E j deen, p.19
E. J. Deen, page 19
“The only one who is going to get hurt is you if you don’t treat this wound,” Zach warned. He was in no mood to waste time. He’d wasted enough as it was.
“I done told you. I can’t be of any help to you.”
“You can and you will.”
The man stubbornly shook his head, his arms folded across his chest in open refusal. Despite all the bluster, fear was apparent on his round, pasty face.
Zach’s temper flared. He closed the distance between them and backed the man against the far wall.
Before the doctor could even register what was happening, Zach had the barrel of his revolver pressed into the side of the man’s throat. He figured the man would understand violence better than a plea for help.
“Go ahead and kill me,” the physician bravely murmured, although he’d begun to sweat profusely.
“Better to die quickly from a bullet wound than to die slowly from the plague.”
Zach’s eyes narrowed in sudden comprehension, but he didn’t withdraw his weapon. If anything, he only pressed it more tightly against his victim’s windpipe.
“So, that’s it. You won’t treat me because you fear the plague.”
The man nodded, although it wasn’t easy considering the circumstances he found himself in.
Zach didn’t bother to inform the man what he thought of scum like him, physicians who were only in it for the money, not to help people. Judging by the man’s surroundings, the people of this particular settlement were keeping him in fine style. He’d probably never known even a single day of hunger, even through the revolt. He’d used his learning to woo the townsfolk, had become the prize they jealously guarded and protected. Until today, anyway. They hadn’t counted on Zach.
“You’ll treat me,” Zach hissed, his eyes narrowed in anger, intent with warning. “Because if you don’t, I’ll rape your wife, kill your children, and hang your balls from the nearest tree. You’ll live the rest of your life despising your wife because you won’t know whether or not I gave her the plague. She’ll probably eventually kill herself because she won’t be able to live with the shame of rape. She won’t be able to live with a husband who can’t stand the sight of her. Do you want that?”
After a disgustingly lengthy consideration, the doctor managed a shaky, “N-no.”
“Then I suggest you prepare your devices. And don’t even think of trying anything. If you make one false move, I’ll kill you and finish the rest of my promise. Understand?”
“Y-yes.”
With Zach’s gun pressed into the man’s side, they moved out into the hall and went into what served as an examining room off one wing of the house. The doctor motioned for him to sit down on the table in the middle of the room. Zach obliged, but kept the gun leveled at the doctor, watching every move closely. The physician gathered antiseptic, clean cotton cloths, and surgical thread, and brought it all back to the table with him. Zach remained wary, ready to put an abrupt end to any mischief the man might have in mind. He couldn’t be too cautious. Most surgical instruments were weapons in their own right. One quick jab in the right place….
But no. The man was carefully laying out the necessities, and Zach could see that his mind was not on killing or getting away. He seemed more intent on getting this procedure over with and getting Zach out of his house.
Upon the man’s request, Zach tore the upper part of his sleeve off and laid bare the wound for examination. He winced only slightly as the man cleaned the area. The doctor was thorough, and Zach was grateful for that.
The man didn’t bother to speak, just went about the task with resigned determination. Zach stared at him, a frown settling between his brows. The doctor’s fear was apparent. Sweat was beginning to bead along his brow, a few droplets sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto his shirt collar. Zach’s eyes became riveted on those droplets, and he suddenly felt a sharp stab of panic. It wasn’t the threat of plague. Thanks to Doc, he didn’t have to worry about that. He just couldn’t abide having the man’s sweat on him. For some reason it reminded him of his mother’s blood, the way it had splattered him.
The physician’s fingers trembled as he prepared a needle and thread for the stitches. But it wasn’t the man’s nervousness that disturbed Zach. It was the sweat. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off all that sweat. Before the doctor could intrude into his flesh with the needle, he grabbed the man’s hand to prevent it, so quickly and so hard that the doctor’s knuckles cracked ominously in the otherwise still quiet of the room. The doctor gave an alarmed yelp of pain and dropped the threaded needle onto the table.
“Just give me the stuff. I’ll do it myself.”
When Zach released his hand, the doctor backed away, bobbing his head in a strained semblance of agreement. Zach gathered up the needle and thread, and then stood up, his wary gaze on the doctor. The man had retreated to the middle of the room, his arms hanging limply at his sides, an expression of defeat on his face. Zach assessed him. He was no real threat. He was too afraid to be any sort of challenge, his initial bravado merely a put-on. In Zach’s case, it hadn’t worked. The doctor knew that now, and he didn’t seem interested in opposing him anymore.
“You got anything for infection?”
The man started to shake his head. Certain he was lying, Zach ignored the gesture and went to the nearest cabinet, yanking it open without bothering to get permission. He wasn’t in the mood for games.
It was too much time wasted. He needed to get out of there, get back into the woods. He didn’t like being out in the open like this, vulnerable, amongst potentially dangerous people.
Inside the cabinet, there were stacks of cotton cloth that had been torn into small strips and clean towels folded neatly on the shelves, but no disinfectant. In a fit of anger, Zach tore the cabinets off the wall and threw them across the room. The wood splintered into a dozen different pieces as the cabinets hit the wall. The doctor gave a cry of alarm, threw his hands in front of his face as he ducked away, then quickly backed himself into the farthest corner of the room, cowering there, his eyes wide with fear.
“I’m not in the mood for delays,” Zach warned, menacingly advancing on the man. His fit of rage had opened his wound again, but he ignored the blood, the pain. “I know you have something for infection.
Give it to me.”
The man needed no further persuasion. Zach’s presence alone was threatening enough. He scurried out of the corner and went to another cabinet, pulling it open and locating a small bottle. Turning back to face Zach, he said, “It’s the last I have. I was saving it for the children.”
Zach hesitated a moment, then took the bottle. There was no time to feel remorse. Given half the chance, this man would kill him. The doctor was probably lying about saving the medicine for the kids, anyway. He seemed more the type to save himself first.
Zach looked down at the bottle, popped the cork, and took a sniff. His brows twitched just slightly.
Eyes narrowed, he glanced back at the doctor, then pocketed the bottle and moved to leave. The man’s gaze followed him to the door. Zach paused on the threshold and turned back to stare at him for a moment. He was on the verge of telling him that he wasn’t a bad person, just a needy one, but then he changed his mind. The good doctor probably wouldn’t believe him anyway, let alone care. Besides, Zach didn’t owe anyone anything.
He shook his head, as if to clear it, then turned away. In the living room, he located a smaller cabinet that served as a bar, took two quarts of whiskey, and then fled, leaving the front door standing open and the doctor still huddled in the corner of his examining room. He imagined it would be several minutes before the man gathered the courage to creep out to the village and blow the whistle on him. Not that he really needed to bother. More than likely the woman had already taken care of that. All the more reason to get the hell out of there as fast as possible.
Back into the woods, he ignored the pain in his shoulder, ignored the blood that trickled down his forearm to gel on his wrist. He’d stayed too long, and he was intent on only one thing, getting out of there alive. By now, the settlement would be in an uproar, the men would be splitting off into groups to form a search party, and Zach had no intention of being found.
Forgetting about his shoulder for the moment, he located his horse, mounted, and rode hard. He was counting on the people assuming he had walked into town. They would never suspect he’d been on horseback. He’d been too careful to cover his tracks, burying the dung the animal left behind and covering the freshly turned earth with a bed of pine needles.
He pushed the horse until the animal showed signs of fatigue and then slowed to give the horse a breather. His shoulder throbbed mercilessly. Still, he didn’t stop to take care of his wound until nightfall. Only then, by the dim light of a small fire, did he begin to carefully pull the needle and thread through his torn flesh in an effort to stitch the injury. Being as how he could only use one hand, it was a damn difficult procedure, but he managed to close the wound well enough. He used the disinfectant liberally, scouring the area and then soaking the clean cotton strips in it before using them to bandage his shoulder. When he was finished, he studied his work with a critical eye.
“Not bad,” he muttered to himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to sew himself up, and probably wouldn’t be the last.
Satisfied, he doused the fire and eased back for a short nap. He needed the rest. Soon he would begin his journey again. He’d already decided he would go back to the swamp and search one last time for any clues to what had happened to Doc Folson. Maybe he would ask around to see if anyone had heard any rumors. But he would have to be damn careful. He couldn’t just barge into the nearest settlement and start asking questions. Anyone who’d known Doc would take his secrets to the grave. Most people who knew him had been a part of his army, in which case they would have gone with him if he’d
chosen to move his operation. If he’d been routed out, they’d have died with him. Those that didn’t know him, need not be alerted.
Weeks later, Zach left the swamp in defeat and turned the tired horse northward for the long trek home.
Back to his cave, back to that existence that seemed to drain him of all his will. He’d found nothing to even hint at what had happened in the swamp.
He couldn’t help thinking of Serena. Had she been killed, or was she still out there somewhere? Where was Doc? And the others?
He didn’t know, and the not knowing made him angry. He hated being helpless. It made him feel like a failure, useless, powerless.
He was almost afraid to go back home. He’d just lost a good friend. There were only a few left to him now, a handful of people he considered a part of his family, and he couldn’t help but wonder if they would be taken from him, too. Fear, electric and pulsating, settled in his chest, bogging him down. He hadn’t realized until now just how much he counted on his friends, how much he needed them. The thought scared him, almost as much as the thought of losing them did.
How sad. The conquering hero was crumbling, weak, and in need.
Hero. What a laugh! He was no hero. He was just a man. Coming apart at the seams, scared because he was realizing he needed people after all.
14
By the time he finally rode into town, Zach was exhausted from the long journey, and his shoulders were slumped in defeat, a posture unfamiliar to him. He’d been gone for so long the place almost seemed unfamiliar to him. How long had it been? Three months? Four? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore except for the fact that he was home now. He felt oddly apprehensive about it. In the wilderness, he’d had to face some truths about himself that he’d stubbornly repressed all these years, and the journey had been a troublesome one. With Doc gone, everything had changed. He hadn’t realized it before, but he needed people. He needed his friends for balance, for the camaraderie and support they gave him. Without that, he was drained.
Outside Franklin’s establishment, he dismounted and tethered the horse to the nearest hitch. Things around the bar seemed abnormally still, quiet. Or was it just him? Had the apprehension changed his perception?
“At least the building is still here,” he mumbled to himself as he tied the loop securely.
“Hey, Zach. Where’d you get the horse?” a familiar voice asked from a short distance away.
Zach turned to greet the man, almost grateful to see someone he knew still around. “I found him. Do me a favor and scare up some feed and water for him, will you, Sam.”
“Sure thing,” Sam agreed.
Zach stood in the center of the gravel lot and pondered the man’s willingness to help, thinking about community and what it had once meant, to him and to others. These people had it, even during this horrible time. They knew what was important. Each other. They weren’t crusaders. They were just getting by, trusting one another. Scraping along. And it worked for them somehow.
Maybe it was time for him to settle in, stop being a crusader. He was tired of the fight. Weary to the soul. Maybe he should give in to it, retire to the mountains, become a farmer like Pete. Build a new life for himself, a new direction, and let the world rage on. As long as it didn’t touch him anymore.
Sam glanced up and saw Zach watching him. “Something wrong, Zach?”
Zach came back to the present and gave himself a mental shake. “No, Sam. Everything’s fine,” he mumbled, then turned and walked to the door of the bar. He felt sad, weighed down by it, and didn’t know why.
Inside, Zach warmed a little. The familiar sights were reassuring. Grady sat in his usual spot, and there was Franklin behind the bar. Grady noticed the bartender’s broad smile and turned around. He broke into a grin when he saw Zach standing in the doorway.
“Zach. Good to see ya, friend.” Grady left his barstool and met Zach halfway across the room. He gave him a hearty slap on the back and drew him to the bar. Zach could only stare at him as if he weren’t quite real. He almost expected him to disappear into thin air. “Haven’t seen you in a few months,”
Grady said.
“We were wondering if you were okay up there in them mountains of yours,” Franklin commented as he passed a whiskey to Zach.
Zach stared at the glass.
“I’m flat busted, Franklin. Don’t have a thing to pay you with,” Zach told him, taking the seat next to Grady’s. It all seemed so foreign to him, perhaps because he’d been gone too long. Or maybe because he had changed. Greeting his friends without the barrier of indifference he had erected was a new experience. It made him edgy.
“It’s on the house,” Franklin replied, his eyes searching Zach’s haggard face. “You look a little under the weather. Everything okay?”
Zach nodded, just barely.
“Say, what’s with the new scar?” Grady had noticed the newly healed wound on Zach’s shoulder.
“I got into a little scrape with some Pirates,” he admitted.
“Pirates? Here?” Franklin suddenly looked worried. With good reason. No one wanted any dealings with the likes of those men.
Zach took a long, appreciative swig of whiskey and then shook his head. “Not here. Down south. In Florida.”
“Florida?” Grady eyed him curiously. “You been in Florida?”
“Yeah.”
“And here we were thinking you were hidden away in the mountains,” Franklin commented, chuckling a little. “A top secret mission, ay?”
“Something like that. Only it wasn’t nearly as successful as I would have liked it to be.”
“Well, you can’t win ‘em all, Zach,” Grady offered. “Not one man alone.”
“I’m beginning to realize that,” Zach admitted, unable to hide the bitterness he felt.
Annoyed by the vulnerable timbre in his voice, he shrugged and took another pull of whiskey. It was familiar to him when everything else seemed so damn unfamiliar. Perhaps it would take the edge off, take that awkward feeling away.
“Damn, this tastes good. It seems like eons since I’ve had a good drink, a good meal. Hell, this feels so good I might just retire and spend the rest of my days in the mountains. Maybe I’ll start brewing my own whiskey. I could be your supplier, Franklin.”
“Doubtful,” the barkeep observed, watching his friend closely. He seemed to have marked the odd change in him. “Men like you never retire.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Zach said without much conviction. He didn’t want to discuss his odd frame of mind with his friends. “What’s the news, Grady?”
“Same ole.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Still got the plague. Still got no leadership.”
Zach nodded and took another shot of whiskey. “Anyone seen Tadpole?”
“Saw him the other day. Said he’d been over to Pete’s place,” Franklin told him.
“Really?” Zach perked up a little. Maybe there was hope yet.
“Said he was helping him with a fuel tank, or something like that.”
“The Hummer.” Zach nodded absently, his eyes distant, thoughtful. “So, they’re all right then. All of them? Pete, Sara, Tadpole?”
His friends looked perplexed by the question and the note of hopefulness in Zach’s voice.
“Sure, they’re okay,” Franklin said. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
“No reason.” Zach shrugged. “Just wondering about them, that’s all.”
Silence lapsed between the three men while they each pondered their own private thoughts. Over the rim of his glass, Zach saw his two friends exchange an odd glance. Something was up. That much was clear by the way the two were hedging. Zach put the glass down on the counter, a little more heavily than he intended. The harsh sound got the attention of both men.
“You got something to tell me? Something I should know about?”
Franklin glanced at Grady again.
“What is it?” Zach asked, a little more forcefully this time. A horrible feeling had crept into the pit of his stomach, the threat of bad news squeezing the breath up into a tight little wad in his throat.
