by AJ Powers
They walked the same path Clay had taken, stepping over the body of the first man Clay took out with the knife. Up ahead there was a large blood stain on the floor where he had shot the man with the Scout, but there was no body. Clay raised his rifle and had Megan stay back while he went down the hallway. He found the man on the other side of the room where he had found Charlie. The bandit had tried to make an escape but gave up just a few feet from the stairwell. Clay felt a pang of guilt that the man had suffered as long as he did, but those feelings quickly dissipated when he turned around and saw Charlie’s blood.
He called Megan in, and she immediately put her hand over her mouth and began to cry.
“It’s a lot, isn’t it?”
She kept her hand over her mouth and nodded briskly. “This is not good, Clay,” she said as she moved her hands to the top of her head, unconcerned with the blood getting into her hair. She looked over at the body on the other side of the room, his back ravaged from the .308 that tore through it. “Is that the guy?” she asked, almost hopefully.
Clay shook his head.
They stood in silence for a moment as they both felt the weight of the situation sink in. “I should get back upstairs,” she said, wanting to leave the scene.
Clay crouched down and picked up the M1 carbine from the floor. Charlie’s blood had soaked into the wooden stock, staining the old rifle an eerie dark brown. The sight was almost more than Clay could handle.
As they walked back up the stairs, Clay asked, “So, you said that blood loss was the immediate threat. If he manages to survive that, what’s the long term concern?”
“Well, obviously we’re in a not-so-sterile environment. God only knows how many germs and bacteria he picked up in the last hour. Short of a miracle, he’s going to get an infection of some sort; we need antibiotics.”
Back in the infirmary, Lona was still holding the towel. Megan took over and started dressing the wound with more appropriate gauze and bandage since the bleeding had finally slowed.
Clay was frightened with how pale Charlie appeared to be, but the kid was a fighter, and that gave Clay hope. “Okay,” he said, “I am going to load up and head out to get antibiotics. I think I remember Watson saying he had some.”
“You think he’ll trade with you?” Megan asked.
“Let’s hope.”
“Be safe, Clay.”
Clay left the infirmary and gathered some supplies before heading downstairs. He put on a different jacket—one that wasn’t covered in blood—and headed out. When he got to the basement, he remembered the food he had stashed in the corner. Despite the urgency to depart, he knew that allowing the food to spoil was not an option, and he went back upstairs to drop the meat off in the freezer, further adding to his exhaustion.
He arrived at Watson’s a little after 3:00 in the afternoon. He had brought half of the venison with him to trade; it was all he could spare. Even though he did not hesitate to take what he thought he would need, it was still a gut wrenching decision to take several weeks’ worth of food away from the family just for some antibiotics. He just hoped Watson would be willing to barter.
Under strict orders from Jeremy, the young gatekeeper was forced to hunt down the head of security before allowing him to enter. Minutes felt like hours as Clay attempted to wait patiently.
The gatekeeper returned with Jeremy. “What do you want, Clay?” he asked with an edge in his voice.
“Jeremy, you can go back to hating me another time, but right now I really need to make a trade with Watson.”
Jeremy could hear the desperation in his voice, like a parched child begging for a glass of water. He sighed and nodded for the gatekeeper to let him in. “I’m going to take you over to the shop, if they don’t have what you need, we turn around and you walk right out with no stopping to chat with your girlfriend or anything else, you got it?” Clay didn’t attempt to argue and graciously thanked him as he walked through the gate. They strolled through the makeshift town at a casual pace set by Jeremy. “What’s got you all wound up?” he asked.
Clay locked his eyes on the shop just a few hundred feet away, never bothering to look over at Jeremy. “We were attacked this morning. One of our kids was shot.”
Jeremy was shocked. He then noticed the blood on Clay’s shirt just beneath his jacket. “Dear God. I’m sorry, Clay.” Jeremy’s demeanor towards Clay softened, and there was a bit more insistence in his walk. Jeremy didn’t like Clay much, but that was more about his relationship with Kelsey and less about the abrasive dynamic between Clay and Watson. As Watson’s employee, Jeremy had to be defensive and leery of threats to the old man. As an individual, however, he didn’t fault Clay for his hostile attitude towards Watson. He just had that effect on people.
“Is he going to be okay?” Jeremy asked.
“I don’t know yet, but that’s why I am here. We need antibiotics.”
Jeremy reached for the door and held it open for Clay, then followed him inside. Watson was on a stepladder in the middle of hanging a shelf on the wall. Matthew stood right next to him, holding some nails and brackets. Watson turned to greet his customer, but his smile turned sour. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want now?” he asked as he started pounding a nail into the wall.
“Look, Mr. Watson, I know we had a bit of a falling-out, but I am begging you, please make a trade with me today.”
Watson finished driving the nail into the wall and placed the hammer down on the top platform of the ladder. He stepped down and walked over to Clay and forced a smile. “Well, what do you need?”
“I need antibiotics…whatever you’ve got, please!” The despair in Clay’s voice matched his expression.
“Well, that’s a mighty tall order, son. That’s the kind of stuff I reserve for the people of the town or my closest of friends. You currently reside in neither camp.”
Clay glared at him, his eyes pleading for help. He reached into his bag and pulled out the venison. “This is about 25 pounds of venison, harvested this morning. It’s all I’ve got. I know you guys are stretched thin for food too…”
Watson let out a single laugh. “Son, that ain’t gonna amount to squat with a town this size. You might as well hang on to that,” he said, insulted with the offer. “However,” Watson continued, “perhaps we can finally make a deal on that rifle of yours.”
“Come on!” Clay raised his voice. “You know as well as I do that this is worth far more than the medicine.”
“Worth is subjective, son. You need the medicine, and I want the rifle. Notice the difference in our situations.” Watson gave a baleful grin, as if he were savoring the moment. “That’s my offer, Clay, take it or leave it.”
Clay was seeing red. Watson’s true nature was revealed as he exploited Clay’s dire circumstances. The thought more than once crossed Clay’s mind to take advantage of the fact that he had a semi-auto rifle with just three targets, and he suspected that Matthew didn’t even carry a gun. He was surprised and disappointed in himself for even considering such an act, which made him all the more deflated with the whole transaction.
He knew that Watson had him beat, and there was nothing to be done about it. He slid his hand over the receiver of the rifle and gave it a couple of taps. He unsnapped his pouches and began stacking the fully loaded magazines onto the countertop.
“I’ve got Amoxicillin or Ciprofloxacin,” Watson said, stumbling over his pronunciation of the latter.
Just before Clay had left home, Megan had told him a specific drug that would be best for Charlie’s situation. He couldn’t remember the exact name, but knew it was neither of the options Watson had. She had told him anything would be better than nothing, so he went with the Amoxicillin, a name that was familiar to him. Watson headed to the backroom to retrieve the antibiotics when the bell above the door jingled. Watson stopped and looked back.
“Hey, Doc, whatcha need?” Watson asked?
Clay shifted his weight to try and hide his frustration over the delay. Sec
onds counted, and he needed to get back home with the medicine.
“Running quite low on a few things,” he said as he held out a small sheet of paper.
Watson walked over and took the list, giving it a quick glance. “All right, I can get a few of these things now, but I’ll have to send some people out to look for the rest.”
Doc nodded.
“Oh, one more thing,” Doc added, once again stopping Watson just as he was about to go into the back room. Clay gave off a less than subtle sigh. “I need a bottle of ibuprofen. Once the morphine wears off, Silas is going to have a pretty bad day without some form of pain management.”
Clay felt his heart skip a beat. Did he just say Silas?
Chapter 25
The sun was descending, and Clay still had another 10 hours ahead of him, at least. He had been unable to think straight since he grabbed his things and left Watson’s without saying a word—and without the antibiotics. He had been betrayed in the worst kind of way. At moments, his body trembled as he writhed in anger; at other times, he shuddered in fear. Would he be able to have any luck finding meds in Liberty? How would he respond to Watson’s aggression? Did Watson even know what happened? How did they know where he lived? He tried not to think about that answer.
It wouldn’t have been inaccurate to describe Clay and Watson’s relationship as unstable. What had started off as a promising business relationship—something that could have evolved into the kind of dynamic between Clay and Vlad—had quickly gone south. Backhanded threats only made matters worse. Despite it all, Watson would never have sent men after Clay. Would he?
An unsettling silence filled the air. The frigid temperatures, in addition to the absence of sound, sent a startling chill down Clay’s spine. It felt like the calm before the storm. And not five minutes after the sun fell behind the horizon, he heard the Screamers announce their presence. Stopping, hiding, or evading was not in Clay’s game plan. Anyone or anything that attempted to delay his arrival at Liberty would not get a warning—as if the nomadic psychopaths would ever heed such a warning.
Clay loaded a magazine filled with XM855’s. The full metal jacket with the steel core would cut through a quarter inch of steel with ease, and would make light work of the body armor most Screamers sported.
It didn’t take long before Clay had his first encounter. The two savages had already spotted him and were racing his way by the time he saw them. There was just a hint of light filling the sky that allowed Clay to see them well enough to be confident with his aim. The red holographic sight illuminated brightly against the dark backdrop, making it easy to lock on to his target. The first shot rang out, and the man on the left face-planted into the ground, his body sliding across the asphalt several feet before coming to a stop. The second man, unconcerned by his comrade’s death, continued his sprint. Firing two more shots, Clay watched him suffer the same fate as the first.
The skirmishes continued throughout the night. Normandy Creek lived up to its reputation that evening as Clay burned through nearly two magazines by the time he reached the other side of the small forest. Even though it was dark, he knew he had dished out a significant amount of carnage and suspected the stream ran heavy with blood and ash that night.
The Screamers stopped coming around 3:00. There were no more sightings, no more attacks, not even a distant scream. It was as if they all got the memo that Clay wasn’t messing around. It was unnerving to be out so late and not hear sadistic shrieks.
About a half-hour before dawn, Clay’s body was ready to quit. He had already been awake for 24 hours, and on the move for most of that. Despite his fatigue, he pressed forward; Charlie’s life depended on it. His pace was slow, but he did not stop.
He pondered how many lives he had taken in the past few hours. He couldn’t be sure but suspected that it was more than double the amount he had taken since his first kill at age 14, perhaps even triple. He contemplated whether or not what he did tonight was self-defense or murder. He never gave any of those men a chance to retreat and in many cases, never allowed them to get close enough to inflict any harm. Yet, he knew if he hadn’t shot them from afar, he would have just had to do it up close. He quickly flushed the thoughts out of his mind; one problem at a time.
He began to rub his bleary eyes and let out a big yawn when he heard a shriek come from the left. The impact felt like what could only be described as being blindsided by an all-pro linebacker. Clay took several nasty blows to the face before he was able to kick the man off. Operating on instinct, Clay rolled over and pushed himself up on top of the man. The man swung his fist and struck Clay numerous times but was unable to stop him from pulling his pistol out. Clay jammed the barrel up to the man’s temple and pulled the trigger.
If the sound was any indication to the mess the jacketed hollow-point had left, Clay was glad that it was still too dark to see such destruction.
Before Clay recovered from the attack, another man came storming from ahead. Still sitting on top of the corpse, Clay raised his pistol and fired four rounds at the screaming silhouette. He wasn’t sure which shot did him in, but the man fell silent. Clay took a few minutes to collect himself before he got back to his hike. The surge of adrenaline fueled him to move at a cautious jog. He was still another two hours away.
The rest of the journey, as he hoped, was uneventful. Once the morning came around, the Screamers vanished—almost as if they were on a time clock, and at 4:30 every morning, they punched out.
As Liberty became visible in the distance, Clay picked up the pace even more. When he arrived at the gate, he was happy to see the usual gatekeeper who let him in even though he was a bit wary of the blood on Clay’s clothing. Clay noticed the look.
“There’s a few less Screamers the world has to worry about,” he said trying to make light of a very harrowing night.
The gatekeeper gave a disconcerted smile. “Glad you came out on top.”
Without saying another word, Clay hurried over to Vlad’s shop.
“Clay! I cannot believe it’s taken this long to come and visit your old friend! How did you fare this winter?”
As Clay approached the counter, Vlad saw a battered, bruised, and bloodied man standing in front of him.
“Vlad, please tell me you have some antibiotics,” Clay asked hopefully.
Stunned, Vlad’s face got long, and he shook his head, “I am sorry, my friend; it has been rough winter.”
Clay’s shoulders dropped. He rubbed his face, then ran his fingers through his hair. The fleeting optimism he had for the trip was now completely gone. “I suppose none of the other stores in town have any either, huh?”
Vlad saw the despair in Clay’s eyes. He wanted to give him some hope, but he knew better. He shook his head again, “I do not think so.”
Clay sighed deeply. After everything he had been through, after all the men he killed just to get there, it was all for nothing. Clay screamed vehemently as he smashed his fist down on the countertop, startling Vlad—a feat few men had accomplished.
The store was silent. Olesya peeked around the corner to see what was happening. She had never seen Clay so upset before.
Resigned to the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to get his hands on antibiotics, Clay plopped his arms down on the counter and rested his head on them.
“I’m sorry, Vlad,” Clay said, regretful of his outburst. He was anything but in control of his emotions at the moment. He stood back up and tried to regain his composure. Breaking down and calling it quits wasn’t going to get Charlie the medication he needed.
Vlad wanted to ask who needed the meds, but he did not want to add to Clay’s anguish. He simply reached across the counter and gave Clay a squeeze on the shoulder. There were no words of solace that could ease the distress Clay was experiencing—Vlad knew that firsthand.
Clay sensed someone walk up behind him. He hadn’t even noticed that someone else was in the store with him, which made him all the more ashamed of his reaction.
> “It’s Clay, right?” The man asked.
“Yes,” Clay said with a gravelly voice. He turned and instantly recognized the face.
The man shook his hand and continued, “I’m—”
“Barry Shelton,” Clay interrupted. It was the mayor. He felt even more embarrassed now.
“That’s right. I remember meeting you several years ago. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from the folks in town. You are well liked here, I gather.”
Clay gave a crooked smile. “Thanks,” he said with little enthusiasm, not really in the mood for compliments.
“I’m sorry for the small talk. Obviously, you’re in a bit of a tough situation, and it sounds like you are in need of some antibiotics, right?”
Clay perked up, his demeanor flipped. “Yes! Do you have any for sale?” he asked eagerly.
The man nodded towards the door, and Clay followed him outside, forgetting to even say bye to Vlad. The pair made their way across the small town and ended up inside one of the nicest homes in the entire neighborhood.
Shelton led him through a giant, open living room and over to an office at the rear of the house. The layout and quality of construction reminded him a lot of the houses in the equestrian estate that he and Kelsey had been through just before winter.
Shelton unlocked a massive gun safe and opened the double doors revealing a small arsenal inside. To say his collection of firearms was impressive would be an understatement. Many of the rifles, most of which were pre-ban, appeared to be in good working order. Clay may have had a whole room devoted to his firearms back home, but this man had more quality guns just in the left side of his safe than Clay had in his entire collection.
The upper right portion of the safe had another smaller safe inside, a separate pistol safe that he had bolted in for additional security. Shelton opened that, too. Inside was an assortment of goods: jewelry and other precious metals, some photos, documents, and a few bottles of pills.
