by Doug Ward
"That was a fast two miles," remarked Tim, still sitting forward on the crusty seat.
"There's a drug store a few streets away." Tim gave me a questioning look, so I added, "My wife has asthma. Her inhaler is nearly empty, so we need to get her a new one."
The youth gave me a firm nod, determination reflected on his face. As we approached the small outdoor complex, I breathed a sigh of relief. There were no undead in sight. The double doors at the entrance to the pharmacy stood open, as if beckoning us to enter. The shop was flanked on each side by a barbershop and a video store.
"What kinda hick town is this?" Tim replied, making his voice twang with a southern accent.
"What do you mean?" I asked, looking for some telltale sign, a confederate flag or boot shop, something that would suggest a country motif.
"A video store? Really? Haven't they heard of Netflix or the internet?" he said, laced with sarcasm.
Dean glanced back at us in the rearview mirror. "I know what you mean. I saw a car back there with wood panels on its sides. Who does that guy think he is? Barney Rubble?"
Tim cocked his head, meeting his eyes in the reflection. "Who?"
His forehead creasing, Dean turned into the parking lot. "Barney Rubble? The Flintstones? What's up with this generation? They have no respect for the classics!"
We pulled right next to the front doors. The darkness within obscured anything more than twenty feet inside. Dean turned off the car and we readied ourselves to enter the shrouded store. Leaving the shotgun, I pulled the revolver Dean had given me out of the holster and opened the car door.
The pavement crunched under my feet. Garbage was strewn everywhere. A trail of abandoned articles led out of the drug store, probably from people overloaded with their looted goods.
As we neared the door Tim, kicked a bag of cheese curls out of his way. The sudden noise startled Dean and I. Our heads swiveled, first to the discarded package, then to the person who had struck it in the first place.
"What!" he asked in very low tones while shrugging his shoulders.
I put my pointer finger to my lips and mimicked a shushing gesture. I imagine Dean would have done the same, if not for the two flashlights he had to juggle to gain a free hand. The sound of our passing magnified as we entered the silent store. My friend handed me a flashlight as we approached the darkness.
Our lights caused twin beams to knife through the darkness, creating independent lanes of illumination. The shelves were half empty, much of their former contents being on the floor. This probably spoke to the haste of other people's foraging. I made my way to the back of the store.
The only sounds I could hear were of our passing. The crunching of each step, exasperated by the tension in the air, made it sound like an army was walking through. I stepped around a big red stain in the middle of the main aisle. The blood mostly obscured a bunch of snack cakes and their packages, which were ground into the floor. It was all mixed together in a disgusting puddle.
A third beam of light cut through the dimly illuminated aisle as Tim had managed to find a Maglite and some batteries, as well. It was one of those used by law enforcement people in cop shows. I could never figure out why they carried something so large and bulky.
As I neared the pharmacy area I could hear a wet, smacking sound. It appeared that the noise was getting louder as I neared the counter. The hair on the back of my neck rose. Everything seemed all right, but I knew that something was on the other side of that counter. I had a feeling that it was something I didn't want to disturb.
The problem was that my wife needed medication that was also behind the counter. I had to get it. She needed it.
I waved a hand behind me to halt my comrades. When I heard the sounds of movement cease, I tapped the counter with the barrel of what Dean had told me was a Colt .45 revolver. Instantly, a bald, blood-soaked head rose up, chewing on something that hung from its mouth. Its white skull showed through a large rip in the creature's forehead. The flap of torn flesh dangled over one eye.
I raised the pistol, taking careful aim. I was able to kill the zombie at my leisure from the safety of the opposing side of the counter. This was so easy. I literally had time to read the pharmacist's nametag. The horror raised its arms as if to grasp me but was held at bay on his side.
"Stop," Dean said in a hushed, yet commanding, tone. "Don't shoot! The noise of the shot could draw others."
I lowered my weapon just as Tim brushed past me. A ray of light arced through the air, tracing the path his flashlight took on its way toward the zombie's skull. The beam winked out as it came in contact with the undead creature's head. The impact knocked it to the ground.
I guess that's why police carry those heavy flashlights. I made a mental note to try to pick one up as soon as possible. The youth leapt after the floored creature to finish the beast off. Tim drew the flashlight back to deliver the fatal blow. As the light reached its apex, the bulb flicked back on, illuminating another undead moving quickly behind.
I whipped my Colt up, firing without much of an aim. The muzzle flashed. Skin and hair flew from where the bullet struck, but the nightmare continued forward toward our young friend. Tim's light whipped away, arching once more at the undead pharmacist, leaving the new threat hidden in the inky dark. I could see Dean's light track away, scanning the building for new threats as I slid half across the counter trying to draw a bead on the newcomer.
My own flashlight revealed Tim struggling in a pile of gore. It was hard to tell who belonged to what until my young friend pushed his attacker's head away at full arm's length. I nearly pressed the business end of the gun against the side of its long hair. As I pulled the trigger, the room filled with a bright flash. I felt the gun buck in my hand. The bullet made a second loud bang as it slammed through the file cabinets holding filled prescriptions; blood and brains splattered a second later.
Dark liquid ran from the now still corpse's mouth, spilling on Tim's shoulder as he rolled the hideous form to the side. I shined my light both up and down the walkway behind the counter. It was clear. Nothing stirred.
Slipping the rest of the way over the counter, I helped uncover the youth. He favored one arm. A wet stain spread from the other. My heart fell.
"What happened?" I asked, filled with dread and knowing the answer without acknowledging it.
"I don't know," he said, raising the limb and pulling the saturated fabric from the wound beneath while wincing.
I helped him to a seat further back in the pharmacist's work area. Dean took up a position in front of the counter, unwilling to stand behind it with the undead and their victim who had lost her head at some point prior to us coming to this place.
I helped the young kid out of his t-shirt. Shining my flashlight, the wound had the distinctive pattern of a bite.
"How does it look?" Tim asked in a tiny voice. His whole body was shaking.
"Keep pressure on it!" I said in a firm voice while placing his trembling hand over the wound. "I'm going to get some bandages. Lucky for you, this happened in a drug store." I said that with the best grin I could muster. He was a dead man walking.
I found a door near where Tim was sitting and used it to exit into the main part of the store. Calling Dean over, I noticed he had a rectangular box shape in a plastic pharmacy bag secured to his belt.
"What's in the bag?" I asked.
"Something for Timmy," he answered, a grin on his face.
I told him what we needed. Our lights roved half empty shelves as we moved further into the dark store. As we searched, we spoke in hushed tones.
"He got bit?" he said, sounding shocked.
I nodded.
"Can't we do something about it? I mean, you're a doctor, right?"
I shook my head side to side. "Not that kind of doctor. At some point, he will turn."
"Can't we kill
the virus? Maybe we can cut out the infection, kinda like sucking out snake venom."
Eyes falling to the floor, I explained while pulling several boxes of gauze off the shelf. "If whatever is causing this illness gets in the bloodstream, it is too late. Blood moves about three feet per second through our veins; it makes a round trip from the heart every minute. The bite punctured veins in his arm. It was too late as soon as it happened."
Dean looked crestfallen. "He is... was so young. What can we do?"
"We will make him as comfortable as possible. Then, when the time is right, we will kill him, mercifully, before he dies. That way he won't turn." I could hear slow, shuffling footsteps at the front of the store.
We returned to Tim's side, my neighbor pushing a bottle of hydrogen peroxide into my hands. Setting my flashlight on a nearby shelf, I hastily fit my hands inside a pair of rubber gloves I found near the gauze and poured some hydrogen peroxide over the wound. Using my best bedside manner, I said reassuring comments as the liquid foamed. I blew on it just like my mother had when I skinned a knee or elbow.
The bleeding had slowed, so I placed a large, wadded ball of gauze over the wound. Winding more around his skinny arm I kept the dressing tight to help stave off further bleeding. A gunshot from behind alerted me to the danger still present.
I sped into action. Retrieving the light, I left Tim in the dark and began scanning the shelves for the right section. Another blast lit the far side of the room, urging me to hasten my pace. I had to keep my head. Slow down. I couldn't blow this chance. Then I saw it.
"We gotta hurry up!"
Grabbing a large plastic bag, I stuffed all the inhalers into it, even some types she didn't use. Another shot ended my greed. I secured the plastic bag to my belt and once again drew my handgun.
"Got it!" I called out.
Dean’s light spun in my direction. He met me at our young friend's side. Our lights showed a pale sweating face in obvious pain. He had pulled his shirt back on while I was away.
"We need a back door!" Dean urged as more sounds marked the arrival of other zombies. "We gotta move!"
I lent Tim the support of my arm as we made for the rear of the building. Our two beams found the way out in the darkness. We stopped at the exit, Dean leaning close between us. "I'll take point. You guys stay behind. Reload now. We may not get another chance out there. We fumbled in the minimal light, pulling ammunition out of pants pockets to fuel our weapons.
I snapped my revolver closed and looked up to see a grinning Dean.
"Ready!" he told, more than asked.
"Go!"
He pushed the exit bar, opening the door to the outside world. The light was blinding. We all shaded our eyes with upraised arms, Dean taking the lead position. The way was clear to the right, so we circled the building as few ragged dead followed from the left. We stopped at the corner, and after seeing that the way was clear, we sprinted toward the front of the old video store. At the corner, we stopped again to see if any undead barred our way.
"There are too many of them," Dean said between breaths.
Tim looked much worse for the wear. Blood seeped from the bandages, a few rivulets running freely down his arm. His breath was ragged.
"How many is too many?" I asked, Tim and I sneaking our own peeks.
"Fifteen, maybe twenty. If we can only get to the car. A distraction would be nice. Any motorcycle gangs nearby?"
Our zombie followers started rounding the corner. Their hungry moans increased in urgency as we came into view.
"What are we going to do?" I urged.
Tim drew himself up and point at a poster in the video store's side window. He said, "The needs of the few."
The poster was selling the remastered DVD version of one of the Star Trek movies. Spock was the main image on the display.
"Or the one!" he finished and sprinted out in front of the store.
We both reached to stop him, but he was gone.
Chapter 17
Melissa