We cover the distance to the highway in half an hour. After making sure the coast is clear, we sprint across the road and open land before disappearing into the brush some forty yards away. The South Arkansas River sounds to our right. It’s not as grand as the name might suggest, smaller even than my home town's Animas. But that’s to our advantage. Crossing the river shouldn’t be a problem if need be, and the thick foliage lining its banks make it the perfect path for us to follow on our way into town.
We move quick and silent, ever aware of our surroundings. In the patches where cover is scarce, we keep low to the ground, making ourselves as small as possible. I know as well as anyone the need to be careful, but it doesn't make it any easier to do so. My feet yearn to move faster, to leave the concealment of the riverbank and run down the center of the highway, stopping only once I’ve reached town and can trade for antibiotics. Every minute that passes is another minute for the infection to spread. The inflamed wound and red streaks up Emily's arm keep coming back to me. How long do we even have before she's too far gone? Tonight? Morning? Longer? I don't know, and that's what makes it all the more frustrating.
Houses spring up sporadically along the way till we reach a small settlement. The place has the air of a ghost town. I catch no movement on the street, hear no sounds aside from our breathing. I scan the houses and buildings in search of shifting shadows, a flicker of a curtain, any proof at all of a human presence. But all is still.
"This isn't Salida, is it?" I ask.
Felix shakes his head. "Poncha Springs. Salida is a couple more miles from here."
"Is it just me, or shouldn't we have seen somebody by now?" Leon asks, voicing my own concern.
"Not necessarily," Felix says, taking a long pull from his canteen. "This area wasn't too populated, they might have been able to cooperate and organize before everything fell apart. If that's the case, Salida might be acting as a safe zone for the area, and anyone who didn't relocate won't want to advertise their location."
"Yeah, maybe," I say. "It would make sense."
"Let's hope you're right," Leon says.
We creep on the outskirts of town, our path along the river inching closer to the highway and the buildings now sprouting along beside it. Through a gap between the trees and buildings, we spot a roadblock stretched across the highway, proof of the town’s occupation. Anxiety bubbles inside my gut at the sight of it, wondering how this will play out. A little further on we leave the concealment of the river bank, needing to find a vantage point so we can assess the situation. We scale a wooden fence and land in a dirt lot belonging to several abandoned businesses. Stalled cars, frozen in their spaces act as our cover as we draw closer. It’s not the first roadblock I’ve seen since this all began, but it’s certainly one of the best fortified. Two school buses stretch across the traffic lanes, a gap of roughly ten-feet and two rows of spike strips lining the ground between them. I count six men in each bus, the barrels of their rifles poking out the open windows. Murmured conversation sounds among them, but not loud enough for us to follow.
"Pharmacy," Felix whispers. I turn his way and he gestures toward the roadblock. I follow his line of sight and spot it. Through the gap between the busses is a Walmart, the word Pharmacy written on its side just visible from this angle. I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm the mixture of anxiety and relief flaring inside me. We still need to figure out how to get the meds, and if the security at the roadblock is any indication, it's going to be difficult without their cooperation.
"What do you think?" I ask aloud.
Neither Leon nor Felix answer my question. A cold voice from behind speaks before they have the chance. "I think you should put your hands behind your head and kiss the dirt." We turn at the sound of the voice and spot two men some twenty feet away, each armed with a shotgun aimed at our chests. "Whoa, don't do anything stupid now," another voice sounds from above. Two more men stand on the roof of the building beside us, an overwatch to the roadblock. "Hands behind your head, and kiss the dirt. I won't ask again," one of the men on the ground barks.
Numbly I sink to the ground, obeying their command. We are patted down and stripped of our weapons and I'm relieved of the pack I carry. Plastic restraints bind my hands behind my back and I feel the panic rising. My pulse doubles. My eyes dart around the lot, searching for an escape that isn't there. I find my voice, a desperate plea for release cut short with a quick jab between my shoulder blades. I'm nearly sent to my knees but manage to keep my footing. "Keep your mouth shut unless you're spoken to!" one of the men says. "Now, move!"
We are marched across the lot and led through a low barred gate, our captors calling out to the roadblock announcing our procession. My mind whirls a hundred miles an hour, trying in vain to find a way out of this. The stare of so many eyes burn into me, clashing with the cold-blooded feel of shotguns trained at my back. Two men step forward from the brigade, both wearing sheriff uniforms. The sheriff's both look to be in their mid-forties; one stocky with a short, dark crewcut; the other tall with a thick red-brown mustache. I read the nametags pinned to their uniforms, crewcut: A. Gibbons, mustache: L. Hawkins.
"Well, well, well, what do we got us here?" Gibbons asks our captors.
"Caught em' creeping inside the lot. Scoping out the roadblock by the looks of things."
Gibbons glare darkens at these words. "You search them?"
"Yes, sir." The two men move past us, laying out our weapons and the contents of my pack before the two sheriffs. I watch as they sort through all we brought to trade: five cartons of cigarettes, five 750ml bottles of vodka, roughly half our supply of 9mm (100 rounds), 12 gauge shells (40), and .40 S&W (60), along with the little food we brought to eat.
"Looks like we've got us some looters," Gibbons proclaims, an ugly smirk spreading across his face. "That why y'all are here?" He gets off on this, I can tell. I've dealt with his kind before: pricks who think wearing a badge automatically makes them superior, expecting our total respect without offering any in return. The collapse has done nothing but heighten his sense of entitlement. Still, we are at his mercy and this town has what we need. I can play this game.
"No, sir," I reply before Leon or Felix get the chance. "We were being cautious is all. Wanted to make sure you were decent people before showing ourselves."
"Oh, yeah?" Gibbons asks, his glare now focused entirely on me. "You were just cautiously scoping out our operation armed with weapons? Y’all got what, a day's worth of food and a party pack? You sure you weren't fixin' to loot anything?"
I shake my head again, realizing how bad this must look from their perspective. "No sir, we weren't. We came here hoping we could trade for antibiotics. As you can see we don't' have much, but anything we have we're willing to trade."
"What do you need the antibiotics for?" Hawkins asks, speaking for the first time. Gibbons glare turns to him. He doesn’t like sharing the interrogation.
"My sister, Emily," I begin. My throat tightens. Getting caught and captured, being questioned, it's all driven the urgency of our mission out of mind. It comes surging back as I recall Emily's sweat soaked brow, the paleness to her face, the angry lines of infection racing up her arm. I take a steadying breath. I need to keep it together. "We were attacked by another group a few days ago. There was no provocation, no cause for it, we just had supplies and they didn't. We managed to fight them off, but my sister got stabbed during the altercation. We cleaned it out and stitched it up the best we could, but still it got infected. We don't have anything that can treat it. Your town is the only place close enough that might have what we need to save her life."
Hawkins remains stoic through my tale, his eyes fixing me with a penetrating stare. I can't get a read on him, his face giving nothing away: a look of neutrality I imagine he's acquired over years of law enforcement. It is a look Gibbons has yet to acquire or chooses not to wear, his face remaining shrewd and unyielding. "We might be able to work something out," Hawkins finally says.
"Really?” Gibbons questions. An ugly sneer crosses his face as Hawkins turns to him. “I don't see that being the case.” And like that, the balloon pops.
"And why is that, exactly?" Hawkins challenges. Gibbons face tilts into an obnoxious smirk. "Don't see how it benefits us to trade away valuable supplies is all," he says, shrugging dismissively.
"You shitting me?" Hawkins asks incredulously. He lowers his voice and steps closer, but I catch every word. "Gibbs, you can't be serious. They seem like decent enough people. We should help them. We can spare the meds." Gibbons remains unfazed. If anything, he seems more agitated at being questioned in front of the men at the roadblock. I get the feeling Hawkins is the only one here with the nerve to challenge the authority Gibbons feels he has absolute. "Not the point," he says. "Council gave me operational command of town security. Means the decision is up to me, and I'm denying the trade."
Desperation forms in the pit of my stomach and claws its way up and out of my mouth. "Please!" I cry out. I'm not above begging, not with Emily's life on the line. "My sister will die without those meds. She's strong and kind and doesn't deserve to die because some filthy piece of trash tried to take what was ours. I'm begging you...please don't turn us away."
My eyes never leave Gibbon's, not even to wipe away the tears that now trail down my cheeks. He makes a play of looking sympathetic, a look which doesn't extend to the coldness of his eyes, and I know before he opens his mouth that my plea has fallen on deaf ears. "I'm sorry, son. But I have a whole town to consider. Anything I give you today won't be here tomorrow...and I always have to think about tomorrow."
I feel sick—that stomach churning, head spinning kind of vertigo, like spending a minute too long on a merry-go-round. Everything is moving too fast for my mind to keep up with, thoughts and memories swirling around in a blurry, confused montage: finding a ten year old Emily in tears on the living room floor, the shattered remains of my mother’s favorite vase beside her, so scared she couldn’t get out the words to explain what happened, me lifting her to her feet and hugging her, assuring her it would be alright, and then later telling my mother I broke the vase with a stray football, and her grounding me for the next two weeks; Emily and I sneaking shots during Christmas dinner as teenagers, and nearly dying from laughter when her drunken stumbling sent her to the floor while carrying a cherry pie to the table, completely ruining the dress she was wearing; saying goodbye on the morning she departed for college, wrapping my arms around her and promising I would always be there if she needed me. I suppose I’ve always had a knack for making promises I couldn’t keep.
"You son of a bitch!" Leon yells out, bringing me back to the present. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Denying us when we're so desperate?" His voice is cracked, raw and wounded. He knows what this means. Hawkins looks disgusted, a look shared by many who man the roadblock. But he doesn't challenge the call, his face skewed with a conceding bitterness.
Gibbons turns to Leon, now. "I don't enjoy anything about this," he says. Such a lie. "But my decision is final." I want to lash out at this man, but I can't afford to, not bound and weaponless. I have to keep my composure. I breathe deep, in through the nose, out through the mouth, before addressing him. "I understand," I say, even though I don't. "You're only looking out for your own. I can respect that. If we can't strike a deal, we'd like to please be released, so we may at least try and find an alternative."
Gibbons looks me over once, a subtle sneer on his lips. "That, I can arrange. I am obliged to tell you Salida is operating under a strict lockout. Should we find you inside our border you will be detained if possible, or shot on sight if you're deemed a threat.” He pauses a moment for his words to sink in. “Go ahead and cut em' loose," he instructs. The plastic bindings are cut away and I rub my wrists, bringing back the circulation. Gibbons throws the cigarettes, whiskey, and food back into the pack and tosses it to me, making no motion for our weapons or ammo.
"And our weapons?" I ask, fearing I already know the answer.
He fake sighs. "Afraid these will have to be confiscated. The fact is you three still have a motive to want to enter the town, and I'd potentially be putting my men at risk by allowing you to have them back." I'm shaking, so angry words fail me. They don't fail Leon or Felix however:
"What the hell do you mean?" "You son of a bitch!" "How the hell are we supposed to defend ourselves?" "Dirty pig!" The words explode from their mouth in outrage, so quick and angry I doubt Gibbons understands it all. But he gets the gist of it. He opens his mouth to retaliate, but Hawkins taps his shoulder and asks for a private word before he has the chance. Gibbons gives us a contemptuous look before motioning Hawkins coldly to the side.
I strain my ears to hear the words between them, but catch nothing. Hawkins gestures our way passionately, arguing silently with Gibbons. When they return Hawkins looks angry, Gibbons spiteful. "You can have the knives and crossbow back," he says grudgingly. "The shotgun and pistol will still be confiscated along with the ammo you carry."
A cold hatred grips me. Denying the trade wasn't' enough, he had to twist the knife. I can feel the same hatred radiating from my friends on either side of me, but they have the sense not let loose another outburst. Hating this man won't change anything, and we don't need to give him any cause to screw us over any more than he already has. We are returned our knives and Felix is returned his crossbow. Gibbons warns us once again of the lockout and the repercussions of being found in town.
"Thank you, I appreciate all you've done," I say, staring straight at Hawkins. His eyes meet mine and they voice what he cannot say aloud: I wish I could have done more. Sheathing my knives, I turn my back on the blockade and march down the highway.
"I hope you have a plan B." Leon says when we are well out of earshot.
I sigh heavily, saying what I knew we'd have to do the moment our trade was denied. "We wait till dark, and then we find a way to get our hands on what we need."
"Not much of a plan," Felix comments.
"No," I admit. "But what other choice do we have?" I ask. Neither answer. I didn’t expect them to, but part of me held hope they might.
Chapter 12
The night is dark as any I can remember. The moon hides its face, leaving only the stars to light the barest outlines of the landscape we traverse. I'm grateful for the concealment even though it slows us. Each minute is more time for the infection to spread: more sand sifting through the hourglass. I only pray Emily can outlast it. We've walked half the night, looping far around the roadblock to avoid alerting the same guards as earlier. I'm soaked from the knee down, having crossed and recrossed the river during our nocturnal trek. It's worth it to have made it inside the town without detection.
As we move through the streets I'm not so much on edge, as I am barely hanging on. I try to keep calm, but any moment I expect to hear a shout against the night, followed by bullet fire raining in our direction. I walk, knife in hand, disgusted at the thought of having to use it. The irony is not lost on me that in this moment, I am exactly what I’ve most feared since the collapse: a desperate man doing what it takes to keep those he loves alive. I’m human. I am not immune to the animalistic instinct to protect our own, and neither are the men who would keep me from what I seek. The fear is a living thing inside me: fear that this trip may cost more than I can give.
The town is quiet, not so much as a whisper of activity on the desolate road we travel. We stick to the buildings like shadows, mirroring the street, hoping a major roadway such as this will be home to a pharmacy. Discerning businesses in the dark is difficult, impeding our already cautious pace. With each block we clear, my anxiety deepens. I keep telling myself the next building will be a pharmacy. The next one. The next one. But it never is.
We've nearly reached the end of this
strip of businesses, when we round a corner and color flashes brightly against the black. Flickering orange light glows two blocks from where we stand. I've seen enough fire these past weeks to recognize it now. We cross the street and enter a small parking lot catty-corner to the building. Crouched behind a low wall running along the lot's edge we scope it out. A fire burns inside a metal barrel, its light revealing two men standing around its perimeter. One wears a shotgun slung over his shoulder, and though I cannot see a weapon on the other man, I doubt he would be out here unarmed. "It's a pharmacy!" Leon whispers, relief heavy in his voice. He points to the painted lettering on the glass windows, Pharmacy and Rx clearly visible in the firelight. The knot in my stomach eases slightly, but finding the pharmacy is the easy part. We still need to find a way inside.
The man with the shotgun reaches into his pocket and fishes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "You should bum me a smoke," his companion says. Shotgun sniggers and lights up. "Hell, no," he replies through a deep drag. "I've already bummed you enough."
"C'mon, just one more," the other man pleads.
Echoes of a Dying World (Book 1) Page 13