Anyone? (7 page)

I dropped the duffle on the pavement, and it fell with a
resounding thump. My shoulders couldn’t handle the weight any longer. Somehow,
by the grace of God, I had managed to walk the four exhausting miles to the
neighboring town. Dazed, feverish, and a bit wobbly on my feet, I had done it,
but instead of celebrating the fact that I now stood in front of Rite-Aid’s sliding
glass doors, all I wanted to do was fall onto my bag and not move. Taking care
of myself was a lot of work.

A few blocks over, a large crater had replaced the Five
Points Mall and the surrounding areas. Buildings large and small seemed to have
evaporated—
poof
—not even a hint of framework left behind. But here,
right in front of Rite-Aid and the grocery store next door, everything appeared
normal. Except, of course, for the ghost town feel. A giant tumbleweed rolling
down the middle of the street would have completed the picture. Only
tumbleweeds didn’t grow around here.

I tied Callie’s leash to the handle of the duffle bag, and gave
her and myself some water, then cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed my
face against the glass window. Even though I had only seen Mr. Stanger’s dead
body and no others,
knock on wood,
I didn’t want to take any chances. I
doubted I could become desensitized to death and decay, and wasn’t in the mood
to find out.

Dim rays from the late afternoon sun penetrated the interior
of the building, lighting it enough to see that, for the most part, the store
looked intact: the Photo Center to the right, the perfume section to the left,
the seasonal supplies—Christmas decorations—in the middle. Easter decorations
should have been on display now that Christmas, New Year’s, and Valentine’s had
passed. Those holidays had slipped by and no one had been back. A shiver crept
up my spine. My stomach turned to lead, and I forced myself to breathe and
swallow my rising emotions.

One step at a time, Tess. One step at a time.

The intensity of looking at my situation as a whole would
drown me and right now, I needed to focus on getting my hands on some
antibiotics. I couldn’t think too far ahead to phone chargers, to keys and
cars, to calling for help, to any of the hundred other things needing my
attention or I would have given up right then.

Callie had curled into a ball on my bag, so I did my best
not to disturb her and reached inside for my gun.

It had worked for the pet store, and since my mind was a
sick mess, I didn’t have it in me to find a different way.

Lift. Point. Aim. Prepare for loud noise. Fire.

The glass shattered into tiny diamond shapes that glittered
in the sun as they came raining down, covering the ground.

Callie bolted, but her leash kept her tied in place.

Sorry, kitty.
So much for not disturbing the cat.

The human shadow popping up from behind a display case sent
me scrambling backward, and I forgot all about my screeching cat. I nearly stumbled
over, but managed to keep upright with the gun pointed straight at him.
What?
No. What?

His wide eyes locked onto mine. “Why in the hell did you do
that?”

A person. A living person. Why couldn’t I move? Speak? Say
anything?

He motioned behind him with his thumb as he stepped into the
aisle. “Before you go around shooting at things, you should really check out
all the entrances first. The back door was open, you know?” He shook his dark
shaggy head. His shoulders rose and fell. “Just a suggestion.”

I couldn’t say anything. Not a word, though my lips
trembled.

“You think you can put that down for a second?” He nodded to
the gun. “You’re making me nervous.”

I couldn’t quite figure out what he was making me.

“Do you speak English?
Habla ingles?
” He made some
quick motions with his fingers—sign language. “
Parlez-vous Anglais?
Anything?”

I lowered my arm, aiming the gun at the ground. “I’m sick.”
There was so much I should have asked, should have said, should have done, but
I chose, in that pivotal moment, to announce my illness to the only other living
person around.
Great.

“Sick, huh?” He took a few more steps toward me, crunching
the glass beneath his worn cowboy boots as he drew closer. “How sick?” Before I
could answer, Callie’s tugging and fighting against her harness drew the
stranger’s attention and he gave a low chuckle. “Well, a’righty then. Just when
you think you’ve seen it all, a cat on a leash.”

His deep laugh caused my shoulders to go rigid. I kept my
finger on the trigger, but the gun pointed down. “Are you following me?”

He returned his attention my way. “Following you?” He shook
his head. “Kid, I was here first, remember? If anything, you’re following me.”

“But I heard you, yesterday. Your laugh. You were laughing
at me.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I was following you. Only means
we crossed paths at the same time, and your complaining happened to entertain
me.”

That didn’t make sense. “You saw me, but you didn’t let me
know you were there? Why?”

“Why would I? I don’t know you.”

I didn’t think I had ever had a more frustrating conversation
in my whole life. “Are there any other people around? Have you seen anyone
else?”

He shoved his hands into his front pockets and shrugged
again. “Nope. You’re the first person I’ve run across.”

“And you didn’t think letting me know someone else existed,
was
alive,
would be important to me?”

He removed his hands from his pockets and held them up. “Like
I said, I don’t know you, and right now, I don’t even think I
want
to
know you.”

Is he mental or something?
“But there’s no one else
around?”

A huge grin spread over his whiskery face and his eyes
brightened, enhancing a few wrinkles around the edges. “And ain’t that perfect?
The best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time.”

I shook my head.
Unbelievable.
Of all the possible
people to have run into, I had to find this guy! “What are you saying? This isn’t
perfect at all!”

He continued smiling at me as he squatted next to Callie and
ran his fingers between her ears to calm her. “One man’s hell is another man’s
heaven.”

“You’re insane!”

“That’s debatable. I’m not the one shooting out glass doors,
am I?”

I slipped the safety on my gun and shoved it into my waistband.
“Stop touching my cat.”

“But she likes it.”

“Leave my cat alone and go away.” I couldn’t believe I’d
actually said that. The only person I’d seen in nearly two months, and I’d had
enough of him to last a lifetime.

He stood and brushed his hands off on his pants. “I’m not
finished here. I still need a few things from inside.”

“I need a few things too.”

“Then by all means”—he waved his arm in front of him in a
grand gesture—”after you.”

I walked over the broken glass, grinding the pieces into the
tile. I had come a long way to get here and refused to let him scare or annoy
me into leaving. “I don’t like you.”

He gave his familiar chuckle. “Few people do.”

We split ways, he heading to the personal hygiene aisle and I
heading to the back corner of the store toward the pharmacy.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Two people finding each
other in the rubble of an apocalyptic aftermath should come together, lean on
each other for support, and find a collective way to survive. I shouldn’t be
sick and he shouldn’t be crazy. This whole thing was wrong.

A large security gate ran across the length of the counter.
The door to the pharmacy was locked with some fancy contraption requiring a
keycard plus punch code. Through the metal gate, bottles of medicine lined the
shelves, untouched and waiting. So close, but nearly impossible to get.

I grabbed on to the gate and shook the heck out of it, pulling
and tugging, using up what remained of my strength and causing my already
aching arm to radiate pain. The gate wouldn’t budge. I slumped forward, my
forehead resting against the counter with my fingers still wrapped around the metal
frame.

I needed tools. And getting tools required breaking into
another store. The situation was beginning to feel a lot like the book
If
You Give a Mouse a Cookie
—if you want prescription medications, you’re
going to need tools, and if you need tools, you’re going to have to break into
Home Depot, and to break into Home Depot you’re going to need....

When would this ever end?

“Here, hold this. I’ll be right back.”

I lifted my head, and the insane stranger shoved several
boxes of toothpaste, deodorant, and a stack of spiral notebooks into my arms
before moving past me and down the hall toward the restrooms.

Really?

I was about to toss the whole lot on the ground, when he
returned, winked at me, and produced a small black bag. He placed it on the
counter, unzipped it, and removed several small tools.

“Better than bullets,” he said, as he jammed them into the
lock, twisting and turning them, until with a smile, he slid the gate open. “Ta-da.”

Okay, that was impressive.
“How’d you learn to do
that?”

“Picking locks? My old man taught me when I was a kid. Thought
it might come in handy someday.”

“Really? What kind of dad teaches their kid how to pick
locks?” Rude, I knew, especially when my own father taught me to shoot guns and
build a bomb shelter. Who was I to judge?

He placed each tool back in the bag with precision, each one
in its rightful place. “The kind of dad who happens to be a convicted criminal.
Grand larceny.”

I drew in my breath.
Jeez.

He looked up at me and smiled. “Kidding. My dad was a
locksmith. A real good one, too.” He lifted his bag. “See? His lessons came in
handy, didn’t they? So what are you needing, and please tell me you’re not
after Oxycontin? It’s not worth it. That stuff can really mess you up if you
abuse it.”

“No. Just antibiotics. I cut my arm and I think it’s infected.”

He nodded and let out his breath in an exaggerated way. “Show
me.”

“What?”

“Your arm. Show it to me.”

I removed my jacket and rolled up my sleeve to expose the
bandage. Blood and puss stained the gauze. It made me a little woozy, and I
slid to the floor to sit.

“Yeah, that’s going to need to be cleaned.” He squatted in
front on me, slipped a pocketknife from his jeans, and cut the bandage off
without the blade touching my skin. He let out a low whistle. “That’s a deep
one, a’right.” He stood and pointed down at me. “Stay there, I’ll be right
back.”

I had no idea who he was, and I was pretty sure I didn’t
like him, but since I couldn’t have my dad, the doomsday-loving lunatic would
have to do.

“Hope you like Berry Blast.” He reached into the grocery
basket, unscrewed the cap on a bottle of Gatorade, and handed it to me. He took
my other hand and placed one large white pill and three smaller ones of various
colors in my palm. “Take them all. You’re going to need them.”

“What are they?” I rolled the pills around.

“Does it matter?”

I glared at him. “Yeah, it kind of does.”

He shook his head. “Fine. That one’s an antibiotic. Those
two are for your fever and that one”—he pointed to the smallest pill—”will
liven you up a bit and make you nicer to be around.”

“What?”

“It will take the edge off and make it easier for me to do
what I’ve got to do.” He started removing various items from the basket—needle,
thread, rubbing alcohol, scissors, clean bandages, a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Great.
“That’s mine, so don’t touch it.”

“I
am
a nice person.” I held the tiny pill out to
him. “I don’t want it.”

He pushed it back at me. “You’re mildly pleasant, if that.
Do yourself a favor and take it. Trust me. You’re going to want it.”

Trust him? He had a bottle of whiskey next to the supplies
he planned to stitch me up with.

“Suit yourself.” He poured the rubbing alcohol in the cap of
the bottle then ran the needle and the entire pre-cut length of sewing thread
through the liquid. With a sigh, he laid it all on a paper towel at his side,
spreading it out like a medical scene from a television show. “I’m not the one
about to have a needle shoved in and out of my arm, you are. Your choice.” He
held up the Jack Daniels and winked before taking a swig. “
My
choice.” Letting
out a low burp, he patted his chest. “Ahh, much better. You ready?”

I tossed all the pills onto my tongue and swallowed them
down with a mouthful of warm Gatorade. Maybe I did need a little something to
get through this. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“We’re about to find out, aren’t we?” He smiled and rubbed
the top of my head as if I were a dog. “Don’t worry. I’ve sewn on buttons and
mended socks several times. This ain’t all that different.”

I yanked my arm to my chest.
Oh, heck no!
“This is
way different!”

“You know what?” He sat back on his haunches, tented his
knees, and rested his arms on top. “Why don’t we let that little pill kick in
before we patch you up?” He took another drink from his bottle, screwed the lid
back on, looked at it for a minute, and then launched it backward, high over
his shoulders. It crashed in the next aisle over a few seconds later.

Jeez.
“Are you drunk or something?”

“Nah, I’m no alcoholic. Addictions a bad thing.” He wagged
his finger at me. “Remember that. But I’m an adult and you’re not, so it’s okay
if I need a swig or two to give me a helping hand. Adults get to have that
distinct pleasure.” He leaned forward. “You notice I tossed it away, right?”

He waited for me to answer, so I nodded.

“That’s called restraint, something kids like yourself don’t
tend to have. Anything more than a sip or two and you’re heading for a lifetime
of pain and hurt. Remember that, too.”

“I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs. Never have.” I’d seen Toby
hover over a toilet after a night of binge-drinking. I had witnessed him passed
out, nearly naked, on our front porch, too tired or too high to open the front
door. I had experienced enough of his anger, his wallowing, and his sappy love
to know I didn’t want any part of it. Besides, Dad had enough on his plate
dealing with my brother. If I started any of those things, he may have given up
completely and joined the both of us on the road to hell.

The odd stranger cocked his head and gave a quick nod. “Good.
Don’t start.” He leaned back against a shelf full of drug and pregnancy tests. “So,
what do you do for fun?”

“You mean when I’m not trying to survive the end of the world?”
Warmness filled my belly and exuded from my core, creeping to the very ends of
my body—my toes, my nose, my fingers. Light airiness surrounded my head and
seemed to lift me up, making me feel feather-like.
Wow, that was fast.

“Yeah, before all this. What kind of things were you into?”
He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. “Sports?
Music? Nah, I bet you were a book nerd. Am I right?”

How dare he?
“I like books, but I wouldn’t say I’m a
book nerd. Just because someone likes to read doesn’t mean they need labeling.”

He smiled. “I totally called that one, didn’t I?”

Idiot.
“I bet the last time you read a book was when
you were a toddler. ABCs and one, two, threes? Am
I
right?” I shifted my
weight to become more comfortable, but the lightness of my head caused me to
slowly fall to one side.
Weeeee....

He caught me in his large hands and lowered me gently to the
floor. “Ahh, it’s kicking in. About time. How do you feel?”

“Awesome.”

“Good.” He took his jacket off, rolled it into a ball, and
tucked it under my head. It smelled like a combination of Old Spice and Axe
body spray.

So that was what he was doing when I had shot the door, making
himself smell nice. The spray was actually quite lovely, and I took a deep
breath, filling my lungs. Weird.

“Keep still so I can make sure to stitch your arm in a
decent pattern. You move, you may end up with zig-zags and a puckered scar.” He
rolled my sleeve all the way up to my shoulder and leaned in close to my ear. “Just
so you know, reading is a good thing. People should do more of it.”

“What?” Nothing he said made sense—
ever.

“Nothing. Here, hold this.” He shoved a stuffed Santa into
my arms, and proceeded to clean my wound.

What in the world?
But when that first poke of the
needle pierced my skin, I hugged Santa tight, almost squeezing the stuffing
right out of him.
Holy—
“How many stitches?”

“Not sure yet. You’re tough. Hang in there.”

I was far from tough. Each pinch and poke caused my eyes to
water. I closed them tight and hugged that stupid Santa as the thread weaved
its way back and forth through my skin.

With more gentleness than I would have expected from him, he
wiped the wetness away from my cheek with his thumb. He didn’t say anything, just
gave me a sympathetic look and went back to stitching me up.

I must have passed out, because one minute I was biting my
bottom lip and fighting back tears and the next I was sleeping on top of a pile
of Pillow Pets—unicorns, lady bugs, and brown floppy dogs—covered in a zebra-striped
Snuggie. Strange, but definitely comfortable.

He sat across from me, his back against a shelf, a Pillow
Pet of his own tucked behind his head, and Callie lying on her back in his lap.
He rubbed her belly, and my kitten purred in delight.

“You’re such a good girl. Yes, you are,” he whispered.

Several cat toys littered the floor by his long legs along
with a bowl of water and an opened can of cat food. I couldn’t help but smile
at the rugged man playing with the little orange and white ball of fur.

“How long was I out?”

He straightened. “I’d guess an hour or so. Not too long. How
you feeling?” He placed Callie on a leopard-print dog bed with her leash tied
to a bottle of fabric softener, and crawled toward me.

“I think I’m feeling okay.” I took my time to sit up in case
my head felt like floating away again.

He placed his palm on my forehead and nodded before removing
it. “Fever’s down. That’s good.” He picked up my partially drunk Gatorade and
handed it to me. “You need to drink more. I’ll get you another bottle and
another antibiotic before I go.”

He moved to stand, and I grabbed his arm, forcing him to
remain squatting. “Go?”

“Yeah, there’s a good hour of light left before the sun
sets, and I thought I’d get a move-on.”

My grip tightened. “You can’t go.”

He tipped his chin and smirked. “You can’t stand me and I
can barely tolerate you. Why in the world would I stay?”

True. He had a point. “Because we’re the only people left,”
I argued. “It makes sense we should stick together.” At least until I could
find someone better, but I wouldn’t tell him that part.

He shook his head. “Not a good enough reason.”

“It’s not safe to be on our own. We can work together.” In every
movie I’d ever watched the survivors stuck together. That was how it worked.

“Work together? What can you do? You have no skills.”

True. He had
another
good point. “I’ve kept myself
alive all this time. I must have
some
skills, otherwise I wouldn’t be
here.”

“You’ve barely kept yourself alive—
barely.
I’m
actually surprised you’ve lasted this long.”

“That’s not nice.” I removed my hand from his arm.

“Maybe, but it’s true. I’m doing just fine on my own, and
adding a kid and her ‘cat on a string’ doesn’t seem like the best move for me.”

I bit the corner of my mouth to keep myself from crying and
showing weakness in front of the jerk. “What about me? What’s my best move?” I
had hardly anything left to give, and if he walked out the storefront, leaving
me on my own, I might curl up in a fetal position and call it quits. I hated
him, but I needed him.

He didn’t say anything, but kept his eyes on mine,
unblinking and creepy.

“Tell me. What’s my best move?”

He lowered his gaze and shook his head. “Damn it.”

“What?”

“You’re going to curl up and lie here in a ball if I leave,
aren’t ya?”

My shoulders stiffened.
How did he do that?
But who
cared? He was softening. “Probably.”

He sighed. “If I stay, you have to promise me one thing.”

Heck, I’d promise him pretty much anything... well, almost
anything. I nodded.

“Just promise me you won’t suck all the fun out of being the
last people around, okay?”