Authors: Margaret Madigan
“Please, God, no.”
My tights were ripped. I probably should have worn something more protective, but I’d opted for the comfort and freedom of tights and a tunic dress. Now I hoped I wouldn’t pay the price for that decision.
“No,” I whimpered, tearing the tights away from my leg. “No, no, no.”
The burning I’d felt was every bit as bad as I feared. Three red scratches ran down the side of my calf. The middle scratch was deepest and beginning to crust with blood. The other two were red, but didn’t appear nearly as deep. If I was unlucky, any one of them might be enough to infect me.
I flopped back in my seat, numb with fear. I could be infected, which meant I’d never finish my work. The thoughts scrabbled through my brain in an unending, unchanging loop, accompanied by a new surge of adrenaline and fresh tears.
I threw the car into drive and took off, trying to outrun my fate.
* * * *
The afternoon had waned when I finally regained enough composure to take in my surroundings. I didn’t recognize the neighborhood. Stopping at the nearest cross street, I looked at the sign, but someone had taped a flyer over it. I checked the area for Infected before I rolled down my window to pull the sheet of paper off the street sign. It was hand written, but new enough that the ink was still crisp and blue
.
Channing and Co.
Hero for hire.
We do your dirty work for you.
No job too big
.
It gave an address somewhere out in the hills. I stared at the flyer while I considered my options. Obviously, I needed help. I couldn’t even forage for supplies without getting infected. I cringed at the reminder that I could be right now. My throat tightened with fresh tears. I still had so much work to do and was running out of time, with maybe even less time now, but I couldn’t do any more work without my journals.
But what if this Channing and Company could help me? It was idiotic to consider, yet I still considered it. What if they were just a bunch of crooks? They could rob me blind, or kill me.
In the end, I had to admit I was way out of my element, but finding the help I needed was worth the risk involved. I didn’t have any choices left.
I climbed painfully out of the Rover, and hobbled to the back seat where I rummaged through the supplies strewn all over my car.
I tossed makeup onto the front passenger seat. Seeing a wrist brace, I snagged it too, along with some disinfectant, bandages and fresh tights. I looked over the pile of firearms, selecting a small handgun. It couldn’t be that difficult to use, right? I fiddled with the revolving bullet receptacle until it fell open, exposing the slots for the ammunition. I opened boxes until I found shells that looked like they would fit. Filling the gun, I reflected that if worst came to worst, I’d point, pull the trigger and hope everything worked out.
Back in the front seat, I dressed my wounds. The brace was a little awkward, but I worked with it until I got it to fit properly. Once my wrist was stabilized I made myself presentable, at least by apocalyptic standards, careful to drape my hair over the cut on my forehead. When I was satisfied with my appearance, I dug through the glove box for a map of LA.
Glancing up at the street sign, then back down at the map, I found both my present location in the 3600 block of MLK and my destination on Glencrest Drive.
The farther I drove toward the hills, the stranger everything looked. Manicured yards had become mini-jungles, growing over fences and walls, working to take back what the city had once claimed as its domain. Patches of green emerged from cracks in the road, forcing me to
take a weaving path as I followed the directions on the flyer. After a long, anxiety-filled drive, I finally arrived at a gated community at the bottom of a steep road.
Large steel gates blocked my way. A guardhouse was set into the rock wall beside the gates. The wall extended beyond the building, out of sight up the road. Useful. It was a fair guess that the Infected couldn’t climb the wall, so all the houses in the community behind it would be pretty secure. All of a sudden my lab looked like second-class accommodation.
Up the hill past the gates, I glimpsed parts of ostentatious mansions perched on the hillside. Despite nature’s attempt to retake the landscaping, the bad times didn’t seem to be so bad for Mr. Channing.
I leaned out to hit the intercom button. “Hello? I’m looking for Channing and Company?”
The intercom crackled with feedback. I waited a moment, but when nobody answered, I pressed it again. “Hello? Is anybody there?”
The intercom crackled again. A male voice came through. “What do you want?”
I pressed my back against the seat and took a deep breath. Someone had answered. I tried to think back to the last time I’d heard another person speak, but couldn’t remember.
“Okay, fine. If you don’t want to talk, get lost.”
I lurched forward to push the button again. “No! I’m here. I’m looking for Channing and Company. I have a job for them.”
“You’ve gotta get through security. Let yourself into the waiting area of the guardhouse. We’ll meet you there.”
The unsettled feeling in my stomach shifted to apprehension. This was probably a really bad idea. I should leave. Now. But if I went home, back to my lab, nothing would change for the better. I couldn’t continue my work without my journals, and I couldn’t get those without help. This was a risk, but I had no real choice except to move forward.
I stuck the gun I’d loaded into the underside of my wrist brace. I might not know how to use the weapon, but it seemed sensible to have some sort of protection. I didn’t want to walk in like a naive victim, even though I was.
Habit had me looking for Infected as I exited my vehicle, but I didn’t see anything other than eucalyptus swaying in the wind. I walked to the guardhouse where people would have been screened to get past the gates to the homes on the hill. Back before the end. Back before the criteria for entering such an exclusive neighborhood
had nothing to do with whether infectious pathogens floated in your blood.
Trying not to limp, or otherwise look like I’d just been pummeled by Infected, I stepped inside. An upholstered bench ran the length of one wall with a small table covered with dusty magazines in front of it. A counter separated the waiting room from another room beyond. The space between the counter and the ceiling was closed off with a large plate glass window. This place had really taken security seriously before the end. Maybe they still did.
I stepped in and closed the door behind me. While waiting for someone to show up, I fiddled with the unfamiliar gun-bulge in my wrist brace.
When I heard a scraping sound, I glanced at the window expecting Mr. Channing, but saw nobody. I frowned, wondering if I’d imagined it, but I knew I’d heard something. Movement caught my eye, lower than I’d expected, and I saw the top of a very short person’s bald head bobbing toward the glass.
I approached the glass where a man was dragging a chair to the window, which explained the scraping sound. He climbed up on it so that he was almost at my eye level. His dark, thick beard covered the entire lower half of his face, more than making up for his lack of hair on top. I couldn’t see his mouth behind the beard, but his eyes weren’t smiling. Not at all.
He stared at me without saying a word.
I hadn’t had a conversation with anyone in so long that I didn’t know where to start, especially with him glaring at me. Apparently, the end of civilization hadn’t changed my lack of ability to deal with people. Still, I had to try, so I pasted a smile on my face, which I hoped was a good way to begin. “Hello. My name is Gwyn. Gwyn Snow. I’m looking for Mr. Channing?”
The short man continued to stare so I brightened my smile and waited.
He shook his head in a barely perceptible motion. “Mr. Channing?”
I nodded. “Yes. I saw his flyer. Hero for hire?”
Comprehension flickered in the man’s eyes. “Oh. What do you need?”
I frowned. “Well, Mr.…” I waited to see if he’d part with a name.
He lifted his chin at me. “My name is Doc.”
“Yes, Mr. Doc. I was hoping to hire Mr. Channing. Is he available?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Depends on what you want him to do. What you’re willing to pay.”
Goodness. “No, Mr. Doc–”
“It’s just Doc. Not Mr. Doc.”
I sighed. “No, Doc. I meant, is he available for me to speak with him?”
“Nope. Not yet. You tell me what you want and what you’ll trade for it. I’ll pass it on. If he’s interested, he’ll speak to you. He’s a busy man.” Doc narrowed his eyes, as though he challenged me to argue.
I didn’t care a jot. If I needed to talk to Doc to get to Mr. Channing, well, I’d talk to him. “All right Mr.–I mean Doc. I need some journals, and they’re where I can’t get at them. I want to know if your company can break into the Paragon Pharmaceuticals lab to get them for me.”
He raised his brows at me. “You want us to break into the Paragon lab to steal some books for you? Why?”
I shook my head. “Not steal. Retrieve. They belong to me.”
He laughed, long and rumbling. “Yeah, sweetie. That’s what they all say. Why do you need the books?”
I flung my hands up in frustration. “Does it matter? I need them and I’m willing to pay your company to go get them.”
His eyes went cold, giving me the horrible feeling I’d said something wrong, losing my only chance for help. His hand went under the counter. I heard the snick of a lock in the door behind me. I whirled around and darted for the door, but when I jiggled the handle I realized it was locked. Dashing back to the glass I stared through it at Doc.
“Let me out!”
He shook his head, his eyes turning sad. “Sorry miss. You’re stuck for the time being. How did you get hurt?”
He must have seen my wrist, or maybe my head wound. He had to assume I was infected. With good reason. I very well could be.
I dropped my head to the glass, not meeting his eyes. I wasn’t interested in the pity lurking there. There was nothing more useless.
“I was foraging and ran into some trouble. The wrist is just a sprain. But I got scratched. I think I’m okay, but I know there are no guarantees.” I lifted my chin. “I have to be fine. I have work to do.”
“When did you get scratched?”
I looked at the floor. “Earlier today.”
He nodded. “Okay. We’ll know for sure by tomorrow. If you don’t turn zombie, what do you have to trade for the journals?”
I jerked my head up, ridiculously filled with hope. He wasn’t going to just throw me out.
“I have a little food. Rice, beans, macaroni and cheese?” He didn’t look particularly interested, so I went down the list. “I have some firearms and ammunition…”
There it was. A spark of interest.
“What kind of guns? How much ammo?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure what they are. Long ones with two barrels, some with one barrel, two handguns, and bullets in all sizes, two boxes of each. But if you want the guns you have to teach me how to use one because I lost my baseball bat when this happened.”
When I waved my wrist brace at him in illustration, the gun came flying out, skittering across the floor and hitting the wall.
I held my breath, waiting for his reaction. He looked blank for a moment, before his rumbling laughter started again.
Was it proper protocol to apologize after you’ve flung a firearm across the room? With one look at him, I decided against it. I’d just let him wind down on his own.
When he finished laughing at me, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Sweetheart, you’re a menace, but I really hope you don’t go zombie on me.”
Should I say thank you? It was a good wish, right?
Doc hopped off the chair to leave, but paused to look up at me. “You’re in quarantine. We’ll see tomorrow if we can do business. But in the meantime, I’ll send Mr.
Channing
to meet with you.”
I stared after him as he walked away, leaving me shut in the little room. When he was gone, I found the gun lying on the floor in disgrace. I stooped to pick it up, then shoved it back into my wrist brace. I’d have to remember not to fling my arms around if I didn’t want a repeat of that disaster.