ONE #3
Refusing to let disappointment settle into my bones, I shake it off like I’ve learned to do over the years.
Settling is dangerous, because if you give it too much energy, feed into it, it becomes grief.
And grief will swallow a person whole in this world.
There’s no room for it anymore, and I refuse to fall back into it after crawling my ass out of that endless pit over the past six years.
Shoving the antibiotics and iron into my bag a little aggressively, I stand and move toward the staff door.
It’s closed, which is kind of promising since the front of the pharmacy has been picked over until only the bones remain.
Closed doors, though? They’re like little lucky dips in a carnival of horrors.
Sometimes you’ll find storage, sometimes they’ll hide death.
Sometimes, depending on the universe’s sense of humor on some particular days, you’ll find both. She likes variety, what can I say?
Pressing my ear against the door, I hold my breath and listen.
Nothing but the sound of silence greets me.
I reach for the handle, and it turns beneath my palm.
It’s unlocked, which proves to be a whole lot less promising than it did before.
Running my tongue over my top teeth, I pause for a brief moment before easing the door open with the tip of my knife, stepping back quickly while I wait for something to throw itself at me.
When nothing does, I peer inside. The hallway beyond is dark and narrow, cluttered with fallen boxes and spilled papers. A staff room sits to the right, empty and eerie, and there’s a restroom to the left. At the far end is a metal door that hangs slightly ajar.
Storage.
Suddenly, my pulse hiccups, but I smother any kind of excitement that tries to grow comfortable under my skin.
“Don’t do that,” I tell myself quietly. “You’ll only paint a target on your forehead so the universe will know where to aim.”
With a single nod, I slowly and very carefully head toward the staff room, and I’m instantly rewarded.
After a quick but thorough check for anything nasty that might spring out at me, I clear the room before retrieving my treasure.
Two bottles of water in a cupboard, three packets of instant noodles so old the flavor packet had turned into a solid lump, two tins of chicken soup, one of those travel sewing kits, and a fleece quarter-zip hoodie with a faded pharmacy logo on the chest hanging on a hook behind the door.
I almost laugh. Not because it’s particularly funny, but because it’s very clear how warped my standards have become.
Survival has ruined me so thoroughly that a tin of soup now feels like a religious experience, even if it expired four years ago.
I pack it anyway because, six years after humanity’s collapse, you learn that expiry dates are only suggestions now.
And possible indications that you might get sick real fast, but hey, gotta live with a little optimism, right?
I fold and stuff the hoodie into my backpack, too, even though it’s four sizes too big for me. That just makes it more perfect, because it’s another layer for winter. Something else to hide my figure from anyone I might happen across.
Moving on from the storage room, I check the restroom, thanking every God I don’t believe in that it’s empty.
Testing the tap, my eyes widen when water spills out, and I fight that little harder against the excitement that begs to break free.
I don’t actually remember the last time I saw running water in any building I’ve been in.
I don’t even know how there’s water running here, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
That’s not how life works now. You take your miracles and run.
Keeping my wits about me, I test the water first, using a strip from my kit I found last year.
The results aren’t particularly ideal, but it’s also not immediately deadly.
So, refusing to think about it too deeply, I add the water to two of my canteens and add a purification tablet to each, thankful I still have a few stashed in a pocket of my backpack.
Then I head for the storage room.
The metal door groans softly as I nudge it open, and I freeze instantly, wincing at the metallic sound that seems much louder than it ought to be.
My ears do overtime, listening for any sign of life or death.
When no answering movement comes from inside, I slip through the gap with my knife raised and my breath held in my lungs.
Stepping into the windowless room, the smell worsening the further in I go, I look around as I fight the urge to hurl at the scent of damp, chemicals, and a faint hint of sweetness that makes my stomach tighten.
Slowly, I pull my flashlight from my pocket, click it once, and sweep the beam across the shelves.
For one beautiful but brief second, I think I’ve found another untouched stash.
That second is crushed by the next when the light lands on a corpse slumped in the far corner, leaning back against the wall with one leg bent awkwardly under the other. My heart stalls for a painful moment, my eyes trained closely on the unmoving figure. Not a Zed. At least, not anymore.
The skull is caved in on the one side, a dark stain around it old enough that it’s basically become a part of the floor. A white coat hangs loose on its frame, the name badge still clipped to the breast pocket.
Rosalia Mendez.
Pharmacist.
Sighing, I whisper down at the rotting corpse. “Sorry, Rosie.”
I mean it, too, because there’s something very wrong about ransacking the pockets of a dead body.
But that’s exactly what I do, holding my breath against the scent of decay and chemicals, checking each pocket for anything useful.
After all, the dead don’t need keys, and Rosalia has three of them on a key ring that includes an adorable little purple cat key ring with the name San stitched into its chest.
I take them with another muttered apology, smiling awkwardly at the dead woman as though that will make this any better. Gripping the keys in my hand tightly, I stop the little jingle with a brief shutting of my eyes.
Bowing my thanks to Rosie, I start making my way through the storage cabinets.
Most are useless, which I expected. Bandages ruined by damp, expired creams, boxes of disposable gloves chewed by vermin, and an unopened delivery of pregnancy vitamins that make me glare at the ceiling like the universe personally stocked this room just to really piss me off.
With a glare at the stupid box, I move on to the smallest key, which happens to open a refrigerated medicine cabinet that hasn’t been cold for years. Opening the door, I freeze, my heart climbing into my throat as I peer inside.
There are rows of empty slots. Well, almost empty.
At the back of the refrigerator, half-hidden behind a warped plastic tray, there are four sealed blister packs.
For a long moment, all I can do is stare, my brain refusing to name them.
I just know if I try to name them, it’ll hurt real bad if I’m wrong and I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.
With a shaking head, I reach in slowly, carefully pulling them free.
Tears immediately spring to my eyes, and I look down at the Omega scent blockers I’m holding with a reverence that even shocks myself. My knees almost buckle, forgetting how to work for a long moment, and I whisper harshly, “Holy shit.”
Turning them over like they're delicate and precious enough to handle with caution, I check the dates. I’m not surprised to find the expiry date has long since passed, because everything is expired.
Hell, humanity expired and still has the audacity to keep trucking on forward.
But the good thing is the seals are still intact, the pills aren’t crumbling to dust, and the foil hasn’t blistered from heat damage.
They might be weaker now, and they very well might do nothing. But they might buy me another month of being able to go about living without being snuffed out by every Alpha with a working nose.
My hand continues to shake as I tuck them into the inner pocket of my jacket, the very one I stitched myself after learning the hard way that backpacks can be stolen, dropped, grabbed, or torn away. Valuables stay on my body. Always. Non-negotiable.
Because food will keep me alive today, but these blockers? They will keep me alive long enough to see tomorrow.
Closing the refrigerator door, I sigh as I lean my forehead against it, giving myself only three seconds to be human.
One.
Two.
Thr—
A sound comes from the front of the pharmacy, and my spine straightens harshly as my eyes snap open. Voices. Human voices. Not Zeds.
Of course, because the universe gives and the universe taketh a-fucking-way. She saw me receiving a morsel of luck and decided to shit all over my parade.