Cruel World (25 page)

Quinn scanned the business signs, his heart leaping when he saw the word
GUNS
in massive bold print above one storefront. He pulled the Honda to the side of the road, reluctantly shutting the engine off.

The wind was his only company on the street.

He ducked inside the store, handgun drawn.

The shelves were immaculately clean. There wasn’t a single weapon left. In the rear of the store he found a solitary magazine that would fit the AR-15 along with a spilled half box of matching shells. He gathered these up, pouring them back into the container before leaving the store behind.

On the following street, two burnt husks that had once been pickups were locked together by their crushed front ends. The drivers had either escaped or been ravaged by the flames so violently that they were no longer visible. Quinn skirted the wreck and pulled to the curb beneath a flapping awning, its garish purple and orange colors bright amidst the drab surroundings. He drew the pistol again and eased inside the drug store.

An old brass bell chimed over the door as he entered, the air within the store thick with the scent of decaying food. A long, glass counter spanned the left side of the building, shining malt dispensers and candy cases lining the wall behind it. A pair of bare and graying feet protruded from an aisle on the opposite side. The rear of the store was devoted to the pharmacy, and Quinn hurried down the aisle to its white counter.

Rows and rows of shelves holding containers of pills and fluids took up the wide space. A dead computer sat atop a desk and several hundred bright green capsules were scattered on the floor. Quinn stepped on them with a popping sound and began to search the desk’s drawers. He found what he was looking for, not in the desk but hanging from a thin chain attached to one of the shelf ends.

He thumbed through the pharmacy desk reference, its dog-eared pages dry and loud as he turned them. When he reached the section on antibiotics, there were dozens of choices listed. He scanned them, glancing toward the street every few minutes. The names began to blend together, their uses obscure within the subtext of medical language. He concentrated, reading each section thoroughly before moving on. When he saw the words, ‘broad-spectrum’, he drew a line across the page to the corresponding dosage and drug name.

“Ertapenem.” He said the word, its pronunciation like chewing a bite of food too large. “Why the hell can’t they name drugs something normal?” Quinn said under his breath before beginning to scan the shelves.

He found the vial of antibiotic on the bottom of the second shelf. After checking the contents, he grabbed three more bottles, tucking them into a cloth bag he spotted in the corner of the room. On the opposite side of the pharmacy, he found antiseptic, plastic-wrapped syringes, a ream of gauze, as well as a tube of burn cream. He squeezed out some of the paste onto a finger and spread it on his face, sighing with the relief it brought.

Pacing back to the desk, he spotted another row of vials secured within a glass case. When he leaned in closer, he saw they were all opiates, Morphine being the most prominent. He considered taking a few of them but decided against it. He’d been here long enough.

Grabbing a large first aid kit on the way out of the store along with two handfuls of candy bars, he paused, skirting between the aisles to an alcove holding wheelchairs, crutches, and wall full of elastic braces. There was only one of the items he sought, leaning against a row of oxygen tanks. After grabbing it, he hurried toward the door, tucking the white cane beneath his arm, and eased out into the fresh air.

A herd of stilts stood in the center of the nearest intersection.

Quinn froze, his muscles locking against joints.

There were at least thirty of them, the tallest looming above the rest so high he had trouble fathoming how tall it really was. Its head surpassed the second story of the nearest building by at least five feet, its frame so thin and rickety, it swayed with the wind.

The stilts barked and grunted at one another.

Quinn edged backward.

Three feet from the building.

His foot crunched broken glass.

The closest of them began to turn, and he bolted to the door, sliding inside and letting it close, the short jangle of the bell overhead making him wince. His heart banged in his ears covering any sounds from outside. He crouched near the door, peering through the front windows that lined the street.

A spindly leg and torso stepped into view.

Quinn slunk down, hand scrabbling for the lock on the front door, but there was none. It locked from outside. He cradled the bag and cane and crawled forward, skirting a display for shampoo as the door rattled behind him.

He didn’t look back, only moved, ignoring the rustic tinkle of the bell above the door.

It was going to see him.

Quinn slid around the end of the aisle and waited, sweat trickling down his nose, down his spine. Something scraped near the front of the store. The deep croaking filled the space, then silence. He chanced a look around the shelving.

The stilt stood near the door, its long head brushing the ceiling. Its hands clenched and released over and over as it sniffed the air. Smelling. Seeking.

It moved into the aisles, feet rasping on the tile floor. Quinn lunged forward, crawling as quietly as he could to the pharmacy. Then he was through the open door, past the pick-up window, shoulder blades against the desk, breath racing in and out of his lungs. Without waiting, he sidled into the first aisle and made it to the back of the store.

There was no rear exit.

He spun in place, looking for a window, another doorway, anything.

Something tipped over in the front of the store with a crash. He used the cover of the sound to move back along the rows of drugs before setting the bag and cane down. He glanced over the top of the pick-up counter.

The stilt was closer, its long arms sweeping products from shelves as it moved toward the pharmacy. It hissed and pawed at the corpse on the floor before leaning in to feed.

Quinn ducked down, mind racing. He drew out the revolver and stared at it. There was an entire herd outside the door. They would hear a shot. He would be trapped inside as they poured in and eventually tore him apart.

Something shattered, closer this time.

His eyes roamed the space around him. Drugs, shelves, office chairs, the door (mostly glass), a rock painted a multitude of colors on the floor.

He stared at the rock.

It was a doorstop for the pharmacy entrance. It was semi-round and roughly the size of a softball. A sloppy, yellow smiley face was painted in its center.

He snaked a hand out and pulled it to him, waiting for the creature to roar. There was a tinkling of glass and then a loud sneeze. He worked himself beneath the pick-up counter and drew his feet in as footsteps came closer and stopped outside the pharmacy door.

Long seconds ticked by.

The stilt grunted and stepped inside.

He had two rapid heartbeats to decide if he would move or not.

He moved.

Quinn eased out from beneath the counter as the stilt took another step down the closest aisle. He wound back his arm and threw the rock as hard as he could at the back of its head.

The rock flew through the air and connected with the stilt’s skull, the pale, hairless skin there splitting open in a spatter of blood.

It fell forward, trying to grab onto a shelf as it plummeted, but its hand met only empty air. It flattened on the pharmacy floor, arms above its head, blood dribbling down its neck.

Quinn stepped forward, putting the revolver against the slight nub of its ear, but it didn’t stir. Chuffing breaths came out of its nose, and its long fingers twitched.

He turned and picked up the cloth bag along with the cane. Halfway to the front door he slowed, then stopped, staring out of the drug store’s window.

Another stilt was making its way toward the store, its eyes twitching in their sockets as it left the bulk of the herd and moved with long steps in his direction.

“Fuck,” he swore, his voice a hoarse whisper. He ran back the way he’d come and stepped into the pharmacy to see the prone stilt’s eyes beginning to open.

The rock. Where was the rock?

There was a scratching at the front door. The bell tinkled.

The creature before him made a guttural sound in its throat.

His eyes scanned the space around him, seconds ticking down.

Quinn set the bag down and grabbed the biggest syringe he could find off of the counter. Tearing the wrapper off, he knelt before the glass case holding the opiates. His hands shook as he pulled the door open and snatched a vial of morphine from within. Quinn shoved the tip of the syringe into the rubber stopper and drew back the plunger as he crab-walked to the waking stilt’s side.

He jammed the syringe into the monster’s back between its shoulder blades and depressed all of the morphine in one movement.

It stiffened and issued a short grunt. Quinn peeked over the pick-up counter and saw the other stilt standing in the doorway, its head swinging from side to side. The creature before him struggled to get its wide hands beneath its shoulders, but its movements were becoming sluggish. It bared its teeth and found him with its eyes.

They were blue, like Alice’s, like Ty’s.

Its eyelids fluttered, and it gasped for breath, legs sliding along the floor in slow semicircles. He chanced another look over the counter and saw the stilt by the door tilt its head, but its attention was turned to the large group outside that croaked as one, their voices intermingling in a base discord.

The stilt on the floor shuddered, its muscles slackening.

The bell chimed, and the front door closed.

Quinn slumped, sliding down and lying flat. He couldn’t stay here. He had to move. But at that moment, nothing was more right than the chilly tile against his back and his sweat cooling on his skin. When his breathing had returned to normal, he went to the front of the store and looked out.

The street was empty. The intersection where the herd had been was completely vacant.

The sun had dropped below the hill Ferry was built into. The afternoon shade lengthened with each minute. He gazed out at the Honda and then at the street that would take him back toward the recreation area and the lodge where Alice and Ty were waiting.

Time ticked by.

He checked the street every other minute, the bag and Ty’s new cane clutched at his side. He should go now. There hadn’t been any sign of them in at least twenty minutes. They’d moved on. But God, there’d been so many of them. Why were there so many? And why were they moving together?

Quinn unwrapped a candy bar and chewed.

The wind blew ribbons of sand down the open street.

He tossed the wrapper away and stood. The light had weakened. In an hour it would be full dusk.

Quinn re-gripped the bag and cane, keeping the revolver in the opposite hand as he pushed through the door slow enough not to ring the bell. The street was silent, so quiet he could hear the speckling of grit as the wind coasted across the concrete.

The Honda waited for him ten steps away.

He hesitated beneath the colorful awning. His body trembled. Fresh sweat sprung out from every pore.

Quinn launched himself forward, dropping the bag and cane into the rear hauling-bed of the ATV. He jumped into the seat and turned the key. The engine fired. He slammed the vehicle into gear and swung a U-turn in the street, sure that any second a stilt would fall upon him, reach between the protective roll-cage and rip him from the Honda. He would feel its teeth gouging into his skin, sinking through muscle and sinew before it bit through bone.

He swerved around the burnt, black pickups and hammered the gas again, glancing over his shoulder.

Nothing.

No pursuit from any direction.

The town slid past him as he gained speed.

Thirty miles per hour.

Thirty-five.

Forty.

He looked back again as he left Ferry behind, the buildings falling away as he pushed harder on the throttle. He’d made it. They’d moved on. He faced forward, a sigh of relief escaping him.

The tallest stilt stood up from the side of the road where it had been waiting and swiped a giant hand at the ATV.

Quinn cranked the wheel, the Honda listing to the right as the stilt’s hand swept the roll cage, pushing the vehicle all the way over. He clung to the frame, the impact jarring his teeth in their sockets, trying to feed him to the passing pavement. Sparks flew in dazzling showers as the ATV slid off the side of the highway and spun to a stop in the gravel.

Dust was everywhere, in his eyes, his mouth, his nose. His ears rang from the screeching metal, but above it he could hear the stilt’s croak, deeper and more powerful than any he’d heard before. Quinn struggled out of the capsized Honda, his vision blurred by dirt. The stilt was fifty yards away, coming fast. Its arms swung, slender legs pumping, mouth open, teeth waiting.

The gun. Where was the gun?

He scrambled around the ATV. The bag and cane were near the side of the road. The stilt stepped over them and began to run. It moved with a frightening grace, a long marionette in motion. Quinn saw the glint of steel thirty feet from the bag in the center of the highway. He waited until the stilt was upon him, its smell overwhelming.