by Maira Dawn
Skye turned off her tablet and strolled to her kitchen, opening the tall, white cabinets. I have a decent supply of food, but if this epidemic does take a swift turn, and I need to stay in—Well, not enough for that. A stop at the local market was in order, and while running errands, she would withdraw cash from the bank.
Satisfied with her plan and confident it would make Tom happy, Skye brought her hand to her mouth as she yawned and headed to the bathroom to get ready for bed.
The next morning, Skye made her way out to the kitchen and turned on her Keurig. While she waited for her cup to fill, she picked at a loose button on her pajamas with one hand and rubbed her eye with the other. She had never been a morning person.
Skye sipped her coffee as she turned the TV to the news. The headline was the AgFlu. The liquid in the mug she held rippled as she trembled. The overnight press had gotten their hands on information about more cases. A lot more. Skye pushed the remote's button, again and again, surfing through the networks. Whether someone leaked the details to the networks, or the Disease Control offered it, depended upon what channel Skye viewed.
The number of ill was now in the thousands. She gulped her coffee to warm the chill moving through her. The huge jump was unnerving and unprecedented, not only to Skye but also the newscasters. Their wide-eyed fear and somber voices didn’t seem faked as they talked of curfews. Skye reopened her cabinets and looked in the refrigerator, writing a food list as she did so. Definitely going to the store tonight before this gets any worse.
At noon, Skye ate her lunch to the voice of a national newscaster revealing case after case of the AgFlu. Some had a basic cold and flu, some had pneumonia, but for others, the illness took a darker turn. They harmed people.
The news made her nauseous, and she put most of her meal back into the refrigerator uneaten.
By her two o'clock coffee break, there were more developments. The shop had foregone its usual selection of soothing music for the unsettling blare of updates from a makeshift TV on the counter. It seemed a never-ending litany of more cases, more attacks.
The Disease Control now urged people to increase their hygiene. They included instructions on the proper way to wash your hands and when a person may want to wear a medical mask. A panel of self-appointed experts strongly endorsed curfews and quarantines, even for the healthy. In their opinion, it was the only way to stay safe.
Skye looked around the cozy cafe. A few people watched the TV, but most others seemed relaxed as they tapped on their phones. When she took her latte from the barista, Skye said, "What do you think about this?" as she pointed to the television.
"It'll blow over, sugar, don't you worry. We've seen worse than this. Remember H1N1? We were all supposed to die then too. I reckon we'll be just fine."
Skye gave her a weak smile. "I hope so."
"It'll be fine. We only have this TV up here because the owner is an old worrywart. Don't let it bother you none. Go on over there and drink your coffee."
Skye nodded and moved to a table near the window. She watched the people casually walking down the sidewalk, then scanned the restaurant. She saw few with the tightness around their eyes she could feel on her face. Most seemed to go about their day as cheerfully as if it were any other day. Was she being foolish, or were they?
Chapter Eight
The Bengay Standoff
When the workday was over, Skye and her rumbling stomach drove up to the local mom and pop food market. Set up as most grocery stores were in this county, the ample parking lot sat between the road and the blue block building. To Skye’s dismay, it was jam-packed. She shook her head. Should've figured.
The entire front of the store was glass with near floor to ceiling windows, each containing large posters announcing the deals of the week. Skye's gaze drifted across them as she walked in, determining if she needed any of the special items.
Skye passed below the white sign declaring the store's name, Anderson's Market, in large, block lettering. She wondered, not for the first time, about the family. She had yet to meet one Anderson in this township, and she knew without a doubt, Smith’s owned this store.
As the automatic glass door swung shut behind her, Skye came to an abrupt standstill. The store was wall-to-wall people. Over-excited voices reverberated off the walls loud enough to drown out the sound of the canned country music that played in the background. Wide-eyed neighbors and friends grabbed food off shelves faster than it was going back on. Lines at the checkout snaked to the back of the store.
Skye’s mouth dropped open. I expected crazy, but not this crazy. The rumbling screech of buggies needing oil alerted her to the fact that one lone cart with a bent wheel was all that stood waiting for use. The good ones were long gone. When Skye felt the air stir behind her as the automatic door opened again with new customers, she moved toward it. Better a bad buggy than none at all.
She pushed her cart through the aisles and shook her head while people piled one, or more, buggies with several boxes of the same item. It was just as out of control as Tom had warned it would be.
When Skye found herself adding rice mix after rice mix to her cart, she stopped and moved on. When she took a third peanut butter off the shelf, she caught the sad-eyed gaze of a little girl sitting in the cart next to hers. She handed it to the girl instead, then eyed the few remaining on the shelf. Skye threw out her hand and grabbed one, feeling a sense of security when her hand came around the smooth plastic jar. She shoved her buggy on down the aisle and rolled her eyes at herself. I have to stop this. I’m just getting caught up in the chaos, it's not like they’re going to stop making food.
Skye rounded the end-cap and entered the medical aisle, threading her cart around a few others. She added a few boxes of band-aids and medications to her increasing pile. Then stopped short before running into an old woman standing in the aisle and staring at the shelves.
It was Mrs. McCleary. Skye’s neighbor stood there, distress written all over her body. Her white hair in a bun, and as immaculate as always, the woman turned her wide gaze to Skye, her trembling, blue-veined hands covering her mouth.
"Mrs. McCleary," Skye asked as she rushed to her, "what is wrong? Can I help you?"
“Oh, my dear,” her voice sounded more shaky than usual, “There is not a single tube of Bengay left on the shelf! I can’t sleep without first putting it on my shoulders. I have such trouble with them, you know.”
Skye did know. Mrs. McCleary loved to bake, often sharing it with Skye and the rest of her neighbors, but when bad weather came, so did the woman’s arthritis. Delicious baked goods never made their way to Skye on those days.
Skye checked the shelf where the product should have sat, then the racks surrounding it and behind the few items still scattered on the shelf. There was no Bengay. Skye nibbled the inside of her cheek as she looked over the products to see if there was anything similar. There was nothing.
She reached into her own buggy and picked up a box of Tylenol and Motrin. “Here take these. They will help, won’t they?”
“Yes, they do, dear. Thank you. But I still need my Bengay.”
Skye turned to a harried-looking employee racing through the aisle full of customers as fast as they allowed him. She raised her arm to flag him down. “Excuse me. Excuse me!”
“Yeah?” Arms full of product, he pivoted, irritated by the interruption. He had fallen behind in his work long ago.
Skye kept it short and sweet given his exasperated manner. “Bengay. Do you have any in the back?”
“No, lady. We brought out all the meds this morning. All we got is what you see.”
Mrs. McCleary gasped at the news. "I'll never sleep now! I only have one super-size Ultra Strength left!"
The stock boy took in her obvious distress, and his eye's filled with pity. He grunted, then aid in a somewhat reluctant voice, "I have a grandma too." He nodded his head at a customer further up the row, he said, "That guy grabbed the last ones. Like a lot of ‘em. See if he’ll give
you one."
"Thank you," Skye said to the young man as he scurried off.
Wide-eyed, Mrs. McCleary looked from Skye to the boy and back. Skye thought of all the times her neighbor had checked on her and brought her goodies. This was the least she could do, the woman was in real distress.
“Can you watch my buggy?” Skye asked Mrs. McCleary.
Mrs. McCleary beamed at Skye. “I sure can. Thank you, Skye. I knew I could count on you.”
Skye gave Mrs. McCleary a weak smile. A knot formed in her stomach over any possible confrontation, and she hoped this went well as she wound her way through customers and carts. With careful steps, she wiggled past two well-built men in worn jeans and t-shirts. She didn't want to stumble into them as she avoided the rest of the crowd. She mumbled “Sorry” as she stepped on the foot of one when she sidled past with her back to them. Skye scanned the items in their buggy as she did, but did not see a single Bengay tube among them.
The short, thin man in front of them, however, had at least thirty tubes, let alone patches and gel. Skye stopped and glanced from his cart to him and back with a look that said, “Really?”
“What?” the man said.
Skye rearranged her facial expression. Her current one wouldn’t get her anywhere with this man. She made her tone neighborly as she smiled and introduced herself and pointed out Mrs. McCleary.
“Yeah, so.”
“Mrs. McCleary is an old, arthritic lady and a regular Bengay user. There are no tubes of the medicine left, and she is very distressed.”
“Sorry to hear that,” the man said and turned away, making no moves to offer her one of the many that littered his basket.
Skye took a step closer to him. “Would you be willing to give her a tube of yours?”
“No.”
Skye pressed her lips together and stared at the ground before looking back at him. “She is an old woman. She is almost crying out of her concern that she won't be able to sleep at night.”
“Sorry, I have old people too.”
“One tube, that’s all I’m asking. Surely, we can come to some kind of arrangement.”
The man stilled as greed lit up his eyes. “How much are we talkin?”
Skye pointed to a large tube and made an offer she felt was exceedingly generous. “Twenty bucks.”
He uttered a low sound of indecision as he looked Skye over. Deciding she could afford more, he said, “Fifty.”
“Fifty?” Skye squeaked. “That is crazy.”
“If you don’t want it.” The man nudged his cart away.
Skye grabbed hold of the cool metal. “Wait! Wait. Thirty.”
“Nope.”
Skye smacked her hand down on the side of his buggy as she looked back at Mrs. McCleary. The old woman's face was fierce as she defended Skye’s items from someone trying to poach her band-aids. She closed her eyes. How can I not get this medicine for her?
Skye opened her eyes and flicked a glance at the physique of the two brawny men behind her. At least, I’m not dealing with them.
She plunged a hand into her purse and pulled out the money. “Here. Fifty.”
A neighboring customer yelled, “Hey lady, do I got anything you want?”
Oh, great! What have I started?
Apparently feeling fifty was too easy for her, the small man with the Bengay said, “Changed my mind. It’s sixty now.”
Skye steamed as she reached toward her purse to pull another ten before he demanded more money. Before she could do so, a large hand blocked her line of sight to her bag.
“Stop.” A deep voice rumbled from the t-shirt clad chest a few inches from her face. Before her eyes made it to his face, one box of Bengay came flying at her, then another. She fumbled, then caught them.
When the little man protested, her defender stated, “That ain't how we do things here. Never has been, never will be.”
As some of the customers applauded them, Skye’s protector and his sidekick pushed their way past the hoarder of topical pain relief before she could thank them. Skye watched the back of the dark-haired one as he walked away and wondered why his muscled body looked familiar.
"Thank you!" Skye yelled after them.
Skye sighed as she took the medicine to Mrs. McCleary. After seeing the size of Skye's rescuers, the woman trying to steal the Band-Aids from her cart dropped them back in and stepped away.
Mrs. McCleary's eyes were alight. “Good to have friends like that at times like these.”
“Oh, they aren’t my friends. I don’t know them.”
“That's interesting because they know you.”
Skye looked back at them. “I don’t think so.”
“I do. Mrs. Jones said they asked about you.” A woman behind Mrs. McCleary vigorously nodded her head.
“About me? Mrs. McCleary, I think you're confused, I’ve never seen those men before in my life.”
“I’m not confused, young lady, and let me just say, if things get half as bad as the news claims, you might want to cozy up to one of them boys.”
“Mrs. McCleary! Saying such things after I was so nice to you.”
"Um, well. I'm old enough to know a good, bad boy when I see one." The old woman folded her arms. "You’ll see."
Skye skimmed the crowded front end of the store and found the two men. She watched their backs as they loaded their items on the conveyor belt but neither one turned around so she could get a glimpse of their faces. When she looked at Mrs. McCleary, the woman’s light-blue eyes were twinkling.
Skye humphed. “I don’t like bad boys, even good ones.”
Mrs. McCleary let out a short bark of a laugh. “That’s what we all tell ourselves, dear.”
Chapter Nine
Mighta Coulda
Dylan stood at the edge of the mountain overlook, his arms crossed as he gazed on the town of Colton far below him. Where he stood the ground was a bare, rocky piece of land that was a sharp contrast to the thick woods beside it.
Scraggly bunches of green weeds pushed their way up through the hard dirt, bowing their heads when the wind kicked up as it often did this time of day. The trail to the cliff started near the cabin he shared with his brother and ran through the forest to where he stood.
Dylan raised his face to the breeze, enjoying the feel as it raced across his bare skin. The gust buffeted the back of his old t-shirt before calming down. To him, the wind was the only thing that seemed to have true freedom, rushing at will from the valleys to the hills, stirring grasses and clouds alike.
But it comes up empty, like me.
Dylan looked down at Colton. It was something he now often did. He didn’t know why--not for sure--but the town drew him. He wished he belonged there, or somewhere, but he'd burnt a lot of bridges. For so long, he'd chased freedom. Now he wanted more. He scoffed at himself.
More of what? More like today? What are people thinkin?
He wondered how many times he'd had the same thought. Dylan's friends believed he had an amazing ability to read others, but not Dylan. He often felt people were a mystery to him, which struck him as odd, being as he was one. One ought to know one's own kind.
Dylan crouched, sitting on his heels and picked up a stone, weighed it in his hand and threw it down the side of the mountain. It made a couple sharp ticks on the rock below as it fell, then nothing. The thought he'd been shoving down all day worked its way to his mind.
I saw her today.
Stop. Think about something else, anything else. Wade knows what he’s talking about. She ain't for me. Yeah, think of Wade, Wade going off on his tangent.
After being closed up in that store with all those people, Wade had been downright irritable.
When his brother got riled up, one was never sure what kind of crazy would come out. Dylan chuckled. Wade got worked up most days. And if Wade was in trouble, it was often his words that got him there.
They’d gone down the mountain for a few supplies and to see what all the hubbub was about. That’s wh
at old man Larson called it. Hubbub.
The old guy had seen people raiding stores in Fenton on TV, and he wanted to know how bad it was here in Colton. It seemed things were falling apart as this disease spread.
Larson was a curious man. To satisfy that curiosity, he’d walked, cane and all, the good mile or so to the Cole’s cabin and asked the brothers if they’d mind seeing what all the fuss was about. Dylan and Wade agreed to go and get him some groceries too.
How a man like himself got roped into these situations baffled Dylan, but Larson had hobbled all the way over. And though the Coles weren’t sure exactly how old the man was, they both agreed he looked at least a hundred and one. So, they had to go.
The brothers scrounged up enough money for each of them to have a hamburger at McDonald’s. They later slumped in a booth biting into hot, greasy burgers while entertained by a drunken Frankie Bailey trying to cross the busy street. They'd snorted and scoffed. Wade had even let out a few loud hoots. The comedy ended when a kid ran up and tried to help him.
“You think that’s Frankie’s boy? I heard he had a couple kids,” Wade said as he chomped on his sandwich.
“Might could be.” Dylan's eyes stayed glued to the youngster, watching as the boy did his best to aid his father despite his old man’s efforts to swat him off.
“Wonder if Frankie whales on him, the way Frankie's dad used to—” Wade stopped as Frankie backhanded the young man in the face.
Both men automatically grunted their disapproval, each remembering the harsh smack of a man's hand on their own young faces. Wade shook his head. “I reckon so.”
Dylan's head jerked back as if he had been the one slapped. He looked at the ground, across the street, at the coffee shop—anywhere to ignore what was happening in front of him, to ignore the stone gathering weight in his stomach and the flame igniting in his chest.