The World's End Series Book One: Dymond's World
Page 20
"I'm sure it is," said Jason, studying. He found "Homewood" on the blown up insert showing Pittsburgh. From there it was easy to plot a course to Harrisburg and I-81 heading south. He knew that, by next summer, he needed to be in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. That's where he'd arrange to surprise her highness. He started to fantasize about what he would do to her, but pushed that away. It wasn't time yet.
The countryside gave way to suburbs that seemed to be relatively nice - newer houses, well maintained.
But that quickly changed as apartments and strip malls, banks and fast food places started to appear and then to dominate the area. They seemed to all be closed. One shopping center had a state liquor store with a shattered window. The dollar store beside it appeared to be intact.
Ahead was a barrier with a sign that said, "Road Closed." There was no indication of a detour or of why the road was closed. They pulled into the parking lot of the strip center and stopped.
She turned to him, "I guess I forgot my manners. It can happen living without a lot of other people around. I'm Mrs. John Wright, Edna." She put out her hand to shake. It was white with blue veins. Jason shook it.
"Ma'am, I'm Jason Mc . . . McDonald. Glad to meet you."
She smiled, "Jason, I have a favor to ask. I was going to go through the drive in, but with the road closed, I can't get to it. The pharmacy is right over there," she pointed, "In the next block. Would you mind taking the prescription and getting it filled for me? I hadn't planned on walking and my left leg just isn't up to it. I've got rheumatism - hurts awful bad to walk far."
Fleetingly, he once again considered taking the truck but it wouldn't even make it half way on the turnpike with the gas it had. "Sure, Edna. I'll do that for you." He planned on walking in the direction of the pharmacy and then going on his way.
"Now, please be careful, Mr. McDonald. Those girls will try to give you generic but I only want the real thing - it's Zestril. It costs more, but the generic stuff must be made in China - the last time they gave my husband that stuff it almost killed him."
She reached in her purse and brought out five twenties and the prescription script. "It should be about $95. You keep the rest, Mr. McDonald."
She really was too much; trusting him to go out of his way for her. She'd learn a valuable lesson today.
He opened the door and put the money and script in his pants pocket. Right now he was plenty warm, but soon he'd need to find a coat. He told her he'd be back and walked off.
***
As Jason turned the corner, he saw the pharmacy. There was a woman dressed in white seated behind a table outside the door. A group of three people were gathered in front of the table.
As he approached, he could hear the woman talking. She was speaking to the people in line in Spanish. Jason knew enough to tell that she was instructing them on how to take their medicines. She handed each person a bag. Each of them responded with "Gracias" as they left.
Jason stepped up to the table. The woman looked him over, deciding English was needed. "What can I do for you?" She asked. Her voice had a slight disapproving tone.
Jason studied her the way he normally did women - first the lips, then the rest of the face; the placement of the eyes, the color of the hair and the eyebrows. This one was a little chubby in the cheeks, but she otherwise passed this test. Next, he would normally appraise the rack, but there was no need. She was probably fifteen pounds overweight and a good part of that was in the boob department. She had dark hair with a streak of red in it that fell over her shoulders. Her full lips were a dark shade of red.
He was always careful not to stare; some women resented that, but some of them liked it. This one looked like the resenting type.
"I . . . I'm surprised you are, you know, working."
She looked at him like she suspected he had been appraising her. Her tone was abrupt. "People still need their meds, power or no power."
He handed her the prescription almost without thinking. She studied it and then studied him. "You're picking this up for Mr. Wright?"
Jason almost forgot about the old woman and her sick husband. "Yeah, his wife is in the truck over in the shopping center, but she can't walk easily, so she asked me to . . ."
She cut him off. "Fine. Do your good deed for the day while it’s early."
Before he knew what to make of that remark, she said, "I'll get you a bottle of Lisinopril."
"Uh . . . Mrs. Wright . . . she was insistent that it not be generic. She wants real Zestril."
The woman looked at Jason like she was trying to decide something. She seemed to frown slightly, "Okay, then. Zestril it is."
She rose and disappeared inside and returned a couple of minutes later with a large bottle. Jason noticed she was tall and had wide hips.
"That'll be $145. And how will you paying for that?"
Her tone was challenging. Jason realized her lips were moist even in the cool air. He wondered what her hair smelled like.
He opened his wallet and started to extract his American Express Centurion Card, but changed his mind. It had his real name on it. This woman had probably never heard of Jason McCrae, but there was no need to take a chance. Instead, he reached in his wallet and pulled out three fifties. He still had a bunch of big bills that were likely now useless.
He laid the money on the table while the woman stared first at it, then at him. “I don’t have change,” she said.
Jason smiled at her. “Ah . . . that’s okay, you can keep it.”
She frowned and picked up a pen. “Sign here saying you are authorized to pick up this prescription. Normally, I’d want to talk to Mrs. Wright, but I guess you are okay.” She studied his signature as he signed, adding, “Mr. McDonald.”
Jason smiled at her. Few people appeared to be out doing anything, but here she was, on the job. "How about we give Mr. Wright double his normal prescription? His wife might not be able to get back to town for a while. You don't mind, do you," he read the name tag on her tunic, "Ms. Hernandez?" Jason took the three fifties back and replaced them with three hundreds.
She shook out pills onto a pill sorting tray, dispensing them twenty at a time into a smaller bottle marked with the name of the pharmacy. "I suppose you can afford them, Mr. McDonald. I don't think there will be a lot of demand for this, so sure, I'll give her a four month supply."
She finished filling the bottle and put it in a white bag and stapled it shut. “Where can we reach you to return your change?"
Jason grinned. She really was a pip. "I just got into town. Don't really have a place to stay - don't even have a coat. Any suggestions . . . Ms. Hernandez?"
She handed him the bag. "My name is Lucia. You can walk down to the church. It's three blocks that way. They've got food and clothes for those in need."
She pointed down the street. Jason imagined her fingers encircling him, stroking slowly. "I thank you, Ma'am. Can I help with anything?"
For the first time, Jason saw the beginnings of a smile on her face, but it was almost immediately replaced with a sad expression. Jason realized she was actually pretty in a peasant kind of way. "No, Mr. McDonald, I'm just going to be here another hour or so. I'll come back tomorrow if the power is still out."
Jason nodded and walked away thinking about her. He was impressed with her - with her strength and her sense of duty. Here she was still doing her job even though there was no reason. He suspected his admiration was because he'd actually spoken to her - gotten to know her at least a little bit. Normally, clerks and people who waited on him were practically invisible - they may as well have been robots. But talking to this woman made him realize that she was a fellow human being. He was almost surprised.
He looked at the bag containing the Zestril and started to throw it away before heading to the church. Instead, he experienced another surprise. "What the hell," he thought. He changed course and walked back towards the truck where Mrs. Wright was waiting.
Along the way, he opened the bag and inserted t
he five twenties.
The Toll of Sickness
A week later, Jason pictured the Death Clock in his mind. Instead of sluggishly counting upwards, now it spun at a high rate of speed. People were dying all over the country. He knew that because it was part of the plan.
Just today, three people had died inside their makeshift hospital. Regina would have been proud - it was almost exactly as she predicted. The strain of flu was particularly deadly, hitting quick and hard. The old and the young went first, with a number of seemingly strong adults dying as well. Jason guessed they were just unlucky, because most younger, stronger people should be able to survive even this super flu.
Jason, however, felt very lucky. Almost as soon as he'd arrived at the church, he'd become a valuable member of the inner circle that ran the place. First, they'd fed him and given him a coat. He told them that he'd been on the turnpike traveling from Philly when his car failed. A few kind strangers had given him rides and now, here he was. He also told them that there was a flu epidemic in Philly and that it would likely head here. "I had it and it was nasty, but I'm okay now."
He was a bit surprised by their reaction. The minister in charge told him they were praying it wouldn't happen. "We took the vaccine. It should keep us well, don't you think?"
Four or five others walked up and now were listening. This was his chance to prove himself. "It didn't seem to help in Philly. I heard that the vaccine was for a different strain and it wasn't very effective. A lot of people were very sick - some were dying."
He let that sink in and then continued, "They said people should get and use face masks and wash their hands often; that the infection is normally breathed in or transferred by touch."
They were all paying attention to him now. He went for it.
"Can I make a suggestion? I think you should go down to that pharmacy back that way, behind the shopping center. There is a woman there, dispensing drugs out front of the store, but once it hits, the place will be overrun, probably looted. I might suggest that someone go talk to the woman in charge there and see if she will allow the transfer of their drug supply here. You're already distributing food and clothes, and you've got enough people around to keep everything safe from looters; you could handle the drugs too. Regardless, you should get respirators for those caring for the sick. And you'll need a place for the sick people to keep them away from the well - a room separate from the main building."
They were silent, considering the unwelcome news he'd brought them. "That is . . . that is if you want to care for the sick here. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed anything. A lot of people are heading away from the cities, out to their cabins or just camping up in the hills, waiting for the power to come back on."
Clarence Jones spoke up, "When do you think the power is coming back on? And, you sound like you know what you are doing with the medical stuff, are you a doctor?"
Jason frowned and shook his head. "No sir, I think I wish I was, but I . . . I sell batteries. I'm a battery salesman. At least I was. And as to the power coming back - my personal opinion is that it not going to be back for a long, long time. Not until spring for sure and maybe not ever. Sir, I think there's going to be a lot of dying and I think it's starting now."
After that, what could they do? Minister Foster introduced him to Clarence Jones, to Fallon, and Dy, and Patti and to about a dozen others. They put him in charge of their preparations for the coming sickness. He was once again on the inside of a group of people. It was a bit like it had been with Regina and her group, but the difference here was stark - this time he was playing these people. Last time Regina had played him.
The thought of her caused the anger that lived inside him to nip at some internal organ and it hurt. He could almost hear it speak to him. It said, "The pain will continue until you find her and pay her back for what she did." He nodded to himself. That was the plan.
***
Today was much colder. Jason was glad to have his coat as he examined Lucia's face. He gave the straps of her respirator a tug and looked to see that it was tightly against her skin. "You look fine," he said. "Are you sure you want to do this? It's kind of grim in there."
"It's my turn, Jason. Fallon and Patti and Dymond all pulled a shift. We don't have that many well people. You can't be in there helping them twenty four hours a day. You go on and rest. I'll take over. Fallon will relieve me in a few hours. I'll find someone if I need anything."
He nodded and gave her a wistful smile. He didn't bother with a respirator. He told them it was because he'd had the flu already and couldn't get it again, but in truth, he'd been vaccinated with real vaccine. "I'll go in with you for a minute. I want to check on Mr. Farmer."
They had converted a classroom that was in an adjoining wing of the church into their "hospital." Actually, the conversion was done by simply removing all the desks and laying mattresses on the floor that were donated by people in the area. Inside, the smell of bleach was heavy in the air.
Right now, there were twelve mattresses and eight of them were occupied. Of the eight, Jason was pretty sure that six would die within the next day or two. Mr. Farmer would likely go first; Jason wanted to see if he had died while he was outside checking on Lucia.
The inside of the hospital was kept dark due to the window coverings and the lack of electricity for lights. At night, they kept a solitary candle burning.
The treatment regimen for the sick people was simply to keep them hydrated and to feed them some liquid nourishment if they were conscious. Most of them had developed pneumonia that didn't respond to Lucia's antibiotics. By the time they were admitted to this room, they had high fevers and, as the end approached, fell into a sleep from which they would not awaken. Mr. Farmer had been that way for the last two hours, his breathing heavy with liquid, too weak to cough. Jason thought he sounded like he was drowning in slow motion.
As they entered, Lucia took a clean towel from a stack and wet it. She would wipe every fevered forehead to provide a second or two of relief from the internal heat that was almost literally burning them alive.
No wiping was needed for Mr. Farmer. His chest was still, his suffering over.
Lucia checked his heartbeat with a stethoscope and said, "He's gone, Jason." She went over to the corner and wept silently.
Jason marveled at how she could feel such anguish for an old man she never even knew. Farmer had shown up the day before yesterday, already well along towards dying. Jason knew she'd not spent any time with him, and yet here she was, weeping for him like he was her friend. It was strange.
***
They didn't have any kind of wheeled cart to handle the bodies, so they used a wheelchair that had been kept in the church. Jason pushed it over beside Farmer's body. Now for the hard part - the dead people were lying practically on the floor; getting the body in the wheelchair could be a challenge.
Jason rolled Farmer over so that his body was balanced on its side. He slipped his arms underneath the old man's and started to lift. As he did that, Lucia appeared, sniffed and took his feet. Together they placed him in the wheelchair. She pushed on his chest to keep him from falling out as Jason wrapped an elastic bungee cord around him and the chair. He gave her arm a squeeze. "Be back in a minute," said Jason as he pushed the chair outside.
A small crowd of people waited in the street for the next meal. They watched as Jason wheeled the body to the garage. The church had owned a small bus that they used to pick up people who wanted to come to services, but were too old or frail to get their on their own. The bus still worked, so they moved it out of the garage and left the large sliding door half way open so that the interior of the garage remained cold. Sooner or later they would have to figure out something better to do with the bodies, but for now, the garage would do for storage.
Jason wheeled in Mr. Farmer and unhooked the bungee cord. When he did, the old man fell out of the chair and landed face first into a tangled heap on the concrete floor. "That'll leave a mark," he thought.
He pictured the Death Clock in his mind. It spun very fast, the rightmost digits changing in a blur.
***
As Jason returned to the hospital with the now empty wheelchair, he thought of Lucia. He considered himself lucky that an acceptable female was around. He planned on having her, but knew he had to take it slow. Right now, she was suffering from shock at how their lives had so suddenly changed; how they now woke up every morning wondering what new horrors were in store for them - and wondering if they would be alive by the time night arrived. But she was human and a woman and at some point, her own needs would be apparent; her desire for physical love, her need to be protected, her longing to be held. He was waiting for that moment to arrive. There was something about her, some shield she had up, like she was afraid he might guess some sort of secret. Their time together had been brief, but she never told him a single thing about her past.
He didn't show Lucia any greater attention that he did Dy or that foul mouthed Patti or any of the other females. But he did go out of his way to be attentive and watchful for opportunities where he could help her.
Jason believed he was playing it just right. He thought he detected a new level of comfort toward him from Lucia, one based on being glad he was around, one based on trust. It was a good start.
As he reentered the hospital, she was kneeling beside a young girl. They'd found her just yesterday, fever blazing, wandering the streets around the church. Lucia had immediately started her on antibiotics. They normally didn't work, but it was about all they had to try. The girl hadn't spoken and none of them knew who she was or what happened to her parents. She was probably about nine.