Steve followed him outside. “Did you have any idea their supplies would be so low?”
They walked briskly across the main street and then continued parallel to it, along an invisible path Wilber knew well.
“No, not this quickly.” Wilber checked both ways before crossing the next street, probably out of force of habit, but also out of a feeling of being watched. “There’s more going on here. His meds were stolen. He did tell me this — course I’ve known him his whole damn life. That’s how I knew. There’s something wrong in this town and somehow Doc’s involved. We need to hurry.” His pace quickened, and Steve with him.
“And what happens if we can’t find Doc or any antibiotics there?” Steve figured he knew the answer but he asked anyway.
“With your father’s fever, I just don’t know. Let’s hope Doc can help. He’s one of those family doctors, just as liable to give ya can of Coke for a stomach ache as he is to give ya a drug. So, let’s see what he says first before we worry more.”
Wilber halted at a turn-of-the-century clapboard house, its shutters recently dressed in smart blue and white paint. On the post above the entrance hung a hand-carved sign that read in block letters, EUGENE REYNOLDS M.D. Were it not for the fresh colors, Wilber always thought it looked just like the old store signs seen in western movies that read “Bank” or “Saloon.”
“Damn,” Wilber blurted, looking at the entrance. Jagged glass teeth lined the top third of the door where a window had been. Wilber knocked hard. “Doc? Are you in there? It’s Wilber.” He tried to look through the mouthlike opening, his view blocked by a white linen tongue.
Poking through the drapes, a fat double-barreled coach gun broke the illusion. It glared at Wilber with its two dark, unblinking eyes. Their gaze held Wilber’s as they slid sideways, knocking a tooth out of the window, and drawing the drapes aside to reveal Doctor Reynolds’s scowling face.
“Good God Almighty, Doc. You just about gave me a heart attack. Are you all right?”
The doc sneered at Wilber’s unknown friend, and said nothing.
Realizing Doc’s trepidation, Wilber introduced his companion. “This is Steve Parkington. His dad needs your help. They crashed on my farm in a private plane, knocked out of the sky by the same shit that turned off our power. I stitched their wounds, but John, his father, I think has a bad infection and he’s allergic to penicillin and that’s all I got for my family. Can I trade you for an alternative? I’ve got some of O’s famous canned peaches. I know how much you love those.” Wilber stopped and waited to see Doc’s reaction.
“Come in,” Doc said gruffly, withdrawing into the darkness. The lock’s tumbler disengaged and the heavy wood door swung inward slowly.
Accepting the invitation, Wilber and then Steve stepped inside, shutting the door behind them.
Even in the dim light, Steve noticed the foyer was far more ornate than he would have guessed based on the home’s plain exterior: elegant, stained oak floors; a palatial staircase of the same oak with oriental runners up the middle, fastened with polished brass bolts that reflected the window’s limited light. The twenty-foot-high tin ceiling was outlined with intricate molding; from it hung a giant chandelier which, judging by its size must have given off an amazing amount of light when they had power.
Wilber watched the doc as he stood in the darkest corner of the hallway, waiting until they both focused on him.
“I have an ample supply of erythromycin, and a few other drugs here, all well hidden. You can have those and you can have me, but we come with conditions. Are you prepared to negotiate?” Doc stood, unmoving, his features still mostly hidden by the darkness, the business end of his gun pointed downward—ready to be brought to bear in an eyeblink.
“Cut the crap, Doc, it’s me, Wilber. You brought me into this world and fixed every broken bone in mine and O’s bodies, not mention you birthed our son Buck. This no-power thing sucks, I know, but what the hell is going on?”
Doc’s voice cracked a little as he spoke. “They killed my dog, Wilber. Ma loved that dog, and … when I lost her two years ago, that stupid mutt, it was her dog, but it was all I had left of her.” He paused for a moment and regained some composure. “It was that Randall boy who killed her and then his slaves broke into here yesterday and stole all the meds in my drug cabinet.” He motioned with the gun toward his office, which was out of their line of sight. “Then, at gunpoint, Randall made me fix a gunshot wound one of his slaves probably got from breaking into someone else’s home. I’m not happy to say, the kid died because he followed Randall’s orders.” He paused once more.
Wilber knew Bart Randall very well; he was the town bully, who had beaten him up a few times when they were in school together and threatened him a couple of times as an adult. He was a loud-mouthed drunkard, and probably someone who was ecstatic when the accountability of the old order disappeared. With guns and manpower, what Doc called “slaves,” Bart could do what he wanted when he wanted.
“Anyway, it’s not safe anymore in this town with those thugs roaming the streets killing and shooting whomever they want. So, if you want me and the drugs, you’ll have to take me in, as well as Emma and Robert Simpson. She’s in the later stages of cancer, as you know, and I don’t want her to die at the hand of that little shit’s evil. I’ll take care of Emma, and Robert’s good with his hands on a farm. We just need a little food and a roof over our heads; other than that, we won’t be a burden.”
There it was. Wilber had known this day would come. He’d told himself that they would only take in family, if they showed up when the shit hit the fan, but not anyone else. That plan had crashed in on him from the skies ten days ago. It was unlikely that his family out west—who prepped better than he did and owned their own ranch—or Olivia’s family back east would show up. Doc was good people and was just like family. Besides, he would be very useful to have around, as would Robert, who he had heard was a hard worker. And, Emma was one of O’s best friends…. “You’ve got a deal, Doc.”
They all agreed to meet in half an hour at the crossroads just outside town. Doc and the Simpsons would bike down a small dirt road there so they would not be seen. This would give Wilber and Steve enough time to make one more stop before heading out.
About fifteen minutes later, after they bartered for some candy for Buck from Dingles, which was otherwise cleaned out like all the rest of the stores, they headed for the crossroads. At the building on the edge of town, maybe twenty yards before the turn down the long road back home, stood Bart Randall and two others, all armed and watching their approach.
“Follow me,” Wilber said and abruptly turned down a small alley between two buildings. Steve pedaled right behind him.
“Hey Wright! Stop, you little shit. You think you can get away from me?” yelled a shaky voice. Randall was chasing them on foot.
“You know these alleys?” Steve asked.
Just like that, they ducked down another alley and then into an even narrower walkway, barely wider than their handlebars. Steve pedaled with all he had to keep up, turning into the walkway just before Randall and one of his crew reached the alley. Steve focused on keeping his handlebars between the walls, knowing a bump and a loss of balance would have a deadly outcome. He looked up and saw Wilber’s back tire turning down another alley, back in the direction they had come from.
Steve felt his right handle lightly scrape the wall. With a jerk he corrected just as he came out of the walkway and turned into the alley, now about twenty feet from Wilber. They could hear their pursuer’s footsteps echoing in the other alley, and then they stopped. Randall’s voice floated to them. “You, go down there.” Then, the footfalls started up again.