The Scourge (Book 2): Adrift

by Abrahams, Tom

  McQuarry set the rifle on the counter and lifted himself onto and over it. Standing in the customer-service area, he faced out toward the store and picked up the Mossberg. Shrugging his shoulders to adjust the pack on his back he squatted behind the counter. He found the safe to the left of the register. It was open.

  He reached his hand into the metal box and felt around, touching only the felt protector that lined the twin shelves. No luck.

  On the balls of his feet, in a baseball catcher’s crouch, he pivoted to check for any other loot. His eyes having adjusted, he saw the shelves clearly. Nothing.

  McQuarry used a hand to balance himself so he could stand. Pushing to his feet, he looked again across the customer-service counter toward the bank of registers, which ran along the front of the store. Almost all of them were the self-service types of checkout lines. Only one looked to be the old-fashioned sort where a person stood behind the register and ran purchases across the price scanner.

  It angered McQuarry, seeing this. It was this kind of automation that made it more and more difficult to find good, honest work. It was easier and more rewarding, to collect government handouts than it was to find a job with what politicians had called livable wages.

  Unskilled jobs, the kind of service-industry jobs that had so populated central Florida’s workforce for decades, had dried up in the years before the Scourge. Damn robots and computers stole paychecks from living, breathing people.

  If it hadn’t been for automation, his mother wouldn’t have become who she was. His dad wouldn’t have stolen and thieved to make the rent. McQuarry’s life would have been totally different.

  He laughed at himself. What difference did it make now? Nobody had jobs and the damned computers and robots didn’t work.

  In this world, a place where only the fittest adapted and survived, he was well trained. He was skilled. If only he could keep the James boys in line.

  A shout and loud noise shook him from his reverie. He hopped over the counter and bolted toward the center of the store.

  Another shout, a voice he didn’t recognize, demanded something. McQuarry couldn’t make out the words in the echo of the virtually empty store, but he could tell the general direction in which he needed to go.

  Jogging now, he heard the shout again. It was two voices. Three. Three voices. How could it be three voices?

  McQuarry passed aisle seven. Aisle six. Aisle five. Aisle… He backed up. Aisle five. He stopped and lifted his rifle to his shoulder, pressing the butt against his arm. One hand wrapped around the forestock, the other at the trigger. His index finger rested on the trigger guard, twitching.

  Cooper James’s back was to him, his shotgun aimed at Dickie. Dickie’s hands were raised above his shoulders. A stranger had an arm wrapped around Dickie’s chest and the barrel of a handgun pressed to his temple. Dickie’s rifle was on the floor three feet from him.

  “Sorry,” said Dickie. “He ambushed me. I didn’t see him until—”

  The man kneed Dickie in the back, silencing him. “Shut up,” the stranger spat. “How many are you?”

  “Six,” McQuarry answered. “There are six of us.”

  The stranger’s eyes widened and darted from one side of the aisle to the other. He was bald. Either naturally or shaved, McQuarry couldn’t tell in the light. The man was tall. Wiry. Long muscles strained in his arms.

  McQuarry took a tentative step forward. His trigger finger rubbed against the guard. “You have no way out of this.”

  The man’s speech was clipped. Angry. “No way. Not six. Not six of you. Three’s it. This is all you got. I got more than three. You’re trespassing. This place is spoken for. Ain’t nothing here for you.”

  Resisting the temptation to look over his shoulder, he focused on Dickie. His eyes glistened and his chin trembled. McQuarry moved his finger to the trigger and shifted his aim almost imperceptibly.

  Cooper James barked, “What do you want?”

  The man took a step back, his grip tightening around Dickie. He jabbed the gun and Dickie squeezed his eyes shut, pressing tears down his cheeks. “Ha,” the man huffed. “I ain’t gotta tell you nothing. Put down your guns.”

  Neither McQuarry nor Cooper moved at first. Then McQuarry took another step forward, repositioning his aim again, up and to the left.

  “My name’s Trick. This here’s Cooper. You already met Dickie.”

  The bald man’s eyes skittered between Cooper and McQuarry. He took another step back, dragging Dickie with him. He was closer to the end of the aisle, standing next to empty shelves.

  His cheeks were drawn; his shoulders tapered into thin arms. His forearms weren’t much bigger than Winter’s. His sallow skin and the dark bruise-colored circles under his eyes betrayed starvation and a lack of sleep. The man was desperate.

  McQuarry tried again. “What’s your name, friend? Tell us what you want and we could help you.”

  Shaking his head, the man spat. “I don’t got a name. Not for you. Put down your guns. Do it or I swear I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.”

  “Cooper,” said McQuarry, “put down your shotgun.”

  Cooper flinched and half checked over his shoulder. “Are you serious?”

  “Do it. Let’s give the man what he wants.”

  Cursing, Cooper bent at his knees.

  “Careful,” said the stranger. “Do it slow.”

  Cooper cursed again. He reluctantly crouched and carefully put his shotgun at his feet. Standing, he held his hands up at his sides.

  “Now step back here with me,” said McQuarry. “Let’s give the man what he wants.”

  Cooper balled his hands into fists, but he did as McQuarry instructed. Taking long strides, he moved backward several steps until he was at McQuarry’s shoulder. There was nothing between McQuarry and the stranger except for Dickie.

  McQuarry listened. Other than the thump of the blood pulsing through his body and Cooper’s heavy breathing, there were no other sounds. No footsteps. No radio chatter. Nothing. As he’d lied about having twice as many men with him, the stranger had lied too. The man was alone.

  “Drop your rifle,” said the stranger. “Do it. Or I—”

  “You can have the shotgun.”

  McQuarry felt the stranger’s and Cooper’s eyes on him. Neither understood what he was saying.

  “When’s the last time you ate?” asked McQuarry. “Days? Longer? You can take that shotgun and trade it. Get something in your belly. Once you take care of them hunger pangs, you’ll be able to sleep. Imagine, friend, a good meal and good sleep.”

  The man flinched. His eye twitched. “You don’t know nothing,” he said with a hint less confidence. “I got plenty of—”

  “You’re not kidding anybody,” said McQuarry. “Take the shotgun. Consider it a trespassing fine. You go your way; we go ours. It’s all good.”

  Next to him, Cooper glared at McQuarry. He hadn’t figured it out yet.

  McQuarry exhaled slowly. He leaned forward at his hips.

  The stranger’s eyes flitted toward the floor. He licked his lips. “Put down your rifle. Then the one in the holster.”

  “I can’t do that,” said McQuarry.

  “I’m gonna shoot your—”

  “No, you won’t. If you kill Dickie, I’m gonna kill you. Nobody wins. I can’t lower my weapon. It’s insurance for me. You understand, friend?”

  “I ain’t your friend.”

  “You wouldn’t tell me your name. I gotta call you something. Now let Dickie go. Take the shotgun. It’s all good.”

  There was a tremor in the stranger’s voice. “If I let go of him, you’re gonna kill me. Then I lose.”

  McQuarry had the man thinking, had him contemplating the countless different ways this could go down. The stranger didn’t have control anymore. McQuarry did.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “You let go of Dickie. Keep your gun on him. Dickie can pick up the shotgun. He’ll keep it pointed at me as he walks back to you. Then you take
it from him. You’re covered; I’m covered. It’s all good.”

  He hoped the more he said aloud everything was good, the more the stranger would believe it. The man was desperate. Desperate people acted irrationally. They didn’t think through their actions. McQuarry wanted to make the stranger understand the stakes and that he had no options.

  The man swallowed. He adjusted his grip on the gun he had pressed to Dickie’s head. “All right,” he said. “We’ll do this. Back away from the shotgun.”

  Cooper cursed under his breath. McQuarry kept his rifle leveled, his finger on the trigger and took a giant step back. He considered the knife at his hip. Too risky.

  “C’mon, Cooper,” he said. “Let’s give the man room.”

  McQuarry pressed the Mossberg’s butt tighter against his shoulder.

  Cooper took two steps back and stood behind McQuarry and to his left. There were ten feet between them and the shotgun, another twenty-five feet to the stranger, who withdrew the handgun from Dickie’s head.

  He shoved Dickie. “Get it. Slow. Stay between me and your people. Once you pick it up, you back up slow.”

  Dickie stumbled forward and kept his hands up. Fear painted his face. Clearly he didn’t follow what was about to happen. Neither did Cooper, who grumbled incessantly, calling McQuarry a litany of names. McQuarry clenched his jaw, ignored him and kept his focus on the stranger.

  “Slower,” the stranger said to Dickie. “Slower.”

  McQuarry’s view of the target was blocked. Dickie stood directly in his line of sight. This gave McQuarry the opportunity to tilt his head to the right and put his eye to the scope. He aimed for Dickie’s chin.

  Dickie reached the shotgun and stood still. His eyes found McQuarry. McQuarry gave the faintest hint of a nod.

  “Okay,” said the stranger. “Now I want you to—”

  Dickie dropped into a crouch. The stranger filled the scope. McQuarry pressed the trigger.

  The rifle kicked against McQuarry’s shoulder. The recoil hit him at the same moment the bullet drilled a hole in the stranger’s right cheek next to his nose.

  His body jerked. His head lifted back and to the left. His finger pulled the trigger of the handgun, firing an errant shot into the shelves to his right.

  Before he dropped, McQuarry adjusted his aim and fired a second shot at the man’s chest. Then McQuarry moved forward, his boot steps deliberate as he fired a third .308 into the man’s throat.

  The stranger’s body spasmed once before it dropped in a heap. Bright red blood poured from his wounds, pooling around him on the floor.

  McQuarry’s ears ringing, he moved toward the dead man. A high-pitched tone made it difficult for him to hear what Dickie was saying to him even though he saw his mouth moving when he passed him.

  Standing over the stranger, he kicked the body with the toe of his boot. The limp mess moved against the kick. McQuarry stepped back to avoid the expanding pool of blood.

  Then he turned and marched back to Cooper. Without paying any attention to Dickie, who stood with the shotgun in his hands, he purposely approached Cooper. When he got within striking distance, he held the rifle with both hands flat against his chest and then pushed with his left hand. The butt of the rifle shot forward and connected with Cooper’s cheek.

  The speed and surprise of the hit knocked him to the side and against the shelves. He slammed into them and crumpled to the floor.

  McQuarry stood over Cooper while the younger man whimpered in stunned semiconsciousness. He put his foot on Cooper’s leg and pushed his weight onto it. Cooper writhed and shrieked.

  “You ever talk to me that way again, I will gut you,” McQuarry growled. “Do you understand?”

  Cooper James reached for his jaw with a shaky hand. He didn’t respond to the question.

  McQuarry leaned into his boot. Cooper cried out and grabbed at his leg.

  “Do you understand? I will kill you and skin your brothers alive. I’ll make both your women watch and I’ll hand them hacksaws to cut you into pieces. Then I’ll grill you up nice and tender before I force-feed them the best parts.”

  He reached out his hand and Cooper flinched. McQuarry lifted Cooper’s chin so he could look him in the eyes. “Do. You. Understand?”

  Cooper’s eyes streamed tears. The right side of his face was swollen and red, his right eye on the verge of closing. He managed a weak croak of a response. “I understand.”

  “Good,” said McQuarry. “Now let’s get out of here.”

  He stood and reached down with his free hand to offer Cooper help. The injured man eyed the offer warily before he took it.

  On the road ten minutes later, McQuarry wondered if he’d overreacted. Actually, he admitted to himself he had overreacted. But he couldn’t abide Cooper James challenging his authority. Not when their lives hung in the balance. Not when Cooper James was a threat. He had to teach the punk a lesson. The kid needed to understand who was in control.

  Yet as the three of them trudged north along Highway 1, he wondered if his rash decision to physically assault Cooper would come back to haunt him. He hoped not. He’d have to do a better job of controlling his temper. Violence was best employed when calm.

  Dickie hurried next to McQuarry, interrupting his introspection. “Thanks for what you did.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Cooper was several feet behind them, sulking.

  Dickie lowered his voice. “You think you were too tough on him?”

  “No.”

  “I’m the one who got us into that mess, not him.”

  McQuarry tightened his grip on his rifle and shrugged his pack higher onto his back.

  Dickie whispered, “Did I hear you say you were going to feed him to his women?”

  McQuarry couldn’t help but smile. It just happened. Recalling what he’d said almost made him laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

  Dickie flashed a smile; then his expression turned serious. “He and his brothers are bigger and stronger than you, me and Neil. I’m not telling you what to say or do, but—”

  McQuarry shot Dickie a look. “Then don’t.”

  Dickie pressed his lips together.

  “And if you lose that rifle again,” said McQuarry, “I’ll be feeding you to the Rusk women. Understood?”

  McQuarry glared at Dickie.

  Dickie returned the stare, seemingly unsure if McQuarry was serious. Apparently concluding he was, he swallowed hard. “Won’t happen again.”

  “Good,” said McQuarry.

  “Hey. You talking about me?” Cooper called to them, his words rounded from the swelling on his face, which extended toward his jaw.

  McQuarry slowed and waited for him to catch up. Dickie stepped to the side, letting Cooper move between them.

  “Yep,” said McQuarry. “Dickie here was telling me I was too hard on you. That I shouldn’t have beat you up and I shouldn’t have threatened to cook you up and serve you hot and steaming to your women.”

  The men kept walking. Cooper had a hitch in his step that wasn’t there before the Publix stop. He was favoring the leg on which McQuarry had put his boot.

  “Why did you?” asked Cooper.

  McQuarry sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the warm air. He blew it out through his nostrils, measuring his response. How he responded was important.

  He shrugged. “You had it coming.”

  “What? All I did was—”

  McQuarry said, “You insulted me. You questioned the purity of my dearly departed mother. You were rude and you put us in danger.”

  “Danger? How?”

  “I was negotiating a peace. You couldn’t keep your filthy mouth shut, Cooper. Unacceptable.”

  Cooper rubbed his jaw, seeming to consider this.

  “I could have turned the other cheek, so to say,” McQuarry elaborated. “You know, sticks and stones and all. But what would that teach you? That it was okay for you to put my life in danger? That you have the right to say what
ever you want without consequence? Nope, I can’t have that. You needed a lesson. I hope you got it.”

  Cooper’s expression tightened, making his injured eye appear closed from the swelling. He studied the road underneath his feet and kicked at the chipped center line. White paint flecked onto the toe of his boot.

  “All right then,” said McQuarry. “I’ll take it we have a mutual understanding. This is my world and you’re living in it. You don’t like it? Leave. Otherwise, you, your brothers and your women will do as I say. I’ll listen to suggestions; I’ll give you your due. But I ain’t putting up with your guff.”

  McQuarry again resumed his march north. To his left, on the other side of the bifurcated highway, was a barbershop. He ran his hand along his neck and felt the tendrils of scruff, which had grown from stubble to a fine tangle. He needed a haircut and couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one.

  That was the thing about an apocalypse. It made the mundane and routine disappear from one’s life. McQuarry thought about the things he no longer did or worried about on a regular basis. Haircuts, taking out the trash, picking up fast food in a drive-through, mowing the grass and paying the light bill all took second fiddle to finding food, ammo and water. He had shelter for now. But for how long?

  Up ahead, he saw the intersection with 520. The bridge was to the east. To his left were residential streets that wove into neighborhoods not dissimilar from the one in which he now lived. He scanned the environment around them. No people, no movement. It was surreal, yet it was normal.

  He gripped his Mossberg with both hands. The pack swung against his back. Cooper was on his left. Dickie kept up on the right. The three of them were a motley trio of survivors. None of them had good intentions as they stalked the intersection up ahead. McQuarry chuckled to himself at the absurdity of it all.

  The apocalypse was the opposite of prison. In prison everything was orderly. There was structure, three meals a day, clean clothes and a job to occupy his time. He didn’t have to think about anything. Everything was done for him.