Page 14 of The Last Sanctuary
Phil sighed and ran his hands through the halo of white hair ringing his balding head. “I’ve been keeping this place open for just that reason. Carl, go back and grab some oxycodone.”
Carl scowled. “That’s our last bottle. Our livelihood. All that’s left?—”
Phil’s expression darkened. “Just do it.”
Carl obeyed with a huff. He stomped off toward the rear of the store.
Phil dragged his gaze back to Raven. “When’s the last time you had power?”
“A few weeks.”
He sighed heavily. “Same. Your generator’s holding up okay?”
Raven nodded. In the back room behind the counter, a fridge hummed. It contained the medications that needed to remain cold. The doors were wrapped in chains and a large padlock. “And yours?”
“It’s lasting, so far. Things’ll get worse before they get better, mark my words.”
Carl returned and plunked the bottle down on the counter between them. “You hear about all the rioting in Atlanta, Indianapolis, and Chicago?” His eyes glittered with something Raven couldn’t quite read. Was it smug satisfaction? Morbid excitement?
“I’ve heard.”
Carl continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “They don’t have enough workers to clean up all the dead bodies in the cities. They’re just leaving the dead in people’s homes, only cleaning up the ones who die in the streets—if they’re lucky. Ones still living are forced to fight tooth and nail over whatever little bit of food and water’s left. The police and National Guard are fallin’ apart at the seams, literally. Either all dead or leavin’ to protect their families. That’s what I would do. Let the government try to clean up its own damn mess for once.”
Raven stared at him, aghast. Carl was one of the many reasons she preferred an isolated cabin in the woods to the cruel, indifferent, idiotic world of people. “I think it’s a tragedy.”
Carl shrugged. “Their fault for living in cities, ain’t it? We warned ‘em, we did. But they looked down their noses at us country folk, thought they were better than us. Well, who’s laughing now, huh?”
“No one’s laughing,” Raven said, incredulous. “No one’s winning. Look around, why don’t you? You think this virus cares about your stupid politics and grudges? It kills everyone. Everyone.” Her throat thickened. She pressed her lips together, furious at herself for wanting to cry in front of a cretin like Carl.
Carl shot her a gleeful grin. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, girly. No need to get all hysterical. I was just making conversation.”
“Yeah, well, your ‘conversation’ leaves much to be desired.” If she’d had a tad less self-control, she would’ve used the tranquilizer gun on this moron. Shoot him right in the ass and see how he liked that.
Phil gave her a sharp look, his eyes pleading. She needed him to help her. Or more precisely, what he could offer her. She shut her trap and smiled her best fake smile. “No hysteria here. See? Perfectly calm.”
Phil stuffed the bottle inside a small white paper bag and handed it to her. “Find yourself a safe place and stay there, you hear me?”
“Thanks.” She took the bag and shoved it inside the wide cargo pocket of her pants. “How much for this?”
“For you? No charge. Just remember this and pay it forward, however you can. I have a feeling folks are going to need all the help they can get.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Carl’s froggy eyes bulged, and his face went red as a tomato. “You can’t just give it to her—what the hell?—”
“I just did,” Phil said softly, but in a firm voice. “Your father did a big favor for me once. You tell him this is me making things right. Hell, we might not have much time left to do that kind of thing anymore.”
“Do what, sir?” she asked.
“Make things right.” He made a shooing gesture at her, his gaze flicking over her head toward the unruly group of bikers, who were growing louder and more boisterous. “Go on. Get back to your father.”
Gratitude filled her. She blinked back a wave of tears and managed a smile. A genuine one this time. “Thank you, Phil. Truly. Thank you.”
She turned for the front door. Two more motorcycles pulled up outside. Their riders wore semi-automatic rifles strapped to their chests over their jackets. They were both tall and olive-skinned, maybe in their late twenties.
The tallest one had black hair yanked back in a ponytail. He was gaunt, his body long and sharp as a knife. The other moved with liquid grace, like a dancer—a dancer armed to the teeth. Their faces were lean and hard, their eyes glinted dangerously.
Unease shivered up her spine. Her gut tightened. She’d grown up around predators. She knew one when she saw one. In this case, two.
Instinctively, she sidestepped into the closest aisle and shrank behind a row of shelves containing a few conditioners, shampoos, razors, and shaving cream. She peered around the corner.
