by R. K. Weir
Is it worth it?
Shelves pregnant with medicine cloud my sight as I ponder the idea. We'll probably never have an opportunity like this again. My mouth begins watering at the idea of an un-looted treasure chest crammed with painkillers. God only knows how much is in there. It's a good bet that there's enough to keep us going for a very long while. And with that flickering fantasy waving before me, my mind is made up.
I look to Joey, his eyes still running up and down the chains. Uncertainty has settled in his eyes and I wonder if I am going to have to convince him. I decide to test the waters.
"Maybe we can get in through one of the windows." His gaze snaps to mine as I move past him and I know what his opinion is.
"Are you serious?" he asks, for once not bothering to follow after me. I wait until I reach the nearest window before turning back to him.
"What's the matter?" I tease, "afraid?" I don't know if this is the best way to manipulate him, but it's a start.
"Did you see that padlock? I don't want to know what's locked in there!" he exclaims, throwing his hand out towards the door. I ignore him for a moment, looking at the window in front of me. Curtains hide the interior, but even still I notice the thin bars running up and down the glass. I point this out to him.
"What?" he snaps, his attention still on the door.
"There are bars," I repeat, "on the windows." He gives it a glance now.
"So?"
"Well it's a hospital, don't you think it's odd that the windows are barred?"
He turns away with a sigh. "There are bars on all the windows, it was probably just a rough neighborhood." I look around at the street we're on and realize that he's right. All the shop windows have bars in them. I'm surprised I didn't notice this before. "It doesn't matter," he continues. "We can get antibiotics somewhere else."
"Oh come on," I snort, stepping away from the window. "I thought Gale was the coward, not you." He gives me a look before shaking his head.
"We don't know what's in there."
"Exactly," I smile, "there could be gold." A thought dawns on me now and I suddenly realize how I can convince him. I jump in before he has a chance to start protesting again. "No but seriously, think of what we could find."
"A horde?"
I ignore his comment.
"Morphine." His jaw clenches at the word and already I know that I have him. "Vicodin." His lips press together. "Codeine, adderall." He throws his hand up to stop me from listing anymore, a flash of pain crossing his face. With his eyes trained on the ground and his jaw locked, he lets his hand slump back down to his side.
"Are you really gonna use that against me?" he asks, the words broken. "Really?"
His gaze lifts to mine and I can see the pain in them, the agony that I've caused. My brows furrow at the sight, guilt catching me in its snare. I didn't mean to make him feel like this.
"I'm sorry," I say, the words rushed out in a single breath. "I just don't want to go in alone."
His eyes are cold as they stare at me and I can't help but flinch from the pressure of their frigid burn. A silence settles over us for what seems like an eternity, and there’s nothing I want more than for him to look away.
When he does, he spits a curse and steps around me. I turn and watch him go, disappearing round the side of the building. I wonder if he wants me to follow him or not, when he calls out, "There's a window here without bars on it!"
His voice is still gruff, but it isn't angry. I follow it to find him standing in front of a window, dead bushes climbing up his legs. I move to stand beside him, twigs and brambles crunching underfoot.
"If we can find a rock we can smash it open," he says, looking around our feet. I don't question his change in attitude, I'm just grateful that I now have him with me.
"Well, have you tried just opening it?" I ask, wedging my fingers in the gap. I don’t pause to wonder why this window has no bars while all the others do; I just take it as the universe's way of cutting us some slack. The window hesitates before stuttering open, groaning from the exertion put on it. With a final heave I manage to lift it up high enough so that we can climb inside. I duck my head in, my nose scrunching at the stale air. The window opens into a small office, furniture its only inhabitants.
"I'll go first," Joey says, gently pulling me back and stretching his leg over the ledge. I watch him climb in, slightly unsettled by his enthusiasm. I can't tell if he's doing it for me, or for the drugs he now thinks are inside.
I've made a mistake, I think. I shouldn't have goaded him like I did, playing on his addiction. He looks around the room before stepping aside, giving me space to climb in. I hesitate, suddenly uncertain if it's a good idea to have him along after all. But the vision returns, of overflowing rooms and shelves that are stacked so high we'd be able to fill the bus. And the vision wins.
He has begun rifling through the desk when I climb in. His movements are quick, darting between the drawers and I hope that he is like this because he is anxious to leave, and not because he is eager to find something. One look around the room and I know that he won't. It looks more like a study, with books lining the shelves instead of pills. We need to find the storeroom. I step towards the closed door and press myself against the wood, tucking my hair behind my ear.
I listen. The only sound I perceive is the heavy thrum in my chest, like the beat of a bird’s wing mid-flight. Holding still a minute longer, I allow all the fear to pass through me now so that I won't hesitate later. It comes at me in droves, a wave of dizziness followed by my stomach sinking low and falling endlessly. Only now do I realize the situation.
Anything could be waiting behind this door.
But there are no sounds, I tell myself, silencing all apprehension. I must be taking too long because Joey clears his throat.
"Are you going to open it?" A thread of urgency lines his words and I find myself not liking the way he has asked. But I ignore it and twist the handle, prying the door open.
Death's perfume billows in, wafting like waves into the small office. A bone-crushing vice, my hand clamps to my nose, a cough and a heave tightening my rib cage and gripping at my lungs. I feel like I can't breathe, or maybe I just don't want to. Tears sting at my eyes, blurring the body lying at my feet. I jump back, surprised that I didn't notice its outline when I first opened the door.
It lies on its stomach, a tattered jacket all I can see. The kitchen knife is pulled out of my pocket and in my hand before I even register what I'm doing. With it held out in front of me, I stare down at the body, my eyes running along its figure. It doesn't move, but there's no blood, not that I can see anyway.
"I think it's dead," Joey states, peering over my shoulder. I nod, because it must be. They don't lie down unless they're dead. Yet still I feel unsettled. I take the smallest of steps towards it, but only so I can peek round the side of the wall.
The hallway is littered with bodies, just like the one at my feet. And just like the one at my feet, none of them are moving. The hall itself looks strangely sterile, the way a hospital should normally look. The walls white, barely tainted by the dark spots of aged blood. I step out from the office, careful not to nudge the body below me.
Most of them are patients, covered in hospital gowns that open at the back and reveal withered and grey skin. The hall is dark, submerged in gloom by the thick curtains hanging over the windows. I think of opening them, but decide not to. I don't want to go anywhere I don't absolutely have to. So I turn my attention back down the hall, picking a path that I can walk between the bodies.
The severe lack of blood confuses me. But then I remember that these people were carriers. They were never bitten. So how then, did they die? Is it possible for them to succumb to starvation? Is that what happened here? Locked in a building since the beginning with no prey to hunt, left to wither away like abandoned house plants.
I'm wasting time, I think. It doesn't matter how they died, I should just be grateful that they have. Joey doesn't say anything as h
e looks down the hall, stepping out from the office to stand beside me. His hands are erratic, clenching one second only to pop open the next. I watch him for a moment, curious and worried as to what he's thinking. Again the thought strikes me that I've made a mistake bringing him in here. But it's too late now.
Looking back down at the bodies, I choose spots on the floor that aren't covered by a limb, and, like playing hopscotch, I jump to them. It reminds me of a battlefield, each body a landmine waiting to go off. I look back to Joey to see that he is doing the same thing, taking long leaps over sprawled arms and legs. Usually I wouldn't care if I stepped on one. But it doesn't feel right here.
I'm grateful when I reach the end of the hall and there are no more bodies to step over. It would seem that in their last moments they had all flocked to the front door, as desperate to leave as I am now. The building opens out into a waiting room, just as immaculate as the hall. Unified chairs line a wall before the reception desk, not a single one out of place. Even the potted plants, although dead, remain upright.
There isn't a single indicator of the chaos that took place here.
Three more hallways branch off from the reception room, all appearing empty. From where I stand I can see that most of the doors are open, although it's impossible to tell which room is the storeroom. I think for a second that we should split up, before quickly realizing what a bad idea that is; for more reasons than one. I glance over to Joey, stepping over the last of the bodies he looks ready to shoot off.
"Where do you think the storage room is?" I ask. He shrugs.
"Probably at the back of the building." Without another word he walks across the room and begins walking down the center hall. He doesn't even turn to see if I follow. I stare at his retreating back for a moment, wondering what will happen if we do find any drugs. Will he take some for himself? This sparks a new thought. Will I take some for myself?
I've done all the work, it seems only right. But Joey . . . will it lead to another incident like at the school? I don't have to think long before coming to an answer. And with that answer in mind, I jog down the hall to catch up with him, just as he turns into a room. I turn with him but stop in the doorway, floored by what he's found.
Almost an exact replica of the fantasy I had envisioned fields out before me. Industrial shelves heavy with medication are spread out across the room, reaching up to the ceiling. I step towards the nearest shelf, moving past Joey who looks too stunned to even speak. My hand reaches out and grabs for the nearest bottle.
Percocet, it reads. I reach for another one, this time reading: Diazepam. My eyes scour over the different bottles sitting neatly on the shelves, congested together. Some with names I can't even pronounce, some with names I've never even heard of.
I had hoped to find a treasure chest, but instead I found an entire dungeon, brimming with fortune.
I don't waste another second. Opening my rucksack I begin stuffing the pills inside, making sure that I find some penicillin for Logan. In my excitement, I almost don't notice Joey step up beside me. I watch him from the corner of my eye as I continue to fill my bag.
He opens his own and begins to select out a few bottles, carefully dropping them inside. I stop to watch him. His choices aren't random, almost exclusive with a precision for certain brands. He knows what he wants.
"Joey . . ." I say, the word trailing off along with my voice. He pauses to look at me, his fingers freezing around the cap of a bottle on the shelf.
"What?" he asks, his eyes digging into mine. There's no malice in his voice, yet still it makes me hesitate.
"Maybe we should just put everything in my bag?" I suggest. His brows shoot together, his eyes hardening in an instant.
"Why?"
I find myself unable to hold under his gaze and let my eyes fall down to the shelf in front of us.
"I just think . . ." I shrug, "it would be for the best."
He rolls his shoulders back and angles his body more towards me. "And why is that?" he asks, his words now as hard as his glare.
I look back to him and try to make my eyes look pleading.
"Joey . . ." I sigh, the word trailing off like before.
"No!" he snaps, "say it!"
I shake my head and turn away again, losing the words on my tongue. This only works to further anger him as he takes a step towards me, closing the distance between us.
"Say it, Stella." He's close enough now that I can feel the breath of every word, warm on my cheek. "I know you're thinking it, so just say it!"
This is the opposite of what I intended. I didn't want to rile him up, but now I have no choice but to bite back.
"What's in the bag?" I ask, turning to meet his glare with one of my own. I didn't want an argument, but he's left me no choice. I don't know what he has in there, but I have an idea and I know adding to the pile can only lead to something bad.
The question paralyzes him, an emotion flashing in his eyes so fast that I'm unable to catch it despite staring directly into them. He opens his mouth to respond, but no words fall out. This time it's him that turns away.
"I don't think it's safe for you to hold on to these drugs, or any drugs."
"Why?" He turns to look at me now. "You think I'm dangerous too? Like everyone else?"
"I think—"
"I see the way they look at me!" he growls, "like I'm a bomb they're just waiting to go off!" His eyes, usually a light blue are dark now, as if held under the shade of his torment. "It's the same way you're looking at me now."
"No," I shake my head at him, "I don't think you're a bomb. But I do think you need help."
"You think I need help?" he scoffs, pushing himself away and jutting a finger towards his chest. "You're the only reason I'm in here! With your little listing game outside!" His finger is pointed towards me now. "And don't try to act innocent because you and I both know exactly what you were doing!"
Guilt burns my cheeks, and I begin to turn away when he stops me.
"So you want me to admit it? Fine!" he barks, taking one of the bottles out of his bag and throwing it to the ground. "You got me!" He rips out another and hurls it across the room. "I'm a fucking drug addict! Are you happy now?" he shouts.
I'm about to respond when an infected shouts back. Our eyes, caught in each other's hold, widen at the sound. And I realize that the bodies outside weren't dead.
They were sleeping.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Logan
The pain in my leg has returned with a throbbing vengeance. All because of that damn kid, acting like she was raised in a barn. I can't stay mad at her though, not knowing she did it with good intentions. Or at least, what I assume were good intentions. It's more than possible with Stella that she has ulterior motives. She's made that abundantly clear on more than one occasion.
But when she came back from the supermarket, and left as quickly as she had come, she paused outside the house. The look on her face when she saw me makes me believe that she did it because she cares, even if she'd never be willing to confess such a thing.
Although I admit I’m finding it difficult to process the transition from the girl who told me she'd leave me behind in a heartbeat, to the girl now risking her life to help me.
"Pass the spanner?" Rocket asks, holding out a hand so covered in grease it looks like it's been dipped in midnight. Leaning against the side of the bus, I bend down to rummage through the toolbox. Grimacing at the pressure it puts on my leg, I retrieve it and hand it to her before quickly moving back to my original position against the bus.
"Well," Aaron sighs, wiping his hands on the tail of his shirt. "It looks like you've got things covered here. I'm gonna head back inside and make sure everyone else is doing alright." He leaves with a nod.
Rocket pulls her hand back with a curse, glaring down at her nails.
"You alright?" I ask.
"Yeah," she nods, "but I'm beginning to think that this bus is a wasted effort."
I'm not surprised by thi
s. The scowl etched on her lips the duration she's been working has been enough of an indicator. I'd be more surprised if she told me she thought she could fix it.
"Anything I can do to help?"
She shakes her head and wipes her brow with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of grease along her forehead. "You can keep me entertained," she smirks, leaning back under the hood.
"Oh?" I ask, pushing away from the bus so that I can see her again. "And how would I do that?"
"I'm sure you can think of something." With her face so closely pressed to the engine, I almost miss her wink.
"Well," I begin but stop abruptly, the pain in my wrist flaring. As if melted silver is being poured over the wound, it burns in stabs as it sinks into my veins. An uncomfortable heat comes with it and I feel like I'm imprisoned in my own skin.
I stumble slightly as a wave of dizziness rocks me. Rocket doesn't notice, and for that I'm grateful, but my mind has moved on from whatever game we were playing.
"Do you think they'll find antibiotics?" My throat is parched now and I struggle to get the words out, my tongue feeling fat in my mouth. Stella was right, it's a good thing I didn't go with them.
"Well I pointed them towards the hospital." She stops with a loud clank, and I wonder if she has resorted to just hitting the engine in hopes of making it work. "If there's anything left over, then I don't see why not."
If there's anything left over.
A euphemism for: No, you idiot, of course they aren't going to find anything. I shake the thought away, not wanting to dwell on the fact that Stella is out there risking her life for nothing.
"How do you know where the hospital is?" I ask. Another loud clank before she responds.
"Came here for a holiday"—her face scrunches up as she tightens something—"once, with my fiancé."
"You came here?" The houses are flat and boring, just like the land around it. The only redeeming quality are the mountain ranges sticking out in the distance, but even they don't look anything special; more like large sand dunes. It's the type of place you'd expect to find tumbleweed, not tourists.
