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“I don’t want to go to the city,” he says, sounding a little too impatient. “Just in that direction. There’s an old liquor and tobacco outlet I want to check out. Bet no one’s found it yet.”
“We’ve depleted every source of supplies within fifty miles of here. You’re not going to find anything worthwhile.”
“It’s farther than that—nothing else around. Bet it’s still there.”
I frown. “And how are you planning to get there and back in one day?”
“That’s why I wanted to check with you. I was hoping to take one of the vehicles. Not the truck, of course. But maybe the bike or the four-wheeler.”
“No. We don’t use our gas or risk our vehicles for fun.”
He scowls. “Miguel and Kate took the bike last week on their day off.”
“And they came back with enough soap and shampoo for months. Not to mention the skin lotion they found. We use the vehicles for supply runs. Not because we’re bored and want to find beer and cigarettes.”
“I’ll come back with more than that. Why can’t this be a supply run?”
I’m annoyed now by both his whiney tone and his smug expression. Usually the folks living here—even the new ones—accept our rules and our decisions without putting up a fuss because they’re so grateful to be treated right and stay protected. But this does happen occasionally.
“If you want to make a supply run, talk to Jackson. He’s in charge of those. If you just want to get out and take a drive, the answer is no.” I meet his eyes and don’t look away until he turns from me with a grumble that’s not quite under his breath.
But he’s gone now, so I move out toward the garden, and I forget about the encounter in about thirty seconds.
***
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, I check on Molly again and find her delirious. I round up one of the younger girls to sit with her and then go out to the garage where Jackson is tinkering with the tractor.
It’s been acting up, and it’s one piece of equipment we can’t afford to lose.
He’s got his head under the hood, and I don’t waste time with a greeting. “I’m going out to check the drop,” I tell him.
He straightens up, frowning as he wipes his face with the bottom of his old T-shirt. “Why?”
“Because I asked for antibiotics. Maybe someone in the network was able to find them.”
“If someone gets their hands on antibiotics, they’re sure as hell not going to share them with us.”
“You don’t know that. They found us those eye drops for Megan last year.”
Jackson shakes his head. “It’s a waste of time, but go check it if you want. Take Miguel with you.”
“He had to cover the afternoon shift at the wall.”
“Shit. That’s right.” He hesitates briefly and then nods toward the back wall. “Take Ham.”
Ham has been cleaning off shelves and reorganizing supplies, but he’s close enough to hear our conversation. He straightens up, looking excited.
“Come on,” I tell him. “You’re with me.”
We’re walking away when Jackson calls out to our backs, “If something happens to her out there, don’t bother coming home.”
Jackson is an asshole. No question. But he’s an asshole without whom not one of us would have survived.
***
A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO, Jackson and I were making a supply run when we ran into a small group of people traveling through the area whose old Winnebago had broken down. Jackson had been trained by my dad and was a pretty good mechanic by then. Since it was quiet in that area with no potential threats, he helped them figure out what was wrong and scavenge the part they needed for the engine.
They were grateful and told us about a help network that was established in the surrounding states. A lot of people with resources or skills made themselves available to help others who needed it, and they set up message drop spots and safe houses to pass on requests and offers of help.
