Needless to say, that was a painful experience. By the time I was done, Tigger had fled from the sound of my gasps and cries. Personally, I was just amazed that I managed to stay conscious. It was a close call at times, when the pain got so bad that that I started to see stars and got light-headed, but somehow I made it.
Hell, if that’s how much it hurt to clean the wound and wrap it in proper gauze and a bandage, I didn’t know how all those fictional soldiers were supposed to have been able to do their own stitches.
I probably did need stitches, come to think of it, but I’d pass out for sure if I tried to do it myself. I didn’t have time for that. The wound bled sluggishly, but the tension of the muscles in my foot staunched the worst of it.
"God, this hurts like a giant flying inflatable bejebus," I groaned and closed my eyes for a second. "Drugs. I need drugs. I think I have some in here somewhere."
I dug into my pack, and down in the bottom I found a box of painkillers so old that the brand name had faded away over time. As I popped back a couple and washed the bitter tablets down with water, I hoped that they’d still have the desired effect. They were just the cheap non-prescription kind, that I had found in a ransacked store years ago, back when the brand was still visible.
"I really hope this stuff doesn’t go off – or go toxic," I muttered to myself. "Well, I guess I’m about to find out."
I didn’t have any time to waste on thinking about it, so I put the thought aside and focused on what I needed to do.
My boot was gone. I had left it back at the farmstead, and there was no time to go back and fetch it. Luckily, a few days earlier I’d found a pair of athletic shoes in my size. With my injury, they would probably do a better job, anyway; they were old and worn by time, but the soles were soft and thick and they’d help me keep moving for a while.
I stripped off my other boot and tossed it aside, since it was useless without its mate. The only thing worse than wet boots was mismatched boots. I was having enough trouble walking without my balance being off due to uneven weight distribution from ill-matched shoes.
Scooting along the bed on my behind with my bad foot awkwardly elevated, I stuck my nose over the edge to search for my new shoes and a clean pair of socks; the old set were kind of a mess now. I found both fairly swiftly, by throwing aside mounds of miscellaneous scavengings until I got my hands on them.
The wound hurt terribly as I carefully pulled on the new footwear, a hot, rhythmic throb in time with my pulse, but once there was pressure on it I was surprised to find that the pain diminished a bit.
Maybe I’ve done the bandages up too tight, I pondered with a brief flash of morbid amusement. Ah, well. Not complaining unless my toes drop off.
Mission accomplished, I flopped backwards onto my bed and allowed myself a couple of minutes to rest and recover. I closed my eyes and drew long, deep breaths, trying to visualise the pain flowing away. Whether it was the meditation or the medication, the pain did seem to lessen a little.
In all honesty, it was probably just the fact that I wasn’t trying to hobble around that eased the pain.
What’s the incubation period for tetanus, anyway?
I tried to think back to high school health class, but I couldn’t remember. I did remember that time when Katie cut herself at camp, though. They rushed her off for a series of injections straight away.
How much time do I have?
That thought stirred me out of a doze. It was getting dark. Could I stand to wait until morning? Normally, I refused to go anywhere after sunset – it just wasn’t safe. Unfortunately, right now my choices were kind of limited.
"Just go now. Get it over with," I told myself, and eased my aching body back up into a sitting position. There was plenty of food in the car, and if I locked this place up nice and tight it would be fine without me. I estimated that Hamilton was about an hour away by car, less if I drove like a maniac, so in theory I could be back before dawn. I would sleep when I got home.
Filled with sudden determination, I grabbed my backpack and began sorting out the items I would take with me. The first aid kit, of course, in case I needed to change my bandages. My GPS, since I’d never been to Hamilton before. A couple of emergency pairs of socks and underwear – you know, just in case. My sewing kit, for the same reason. My taser.
And last but not least, the box containing the one thing I hated looking at most in the world, and the one I couldn’t discard. The thing that brought back so many terrible memories.
The last gift from my grandmother.
The very thing that had taken her life, at my hand.
I opened the box and looked at it, checking that the 9mm Smith & Wesson handgun was still in its place. It was, nestled alongside a couple of boxes of spare bullets that I had collected over the years.
With a shaking hand, I removed the gun from its place, and checked over all the moving parts, making sure nothing was rusted or stuck. It seemed to be fine. Trying hard not to think about how it felt when I put the barrel against my beloved grandmother’s head and pulled the trigger, I slipped it back into its box and closed the lid.
I’d only fired it a few times since then. Each time, it’d been at another survivor rather than at the walking dead. Well, no. That was a lie. I did try to shoot one of the infected once, but all that did was cripple the poor thing.
They no longer felt pain, and the only part of the brain left that was vulnerable was their brain stem, which was a small target and difficult to reach. The taser worked better on infected, and since it was rechargeable it just made more sense. The gun was a weapon of last resort.
I added the box that contained the gun and its ammunition to the small pile of items I would take with me. The food in the car was more than I’d need; enough to feed me for a couple of weeks at least. Still, I was in no condition to remove it so it would have to come with me. Even if I didn’t eat it all, I could potentially use it to trade.
I paused for a moment and thought. I should take money as well. To most survivors, cash was about as useless as monopoly money – our currency was essentials, like food, water and personal effects. Still, there were a few people out there that clung to the old ways. To most, the bags of fruit I carried were far more valuable than money, but knowing my luck I’d find the medicine I needed in the hands of the one person left who still wanted hard currency.
Most of the time, I didn’t bother to carry cash since it was basically just dead weight, but I did carry a few hundred dollar bills in case of emergencies. I fetched them out and stared at them, not entirely convinced that they would be enough for what I needed. Life-saving supplies did not come cheap.
I closed my eyes, and thought back over the layout of the town. Suddenly, I realised that in my exploration of this very building, I hadn’t seen a safe. There must have been one. Someone paranoid enough to put four locked doors between himself and the outside world would not have left his cash sitting around in an unsecured lock box.
"If I were a paranoid old man, where would I put the safe?" I asked myself. My head was spinning and it was getting hard to think, but verbalising my ideas seemed to help. "The office would be the logical place, wouldn’t it?"
The reasoning made sense to me, so I decided that I would check on my way out. I wasn’t sure I would be able to make it back up the stairs again, so it was better to plan my movements carefully. I repacked my bag, dumping out everything non-essential, and then triple-checked that each of my tools was in its proper place.
In my head, I went through a mental checklist like I’d done a thousand times before. I removed each item in order and examined it, then returned it to its pocket. It was a ritual more than anything, and helped me ensure I always had everything I needed and never wasted weight on anything I didn’t.
Something small and soft poked my hand midway through my checks. I blinked and reached further into the pocket, then pulled out that little family of toy bunnies I had found the week before. One by one I set them on my palm
and stared at them. In my head, they weren’t just bunnies; they were a representation of the family I’d lost so long ago.
The smallest one, in her tiny pink dress – oh how she reminded me of my baby sister. The bunnies had been there ten years ago, when we first passed through this little town. Sitting together in their little dollhouse, waiting for the right person to come along and buy them. Mum had left me in charge of Skylar while she stopped into the local grocery store for some more supplies, and Skye dragged me over to stare at the precious things on display in the antique store’s front window.
How clear her young voice was in my memory, full of wonder and delight. She begged me to buy her those bunnies, along with just about everything else in that store. When I told her I couldn’t, she cried and cried as though her little heart would break – right up until Mum found us and gave her an ice cream treat instead.
I’d been here before. So, why couldn’t I remember the face of the cashier behind the counter? That bothered me; the cashier was a human being, just like me, just like everyone else. Did she die in that horrible hall along with all the others? Or did she wander the earth restlessly, waiting for the end to come?
I closed my hand around the tiny, velvet-soft forms, and set them on the old wooden dresser as I rose. My tiny family, always perfect, always happy and never lost and all alone. I would leave them here, where they were safe. I took one last long look before I walked away, and shuffled awkwardly into the kitchen.
There, I added a couple of water bottles to my pack and slung it over my shoulders. That would have to do. I couldn’t carry much more in my current condition, and it would be a stupid idea to try.
It took me a while to get back down the stairs again, mostly because I ended up having to scoot down on my butt. Ah, how that brought back memories of playing silly games with my little sister, though our games were never in life-or-death situations.
Thinking of little Skylar made me so sad. Again, I wondered what had happened to her. She’d been such a sweet little girl, so innocent, all fairies and princesses and unicorns at the tender age of eight. I hoped her death had been quick and painless. She didn’t deserve to suffer. I couldn’t bear to think of her suffering.
I sighed, and resigned myself to never knowing for sure.
At the bottom of the stairs I hauled myself back to my feet with the aid of the door frame, and looked around the little office. I saw no sign of a safe or anything that resembled one. The room was so small that I should have seen it straight away, unless it was hidden somewhere.
…Hidden somewhere?
With a sudden flash of cognition, I remembered the painting on the wall, the one that I instinctively felt was out of place in the room. I hobbled over to examine it more closely. Sure enough, behind the painting was a recess in the wall. Within it was a small safe.
To my relief, there was no combination or numerical pad, just a keyhole. That made life easy, since Benny’s keys were in my pocket. I tried them, one after another, until one of them clicked. The safe swung open.
"Easiest burglary ever," I mumbled as I peered inside. Hey, at least my sarcasm-bone was still intact.
There wasn’t a lot of cash in the safe, but there was some. The plastic notes were sticky but showed no sign of fading or decay. The Reserve Bank made things to last, too. I took the small stack of bills, probably about $500.00 in tens and twenties, and stowed it in my pack. Some was better than none.
It struck me as kind of funny how my dad used to gripe at us kids about how money didn’t grow on trees. It sure did now. Everywhere you turned was free cash, and it was all worth a grand total of nothing. You couldn’t even burn the stuff for warmth, since it was all made of plastic.
There was a box of coins in the safe as well, probably the float Benny used for his cash register, but the weight outweighed the value. You could find coins everywhere and they were only really useful if you had a vending machine and you were too lazy to pop the lock with a crowbar.
"Well, that’s it," I told myself. "No more excuses, time to go."
Man, I was not looking forward to this little adventure, but I had no choice. Go and maybe die horribly, or stay and definitely die horribly? I had to go, for Mum’s sake, for Dad and little Skylar. They wouldn’t want me dying of any kind of infection, not after I had been lucky enough to survive Ebola-X. I was the only one left to carry on their memory and keep their bloodline alive. I was the only one left to remember how much they had been loved.
I shouldered my pack and hauled myself up straight, doing my best to ignore the renewed pain in my foot. I locked the door to the stairs, and then backed out of the office and locked that door as well.
Where’s Tigger? I wondered, peering about. The last time I saw her was at dinner, so I hoped that I hadn’t locked her inside. Then I spotted her, curled up fast asleep on the still-warm bonnet of my Hilux.
Cheeky little bugger.
I Indulged myself in a weak smile as I locked the front door to the store, then hobbled over to shoo the kitten off. She ignored me. Losing patience, I went to pick her up and shift her myself, but she hissed and swatted at my hand.
"Have it your way, kid." I snatched back my hand before she could draw blood. "But you’re not going to like what happens next."
I checked the cab again, then opened the door, threw my backpack into the rear and hauled myself in. The keys slipped into the ignition and the engine roared to life.
Hey, look at that. I’m a prophet.
The kitten inflated like a hedgehog and practically levitated off the bonnet in a mad dash for the safety of the overgrowth. I immediately felt guilty for giving her a scare, but reassured myself that I didn’t really have a choice. I needed to go now and she was being stubborn.
I was also glad she was nowhere nearby when I awkwardly pulled the truck away from the curb and hit the road. It would have just about killed me if I ran the poor little fuzzy over.
I was such a sucker for cats.
Chapter Eleven
The trip to Hamilton was unpleasantly long, but uneventful.
I’d never been much of a fan of travelling, but at least when I was driving I didn’t get car-sick. Still, given a choice I would probably have just settled down in one place and stayed there forever, or at least until the supplies ran out.
I planned to do that in Ohaupo, but now I didn’t know what I was going to do. It was my hope that I would be able to return, but my gut was all twisted up with a sense of foreboding. I chided myself with the fact that I was probably just worrying over nothing, like I usually did. I’d always been that person who was over-prepared for every situation, the one who churned themselves into a tight little knot of anxiety thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong, even the ones that were completely unlikely. Hopefully, this would be just another time when I got myself all worked up over nothing.
The road cut a swath across the broad, flat green land, dotted with cows and sheep that grazed on, oblivious to the loss of their farmers. Most domesticated animals flourished in the wake of the outbreak, their numbers unchecked. New Zealand had no predators to speak of, or at least nothing that could have taken down a full grown cow.
I had heard on the news that a few lions were spotted near Wellington Zoo a few years back, but I doubted they would get this far north. And if they had, I imagined those cows out there would have been looking a hell of a lot more worried.
Right now, they seemed to be more bothered by the growl of my engine as I tore past their busted fences and wild paddocks than any risk of predation. Bovine heads came up as I passed, watching me with suspicion in their long-lashed eyes. To them, I was a noisy, alien menace that disrupted their contented, cud-chewing world, and they were glad to see me gone.
As the sun slipped below the horizon and plunged the world into darkness, I flipped on my headlights. This far from any kind of significant township, there was really no light aside from the stars. Once, there had been street lamps lighting the way at r
egular intervals, but at some point in the past the wind had claimed their lives; they lay scattered along the roadsides like fallen supermodels after someone greased the runway.
I made a mental note. There would be a lot of good metal and wire that could be gathered from them, with the right tools and enough determination. Maybe even light bulbs. Light bulbs were more precious than gold. Living in the world after the fall of humanity meant being creative with the resources at hand.
I found myself absently wondering how strong the wind must have been to rip those street lamps out. There were still some standing in Ohaupo, so it seemed like a localised kind of destruction; perhaps a tornado had ripped through here. With no one around to fix things, once stuff fell over it just stayed where it landed.
It also occurred to me that with darkness falling, I should probably slow down. Goodness knows what would happen if one of those street lamps had fallen across the road and I hit it at high speed – or if a cow decided to sleep on the road. It had probably been years since they last saw a car; they would have no idea they were supposed to stay off the road. That could potentially get very messy, very fast.
I decided to err on the side of caution again, and eased the Hilux down to a more sedate pace. I flicked the headlights on to high beam and leaned forward over the wheel, focusing intently on the road ahead. The asphalt was in terrible condition, with long cracks running in all directions; grass grew through the cracks, making it hard to tell where the tar seal ended and the verge began. Debris of all kinds littered the way, and often I was forced to slow or swerve to avoid something that might damage the car.
A green-and-white sign flashed by: Cambridge exit, two kilometres. Right lane only.
There were lanes? I saw nothing. The years had stripped away the road-markings, leaving it a simple ribbon of dark grey. What were the old rules again? Keep left? Keep right? It didn’t even matter anymore. The chance of meeting someone else on this dark, deserted highway in the back end of nowhere was one in a million. Maybe more.
The Survivors (Book 1): Summer Page 9
