Chapter 12
RIVET WAS sitting on Mr. Dinkins's back beside a spilled dispay stand full of condoms when we got into the pharmacy. He had the old man's arms wrenched up under his knees, pinning them to the small of Dinkins's back. Dinkins was kicking and hollering, and Rivet sported a cheesy grin.
"Sorry about this, sir," I said. I meant it; he looked like he'd been enjoying himself. He was wearing an old army uniform that looked like it hadn't seen daylight in a decade, and every now and then, he eyed a long, wood-stock rifle that lay on the floor a few feet away from his head. A short, silver blade was fixed firmly under its barrel. A fucking bayonet. Behind me, a little bell chimed as Jennie shut the front door and locked it.
"Sorry my ass," Dinkins spit. "Sorry means you didn't intend to do what you did. Since you clearly intended to rob me, I refuse to accept your apology as legitimate. In fact, current evidence allows me to speculate that you still intend to relieve me of my medical supplies, in which case your inane apology is doubly moronic. So save your sorries for someone who wants 'em. If you really wanted to help, you'd get your greasy friend off my back."
"Talker, isn't he," Rivet said. "You been into the Ritalin?"
"I take aspirin for my back, as if it's any of your business," Dinkins said. His face was getting splotchy from struggling against Rivet's weight, and his sweaty, ear-length gray hair flopped over his forehead.
"If my apology was bullshit," I said, squatting in front of him, "then that excuse is still dripping from the bull's ass."
"What's your drift?" Dinkins looked confused.
"You haven't figured out how it works yet?" Rivet asked.
"They're still coming over here," Jennie said. She was standing by the display window, watching the three secretaries shamble between the parked cars outside.
"Let's get to the back. Maybe they'll forget about us. You got a back?" I directed the last at Dinkins.
"Of course he does," Rivet interjected. "How do you think I got in?"
I bent to pick up Dinkins's rifle from the floor with one hand, the axe held loosely in the other. It was heavier than it looked, with dark brown wood grain running from the stock along the underside of the barrel. I got the feeling that it was older than it looked, too.
"Can we let you up?" I asked Dinkins.
"I was about to ask the same thing," he snapped.
"I mean, can we trust you?"
" 'Bout as far as you can throw me," he said. "But yeah, I won't try anything."
I looked at Jennie. She shrugged. Then Rivet. A heavy hand thumped against the pane glass in front. I looked to see a disheveled brunette woman looking in, mouth agape, eyes pink.
"I guess we don't really have a choice," I said. Rivet sighed and stood up. Mr. Dinkins groaned and stretched his arms out in front of him, working his fingers open and closed, then lifted himself to his knees and arched his back like a kitten, first up, then down, cracking the vertebrae. He let out a sigh of satisfaction and mumbled, "Yeah, there it is. Okay, hoof!" Watching him stand was like watching a dry creek bed erode. First a knee, then a creaking, tottering foot, repeat with the other side, straighten the legs a century later, unbend the back. Finally, he reached his feet.
"Spry as I ever was," he winked at Jennie.
"How do you get out of bed?" Rivet asked incredulously.
"Usually there aren't young men tackling me in bed," he said cynically. "Although there was a time..." This time, he winked at me. I actually laughed. I kind of liked the old guy.
"Go on," I said, gesturing with the rifle. He stretched his legs once more, then moved surprisingly quickly toward the back of the store. I walked right behind him. Jennie followed. Rivet began sloping through the aisles.
The pharmacy sold more than drugs. The main floor had six or seven aisles that sold makeup, toiletries, toothpaste, shampoo, over-the-counter syrups and tabs for coughs and colds. That kind of stuff. At the rear, where Mr. Dinkins, Jennie, and I went, was the pharmacist's counter, and behind that, Valhalla.
Plastic orange bottles and little white paper baggies lined shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. Locked glass cases held still more bottles. They glittered like bars of gold, welcoming us into their midst.
"Jackpot," Jennie said. Dinkins shot her a look.
"Goddamn junkies," he said, "A time like this, and this is all you can think about?"
"This is all that matters," I said. "Have you wondered yet why you're still normal while everyone else turned into a zombie?"
"Been too busy taking 'em out with that gook bazooka in your hands to worry about it," Dinkins admitted. "Isn't there a virus or something? Figured I was fine as long as none of the shits bit me." He lifted a section of the pharmacists counter on hinges and walked through, then sank into a rolling office chair on the other side. He watched bitterly as Jennie tucked her fire poker into her belt and started picking through the bottles.
"What have you been taking?" I asked Dinkins, leaning against the counter and resting my axe on the floor beside me. I placed the rifle on the counter's fake granite surface.
"Aspirin," Dinkins said. "What's it matter what I've been taking?" His eyes shifted to the left, nervous.
"Listen, Mr. Dinkins. You don't have to worry about it anymore. Nobody's coming to investigate. I know you're taking something else, otherwise you'd be like those things right now. Whatever it is, it's why you're still alive."
Dinkins insisted. "I'm telling you, I'm not."
"You know what all this is, Ray?" Jennie asked, stepping up with several translucent orange bottles crammed between her fingers. She dropped them on the counter. "I got the obvious, oxy, Vics, Percs, but there's got to be a ton more stuff we can use."
"Should find some morphine, maybe even fentanyl, and look for dextroamphetamine and methylphenidate. Adderall and Ritalin, but they may be generics. Might try lisdexamfetamine, too. Diazepam, clonozepam, alprazolam...anything that ends in "pam" or "lam," might as well take those, although I don't know if they work. We'll have to put together some kind of benzodiazepine test. Also..." I turned to Dinkins. "You do vet meds?" Back to Jennie. "Look for ketamine. Probably in that locked case over there, if he has it. Look for a little picture of a horse."
"Jesus, Ray," Jennie said, then went back to scanning the shelves.
Dinkins was watching me. "You go to school, kid?"
"Everyone does."
"I mean college. How do you know so much about drugs?"
"Practice." I shrugged, turned to Jennie. She looked lost. "I got it," I told her, picking up the rifle and walking over. "You keep an eye on Dinkins."
"Christ, thank you. These labels are making my eyes squirm."
She took the rifle and walked back to Dinkins just as Rivet came over and dumped a bunch of cough syrup bottles onto the counter.
"Pink gold," he declared happily. "Bottled comas, made to order." He scanned the pile of bottles already on the counter and smiled even more broadly. "This apocalypse is going to be a fucking blast."
"Robbing from an old man," Dinkins glowered. "I hope you're...proud of yourself."
I froze, my back to them.
"Hope...of yourself," Dinkins said thickly.
"Hold him down," I yelled, skipping the few steps to the scattered drugs on the counter. I plucked up one, screwed off the child-safety lid, and dropped two tablets into my palm.
"Proud...of..."
Nobody else had moved. Dinkins shut his eyes. "Fucking hold him!" I said. I gripped him by the chin and shoved the two pills into his mouth.
"...hell off of me!" Dinkins yelled, spitting the tablets at me. "What was that? What're you trying to do to me?"
"Swallow it, Mr. Dinkins," I urged. "Come on, you still have time." Jennie moved behind him and grabbed his arms, but he jerked free.
"Time for what?" he snapped.
"Time to stay human." I shook out four more pills and jammed them into his mouth before he could snap it shut, then held it closed for him and pinched his nose shut. Jennie got aho
ld of his arms again. Dinkins's face grew panicked as he tried to breathe. His eyes bulged.
"Swallow!" I demanded. He shook his head violently against my grip. "Swallow before you suffocate." He blinked slowly, and his eyes went from clear to bloodshot. Stubborn son of a bitch! Finally, his Adam's apple bobbed and I heard the slurp of saliva slide down his throat. I let him go. He reeled back, gagging, and Jennie released his arms. Rivet was just watching the whole scene like it was part of a movie.
Dinkins moved to stick his finger down his throat, trying to activate his gag reflex to vomit the pills he'd just swallowed, but I was waiting for it. Fast as a wink, I snagged his wrist.
"What the fuck did you...oh, shit, what is that? It's so dark...blood..." Dinkins sagged in my grasp, and I let him go. It'd be a hellish few minutes, but he'd be fine. Then I glanced at the label on the open bottle on the counter and caught my breath. Shit. Maybe. I'd just crammed him full of triazolam, a drug used to treat severe insomnia. Duration: 10 hours or more. Onset: Rapid. Recommended dose: One .25-milligram pill. In extreme cases, two.
And I'd given him four. I looked sharply at Dinkins. His eyes were closed and he was still caught in the darkness mumbles. In about 10 minutes, he'd probably be out cold. From there, he'd either sleep until morning or, at his age, stop breathing completely. Or, hell, he could still turn into a zombie. Looks like we had our benzo test subject right here.
Most ways you looked at it, he was a dead man. Life was too fucking fragile these days.
"You look like you saw a ghost, Ray," said Jennie.
"It's nothing," I lied. "Nothing."
Just then, somebody outside screamed, and the glass window at the front of the pharmacy shattered.