Desolation

He let out two breaths and then died.

Upon reaching her brother she asked, “Danny, are you all right?”

Kneeling beside his bed, he desperately attempted to take air into his lungs. The terror and excitement brought on an asthma attack.

“Danny, it’s all over,” she said quietly, trying to get his attention. “You need to breathe. Breathe like we practiced.” She said this while she reached in her bag and grabbed a glow stick. She snapped and shook it, and the room instantly brightened as if lit by a giant firefly. Danny looked paler still, but she didn’t know if it was from the light or his attack or both. She grabbed her bottled water, threw some of the capsicum powder she’d found earlier into it, and shook the bottle hard.

“Drink this.”

He grabbed the bottle with weak fingers and tried to drink, but most of the water was pouring out on him. She held the bottle and his hands as he gulped, coughing.

“Hot,” he said breathlessly.

“I know, kiddo, but it will help. Please drink some more,” she said as she tilted the bottle back, guiding more liquid down his throat. His breathing slowed.

“Okay, Danny, do what I showed you, with the breathing. Breathe-in-breathe-out,” she repeated, and he followed. His breathing slowed some more.

“Hot, my mouth is hot,” he complained.

She reached in his bag, pulled out his own bottle, and said, “Here, this is regular water.”

His breathing slowed some more as he took several gulps.

“I wet myself,” he said glumly.

“I think I did too.”

11. Seeking Help

Fossil Ridge, Illinois

“We have nothing you need,” the pharmacist announced to Wilber as soon as the over-the-door bell jingled, even before Wilber opened his mouth. That struck Wilber as odd. He’d known Fred since birth. The young man’s voice quavered, when he usually spoke with such confidence, and his “Hello my name is Fred” badge was pinned upside down on a rumpled shirt that was usually pressed with distinct creases. Fred’s statement seemed true enough based on the bare shelves behind him—unless Wilber had a prescription for suppositories or heavy-duty vitamins, more suited to four-legged creatures than people.

“Wow, I can see that. At least tell me if Doc Reynolds is at home or is he making a house call now?” Wilber asked carefully, his tone reserved, not revealing he knew Fred was hiding something.

“Hell, Wilber, do I look like Doc’s secretary?” he shot back. In fact, Fred usually knew exactly where Doc was, calling him multiple times each day. Fred was more store manager than part-time pharmacy tech, and often relied on the doc’s advice when it came to recommending OTC medications and verifying whether prescriptions were legit.

“Thanks, Fred!” Wilber said, already walking away; he wanted to get moving to cure the apprehension he was feeling about Doc, and what was going on in the town.

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.