One Second After

Outside John opened up the ice cooler. There were still a dozen ten-pound bags inside. He unlocked the car, opened the back door, and went back, pulling out four bags and tossing them in, went back again, and started to grab four more, then hesitated, looking at Makala.

He took just two, closed the lid, tossed them in the car, and slammed the door shut.

John got into the car, took a deep breath, started it up, and lit another cigarette.

“That’ll kill you someday,” Makala said quietly. He looked over at her, unable to speak.

“You did the right thing. And so did Liz. Any parent would have done the same.” John sighed.

“Remember the old movies, the old cartoons from the Second World War. All the stuff about food hoarders.”

“A bit before my time.”

“Hell, I’m only forty-eight; I remember ’em.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Your girl has type one diabetes, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“You better get home now like Liz said.”

Makala reached over the backseat, and he felt like an absolute bastard, for he found himself looking at her as she stretched, dress riding up to midthigh.

She caught his eye as she pulled a bag of ice over, and said nothing as she broke it open. She dumped the box of syringes out of the plastic bag and then gently laid the bag containing the vials atop the open ice.

“That should do till you get home. Don’t pack them inside the ice; they’ll freeze and that will ruin them. Try wrapping insulation around the ice, but keep the top open and have the vials on top. That should keep them at roughly the right temperature. Stash the remaining ice inside your freezer; that’s the best-insulated place for them.

“With some luck the ice should last you up to a week.”

“I don’t know how to thank you enough,” John said.

“Well, helping me find some food might be a good starter,” she said with a smile.

“I know where there’s great barbecue.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

He pulled out of the plaza and headed back towards town.

“Hope you don’t mind a personal question?” she asked.

“Go ahead.”

“Who’s Mary?”

“My wife.”

“How long ago?”

“Breast cancer, four years back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” he lied. “She left me two beautiful girls.”

“I could see that last night. I kind of suspected your younger was diabetic. In my business you can spot it. That’s why it didn’t bother me too much when you took off like you did. Stress is bad for her situation.”

“I know. Again, I’m sorry about running out on you like that.”

She smiled.

“Oh, there was a truck driver there, a regular white knight. He finally beat the crap out of the drunk, then walked us ladies down to the motel.”

She hesitated.

“You kind of surprised me, the way you took that man out in the drugstore.”

“You figured I was running out at first, didn’t you?”

“Well, to be honest, yeah, I did.”

“I didn’t, though.”

She chuckled softly. “You sure as hell didn’t. Bit underhanded maybe, but you settled it.”

“If you must fight, fight to win,” John said quietly.

“You know you got a cut hand, don’t you.”

He looked at his right hand, and for the first time the pain registered. Part of the broken bottle had laid a deep slice into his right forefinger clear down to the crease with his thumb.

Damn, it suddenly hurt like hell.

“Pull over; let me look at it.”

He drifted to the side of the road and came to a stop. She took his hand and gently spread the wound open; now it really hurt. “You’ll need stitches. Ten to twelve from the looks of it.” As she examined it, blood dripped onto her suit. “Be careful, your suit,” he said. She ignored him.

“I don’t have anything sterile on me. You should stop at a doctor’s.”

“Later. I want to get the medicine home first. Besides, the doc is most likely swamped right now.”

As he spoke he nodded towards the road.

Maury Hurt’s World War II Jeep was coming down off the exit ramp of the interstate, four people piled in, one a child with shoulders hunched over, pale faced, gasping. Lying across the back of the Jeep was an elderly woman who John could see was already dead.

“We don’t realize just how dependent we are,” Makala sighed, watching as the Jeep weaved around some stalled cars to head into town.

“I’d hate to be in my hospital right now. If the generators didn’t kick on, everyone in ICU or under surgery is most likely dead. I watched one poor fool killing himself last night. Had a Beemer like mine. The drunks kind of scared him and he insisted on pushing the car as if somebody was actually going to steal it. Damn fool. Someone told me later that he collapsed. People are crazy and this is bringing it out big-time.” She let go of his hand.

“If you can find something I’ll bandage it up, but you should get that medicine home.”

He wondered if she was inviting herself over. And at that moment he honestly didn’t know how to react.