"No Granny. Think Molotov, not Martini." He grinned quickly. "Now if we can get someone to run across the street and get us some supplies, we’d be perfect. Any volunteers?"
"You want us to go outside?" Gert asked.
"We’re gonna have to sooner or later. I mean, we’re going through salt like a fast food franchise. It's the only thing we got going for us, and the longer we stay here without finding a way to replenish our stores, the harder it's going to be to leave."
MacHenry stood and stalked across the room. He paused in front of the picture of The Screamer for a moment, then turned. "How do we know we can trust you?"
Buckley shrugged. "I’ve been drinking and eating extra salt. I think I’ve slowed down the process."
"What's to keep you from going crazy?"
"I don't know, Gert. I mean, maybe maggies affect people differently. Maybe I'll never go crazy. Maybe this is crazy. Maybe my entire idea is crazy, I just don’t know."
"Okay. I trust you, but we all have to agree." MacHenry turned to the rest of the group. "This is still a democracy, grant you a small one, but a democracy none-the-less. So what say everyone?"
Little Rashad stood before he spoke. "I trust Mr. Adamski."
"I trust him too," Sissy said softly.
Even Gert agreed, but worry clouded her gaze.
But Samuel was another matter. He stepped forward and sneered. "You killed my girl because she was infected. I feel like I should kill you the same. It'd be fair. No one would even have the right to stop me." He took another step forward. "You know that you deserve to die, don't you?"
Buckley held the boy's gaze for a moment then nodded solemnly.
Samuel shook his head. "By all rights I could kill you and it'd be no different than what you did to Lashawna. She deserved better. You didn’t know her, but she was special. More than that, she was my girl. But I think you’re our best chance. I think you’ll make the difference between living and dying. And fuck if I like it." Samuel's sneer fell into a frown as he whispered, "Fuck you Buckley Adamski. Count me in, too."
After a moment, MacHenry turned to the old woman. "How about you Grandma?"
Grinning wickedly, Grandma Riggs quoted Thomas. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
MacHenry rolled his eyes. "She’s loaded. Smoked too much of that shit."
"No, she ain't," Little Rashad squeaked. “I mean, yes she is, but she means yes too. Her vote is for Mr. Adamski."
Gert shook her head as if to try and rattle the words into place. "I don't get it."
"She says don’t die easy," the boy explained. "She means we should keep Mr. Adamski around."
Everyone stared first at Grandma Riggs who smiled and bobbed her head to some private rhythm, then at Little Rashad, clearly unable to come to terms with how the boy was able to translate the old woman's apparently insane rants. Finally MacHenry broke the silence. "Well, there we go. Buckley, you have a reprieve. As long as you help us, we’ll let you live. Fuck up once and we kill you. Can you live with that?"
Buckley shrugged. "Even better, I can die with it."
MacHenry stepped back and held out his hand. "Then the floor’s yours again."
"Right." Buckley got to his feet, the salt sheeting off him and pooling at his feet as if he'd just popped free from an hour glass. "In that case, who’s coming with me?"
Everyone found a spot to stare into, but no one spoke up. Even Grandma was silent.
"Come on. What have you got to lose? Come with me and you have a chance. Stay here you're dead."
"How do you know that?" Gert stood, her hands on her hips. "Maybe Samuel’s right, Mr. Adamski. Maybe the only threat to us surviving is you. You're the only one infected. Maybe we should do with you what we did with that girl, or even that dead boy you've been sitting on."
MacHenry reached out to grab her, but she jerked away. "No! I won't shut up. Maybe these things will go away. Maybe they'll move on. Look around you. We've managed to fortify this place so that even the flies can't get in. I've lived in North Carolina for forty years and never once had a place without flies." Her face red, a tear coursed down her cheek.
"And maybe they won't go away," Buckley countered. "Maybe they're moving through the streets, searching everywhere for food. Maybe they're hungry, starving even. Maybe, just maybe," he said licking his lips and making sure everyone was looking at him, "we're the only food left in the entire city and every maggie within twenty miles is heading in our direction."
"You don't know that." Her fear made her ugly.
"Just like you don't know that you'll remain safe in here. Sure it looks good now, but what will you do when you run out of food or water, which, eventually, will happen. What then?"
"We'll make that decision when we come to it,” Gert held fast.
"By then you may not be able to." He lowered his voice. "Listen Gert. I'm dying here. There's little chance I'm going to recover, and even less chance I'll make it all the way to the ocean, but I'm willing to help everyone if I can. Sure it would be easier to let Samuel kill me or have me walk out into the hall to be with Sally. Sometimes when the salt in my gut is trying to claw back up, and the maggies are snap-crackle-popping out of my skin I wished I was dead. But what I'm talking about is a chance to live. You do want to live, don't you?"
"Of course I want to live," she scoffed. "Don't treat me like a child."
"How much of a chance are you going to have to live when I'm dead, Grandma begins screaming from the pain when she runs out of crack, and one of you gets hurt, or worse, infected? Right now we're as strong as we're going to get. Every second after this one we're getting weaker."
"But I don't want-" She never finished, instead she covered her face, her hands hiding the sobs that racked her shoulders.
Buckley stepped across the line of salt and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I know, Gert. You shouldn't have to lose him. Listen, I'll go alone. I think I can make it. It's only just down the street, anyway."
MacHenry slid next to Gert and put his arms around her. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in the crux of his shoulder. Buckley backed away and allowed them what privacy they could get.
"I'm going with you," Samuel said.
"What?"
"You heard me. I'm going too. You can't do this alone. For these folks to survive, you're going to need me."
"Okay." Buckley nodded, happy that he wasn't going by himself. "Just so you stay in front where I can cover you."
"I don't think so. You stay in front. I don't want you going crazy on me."
"Fine, but I get the shotgun.”
"No problem," Samuel grinned, as he held up both of Bennie's 9mm pistols. "I get these muthas."
CHAPTER 17
There was a time when Sissy had wanted to be a school teacher. Her mother, her father, even her grandmother had told her that she'd be great with kids. So it was her lot growing up she'd been just a little more responsible than everyone else. When the other girls went to dances, she'd stayed home reading. When classmates called her for the rare sleepover-invite, she'd always declined, remembering how her mother ascribed association with the other girls as a 'slippery slope to dangerous waters,' as if the girls were crocodiles and she were the wayward lamb limping naively along the shore.
Her life had already been mapped out for her. Four years at Converse College, the all girls' institution in Spartanburg, South Carolina and her mother's Alma Matter. After that it was on to graduate school at Vassar, then on to a fellowship at Biltmore Academy for Girls located west of Ashville in the Smokey Mountains. All Sissy Buchanan had to do was show up, be polite, smile nicely and her future was secured. Sure she'd never been on a date with a boy, and sure she'd never gone to the movie theater, but that was a small price to pay for such a perfect future.