Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Raven drove her father’s ancient vomit-green Toyota Camry. The Camry was as old as molasses, leaked oil, and the A/C didn’t work, but it ran. Faded stickers advertising Haven Wildlife Refuge covered the scuffed bumper.
She headed west along Juliette Road, over the bridge spanning the Ocmulgee River, which traced the length of the Piedmont National Wildlife Preserve north to south.
Her hands clenched the steering wheel. To the south lay Plant Sherer, the largest coal-powered power plant in Georgia. No smoke belched from the smokestacks, darkening the sky. She didn’t want to think about what that might mean.
She drove straight through Juliette, population 250, best known for the Whistle Stop Café, where Fried Green Tomatoes was filmed, an old movie she’d never seen and now never would.
There were no vehicles in front of the café, nor the vintage clothing shop, or the Honey Comb or Moon Pies Collectibles gift shop.
About fifteen miles southwest of the town was the slightly larger town of Forsyth, with a population of 4,000. Used to be 4,000, she reminded herself grimly.
Several dozen abandoned vehicles clogged both sides of the road. A Ford F150 stood with both its doors hanging open; a gray minivan had been parked at a stop sign and left where it had likely run out of gas.
Even on its best days, no one could say downtown was busy. Today, it was a ghost town. Only a few people hurried along the sidewalks, heads down, masks covering their faces, gloved hands shoved deep into the pockets of their jackets to ward off the afternoon chill.
Most of the sagging storefronts were closed, many with two-by-fours barring their front doors. The windows of Dewie’s Barber and Shave were boarded. The ancient red-and-white-striped barber pole was knocked off its base and lay on the weed-infested sidewalk.
Driving cautiously, Raven went to the doctor’s office first, a two-story brick building on the corner of Main Street where she’d had every shot and check-up she could remember.
It too had been vandalized. Every window was shattered. The front door had been removed from its hinges and was nowhere to be seen.
By the time she pulled into the parking lot of Maxwell Pharmaceuticals, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
The pharmacy boasted zero broken windows and no graffiti on the brick exterior walls. The sidewalk was swept. A hand-scrawled sign taped to the front door said: “Still Open, 12-4 Tue-Thurs- Sat.”
She sat in the front seat for a moment as the engine ticked. Her pulse thudded against her throat. Her mouth was dry and chalky.
Forsyth was a small rural town. A safe town. Nothing like the chaotic, rioting cities. The best thing was to get in and out as quickly as possible.
She glanced at the tranquilizer gun resting on the passenger seat. She knew how to handle guns. She’d gone hunting dozens of times, but the idea of using one against another person turned her stomach.
Could she do it, if she had to? She thought she could. She believed she could.
Part of her wanted to leave the gun inside the car, but the primitive part of her brain reminded her that her father was right. She didn’t know what awaited her out in the world. She needed to be prepared.
Raven pushed her mask up over her nose and tugged on a fresh pair of disposable gloves her dad kept in the glove compartment. Tucking the tranquilizer gun into her oversized cargo pocket along with her phone, she exited the car.
Shutting the door, she locked the car and hurried past several motorcycles parked outside the pharmacy, chain-locked to a light pole so they couldn’t be stolen.
The bell above the door tinkled as she opened the door and slipped inside. The shadows were deep, but watery daylight streamed through the windows. The shop smelled like pine air freshener and aftershave. She went straight to the back counter.
Phil Maxwell, the owner, stood behind the pharmacy counter. His son, Carl, a stocky bearded man in his mid-thirties, stood next to him. They wore masks and gloves.
“I don’t have much left,” Phil said, barely glancing at her. His gaze was fixed on the four bikers who were crowded around the vending machine against the far corner. They were big, burly, tattooed, and loud, and stuck out like bulls in a China shop.
Raven scanned the nearly empty shelves. She licked her dry lips beneath her mask. “My dad is sick. He needs something that can help him.”
A flash of pity shone in Phil’s eyes. “Kioko Nakamura was a good man. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He’s not dead yet.” Her heart constricted. It was a stupid thing to say, but she couldn’t help it.
“He will be,” Carl said. He was a short, toady man with a snub nose, flattened face, and dull eyes.
He always stared suspiciously at everyone under twenty, like he longed to accuse them of shoplifting or some other nefarious activity.
Raven disliked him intensely. “Dead as everyone else. Deader than a doornail.”
She forced her voice to remain calm. “I know that. But he’s in pain. He’s suffering. I don’t have a prescription, but…”
Phil sighed and ran his hands through the halo of white hair ringing his balding head. “I’ve been keeping this place open for just that reason. Carl, go back and grab some oxycodone.”
Carl scowled. “That’s our last bottle. Our livelihood. All that’s left—”
Phil’s expression darkened. “Just do it.”
Carl obeyed with a huff. He stomped off toward the rear of the store.
Phil dragged his gaze back to Raven. “When’s the last time you had power?”
“A few weeks.”
He sighed heavily. “Same. Your generator’s holding up okay?”
Raven nodded. In the back room behind the counter, a fridge hummed. It contained the medications that needed to remain cold. The doors were wrapped in chains and a large padlock. “And yours?”
“It’s lasting, so far. Things’ll get worse before they get better, mark my words.”
Carl returned and plunked the bottle down on the counter between them. “You hear about all the rioting in Atlanta, Indianapolis, and Chicago?” His eyes glittered with something Raven couldn’t quite read. Was it smug satisfaction? Morbid excitement?
“I’ve heard.”
Carl continued as if he hadn’t heard her.
“They don’t have enough workers to clean up all the dead bodies in the cities.
They’re just leaving the dead in people’s homes, only cleaning up the ones who die in the streets—if they’re lucky.
Ones still living are forced to fight tooth and nail over whatever little bit of food and water’s left.
The police and National Guard are fallin’ apart at the seams, literally.
Either all dead or leavin’ to protect their families.
That’s what I would do. Let the government try to clean up its own damn mess for once. ”
Raven stared at him, aghast. Carl was one of the many reasons she preferred an isolated cabin in the woods to the cruel, indifferent, idiotic world of people. “I think it’s a tragedy.”
Carl shrugged. “Their fault for living in cities, ain’t it? We warned ‘em, we did. But they looked down their noses at us country folk, thought they were better than us. Well, who’s laughing now, huh?”
“No one’s laughing,” Raven said, incredulous.
“No one’s winning. Look around, why don’t you?
You think this virus cares about your stupid politics and grudges?
It kills everyone. Everyone.” Her throat thickened.
She pressed her lips together, furious at herself for wanting to cry in front of a cretin like Carl.
Carl shot her a gleeful grin. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, girly. No need to get all hysterical. I was just making conversation.”
“Yeah, well, your ‘conversation’ leaves much to be desired.” If she’d had a tad less self-control, she would’ve used the tranquilizer gun on this moron. Shoot him right in the ass and see how he liked that.
Phil gave her a sharp look, his eyes pleading. She needed him to help her. Or more precisely, what he could offer her. She shut her trap and smiled her best fake smile. “No hysteria here. See? Perfectly calm.”
Phil stuffed the bottle inside a small white paper bag and handed it to her. “Find yourself a safe place and stay there, you hear me?”
“Thanks.” She took the bag and shoved it inside the wide cargo pocket of her pants. “How much for this?”
“For you? No charge. Just remember this and pay it forward, however you can. I have a feeling folks are going to need all the help they can get.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Carl’s froggy eyes bulged, and his face went red as a tomato. “You can’t just give it to her—what the hell—”
“I just did,” Phil said softly, but in a firm voice. “Your father did a big favor for me once. You tell him this is me making things right. Hell, we might not have much time left to do that kind of thing anymore.”
“Do what, sir?” she asked.
“Make things right.” He made a shooing gesture at her, his gaze flicking over her head toward the unruly group of bikers, who were growing louder and more boisterous. “Go on. Get back to your father.”
Gratitude filled her. She blinked back a wave of tears and managed a smile. A genuine one this time. “Thank you, Phil. Truly. Thank you.”
She turned for the front door. Two more motorcycles pulled up outside. Their riders wore semi-automatic rifles strapped to their chests over their jackets. They were both tall and olive-skinned, maybe in their late twenties.
The tallest one had black hair yanked back in a ponytail. He was gaunt, his body long and sharp as a knife. The other moved with liquid grace, like a dancer—a dancer armed to the teeth. Their faces were lean and hard, their eyes glinted dangerously.
Unease shivered up her spine. Her gut tightened. She’d grown up around predators. She knew one when she saw one. In this case, two.
Instinctively, she sidestepped into the closest aisle and shrank behind a row of shelves containing a few conditioners, shampoos, razors, and shaving cream. She peered around the corner.
The bikers slammed open the door, the glass quivering in the frame, and swaggered inside. The bell jangled in warning. The four bikers gave up on the empty vending machine and sauntered to the counter.
“How can I help you, gentlemen?” Phil asked.
“Give us all the painkillers and antibiotics you got, Pops,” said the thin, pony-tailed one. He wore a leather vest with a skull emblazoned on the back.
“Please,” said the second guy, the lithe one that moved like liquid mercury. His coal-black hair framed an angular face. He gave a languid, mocking smile. He scratched his goateed chin and perused the empty shelves with a disinterested, heavy-lidded gaze.
“We’re happy to give you a few,” Phil said, still polite, his voice tight.
There were six bikers now, all big and intimidating, all armed.
Phil tried unsuccessfully not to let them see his fear.
“We’re rationing the supply to last as long as possible so more people get what they need.
With the hospitals closed, this is the only medical care people can get. ”
“You mistake our graciousness,” said a third man. He was blond with hair shorn close to his skull. A scorpion tattoo snaked up his neck. His squinty eyes were set deep in his fleshy, shovel-shaped face. Several empty backpacks were slung across his shoulders.
He placed the backpacks on the counter. He lifted his rifle and set it down beside the backpacks. The barrel faced Phil and Carl. He stroked it fondly. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a sinister smile. “As you can see, we aren’t asking.”