Tomorrow Land Part 16

Tucking the box under his arm, he headed back outside. A strange feeling came over him. The street was totally quiet. He didn't even hear any birds in the trees. Weird. And then he saw the footprint.

He stared at it, long and hard, trying to figure it out. It looked fresh. It also didn't look like a footprint of one of the Others. They usually shuffled, and this was clean, a perfect imprint. He could even see the Nike logo embedded in the sole.

He drew in a breath. Were there humans alive in this town?

Half of him wanted to turn around and run back to the kids, to get Peyton and tell her the news. The other half said he should go and investigate these survivors himself. Maybe they had stashes of food. Maybe they had knowledge of other groups. Maybe they'd seen Peyton's father.

He walked in the direction the footprint pointed, searching for others but seeing none. But soon he came across something else: a small pharmacy, its front door wide open.

I should just keep walking, he scolded himself. Find the guy who made the footprint. Find the grocery store. I don't need anything in there.

But he did. And while he told himself he was only thinking about antibiotics, Neosporin, and vitamins, he knew deep down his pathetic, weak body had a different idea. The promises of the prescription counter drew him in like a tractor beam and, a moment later, he found himself walking through the front door, his forehead and palms damp with sweat. The itch in his stomach grew stronger the closer he got to the counter.

He gritted his teeth; he thought he'd been doing so well, ignoring the itch that crawled up his spine every morning when he woke up and kept him awake every night. He hadn't realized how dependent he'd been on the drugs until he'd attempted to stop taking them. But he really thought if he could just go mind over matter, eventually the desire would go away. And Peyton would see that she could believe in him. Rely on him. That his love and devotion to her was stronger than any drug.

But as his feet led him over to the prescription counter, almost of their own accord, he wondered, not for the first time, if that were true.

Just a few pills, he told himself. No one's supposed to go off cold turkey. It says so right on the bottle. I need to wean myself off slowly. It'll be better that way in the end.

It wouldn't be a big deal. He'd just take them at night before bedtime. On nights he didn't have the watch. When no one was depending on him. He was allowed to sleep, right? No big deal. He'd start taking half the dose. Then a quarter. Eventually he wouldn't need them at all.

He scanned the racks, feeling a little sick to his stomach as his brain hopped around his head in nervous antic.i.p.ation. Allergy medicines, stool softeners, emergency contraception. But the spot where the good stuff should be-the painkillers-was all cleared out.

Of course. He should have known. An aching disappointment settled in his stomach like a rock and suddenly he wished he hadn't come. He tried to remind himself he was supposed to be down here gathering food. And that he needed to get on with his mission. It was for the best anyway. He didn't need the drugs. He was stronger than that.

Except he wasn't. And he knew there was no way he was going to be able to leave now without finding what he suddenly realized he'd been looking for all along. The real purpose of his visit to Paradise. The one he hadn't been able to admit to himself before now.

He dove into the racks, grabbing medicine and reading the labels and tossing them aside. His heart pounded in his chest and his trembling hands found it difficult to grasp on to the bottles. Antacids, hemorrhoid creams, cough medicine. Where were the pain killers? h.e.l.l, he'd take a high dose of aspirin if he had to.

No. He forced himself to stop. Trying to still his heart and steady his breath. He didn't need these. He didn't have to succ.u.mb. He could just walk out of this store and never look back.

He took a tentative step, willing his feet to obey him.

"Looking for something, boy?"

The scratchy male voice nearly made Chase jump out of his skin. He whirled, whipping out his knife. Sunbeams shone through the broken gla.s.s storefront window, silhouetting the intruder. All Chase could tell was that he was big.

Mr. Footprint, he presumed.

"Stay where you are," he said, trying to keep fear from filling his voice. "I've got a knife."

"Yup. Can see that." The man stepped forward, evidently unconcerned. Chase could now see his wild black hair and scruffy beard. He was dressed in a pair of jean cut-offs and wearing a t-shirt that claimed pirates were way cooler than ninjas. The shirt also listed reasons why. Over the t-shirt he wore a tan leather jacket, out of place in the sweltering heat.

"I said don't move!" Chase was beginning to wonder if coming to Paradise had been a bad idea.

"Oh, fine. Have it your way," the man said, shrugging his shoulders. "Y'all might as well put down the knife, though. Ain't aiming to hurt you none." He held out his hands, showing they were empty.

Chase lowered his knife, though he kept it in his hand. "Sorry," he said. "Just don't run into many people these days."

"Not many left to run into, I reckon," Mr. Footprint replied. "I was pretty surprised when I saw you outside. Figured I'd follow you in, see what you were up to." He scratched a pus-filled boil on his right cheek, making Chase think of the Others. But this guy wasn't a zombie. He was just... dirty.

"Nothing much," Chase replied, not wanting to admit his true purpose. He could barely admit it to himself. "Just checking things out." The jewelry box felt heavy under his arm, and he gripped it tighter. Not that there was any reason in the world this guy would take it.

"Name's Luke," the stranger said, holding out a hand. His fingernails were caked with dirt and Chase wondered when he'd last taken a bath. Back home, Tank had made them all bathe at least once a week, and on this trip they'd washed up every time the interstate pa.s.sed a river. The kids didn't like it, but Chase thought maybe they would change their minds if they saw the state of this guy. "Don't think I've seen you 'round here."

"Just pa.s.sing through," Chase replied. His instinct said it'd be better not to mention Peyton and the kids, just in case. "Was looking for food." He shrugged his shoulder. "No luck though."

Luke laughed, a little unkindly. "Think you're going to find food in the local pharmacy, do you?"

Chase felt his face heat. "Um, no, no," he said, not knowing why he'd bothered to lie. Who cared what this derelict thought of him? "I was just looking for some... Band-Aids."

"Ah, Band-Aids. Of course." Luke smiled lazily, looking around at the mess Chase had made in the prescription aisle. "I shoulda known." He paused, shuffled his feet, then looked askance at Chase. "So, since you ain't had any luck finding food, you want to come back to my place for some grub? My girlfriend can cook you up something real nice."

"No, that's okay," Chase replied, feeling nervous. Not that Luke seemed like a bad guy, necessarily, but you couldn't be too careful. Besides, he shouldn't be hanging out, filling his stomach while Peyton and the kids were waiting for him to return. And if this guy cleaned his house as rarely as he cleaned himself... "I've got to get going."

"Suit yerself," Luke said with another shrug. It was almost as if he had a nervous twitch. "I was just thinking I might have some of those... yeah, let's call 'em Band-Aids... back the house." He gave Chase a knowing grin and glanced at the empty shelf behind him. "If yer still lookin' for them, you know."

Chase's heart leapt in his chest and his hands started shaking all over again. This guy had drugs? Drugs he was willing to part with? The itch tickled up his spine again, like a thousand hungry spiders. He could almost feel the pills scratching down his throat, silencing the pain. Dulling the itch. Lulling him into the first good night's sleep he'd had in a week. He opened his mouth, ready to say yes...

...but then his mind flashed to Peyton's weary face-and somehow he managed to say no.

"No thank you," he replied, forcing the itch at bay. He'd made a promise to Peyton, after all. To his brother, to the children. He wasn't going to be weak anymore. He would be strong-for them. They deserved it. They deserved so much more. "I'm only looking for food."

Luke nodded knowingly. Chase had the distinct feeling the man didn't believe him, but luckily didn't press him on it. "Well, I reckon I may be able to help you out with that, too," he drawled instead. "There's a little grocery down the street. Don't got nothing too special left, mind you. None of that filet mig-non or nothing. But if you've got a hankering for some green beans or canned meat, this is the place."

Chase felt a surge of excitement. Now this was more like it. He'd get the food, head back to the motel. They'd be eating by sundown. "That would be great," he said. "I'll follow you."

"Excellent," the man said, slapping Chase on the back. He led the way out of the store. "After all, if we don't help out each other in this flecking mess of a world, who we got left to help?"

"So true," Chase agreed, feeling himself relax. Sure, this guy was a little rough around the edges, but he seemed like a decent fellow when all was said and done. And more importantly, he was leading him to food. Real food. He imagined again returning triumphant, with sacks full of goods, as well as Peyton's jewelry box. Maybe he could find some candy for the children. Who knows, maybe there would even be marshmallows and he could teach the kids how to cook them over an open fire. A guy could dream, anyway.

Luke led the way through a narrow, brick-lined alley into what was likely once a gorgeous courtyard. Now it was crumbling and decrepit, the intricate sculpture of an algae-stained stone fountain the only remnant of its former glory. Chase looked around, suddenly nervous again. This didn't look like the kind of place that would hold a grocery store.

Luke stopped at a door at the far end of the courtyard. "Sorry for the detour," he said, apologetically. "Gotta get my grocery list from the little woman, since we're headed that way. She's always saying I'm c.r.a.p for picking out vittles." He pushed open the door. "Why don't you come in for a minute?"

Chase glanced at the useless Rolex on his wrist. "I'm actually kind of in a hurry," he hedged. "Maybe you could just-"

Luke pshawed. "Surely you have time for one drink," he cajoled. "After all, it's been ages since I had any company besides the girlfriend. And she's not exactly the best conversationalist, always twittering away like some crazy bird."

It was the last thing Chase wanted to do. But the guy had been willing to help him and his old-world sensibility told him it would be rude to say no. And, after all, what harm could come of a quick drink? A little conversation. Maybe find out this guy's story and if there were any more of his kind around town. If any of them had seen Peyton's father. He had plenty of time before dark. No big deal.

He stepped forward, following Luke across the threshold.

"When we first came out after the plague, we thought we'd live in the fanciest house in town," Luke explained, striking a match and holding it to a gas lantern that had been hung by the door. "But while them things are pretty, they sure aren't easy to defend, if you know what I mean."

"From the Others?"

"The Others?" Luke chuckled. "We call 'em Knights of the Living Dead here. You know, like that old zombie sim everyone used to play."

Chase did know. Though the real-life Others-Knights-were certainly more terrifying than those virtual zombies in the old sim.

As his host turned up the lantern, Chase took a good look around the house. He'd been right about its condition: It wasn't exactly going to make the next e-issue of Better Homes and Gardens, if the magazine was still in existence. Green mold clung to the dark wallpaper. Dirty dishes were piled in an even dirtier sink. The sole piece of furniture, a faded, flowered couch, sagged in the center of the room.

"Have yerself a seat, boy," Luke suggested, motioning. Then he turned to the hallway on the left side of the room. "Helga!" he cried. "Get yer a.s.s out of bed, you lazy b.i.t.c.h, and bring us some booze. We got company!"

A young blond girl poked her head out. Her hair was dreadlocked and her face hollow, with jutting cheekbones and blackened eyes. Her sticklike arms were covered in bruises. Chase shuddered, suddenly getting a very bad feeling about all of this. He'd seen other old horror movies besides the George Romero ones. He glanced over at the door, wondering if he should just make a run for it.

"Helga came from the mail," Luke told him. "Mail-order bride, they used to call 'em. Though she learned English real good, so you can't even tell. The rich fat fleck she married died in the plague. So I take care of her now." He grabbed the girl roughly by the arm, gave her a s...o...b..ry kiss, then pushed her in the direction of the kitchen, pinching her bottom in the process. She slunk over to the cabinets and rummaged around there.

"Gotta put women in their place," Luke boasted. "I'm sure you know what I mean. You got yourself a woman, boy?"

Chase shook his head. "No. Never have," he said, doubly glad he hadn't mentioned Peyton now.

What a stupid idea coming here, he berated himself as Helga set down three squat, cloudy gla.s.ses and a bottle of Macallan. He should have just asked the guy to point him in the direction of the grocery store and headed on his way. Helga poured the whisky and handed Chase a gla.s.s. He took it and watched her pour another for Luke. But her hands were shaking, and her fast pour splashed Luke's already stained jeans. The dirty man's eyes grew huge, and Helga cringed, as if antic.i.p.ating his next move.

BAM! Sure enough, Luke's open palm connected with her face. She cried out and staggered backward. "Stupid, clumsy b.i.t.c.h!" the man yelled, and Chase got a weird feeling he was actually trying to show off. "These are my best jeans!"

"I'm sorry," Helga babbled, tears streaming down her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her nose, which was dribbling blood. "I didn't mean to-"

This was too much. Chase started to rise from his seat. "I actually think I'd better be-"

But Luke grabbed his arm, roughly pulling him back down. "Come on," he cajoled, his eyes twinkling, but his expression grim. "Just sit and enjoy your drink, okay?" With his other hand, he reached into his jacket pocket, fingering something that looked suspiciously gun-shaped. Chase's heart skipped a beat. Why had he thought this was a good idea?

One sip, Chase decided; he'd drink the whisky then make his excuses and get out. It was too crazy here. Too creepy. He'd find the grocery store himself. It couldn't be too hard to find...

Luke laughed. "All right," he said. "Let's get you those Band-Aids."

"I... said I didn't need any," Chase protested. The whiskey burned his throat and he coughed. He hadn't drank much alcohol in his life, and nothing like this.

But Luke wasn't listening, walking over to some shelves at the other end of the room. He pulled down a book and opened it. Chase realized it was hollowed out. "Don't know why I hide it. Not like some narc is gonna bust me." Luke's mouth lifted into a grin. "Old habits die hard, maybe."

The man pulled out a syringe and a packet of powder. He walked back to the couch and sat down. It creaked under his weight.

Chase glanced toward the door. Oh G.o.d, he had to get out of here. Luke was pushing up his sleeve and wrapping a yellow cord around his biceps, grabbing a spoon off the table and pouring powder onto it. For some reason, the process seemed mesmerizing. And, as much as he wanted to, Chase found couldn't get up and walk away. But it wasn't the promise of drugs that held his attention. He just felt suddenly... tired. His eyelids were unbearably heavy, and the lantern light was casting strange shadows on the walls. Demons dancing.

"I have to... go," he said, trying to rise. His body felt as if it weighed a ton. What the h.e.l.l was going on? From the corner of his eye he could see Luke chuckling. "What... did... you...?" His tongue felt huge and swollen, barely fitting in his mouth.

The man shrugged, at least having the decency to look abashed. "Sorry, guy," he said. "It's sort of a deal we have. They keep out of my domain and I find them fresh meat."

Chase collapsed, swimming in blackness. The jewelry box fell from his grip and smashed on the floor. His last thought was how disappointed he was that he wouldn't ever be able to give it to Peyton.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

"Okay, you can remove the blindfold now!"

Peyton pulled the rag from her eyes and looked around. She appeared to be in some kind of windowless apartment, a cozy living room with Pottery Barn furniture, a narrow kitchen with stainless steel, non-smart appliances behind a granite breakfast bar. Leading off the main room was what appeared to be a bathroom, two bedrooms, a pantry overflowing with food and some kind of small fitness center with weights and a treadmill. She turned to her father, confused.

"What is this?"

Ian Anderson beamed, walking to the center of the room and twirling, his arms outstretched. "This," he said, "is our Noah's Ark."

She raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"I've spent the last ten years building it. Modeling it after the fallout shelters of the 1950s, when people used to believe we'd get bombed by a country called Russia. We'll use it as a safe house when things get really bad." He walked over and adjusted a dial. "Of course, I made modifications to the original 1950s design. Updated everything with the latest technology. Even installed t.i.tanium so that no one can get in here. Not even government agents. We'll be safe, no matter what."

"Do you really think it's necessary?" she asked, horrified. The place made her feel claustrophobic; the last thing she wanted was to spend any extended time there. "I mean, the news reports are saying they're getting the flu under control."

"Haven't I taught you anything?" her father asked, turning to her with a stormy look in his eyes. "You know the government controls the media. Those reporters are just talking heads and propaganda. Of course they're saying they're getting it under control."

"Right." She sighed. She knew her father was making sense-at least about the media. She hadn't seen anything around town lately that made her feel any safer. Still, that didn't mean she liked this shelter solution any better. "So, um, Dad... let's say things go down like you think they will. What happens?"

"In the next few days, I want you to bring down some clothes and whatever else you think you'll need," he said, not answering her question. "Then, when it's time, we can get down here in a hurry. Unlock the shelter door with a scan of your retina out front like I showed you. I've set the timer for four years."

She stared at him. "Four years?" she repeated. "What do you mean, four years?" She felt panic bubbling into her throat. He couldn't be serious, could he?

"That's what my friends and I have determined to be the minimum amount of time for any airborne germs to dissipate in case the virus jumps. But don't worry, there's plenty of food and water to last you and your mother. I've been stockpiling for some time."

Food was the last thing she was worried about at the moment. "What about you?" she asked. "Won't you be with us?"

"Of course. That's the plan. But if for some reason that doesn't happen, there's a rendezvous point, a place you two can meet me once the doors open." He smiled slowly. "A new Eden. A new birthplace of civilization where we can all start fresh. Rebuild society from the ground up-the right way, this time."

She raised an eyebrow. "And where might that be? This new Eden of which you speak?"

He patted her on the shoulder. "Why, Disney World, of course."

Of course...

Chapter Twenty-eight.

"When's Chase coming back?" Darla asked for the thousandth time. "I'm hungry."

"Soon," Peyton replied, also for the thousandth time. "And we're all hungry."