Page 52 of Hunted By Fae
Without a word, we push onwards, our steps quick to reach the end of the aisle. We keep up with Emily and Ramona to the chemist before they fork off for the farther aisles.
Like the rest of this place, the actual over-the-counter part of the pharmacy is ransacked, in a fucking shambles.
My face crumples at the sight of it.
Bottles and phials and pill packets, everywhere. Not a step can be taken in here without a rustle and clang and a clatter.
Bee realises that.
She comes up beside me, her shoulders slumped with a sag, and she turns a grim look on me.
My answer is this:Tap, tap.
Wait.
She nods, firm.
I peel the shotgun from my shoulder and, teeth gritted, set it down on the counter as quiet as I can.
Bee slides a step back, aiming around me, covering me, as I crouch down.
First, I unfasten the bag from my belt, releasing the weight. I leave it on the floor.
The boot laces are fastened at the ankles. Easier grabbing at that angle.
Practiced, I reach down and in just a few tugs, the laces are undone.
I slip my feet out, gentle, one at a time.
Bee keeps the white dusty gleam on the shelves, her gaze just as focused.
Sheathed in thick baseball socks, my feet flatten on the floor.
I scan the floor, the chaos of it, the clutter.
Reading my mind, Bee inches closer, a mere whisper, “Reminds me of your bedroom. Right at home, are you?”
She can’t see the smile that worms over my mouth.
I rise, then slide my sock-clad foot forward. I move slow, and so the packets that are pushed aside are quiet and soft. I repeat, over and over, slowly sliding around the counter to the rear shelves of the pharmacy, where the good shit is.
I’m on the hunt for inhalers—but they are always hardest to find.
When the looting started, inhalers were one of the first things to go. Those and insulin. I expected it would be something like oxy painkillers and benzos that went first.
Maybe it’s the damage from the plague, maybe it’s just that people saw a trading opportunity, that inhalers and insulin would be the new gold.
Whatever the reason, it means I’m lucky to find three inhalers tucked under a shelf.
They help.
Bee’s idea to test them.
Cool air is best for our damaged lungs. But the inhalers soothe us when the inflammation starts to suffocate. It’s not asthma that we have been left with from that plague. It’s something else.
We treat it as best as we can.
I pack the few I find into the backpack before I slide my way to the antibiotics. No one is hurt, but we did lose a bag about week back, and all our emergency meds are gone with it.
