of his glasses.

  Court looked at Adam. He was the expert here, wasn’t he? He was the vet. “Will it be back?”

  Adam continued to stare for a moment longer, until he realized Court had addressed him. “What? I don’t know. I don’t even know what it was. This…”

  “An animal, right?” Dizzy pressed. “Am I right?”

  “I don’t know,” Adam said again.

  Ronnie moved forward and Court followed, the other two men right behind him. Once past the cars, the four spread out. A camp had been established on the road itself, hidden from view behind the wrecked vehicles. Bedrolls lay strewn about along the median wall like makeshift barracks. A quick glance over the wall showed another row of sleeping bags, and more bodies. Court quickly turned away.

  Scattered ashes and half-burnt logs marked where the men had kept a fire. The asphalt was charred beneath a large, empty pot that lay overturned, its contents sprayed across the road. The water in their stew had long since dried up, but the meat and simmering vegetables remained. Court bent to see what the men had been cooking—squirrel bones, mostly, maybe something larger. Even with their weapons, they’d been unable to pick off any animal of substance. He recognized the bland, white, sliced potatoes they ate themselves when they could find a can or two while scavenging, and the green beans looked like wrinkled worms baking in the morning sun. He nudged the pot aside with one foot, the metal rattling loudly along the tarmac.

  Beside him, Ronnie glanced over, annoyance written plainly on his face. “Do you have to do that?”

  “Sorry,” Court muttered. He bent to straighten the pot, which on closer inspection seemed to be the sawed off end of an oil drum. Gently he set it where the fire had been, careful not to make any unnecessary noise.

  As he stepped away, a shot rang out.

  Pain seared along Court’s lower leg. For a moment, he thought something might have bit him, or a lingering ember from the long-dead fire had somehow wafted up to singe his jeans. He heard a bullet ricochet off the pot and ducked out of reflex. A second later, the gun’s discharge filled his ears.

  He hit the ground and rolled as another shot pinged off the pot.

  “Christ!” he cried, glancing at his leg. That’s when he saw the blood darkening his pants leg. “Shit! I’ve been hit!”

  Ronnie whirled toward Court, his gun seeming to pick out a target without any help from the man who held it. Three rapid shots rang out, each one a deafening blast. Court felt the air part above him as Ronnie’s bullets sliced through it. The first went wide, punching into a door from one of the cars behind Court. The other two connected with the head of the man Court had recognized from the day before.

  The man who now held a small pistol in one hand, the rifle forgotten across what would’ve been his lap if his legs had still been attached to his body. Court focused on the pistol as it dropped to the ground so he wouldn’t have to see the damage Ronnie’s bullets had inflicted. Still, from the corner of his vision, he saw bright blood and a pale gray matter—brains, his mind whispered, but he refused to dwell on it, he pushed that thought away—fan out and drench the side of the car behind the man.

  For a long moment, no one moved. Dizzy and Adam were mesmerized where they stood, unable to look away. Then Court pulled his leg up under him, hoping to stand, and pain shot through him from heel to hip. “Fuck!”

  Suddenly Ronnie was there, holstering his gun with one hand as he touched Court’s knee with the other. “Lay back,” he said, placing his palm on Court’s chest. “Let me see.”

  “Fucker shot me,” Court muttered. He leaned back on his elbows and winced as Ronnie stretched out his leg. “How the hell was he even still alive? He was half-eaten. He should’ve been dead.”

  “We’re lucky he just about was.” Ronnie bent over Court, picking at his bloody jeans, which were already adhering to the wound. When Dizzy and Adam came over, Ronnie barked, “Stand back! You’re blocking my light.”

  “Does it hurt?” Dizzy asked.

  Court hissed in pain. “Like a bitch. What do you think?”

  Ronnie clamped a hand on Court’s knee to keep it from moving away as he picked at the jeans again. Each painful touch flared brightly all up and down Court’s side. “We need to cut these off—”

  “I like these jeans,” Court protested.

  Adam spoke up. “The fabric’s helping close the wound. If we cut it away right now, he might bleed to death.
”

  “God.” Court leaned back, dropping his head between his shoulders. Then, raising his voice to cry out into the quiet morning, he yelled, “Why the fuck do I have to get shot when there’s no goddamn health care system anymore?”

  He felt a reassuring squeeze on his thigh, and looked up to see Ronnie’s grin. What his friend had to grin about at a moment like this, Court couldn’t imagine. “Look on the bright side,” Ronnie told him. “No fighting the insurance company to pay your bill.”

  “Is that a joke?” Court asked. Ronnie’s grin widened. “Are you trying to be funny or something? I took a bullet in my leg, Ronnie. I’m going to fucking die here.”

  Dizzy interrupted. “Actually, I think it just scraped you.” When Court glared at him, he hurried to explain. “I could’ve sworn I heard it hit the cooking pot. If you hadn’t fallen, I wouldn’t have thought it hit you at all.”

  “Well, it did.” Court shook his leg to emphasize the point and instantly regretted it. Fresh pain erupted along his calf and he bit back the urge to cry out. “I’m still bleeding all over the place here.”

  Taking charge of the situation, Ronnie told Adam, “See if you can find any first aid supplies. We have some, but I don’t know what all we’ll need to close this wound. Diz, check the food. Both of you grab as much as you can carry. I’m going to have my arms full on the way back to camp.”

  Then he rose and offered a hand to Court. “Come on, get up. I know you can’t walk much but if you can hobble, that’ll be a start.”

  “And if I can’t?” Court took Ronnie’s hand, but his leg buckled when he tried to stand.

  “If you can’t, I’ll carry you.” Ronnie’s thin arms tensed with strength as he hauled Court upright. “I don’t want to stay here longer than we have to. All this blood will attract more predators before long.”

  Court threaded an arm around Ronnie’s waist as Ronnie draped his arm around Court’s shoulders. The wounded leg throbbed, but if Court kept the foot from touching the ground, the pain was bearable. “Adam said—”

  “Adam was wrong,” Ronnie said. “Something got these men, didn’t it? I don’t want to be hanging around here when it decides to come back for seconds. Can you walk?”

  Court leaned against Ronnie and, despite the pain wracking his body, found himself aroused at his friend’s closeness. It could’ve been worse, he told himself. It could’ve been Dizzy holding him so close. “I’ll manage.”

  By leaning heavily on Ronnie, Court managed to make it back to the spot where they’d entered the road earlier in the day. His calf no longer burned, but a dull ache bloomed throughout his entire leg, and steadily crept up his side. He felt nauseous, his head and shoulders were beginning to hurt, and whenever he looked up from the road, his vision swam sickeningly. At one point Adam, who’d been walking behind them, came up beside Court and gave him a grim smile. “You’re losing a lot of blood.”

  Court rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth against the pain. “I thought you said you weren’t a doctor.”

  “I’m not,” Adam started.

  Ronnie replied, “Then shut up.”

  They stepped off the road onto the shoulder, then made their way down the slope toward their camp. For Court, each step was excruciating—hidden roots jutted up from the undergrowth, catching his favored foot and wrenching his injured leg. He cried out once as a red darkness washed over him, and it took a full minute of clutching Ronnie’s shirt before he was able to move again. When he got snagged up a second time, Ronnie crouched, tucked an arm behind Court’s knees, and swept him up off his feet like a bride being helped over the threshold. “Put me down,” Court argued weakly.

  Ronnie didn’t bother to respond.

  Despite Court’s weight in his arms, Ronnie stepped quickly and reached the bottom of the slope before either Dizzy or Adam, who lumbered and crashed along behind him. A handful of people waited for them, nervous looks on their faces. Bree stepped forward, glancing at Ronnie before addressing Court. “We heard shots. What happened up there?”

  Carefully, Ronnie set Court on his feet. Or rather, his foot—the other still shied away from the ground, unwilling to take his weight and wake his wound again. He glanced down at his calf, his jeans now black with blood, and Bree followed his gaze. “Oh my God!” she gasped. “What happened?”

  “We need a well-lit clearing,” Ronnie said. A couple of people nearby nodded and raced off to comply. “A pair of scissors, clean towels, something for pain—”

  “I have Excedrin,” Bree offered.

  Adam puffed to a stop behind Ronnie. “The aspirin in it will only make him bleed more. Do you have anything stronger?”

  Bree hesitated before shaking her head.

  Ronnie noticed. “You do. What?”

  “Some prescription pills,” she admitted. “My roommate used to take them for migraines before she got the virus. They’re something-cet. I don’t remember. I grabbed them when I left thinking they might come in handy.”

  “God,” Court sighed as a tremor ran through him. Ronnie felt it and hugged him close. “Can I just sit down somewhere, y’all? I’m about to…”

  He slid to the ground, leaning heavily against Ronnie the whole way down. “Shit,” Ronnie muttered. “Hang in there, man.”

  Court had little choice. It took some doing, but Ronnie managed to lift him again, and Bree helped navigate them through the undergrowth to an area just beyond their camp where a few people had cleared away the brush and ivy. She raced back to her tent and returned with a large blanket, which she spread out on the ground before Ronnie laid Court down on it. She had a pair of large kitchen shears, as well as a handful of towels that looked as if they’d never been used—she must’ve swiped them from a store at some point—and a brown prescription bottle. Adam took the bottle, read the label, and shook it to hear a satisfying rattle. “These’ll work. Good.”

  Adam shook a couple of the pills into his hand and took charge, easily falling into the role of a physician during an emergency situation. “Dizzy, check the stuff I brought back with me. I think I saw some sutures in there, gauze, iodine, something. Pull out anything you think I might could use. Ronnie—”

  “Here.” Ronnie took the pills from Adam and knelt behind Court, one hand cupping his friend’s neck. “Can you swallow these?”

  “Like that?” Court asked with a grimace.

  Bree handed over a bottle of water from somewhere. When Ronnie glanced up, she shrugged. “I brought a couple, in case you need to, like, clean him up or something. Was he shot?”

  “I’m right here,” Court reminded her. “Don’t talk about me in the third person yet.”

  “Were you shot?” she asked, kneeling beside him. A cool hand touched his forehead. “God, you’re burning up!”

  A familiar flicker of irritation danced across Ronnie’s face and was gone. Court grinned to see it. “I’m fine. I’m going to be fine. My jeans, though…”

  He heard the silver snip of scissors, then felt his pants fall away from his lower leg. “Sorry, man,” Dizzy said when Court sat up to glare at him. “Doctor’s orders.”

  “I like these jeans,” Court argued.

  Suddenly Ronnie’s hands cupped his face, easing him back. Court found himself cradled in his friend’s lap. Ronnie’s large fingers fumbled over Court’s mouth, popping the pills onto his tongue before Court could argue. “We’ll get you another pair,” he promised. The water bottle pressed to his lips and Ronnie helped him sit up just enough to sip from it. “Swallow.”

  The pills tasted terrible, and Court guzzled the water until Ronnie pulled the bottle away. “That reminds me of a joke,” he sighed as Ronnie laid his head back down. “What’s the difference between like and love?”

  His friend’s face filled his world—Court saw nothing but Ronnie’s dark eyes, shining with fear. He felt Ronnie’s thumbs resting gently on his cheeks, felt Ronnie’s palms flat against his jaw. Ronnie’s knees cushioned his head, and despite the pain wracking h
is body, he couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be than right here. Safe, with Ronnie. “Hey,” he said softly.

  Ronnie leaned down. For a breathless moment, Court hoped those thin lips would touch his, but they didn’t. Instead, Ronnie touched his forehead to Court’s, his hair falling down over Court’s eyes and making them blink. “Shhh,” he murmured. “Be quiet for once in your life, will you? I’m not losing you, too.”

  Then the pills kicked in, and Court felt a wooziness that forced him to close his eyes. The world dipped and swayed, and the pain fell back as the medicine took hold. “Ronnie,” he said, but his voice sounded far away to his own ears.

  That’s when he felt it—the press of Ronnie’s lips to his skin, right between his eyes. His hands came up to grasp Ronnie’s wrists once, defiantly, then the darkness that had been pushing against the corners of his consciousness washed over him, and he drifted away.

  Court didn’t know how long he was out, but at some point, his mind drifted back to consciousness and the sound of familiar voices in an enclosed space. His tent, perhaps—he seemed to feel the canvas stretching behind his head and up, away, over him into the sky. Or maybe that was just the after-effects of the pills Bree had given him. He’ll have to ask her about those. Something-cet, eh? For migraines? Knocked him right the hell out.

  “He’ll have to stay off this for a week or so.”

  Adam’s voice came from somewhere near Court’s feet. Once Court heard it, he felt hands on his lower leg, and a dull throb where he took the bullet in his calf. Hopefully Adam was only checking on the wound, and had already sutured it while Court was out. He didn’t feel any pulling on the skin, no faint tug of needle and thread, so yeah, all that was already finished.

  Court kept his eyes closed, his breathing steady, hoping no one would notice he was awake yet. Sometimes people said things about others when they didn’t think the person they were talking about was listening. Obviously, Adam and whoever else was in the tent were talking about him, and Court didn’t want to interrupt just yet.