Michael Bunker - WICK

Natasha nodded her head. “What about antibiotics?” she asked.

“Uncle Lev had some Cephalexin and Doxycycline in that first aid kit. Grab the Cephalexin and bring me the equivalent of 500 milligrams. If they are 250 milligram pills, then bring me two.”

“They are 500 milligram capsules, Peter,” Natasha said, bringing the whole bottle to him.

“Just give me one then. We’ll give him two a day for a week and hopefully that will knock out any infection.”

Peter gave the pill to Lang with some water from a water bottle to wash it down. “That’s one of the good things about Warwick—” he paused, not really wanting to say anything good about the town. “Anyway, that was one good thing. We didn’t have to have prescriptions from a doctor to get first aid medications that are non-addictive. In America, they have to outlaw anyone treating themselves because the medical system and pharmaceutical businesses were a lynchpin in the whole economic system. That little bit of corruption was just another finger in the dike of western civilization. The socialists looked at the system and said, ‘See! We’re keeping the economy afloat!’ but look around now and see what their logic has given us. You can float a house on a balloon, but it will pop, and when it does… ahhh, such is the ruin of that house!”

Peter looked at them, to see if they were following his argument. Both of his younger companions seemed more concerned about Lang’s pain and discomfort than his argument. They were unaware that he was trying, precisely, to draw their minds away from the injury by diverting their attention elsewhere. “Ahh, children,” he smiled. “I didn’t tell you I was also a Doctor of Philosophy, did I?” He looked at them and pulled a long face, clowning like a parent does with a child who has scraped a knee, until the two youths finally gave in to his merrymaking.

Lang, who had been stoic and brave throughout his treatment, was the first to smile, even though the process of removing the dead and damaged flesh was to the very limit of what he thought he could handle. He thought about what it would be like to be in one of the gulags during a Siberian winter. It’s strange what the mind locks onto in such moments. He looked at Peter and told him with his eyes that this experience had not been bad at all.

When Peter was done, Lang thanked him for the work. Peter looked at him and said, “Tonight is probably going to be tough for you, little son. You probably won’t sleep because the wound will swell a lot and throb. The shock of the run and the adrenaline from your close escape will wear off, and then the pain will set in. Tomorrow it will hurt a lot, but less so than tonight. If, by tomorrow night, the bleeding has stopped and it looks like healing has begun,” he paused, and winked, “I’ll get you loaded on the vodka so you can have some relief from the pain and get some sleep.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll need that!” Lang said, laughing.

“That’s what you say now. But tomorrow will be a different story. And if not, then… more for me.” With that, Peter took another swig from the bottle before stowing it away in his bag.

When she awoke in the morning, Veronica D’Arcy sat bolt upright from her sleeping bag on the hard, flat floor and felt around in the dark for her son.

“Stephen!”

Her voice echoed through the smallish chamber and disappeared into a darkened door leading down a narrow concrete corridor. She peered into the darkness, feeling her son’s empty sleeping bag beside her, and called out again, this time with rising emphasis.

“Boy?!”

“Mom?”

The answer came back, a little muffled, from deep in the dark. As Veronica’s eyes came into focus, she saw the faint light of a candle playing in shadows at the end of the small, cramped passageway, and that light suddenly turned the corner, throwing a dull orange glow on the walls of either side of the hallway as her son stepped out into the corridor. She saw the glow of the candle illuminate her son’s face, his hands leaning the candle forward slightly so the wax would drip on the floor. The flame wicked up in sharp little whiskers, and she could see his wide smile in its effulgence. She watched as he proceeded toward her down the hall and into the chamber. She let her breath out in one long sigh, then remembered where they were and how they’d arrived there.

“Mom? Did you know that there are boxes of stored food back there, and water? There’s even a box of contamination gear. And some bikes! There are probably ten or so. I thought you told me this place was abandoned.”

“It is. This was a nuclear bunker once upon a time, boy. It was discovered years ago, but that stuff should have been taken out. It’s got to be fifty years old by now.”

“No. That’s what I’m telling you… It’s dated 2011. Those boxes are new.”

Veronica looked at him, to see if he was pulling her leg. He was a sweet boy, but he had his father’s penchant for practical jokes. She looked into his eyes to see if this was one of them. They were the eyes of her John—strong and sparkling—always with a little mirth, but now they just looked hurt, disappointed that she would doubt him. In this moment of all moments, he wanted her to know that he understood the gravity of their situation and why they had dropped everything when the lights went out; why they had fled through the city to this bunker and slipped in under the cover of darkness. He did not, of course, fully understand. But he wanted her to know that he was trying.

“Mom, I’m telling you, this place has been prepared for something now . There are supplies back there that someone just brought in. It looks like someone means to use this place.”

Veronica reached in her bag and felt for her flashlight. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her son, but she was interested to see for herself. If someone had prepared the place, that meant that they might be on the way, and that fact could change her plan, even as she’d made that plan up on the fly. As she searched her bag, she gently checked her pistol, running her finger over the safety to make sure that she had firmly locked it in place.

“Well, let’s have a look then, Stephen,” she said, getting up creakily from the floor, her joints aching slightly from sleeping on the cold, hard concrete through the night. She switched on the flashlight and Stephen led her down the hall, the mix of candlelight and flashbulb throwing varying shadows on the walls as they bent over and crept down the hallway to the end of the corridor.

They entered a small stone storeroom and Veronica was amazed to find it exactly as Stephen had described it. There were boxes of recently stored food and water, ammunition, nuclear fallout gear, bicycles, and some medical kits, along with a couple of lead-lined containers with batteries and walkie-talkies. The find both thrilled and alarmed Veronica, as it presented a tempting cache of items they could use for their survival, but also suggested that they might not be alone for very long. She would have to make a decision. Should they hunker down and hope for the best, or should they grab what they could and make a run for it? Where would they go? What would happen if they left too soon, or too late? These were the questions that swirled through her mind and mixed with the need to tell Stephen, who was smiling and eager beside her, something—anything—to let him know what she suspected might be coming.

“Okay, boy, now we have to think about what we will do.” She looked at the beautiful face that, for the last several years, had slowly been approaching the height of her own, perched upon an awkward teenaged body filling out with sinewy muscularity. She took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead. “We have to decide in the face of uncertainty what we are going to do so we can face this world down… wash our feet before we get in de dance.” Stephen’s face looked back, not comprehending, but ready to follow where she led. Then he smiled.