Page 70 of One Adult, Please

18

THE BAND-AID HOUSE WAS RUDE

GRACE

The band-aid houses are the most important targets. One on the east side and one on the west side. Medical supplies. The things we need most and have the least of, because you can find food in every restaurant and water in every cooler but first-aid supplies are specialized and limited.

The east band-aid house is small, a single room with a counter and cabinets and a cot. One wrong person inside, a WonderSphere medic based on the red cross armband, and Beck handles it.

When we step back into the plaza, Wondie Hat is near the frozen yogurt stand.

Closer. Still smiling. Still shuffling. Still wearing the world's worst souvenir hat with the confidence of a man who paid thirty-two dollars and intends to get the full value.

"Wondie Hat is still coming," I say.

"Following sound," Grant says.

"Following me emotionally," I say.

The west band-aid house is bigger. Three rooms. Waiting area, treatment room, supply closet. Joel opens the door. We hear movement inside. Shuffling. Multiple shufflers.

"How many?" I whisper.

Joel peers through the gap. "Five. Treatment room."

"Five in one band-aid house?"

"They were probably treating injured guests when it happened. They would have been in close proximity."

I don't make a joke. There's usually a joke. My mouth is a joke factory that operates twenty-four hours a day with no quality control. But sometimes the conveyor belt stops and the workers go home and there's just silence where the funny used to be.

From somewhere behind us, plastic scrapes on tile.

I look back. Wondie Hat is closer.

"Wondie Hat moved again," I whisper.

"Toward the noise," Grant says.

"Then let's make less noise," Joel says.

Grant lifts the sleepy stick. "I can dart two from here. Maybe three, but the delay still applies."

Joel opens the door wider.

Grant fires through the gap. One dart. Two. The first hits a woman in a SUNRISE GRILL visor. The second hits a man in a guest shirt with blood down the front and one shoe missing, because shoes remain the first casualty of civilization.

Both wrong people jerk. Neither goes down.

"Loading screen," I hiss.

The five wrong people turn toward us. All five.

Joel shoves the door open and goes in first. Beck follows with the axe held tight because there's no room to swing big in a first-aid station unless you want to remove a cabinet, a person, and several OSHA regulations. The waiting room is small. Chairs line one wall. A rolling cot sits near the treatment room doorway. There are posters about heat exhaustion and hydration and one cheerful laminated sign that says WONDIE SAYS: SAFETY FIRST!

Wondie is a liar.

The first wrong person reaches the waiting room before the sleepy stick finishes buffering. Joel catches it with the wrench, a hard strike that knocks it sideways into the chairs. His second strike stops it before it can rise.