Heartland Junk - Part I: The End (A zombie apocalypse serial)

Chapter 11: Jackpot

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.

"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.