Pathogen - Chapter 11

“Well,” Aaron announced as he rubbed his hands, sticky from the pilfered apple, on his jeans, “That’s that then.”

“That’s pretty insensitive,” Grace glared daggers at her friend.

Aaron shrugged in response. The old bat had shot at him, and he didn’t feel he owed anyone an apology. Casting about, he looked to see if there was more food nearby. Getting shot at had given him a powerful hunger.

“We should get to work,” Steve decided, yet still thought his friend was being callous, “I’ll look around for some medicine.”

“What, are you a doctor all of a sudden?” Grace couldn’t help asking, “What makes you qualified for that?”

“I’m certified to give first aid,” Steve explained.

“You took a six hour course that work paid for,” Grace argued hotly.

Steve shrugged, “It’s not like I’m looking for tools to do heart surgery or anything. Just a first aid kit and ibuprofen or something.”

Grace threw her hands up in frustration. Everyone was getting on her nerves today. She wandered away without another word. Telling herself she was going to see if there were more bullets for the rifle she’d wrestled from Mrs. Withers, she had to admit she just needed to cool off.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Steve announced.

“That’s a good place to find a first aid kit,” Cliff nodded.

“That’s also true,” Steve agreed.

Not wanting to think about that, Cliff retreated to the kitchen. Aaron was standing in front of the open fridge, half leaning on the door and rubbing his belly. He was a scrawny kid, but he sure could put away the food. Cliff realised they were probably going to need a lot of food to keep their appetites in check.

“The non-perishables are probably in the cupboard,” Cliff suggested.

Aaron wasn’t really paying attention, preoccupied with mentally building a sandwich. The old lady had a well stocked fridge, but he couldn’t find a fancy mustard. The sandwich would have to wait.

“I wonder how much food we need,” Cliff pondered aloud as he scanned the shelves in the cupboard, “I read somewhere that when you’re preparing for a disaster, you should have three cans of food per day.”

“Really?” Aaron asked, “I could probably eat that in a sitting.”

Cliff sighed, because he knew it was most likely true. He wondered how Aaron would react to rationing. Poorly, he decided. They would need a lot of food or else they’d have to listen to Aaron complain until the moment they were rescued. Cliff walked away to find something to put their provisions in, and Aaron stepped up to look in the cupboards for a snack.

“Fuck yeah,” he practically whooped.

“What?” Cliff whirled around, curious about what had excited him so.

“Beans,” Aaron explained, holding a mason jar full of green and yellow vegetables, “My grandmother used to make her own preserves. If these are half as good as hers, we’ve got it made.”

Cliff tried to imagine the four of them cooped up in a hiding hole, eating beans all day. Grace would probably kick them out before the first day was out. Shaking his head with a laugh, he walked away. There was a closet near the front door, and Cliff was sure he could find something to carry their supplies in there. He was not disappointed. The Withers were the sort of people who brought their own bags shopping with them. They had their pick of canvas totes and reusable plastic, as well as a basket on wheels which was intended to be pulled behind the owner.

“You know,” Aaron had approached Cliff and was presently fishing a bean pod out of his jar, “One of us should keep a lookout. In case the zombies come strolling up the street.”

Cliff tried to think how useful a lookout would be this foggy night. Then he considered how useful Aaron would be as they looked for supplies. With their luck, he’d be eating as fast as he was stockpiling.

“You’re right,” Cliff nodded, “Why don’t you go upstairs and keep an eye on things?”

Aaron nodded as he chewed, and wandered up the stairs. He remembered there was a window in the hallway that overlooked the front street, so he took up a position there. Leaning against the window frame, he happily munched on some more beans as he watched the street.

Not far from Aaron’s perch, Steve was washing his hands. A wave of nausea had passed over him as he’d entered the bathroom, but he fought every urge to retch up his dinner. Steve decided he must be coming down with the flu, and his body sure had picked a fine time for it. Regarding himself in the mirror over the sink, Steve realised he looked like hell. His skin had an awful grayish pallor, and he had broken out into a sweat that had plastered his hair to his face.

Splashing some cool water on his face, Steve hoped he’d be well enough to travel when it was time to leave. It’d be awkward if his friends were forced to leave him behind with only a psychotic septuagenarian and her zombie husband for company. Shaking his head, he banished the thought and popped open the medicine cabinet.

Dozens of bottles lined the shelves in the tiny medicine cabinet. He knew he couldn’t carry them all in his arms, so he pulled the bag out of the wastebasket beneath the sink and picked up the bin. The bag upended, spilling its contents on the floor. Steve looked at the balled up tissues and cotton swabs. The bathroom had an austere cleanliness about it before he’d upset it, and he felt guilty for ruining the old lady’s housekeeping. With a sigh, he bent down and cleaned up his mess.

Returning to the cabinet, he realised that most of the medicines were useless to him. Vitamins, estrogen, and denture polish stared back at him. He snatched up the bag again, and started tossing the rejected bottles within. They didn’t need iron supplements, or multivitamins. He discarded a cheap razor and two well worn toothbrushes.

By the time he was done rejecting medicines, Steve realised he had precious little left in the cabinet. All that remained for medicine was a half empty bottle of aspirin and a jar of iodine. He shuddered as he thought about the time he skinned his knee as a child playing at his grandmothers. She’d seen fit to clean that most minor injury with iodine. Since that day, Steve knew he’d rather have a root canal without anaesthesia instead of using iodine again.

Gritting his teeth, Steve placed the jar of iodine in the empty wastebasket. He hoped he wouldn’t need it. Pilfering the rest of the contents of the medicine cabinet, Steve made off with the aspirin, some toothpaste without brushes, and floss. Stepping into the hall with his basket of stolen medicines, Steve happened upon Aaron standing watch at the window.

“Keeping a lookout?” he asked. Aaron nodded and munched on another bean. “What did you find there?” Steve asked as he gestured with his head at the jar of beans.

“Home canned beans,” Aaron explained, “I think the old bat grew them herself.”

“Oh man, are there more?” Steve asked excitedly, “My grandmother used to make her own preserves, you know. I haven’t had them in forever.”

“Mine too,” Aaron beamed, “And yeah, there’s more in the kitchen.”

Hurrying down the stairs, Steve had to make sure there would be homegrown produce in their rations. He found Cliff in the kitchen, filling bag after bag with canned goods. Cliff looked up as Steve walked in.

“I heard there were beans,” Steve announced.

Cliff nodded, “Sure are. Looks like the old lady canned her own beans, pickles, and beets.”

Steve’s jaw dropped, “She’s got beets too? I’m glad we chose this house.”

“You mean the house where the old lady tried to kill us?”

“It was worth it.”

Cliff rolled his eyes and returned to his work. The old woman had a little bit of everything in her cupboards, from her home produce to canned soup, to seafood, to fruits. His only complaint was that all of this canned food was really heavy. Still, most of it could go in the drag along basket, and they’d only have to hoof it as far as the car.

Still without a first aid kit, Steve decided to keep looking. Thinking of where he might find one, Steve decided to check the garage. If Norm did a lot of work there, he might have one lying around. If not, they might even have one in the car. There was a door off the kitchen that Steve guessed might lead to the garage. Pushing his way through, he was not disappointed.

Naturally, the dominant feature in the garage was the car, and old american sedan of a model unknown to Steve. Opposite the car was a workbench, with a bar fridge nestled beneath it. Along the wall adjacent to the kitchen stood a shelf full of storage bins and household chemicals. On the opposite corner, a locker was tucked away.

Grace was in the garage, rummaging around a work bench. She picked up a tin can full of nails, shook it as she looked inside and made a face.

“Whatcha looking for?” Steve asked.

“Bullets,” she said without looking up.

Steve thought for a moment. “I don’t think people keep them loose in a can in their garage,” he thought aloud, “And if they did, I’m also pretty sure you don’t want to shake them.”

“Why not?” Grace asked petulantly.

“They could go off,” Steve explained, “Blow your hand clean off, that.”

Gingerly, Grace set the can of inert nails on the bench. “Really?” she asked, turning white as a ghost.

Steve shrugged, “Maybe. I don’t really know.” Grace punched Steve in the shoulder, but he didn’t mind terribly. “Did you check in the gun locker?”

“The what?”

“The gun locker,” Steve explained, “By Canadian law you have to keep your firearms under lock and key. Usually people keep their ammo with their guns.”

“Huh,” Grace replied, betraying her ignorance of firearm ownership, “So what does a gun locker look like?”

Steve gestured to the locked cabinet in the corner of the garage, near where she’d been rummaging. It was a steel locker, solid on all sides except the front, which was a grate that also served as a door. A cheap combination lock kept the cabinet closed.

Grace inspected the cabinet. “Yup, that’s a gun locker,” she declared.

Together she and Steve walked up to the locker to inspect it. Upon closer observation, the locker was completely empty save for a small box of .308 rounds. Steve reached up to the lock and gave it a tug, but it was secure.

“I guess we’re going to have to get the combo from Mrs. Withers,” Grace sighed.

“Yeah, right,” Steve scoffed, “Do you really think she’s going to tell you the combination so that we can rob her?”

Grace shrugged, “I can make her talk.”

“What, are you going to put the screws to her?” Steve asked, horrified, “Breaking her face wasn’t bad enough?”

“She tried to shoot Aaron,” Grace argued as her face flushed, suddenly ashamed at the implication.

“Still, I think it’d be easier to just clip the lock,” Steve assessed.

Walking back to the workbench, Steve set the wastebasket of pharmaceuticals down. A vast arsenal of tools were laid out on a corkboard above the bench. Each had its particular place, outlined in white paint. Spotting a pair of bolt cutters, Steve hefted them from their hook and returned to the locker. A small exertion later, the lock snapped. Reaching out, Steve pulled the lock free and opened the cabinet.

Grace snatched up the box and enthusiasm turned to disappointment as she inspected the contents. “Three bullets?” she whined, “That’s hardly anything.”

“That’s three zombies you don’t have to worry about anymore,” Steve corrected, “And I’m sure Mrs. Withers will attest that the stock makes a good bludgeon.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Grace sighed despondently.

Remembering why he’d come to the garage, Steve set about looking for a first aid kit. He couldn’t find one on the shelves full of detergents and old paint cans, and none of the storage totes proved fruitful. Without any luck, Steve decided to check the car. The driver’s door was nearest him, and was unlocked, so he crawled inside to pop open the glove box. Sitting on top of the owner’s manual was a small red kit with a white cross plastered on the face.

“Finally,” Steve remarked as he picked up the kit.

“Check it out,” Grace called over to him.

Steve crawled back out of the car and shut the door. Grace was standing near the now opened fridge with a wide grin on her face. The refrigerator was well stocked, mostly with beer, but there were a few water bottles within as well. Joining in, Steve smiled too. He felt like they’d lucked out picking this house, choosing to ignore the fact that Aaron was shot at, they had to maim an old lady, and they had almost no medicine.

Upstairs, Aaron Was finishing off the jar of beans. The last one always tasted the best to him, and he relished its crunch. He set the jar on the windowsill while he wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. Something caught his eye out the window. Leaning closer, he peered through the clear pane and tried to squint his way through the fog. Something was moving out there, and from its telltale lurch Aaron knew it was a zombie.

Letting out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, Aaron assessed the situation. One zombie wandering the streets was cause for concern, but not necessarily alarm. It wasn’t a problem on its own, especially not against a group as well armed as his friends. He decided he’d go tell the guys, but that they wouldn’t panic until more showed up.

More movement caught his eye, and Aaron blinked. Where one zombie had passed, dozens more were following. There was no telling how many more were lurking in the fog, but Aaron was sure of one thing.

This was cause for alarm.