Forager (9781771275606) (23 page)

It was slow, but it was working. I took up the hammer and went
back at it.

I don’t know how long I pounded those bricks. It was long
enough that the sharp sting of flying concrete no longer bothered
me.

The hammer punched through the back of the block. It wasn’t
enough to get my hand through, but I was close. Just a few more
swings.

When I was satisfied the hole was big enough, I dropped the
hammer. The rough edges of my excavation scraped across my forearm
as I slid it slowly through the hole, forcing my arm in to the
shoulder. The painted steel door was cool to the touch
as my groping fingers searched for the thumb lock
I hoped was there.

Up, down, and sideways, I reached. I couldn’t find the
lock.

Great. What a waste of time. Now what am I going to
do?

I began to pull my arm out of the hole when something banged
against my wrist. Pulling my arm back a bit further, I felt the
thumb latch under my fingers. I breathed a sigh of relief and
turned the lock.

Click.

I pulled my arm out of the hole too hard and too fast. The
rough concrete gouged my forearm. More blood leaked out of me, but
I didn’t care. I was too busy looking at the door.

It was swinging open.

Right away, I put the hammer between the open door and the
doorframe. I wasn’t sure if the door would lock if it closed, but
sticking my arm through that hole again wasn’t on my top ten
to-do’s.

I wanted to rush right in to explore, but charging in
blindly—literally—was a terrible idea. With my luck, I’d knock over
a shelf and damage whatever medicines might be in there, if there
were any inside.

It was time to find out.

Reaching in my pocket for a box of matches, I began striking
them. I went through the entire box and was halfway through the
next before a flame flared. I relit the candle and walked
in.

The room was a small cube. I was about an arms-length shy of
being able to reach from one wall to its opposite in every
direction. Metal racks crammed full of glass bottles, plastic
containers, and cardboard boxes of every size stood against two
walls. The third wall was littered with empty bags, marked for
flour, rice, and beans. The fourth was covered by gun cabinets. A
small wooden table with a single chair sat in the middle of the
room. Piled on the table, chair, and the floor around them were
boxes of ammunition.

Turning in a full circle, I let the candle light up as much of
the room as it could. I noticed the crumbs of concrete that
littered the floor under my hole. Had I made my opening six inches
to the left, I’d have destroyed a shelf of bottles.

All of the boxes, bottles, and containers were labeled. Not
that I could read them. The names were eighteen letters long and
they all seemed to have an X or a Z in them. The sight of those
names doubled my already racing heartbeat. Grabbing the closest
box, I set it on the floor, and opened it with slow, steady
fingers. As excitement coursed through my blood, I remembered to
stay calm. I didn’t want to damage whatever might be
inside.

Within were four quart-sized plastic containers. I took one
out and held it close to the candle. This wasn’t the small blue
pill bottle I was expecting. Around the container’s neck, a strip
of clear plastic sealed the contents. It took a bit of prying and
tearing with my fingernails to get the strip off. I unscrewed the
top and poured some of the contents into my hand.

“
Yes!” I exhaled in satisfaction.

In my hand were half a dozen small capsules, red on one half,
white on the other.

I looked in awe at the packed shelves. The entire inventory
from the pharmacy was at my fingertips.
Now
to find the right medicine for Sawyer. I pulled the papers out of
my shirt and, with the aid of the candle, began to read.

I wasn’t a doctor. I didn’t understand most of the
information. There were more than a hundred different kinds of
antibiotics listed. How was I ever going to know which one Sawyer
needed? Even if this room only held half of them,
there was no way to bring it all back. Worse
still, how much medicine was enough? Would one pill do the job, or
did I need fifty. There was no way to know, but I didn’t
want to leave any of
them behind.

I walked the shelves, comparing the names on my pages to the
names on the products. Every time I found one that matched, I set
it on the floor. It was slow work until I realized the medicines on
the shelves were arranged alphabetically. That helped a lot, but I
still moved a lot of containers to get to the right meds that
rested behind or under other medicines.

My candle was more than half gone by the time I stopped
looking. I had twenty-two choices. Fifteen were packets of pills
individually encased in plastic bubbles. Six were in sealed
quart-sized containers. And the last was a half full box of tubes
that I guessed held some kind of cream.

One glance at the pile on the floor showed me the saddlebags
wouldn’t hold everything. I needed to find some way to carry it
all.

I’d seen some plastic feed sacks in the garage when I searched
it earlier. They might work, but they were old. I’d prefer
something less prone to falling apart.

Time slipped away. I needed to be back before Dr. White
started sawing on Sawyer’s leg. I hurriedly searched the rest of
the basement. At one point the flame of the candle and the
blackness of the night turned a walk-out sliding glass door into an
imperfect mirror. For a heartbeat I didn’t know I was looking at
myself. My hair stuck out every which way, and the distorted image
of my face appeared wavy and splotchy. When I realized it was my
own reflection, I swallowed my heart and moved on. Eventually, I
found myself back at the stairs. Instead of wasting more time
searching, I’d get the bags from the garage.

My hand was on the door to the garage when the candle flame
reflected off the polished side of the five-gallon stockpot. I
smacked my forehead, grabbed the pot and its lid, and rushed back
down the stairs.

I filled the pot with the meds. I needed to get back to
Sawyer, but I knew the mayor and Frank would have lots of questions
about the guns and ammo. Pulling open the glass doors of each of
the cases, I began counting. Pistols, shotguns, and rifles
abounded. No wonder there were so many boxes of bullets.

All those guns made me think of Chane. I pictured myself
riding Fred through the Scavengers camp with pistols blazing. In my
mind, I reached for Chane’s outstretched hand, pulling her into the
saddle behind me. I could almost feel her arms wrap around my chest
and the weight of her head as she laid it against my shoulder. It
was a great image, but unfortunately I didn’t have the time to
dwell on it.

I knew I should grab everything I could carry, but the pot
wasn’t bottomless,
and Millie was getting
her new knives.
I could hear the mayor saying, “You idiot! You brought back
cooking knives, when you could have brought back guns?” I didn’t
care. Millie spent so much time looking out for me, it was time I
did something for her.

I took one handgun, the one that most looked like Sawyer’s
broken pistol. I started a quick search of the ammunition. Two
boxes I first took to be bullets were actually unopened packages of
rechargeable batteries. Next to them was a hand-crank generator. I
slipped several packages of batteries into the pot. The generator
was too big to take.
Searching through the
boxes of bullets, I eventually found the right ones for the pistol.
The bullets and the gun went into the pot.

Gathering Sawyer’s bulbs and wires, I stuffed them in his
saddlebag. Then I rushed up the stairs with my arms full and
stopped at the kitchen counter for the knives. Some of the longer
ones wouldn’t fit, but in the end I stowed nine good sharp
knives.

And yes, I cut myself.

After thinking about it, I decided to tie the pot and its
contents by itself, and use one of the feed sacks from the garage
for the rest of my haul.

Fred woke again when I attached the saddlebag. She snorted
and stamped her hoof.
I was sleeping!
I patted her on the shoulder. “You’re not
going to like going back to town tonight either, but we gotta do
it.”

I struggled to tie the stockpot onto the saddle. It took
several tries, but in the end a cleverly tied rope around the
stockpot, over the lid, and through the pommel did the trick. I
used the last of my rope to fasten the sack behind me.

One final trip back to the house to lock up and put the key
back under the rock, and I was done.

Fred snorted again. This I took as,
Do we really have to do
this?

“
Sorry, Fred, but if you ever want Sawyer back in the saddle
with both legs still attached, we’ve got to hurry.”

Horses weren’t supposed to be able to understand humans, not
their words, anyway, but her agreeable whinny made me wonder.
Riding her down the gravel drive, we turned out onto the road.
Having the big pot in front of me wasn’t comfortable, but at least
I didn’t have to worry about it falling off.

Without the moon in sight, I looked around in the sky for the
Big Dipper and the North Star, glad I’d listened when the teacher
explained how they moved. Going by their position, I guessed that
dawn wasn’t far off. I’d been in the house longer than I’d
realized.

Dr. White said that if Sawyer’s leg wasn’t better by today he
would have to amputate. He hadn’t said what time, but the doctor,
like most of the townsfolk, was an early riser.

I nudged Fred into a trot. It wasn’t quick enough to get us to
town before sunrise, but going any faster was too risky. The
stockpot was awkward, I wasn’t a great rider, and Sawyer would
never forgive me if something happened to Fred, even if the
medicines worked.

The only thing that kept me awake was being in the saddle, and
even with Fred trotting my eyelids wanted to droop. Was it possible
to fall asleep on horseback? The quiet didn’t help. The only sound
was Fred’s hooves. All else was silence. Not a bird sang or cricket
chirped. No howls from the coyotes. No breeze rustling dead leaves,
nothing. It was like the land was holding its breath, waiting to
see if I’d make it back in time.

My mouth was cotton ball-dry and tasted of concrete dust. I
wanted a drink. Fred could probably use one too, but I wasn’t about
to stop now.

The darkness gently faded. As the minutes wore on I began to
see farther. “C’mon Fred,” I said and kicked her into a canter.
Putting one hand around the big pot, I held on tight to the reins
with the other.

We made excellent time, and before long the underground home
came into view. Minutes later we turned onto the asphalt. The top
arc of the sun cleared the horizon. I had to hurry. For all I knew,
Dr. White was already holding a bone saw in his hand and Sawyer was
strapped to the operating table.

We were coming up on the outskirts. This wasn’t the slow, easy
approach of yesterday’s ride. Thoughts of the mayor skittered
through my mind. I pushed them aside. There would be time to deal
with consequences later. After Sawyer got his medicine.

I ran Fred all the way through town. We passed several people
on the street. A few of them shouted at us, but we were moving too
fast for me to understand them. A growl rumbled through my stomach.
I shrugged it off. There wasn’t time to be hungry. Later, after I’d
delivered Sawyer’s meds, I could stop and see Millie. I let myself
picture the shine in her blue eyes when I traded the stockpot and
knives for my breakfast plate.

We rounded a corner, the infirmary now in sight. When we
finally arrived, I spent forever untying the knots holding the
stockpot and the sack to the saddle. Jumping off Fred,
I ran to the door fumbling with the pot and the
sack. Prying the door open I flew through the doorway
and ran up the
stairs and down the long hallway to Sawyer’s room.

I crashed my shoulder into the door. It hit the inside wall
with a bang. I stepped into the room with the good news ready to
burst from my lips.

That was also where it died. Sawyer wasn’t there. Instead,
sitting there looking straight at me, were Frank and the
mayor.

For a full second I stood in the doorway. Where was Sawyer?
What were Frank and the mayor doing in his room? What was going
on?

My feet worked faster than my brain. I sprinted down the
hallway still holding the stockpot.

“
Dillon, wait!” The mayor’s voiced chased me down the
hallway.

I didn’t stop. My brain caught up with my feet. If Sawyer
wasn’t in his room, there was only one other place he’d be. In
surgery. The thud of heavy footsteps echoed behind me. A glance
back showed Frank and the mayor charging down the hallway behind
me. I had to reach Sawyer. I didn’t have the time or the breath to
explain that I wasn’t running away from them, I was running to
Sawyer.