She got to her feet, fetched the gun from the base of the stairs, and went back up to the landing and into the kitchen where she had been first held captive two days earlier. Other than Butch, who was probably in his room, the house appeared empty. Her backpack, uniform jacket, and shoes were in a corner of the living room, where the family apparently kept the ill-gotten gains they stole from neighbors. She slipped her bare feet, stained red, into her boots, relishing their feel again. Finding a new black tee that said Kimball Football from a large stack of clothes, Melanie swapped out her torn shirt, put on her uniformed jacket and checked out her other supply options, going from stack to stack, like she would in a regular market. Only here, she had earned unlimited store credit. She grabbed a box of granola bars probably pilfered from a nearby mini-mart and shoved them into her backpack with some bottled waters. Not wanting to spend another second here, she slung her pack over her shoulder, grabbed the gun, shoved it into her waistband, and walked out the front door to the street.
The green bands of the auroras had a magical feel tonight. A full moon’s light burned through some of the striations, creating a mystical aura, the green and white light illuminating her path plainly. She marched away from her captivity, relishing every moment of her freedom.
She was headed west. She was headed home.
19.
Getting Help
Carrington was horribly ill, and he knew exactly when and why this happened. A few gulps of water from a stream yesterday was all it took. He wasn’t unaware of the risk, but he had little choice: he was out of water and food, all of it stolen by the highway robbers a few days ago. Without the purifying tablets, also stolen, every drink was potentially poisonous. Dehydration, made worse by his vomiting and a fever brought on by whatever bug he picked from the unfiltered water, was sapping him of energy. He bent over and dry-heaved once more, his body trying to expel what was no longer there.
He righted himself again on the trike, wiped his lips on his forearm, and continued to pedal. It took all his strength to go a few inches before his stomach convulsed again and he had to stop. He stayed bent over this time, exhausted and resting. He needed help soon. His chances of running into someone or some group that would render aid were minimal. The only people he had encountered were those robbers. He was thankful for the good fortune of finding the bicycle tire so quickly, and replacing the flat. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to travel this far.
The retching seemed to have passed, so he sat up again.
Looking up, he saw the town of Laramie before him, and surprisingly it looked like a fairly normal town, almost pre-Event. There was some obvious fire damage on the northern side of town, but very little elsewhere from what he could see. Maybe there was still some sort of community in Laramie, or even one person who would take pity on him. “Just a little farther now,” he told himself.
A faint sound off the road caught his attention. He stopped again—each stop or start took way too much energy.
“Hell…,” a soft voice called from a ditch.
Carrington struggled out of his seat and shuffled slowly toward the sound.
“Help,” the voice, decidedly female, pleaded again. Now, he could see a form: a woman, lying on her back, holding up a red-gloved hand.
He scuttled over to her and knelt. “I’m here. I’ll help you.” He inwardly snickered at this thought, as if he was in any shape to offer help to anyone, much less a half-dead woman. Check that, a mostly dead woman. Her face, hair, and hands were covered in blood, which had long since dried. That face might have been lovely at one time, but now it was puffy with inflammation and serious bruising, all of it screaming of a struggle. Dirt coated her clothes: unremarkable pants and a black high-school T-shirt partially covered by a jacket that looked as if it was from some official organization, but torn and so covered in grime, it was not recognizable.
She attempted to say something and then drifted off. “Great! And how the hell am I supposed to carry you when I can’t even carry myself right now?”
With a harrumph, he grabbed her arms and dragged her to his tricycle. His trike was meant to carry only one person, but he was not going to leave her to die. So, he propped her up and into his seat, where she remained mostly unmoving, her only sign of life her shallow breaths. He slid into the seat from behind her, lifting her onto his lap, supporting her dead weight. Blindly finding the pedals, he inched forward with the last few ounces of energy he had.
They moved slowly down Lincoln Highway and then directly into the city center on Grand Avenue. By all measures, it was an idyllic little western town, especially on this street: a postcard of what the typical Old West towns should look like. It was probably their last hope, because he was on empty.
He passed over some railroad tracks and the crown of a bridge, when he noticed a purposeful grouping of vehicles forming a barricade in the road. He continued forward, hoping there was a way around it. A single gunshot cracked the silence, the bullet striking the asphalt a few feet away from him. Digging into his brakes, he came to a stop almost instantly. If it wasn’t a warning, he and his new friend’s lives were finished.
“State your business,” a high-pitched, screechy voice called out from behind a Chevy Tahoe.
Scratchy wisps of breath were all that would come out of his mouth. He tried once more. “I’m… Dr. Carr-ing-ton… Reid. I’m really si-”
“Carrington Reid? As in the Dr. Carrington Reid?” a jubilant voice asked from behind the several vehicles blocking their way.
“Yes… I am… Dr. Reid.” His words were feeble and hard to hear above the wind washing over this bridge.
“Well I’ll be damned,” came another voice out of group-led murmurs. “Let the man who probably single-handedly saved our town through the gates,” said a deep male voice with a very pronounced Texas drawl.
One of the cars, a little blue Ford Fiesta, rolled just behind the bulk of a late model Chevy Tahoe. It continued its silent march, without the sound of an engine, until it revealed seven or eight people. All had rifles, but all held in a nonthreatening manner. Before allowing himself to pass out he watched a man who wore a giant white Stetson walk through the opening, holding his hand up in the universal sign of “hello.”
His eyes flickered open. Blinking several times, he attempted to orient himself with the gray 1970s popcorn ceiling above.
“Welcome back, Dr. Reid,” said the man wearing the big white Stetson.
He wondered if it was the same day or much later, trying to remember the light outside when he passed out. Then he thought of the woman. He attempted to say something, but nothing came out. His throat felt like coarse sandpaper. “Where is the girl?” The words rubbing the back of his throat came out in harsh whispers.
“Oh, Melanie? She’s a purdy one, your wife is. She’s fully recovered since ya brought her in three days ago. We were worried about you, Dr. Reid. You were one sorry-lookin’ son-a-beach when you ended up on our doorstep. Ya’d a fever of one-hundred-four, but our doc shot ya full of antibiotics and yer fever broke yesterday. We’ve been tryin to let ya sleep. But that filly, she’s been check’n on ya all the time.”