Collapse (Book 1): Perfect Storm

by Riley Flynn

  Where the skin was most visible, on the cheeks, the face, and at the wrist, the bones stuck proudly upwards, like the poles holding up a circus tent. In patches, the pharmacist had sprouted sores. Like small cigarette burns in the arm of an old couch, a darkened black dot in the center and spreading out, eating up all the gray skin as it went.

  Post-mortem, they must be. None of the others had these. Perhaps they were inevitable. The bodies collapsing in on themselves, chewed up and eaten by the illness, even after they passed.

  “The pocket,” Joan called. “The pocket.”

  Alex heard a despondency in her voice. He reached across the body. The pharmacist had been locked up, sealed away in the drawer and kept from the rot of the air. Every second he spent outside, he seemed to be collapsing in on himself a little more. Alex noticed how the nose was collapsing, how the hair was growing, how the lips curled back and revealed two rows of milk-white teeth.

  At least his eyes were closed.

  The hand hovered above the body, eyes searching for the pocket of the lab coat. It was by his hip, barely emerged from the hatch. To get closer, Alex pushed up against the body at his feet. His ankles pressed into the plastic bag. It held firm, for a second, then gave way. Something crumpling inside. A new wave of fetid air rose up from below.

  The outline of the box in the pocket. Alex could see it. Ignoring the smell, imploring his nostrils to fail, he moved his hips and swiveled his body sideways, adding an extra inch to his reach. The tips of the fingers found the pocket. The material was dry.

  The lab coat had been white once. Now, along the edges, wherever the cloth touched up against the skin, that white was discolored. Muddy browns, like the coffee colors creeping up over the pale foam of a cappuccino. Alex imagined the coffee. Kept the coffee in mind. It made it easier to deal with.

  As the fingers entered the pocket, they found the cardboard box. Stretching that little bit further, he pressed his entire self into the drawer that held the dead man. The steel marked a red strip across his hip; Alex felt it already. And his toes, against whatever was left in that bag by his feet, found the tiniest amount of extra room.

  Finally, he had it. The box. A whole hold of it. Alex pulled, trying to turn his entire body at the same time, to better extricate himself. To get away. The smell still overpowered. It worked. Taking the box in a firm grip, Alex almost ran from the room.

  Joan stepped aside, nearly had to be pushed. Alex doubled over in the hallway, heaving dry mouthfuls of air, motioning for her to stand back. In one hand, he held up the box.

  Recovering, steadying himself, Alex stood up straight. Joan was watching him, half with pity, half with annoyance. She looked at the box in his hand.

  “What’s that?”

  Between gulps of air, Alex offered her the pills.

  “It’s the Tramadol, the stuff you told me to get. Out of his pocket. Please, stand back.”

  “No, you fool. Wrapped around it. There’s something else there.”

  Alex looked down. Wrapped around the cardboard box were a number of sheets of colored paper. Not the usual health warnings and advice. A printed-out pamphlet. Joan plucked it from his fingers, leaving the box behind. Her eyes widened as she scanned across the page.

  “We need to get back to your friend. Now.”

  26

  They left the drug store. Outside, the air was fresh. The nearly-noon sun teetered over the town. After being inside, in the unlit halls and store rooms, the brightness bit into the eyes. Joan locked the door as they exited, taking the key with her. Alex had retrieved his gun, slung across his shoulder as he carried a box filled up with medicine and supplies. He walked with a slight limp, Joan’s welcoming stamp beginning to make itself felt.

  At first, Alex wanted to stalk back, pausing in the shadows, exactly as he had done earlier. But Joan waved his suggestions away. Anyone who might have spotted them walking along the street was already in a black bag, lining the walls of the store room.

  Instead, they walked together down the sidewalk of the main street. When Alex told her where they were staying, where they had pitched their tent, Joan shook her head. A terrible place, she said, far too exposed in case anyone came looking.

  Their pace quickened.

  As they reached the end of the main street, not too far from the oxbow island and the copse of trees where Timmy was waiting, suffering, Joan began to read the pamphlet. It had been wrapped around the Tramadol tablets like gift paper, sealed with sweaty hands. As she read, she swore.

  “So, what is it?” Alex asked, struggling to balance the crate of medicine and the gun on his back.

  “Hmm? Oh. It’s just a medical pamphlet. The government makes them. Sends them out, usually around flu season. We print them and put them in our offices. People take them. Standard fare.”

  The bored explanation contrasted with her occasional curses.

  “It’s just a flu pamphlet?”

  “Yes. Boring.”

  She swiped the paper quickly from the air and slid it into one of her pockets. Before they left the drug store, Joan had collected together her coat, her bag, and a collection of medical instruments which worried Alex. Needles and other sharp objects. Too sharp for his tastes.

  “Why did he have it with him?”

  “Your friend, how sick did he seem?” Joan asked, glancing sideways at Alex.

  “Very sick. Sicker than I’ve ever seen him. Shivering. Sweating. Can you help him?”

  “I don’t know.” She rubbed her face. “If it’s the Eko again, then he has next to no chance.”

  “But you said you were sick? How did you get better?”

  “I… I don’t know. I was the first person to fall ill in this town. Look what happened to the rest of them. Maybe I had something else?”

  “If you don’t want to help us, just tell me what to do and leave. You don’t need to be here.”

  “Excuse me,” Joan replied, her anger rising. “But you tried to break into my store. You took my medicine. You stole from the pocket of my dead boss. And you’re telling me to leave? I don’t think so. I’ll tell you what to do, thank you very much.”

  They arrived at the tree line, the bend of the river on either side. Alex eased his way down the steep, grassy hill, carrying the heavy box and the gun. As he reached the bottom, he turned. Joan had stayed still, considering the slope.

  “Come on,” Alex shouted up at her. “We need to hurry.”

  Even from the bottom of the basin, Alex could see her face contort. With speed, she began to walk down the hill, moving quicker as she went. By the time Joan was almost upon him, she was nearly running. She stopped.

  “Don’t shout. You don’t know who’s around. I can’t believe I have to tell you that. I can’t believe how careless you are. And don’t tell me we need to hurry, I-”

  “Did you just run down that hill to shout at me?”

  “I am not shouting,” she said through her teeth. “That is the point. You don’t know who’s listening.”

  Alex turned and walked toward Timmy. Even before he reached the two bikes, he could see the mess of red hair, poking up above the saddle. Exactly where he’d left him. Placing the box down right next to his friend, Alex knelt down.

  “Hey, Timmy. How’s it going?”

  Barely awake, Timmy lifted his head, flickered an eye.

  “I’ve brought someone along, someone who’s going to help.”

  Joan was stalking around their crude campsite. Her stare crept along the trees at the top of the hill, then found the empty beer bottles beside the bikes. Finally, she looked at Timmy. All the anger which steamed from her shoulders fell to a soft simmer.

  Pity took over.

  “Oh. Oh my,” she said, approaching the sick man. “This isn’t right. How do you feel? How long have you been like… this?”

  “I woke up and he was-” Alex began.

  “I was talking to… What was your name, sorry?”

  “Timothy… Timmy Ratz,” the pat
ient managed, in danger of smiling. “At your service.”

  “Well, Mr. Ratz, you are not healthy. Can you talk?”

  He nodded. As Alex watched, Joan became a flurry of hands. Digging into the box of medical supplies, tapping against Timmy’s wrists and neck, she began to evaluate every inch of him. With nothing to do, Alex settled for fetching. Obeying commands. He found her a chair–a couple of bags stacked on top of one another next to the patient–so she could rest her legs.

  The crack of a grin across Timmy’s sweating face, spotted over Joan’s shoulders, was infectious. Alex knew his friend found it hilarious to see him demoted to lackey. The bedside manner–more the motorcycle-side manner–of the nurse emanated outwards. It brought with it a modicum of calm to a complicated situation. There was an expert involved.

  And she did seem to be an expert. The questions came thick and fast, even with Timmy struggling to answer. She checked everything. From inside her bag came a stethoscope and a thermometer, two of the tools Alex knew. There were others. When she fitted an IV drip, for instance, she punctured a vein with a short, sharp needle and hung the bag from one of the handlebars.

  As Joan worked, Alex found the needle, picking it up from where she’d thrown it to the ground. It didn’t seem right to just leave it behind. A ticking chemical time bomb. He collected together all the waste and junk as it appeared, everything she threw away, and put it all in a plastic bag to be burned later. That sounded like a scientific solution.

  “Who are you?” Timmy managed.

  “Joan. My name is Joan. Your friend here tried to break into my drug store. He isn’t very good at it.”

  Timmy laughed and it turned into a coughing fit. The IV plugged into his arm, Joan passed him a cocktail of pills.

  “You’re pregnant,” Timmy said, taking the pills in his hand. “How come you’re not worried about catching anything?”

  “Thanks for noticing,” came the reply as Joan leaned over her patient and pointed to her gray-colored eye. “See this? This means I had what you have. This means I survived. Do you know how they cure smallpox? They give you a tiny dose of smallpox. When you fight it off once, your body knows how to do it again in the future.”

  “What about him?” Timmy motioned towards Alex, who was watching from the sidelines.

  “I don’t know about him but he doesn’t seem to care about getting sick. Perhaps he should.”

  “We all should,” said Timmy, throwing the pills down his throat. “He wouldn’t handle this nearly as well as me.”

  Spluttering, coughing, and forcing down a drink of water, Timmy leaned back against the motorbike. Joan stood up and stretched. Massaging her own shoulders, she stepped toward Alex.

  “We should let him rest. Those pills are strong. He’s going to be cruising along on an opiate cloud for a few hours.”

  “Will he live?”

  “Very blunt question, Mr. Early.” Joan fixed him with a stare. “I don’t know. You saw the bodies in the store room. That’s only a fraction of the town. Once the Eko caught hold, I was the only one who survived. Caught it first and was the only one left standing.”

  “Those body bags–those can’t have been the only people in the town. There must have been more of you.”

  “Those were the ones who could get out of their homes. The ones who could somehow make it down to the drug store and get help. I was with them when they died. Once the virus takes hold, it’s days if not hours.”

  “So, there’s no one else left in this town?”

  “Just the three of us.”

  It was the middle of the afternoon. Alex felt his stomach rumble. He hadn’t eaten all day.

  “Hey, do you want something to eat?”

  “Mr. Alex Early, are you asking me to dinner?”

  The sentence hung over the pair like a guillotine, waiting for the chop. Fearing himself the unfortunate French noble, Alex clamored to respond.

  “Oh. No. I was just. We have food. I haven’t eaten. I need to eat. You can, too.”

  Cutting a worried figure, Alex strode across to a suitcase. He removed a MRE packet and offered it to the pregnant nurse.

  “Thank you, but I brought my own food.”

  Alex cleared away a patch, a spot just far enough away from Timmy to give him peace and close enough that they could keep a watchful eye over his progress. Ripping over the foil topping of his readymade meal, Alex sat on the ground. He had moved the bags into position, providing Joan with a place to sit, facing the patient.

  “What on earth is that?” Joan stared at the meal in Alex’s lap.

  “It’s nutrients. Calories. It comes in cake form, some of it. You don’t have to cook it. Not this one.”

  In truth, Alex had grown used to the taste. It no longer made him retch. From her bag, Joan produced a Tupperware container. Inside was a large portion of pasta. There was even a fork. Pricking one spindly piece of fusilli at a time, she began to eat. They watched one another.

  “We’ll need to move him,” said Joan. “This is simply not a good place to be.”

  “Okay. But when? And where do we take him?”

  “You might not like the answer. In a few hours, either that fever breaks or he begins to die. I would bet on the latter, if I were a gambling woman. Which I might be, you don’t know. If–by some miracle–he is able to pull through, then I know a few places in town we can take him. He’ll need time and rest to recover.”

  “How much time? We don’t have long.”

  “Got a date, do you? An important deadline? I can see you haven’t been keeping up with the news, Alex. Chances are, you have all the time in the world. Or what’s left of the world.”

  “We have to get to Virginia.”

  “If you try and move him too soon, chances are he’ll relapse. Or simply die of exhaustion. We don’t know enough about this disease to say either way. I’m not even a doctor.”

  “Then how do you know all this? You seem to know a lot.”

  “I am a nurse, I do have some training. After I began to get better, other people got sick. I was the only one left to treat them. You learn a lot about a disease as it begins to kill all your neighbors and everyone you know.”

  After a moment of silence, Alex spoke up again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you make this virus? Are you the unforeseen act of God? Then no, Mr. Early, you have nothing to apologize for.”

  They ate their food. Timmy slept. The wind whispered through the trees. They waited.

  27

  “Just ask.”

  Food long finished, Alex sat on the ground watching his friend. Timmy slept. Joan had gathered together a number of bags and laid the sleeping bags on top of them, creating a temporary couch. Laying back, she spoke again.

  “Alex, if you have questions, then just ask. God knows we have nothing else to do.”

  There were questions. There were many questions. Too many questions. The entire world had collapsed in the space of a week and now Alex sat with a pregnant stranger, who sat on a bed of blankets and guns, while he watched his friend sweat his way through a deadly infection. The number of questions could not be counted. It might be better to keep it simple.

  “What’s this town called?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “We were a bit occupied on the way in,” Alex admitted, before recounting the story of the attacker with the baseball bat.

  “This is Rockton. You won’t have seen it on many maps. We don’t much exist.”

  “You live here?”

  “I lived here for three years. Worked in that store for most of the time. Boss was an ass. I hated it.”

  “Then why did you come here? Why’d you stick around?”

  “We don’t all get everything we want, Alex. I moved here with my husband. He grew up on a farm about two miles out of town.”

  There was nothing to do. No way to busy himself. Only time to sit and watch Timmy, hoping for the best.

  “Just ask,” Joan
continued. “There’s nothing else to do.”

  “So… Your husband… He’s…”

  “Dead? Maybe. Let him rot.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Again, apologizing when it’s not your place to apologize. Stop being sorry, Alex.”

  “I just-”

  “He was an ass. He’s not in some black bag in the back of the drug store. Don’t worry. He ran off three months ago, taking little Haley Vickery with him. At least he left me something.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean the house, Alex.”

  Taking a deep breath, Alex tried to change the subject. This was a minefield. This woman seemed keen to cut off every corner of conversation. Nothing ended well.

  “Where are you from?” he tried. “You know, originally.”

  “Providence. And then other places. We travelled. What about you?”

  “Virginia. We didn’t travel. Stayed there. Then I went to Detroit.”

  “So why are you heading back to Virginia? I believe that’s what you told me.”

  “I did. Me and Timmy decided that it was the best place to be once…everything started, you know, happening.”

  “People started dying, global political structures began to collapse, the world’s worst pandemic spreads across the United States and you and your friend decided to go on a road trip?”

  “Well, if you put it like that—”

  “No, I’m sure it’s a lovely farm.” The sarcasm dripped and dropped from every single syllable.

  “It’s isolated. It’s secure. It’s somewhere you can live, off the grid. It’s a good idea.”

  “You’re pretty far from Virginia.”

  “Yeah, well. We weren’t planning on sticking around here too long.”

  “You’ll be here quite a while, I can tell you that for nothing.”

  “We need to move as soon as we can, Timmy would agree.”

  “Is it Timmy’s decision to pack up and move across the country? I assure you, he will not be going anywhere very quickly.”