Cruel World(100)

An old brass bell chimed over the door as he entered, the air within the store thick with the scent of decaying food. A long, glass counter spanned the left side of the building, shining malt dispensers and candy cases lining the wall behind it. A pair of bare and graying feet protruded from an aisle on the opposite side. The rear of the store was devoted to the pharmacy, and Quinn hurried down the aisle to its white counter.

Rows and rows of shelves holding containers of pills and fluids took up the wide space. A dead computer sat atop a desk and several hundred bright green capsules were scattered on the floor. Quinn stepped on them with a popping sound and began to search the desk’s drawers. He found what he was looking for, not in the desk but hanging from a thin chain attached to one of the shelf ends.

He thumbed through the pharmacy desk reference, its dog-eared pages dry and loud as he turned them. When he reached the section on antibiotics, there were dozens of choices listed. He scanned them, glancing toward the street every few minutes. The names began to blend together, their uses obscure within the subtext of medical language. He concentrated, reading each section thoroughly before moving on. When he saw the words, ‘broad-spectrum’, he drew a line across the page to the corresponding dosage and drug name.

“Ertapenem.” He said the word, its pronunciation like chewing a bite of food too large. “Why the hell can’t they name drugs something normal?” Quinn said under his breath before beginning to scan the shelves.

He found the vial of antibiotic on the bottom of the second shelf. After checking the contents, he grabbed three more bottles, tucking them into a cloth bag he spotted in the corner of the room. On the opposite side of the pharmacy, he found antiseptic, plastic-wrapped syringes, a ream of gauze, as well as a tube of burn cream. He squeezed out some of the paste onto a finger and spread it on his face, sighing with the relief it brought.

Pacing back to the desk, he spotted another row of vials secured within a glass case. When he leaned in closer, he saw they were all opiates, Morphine being the most prominent. He considered taking a few of them but decided against it. He’d been here long enough.

Grabbing a large first aid kit on the way out of the store along with two handfuls of candy bars, he paused, skirting between the aisles to an alcove holding wheelchairs, crutches, and wall full of elastic braces. There was only one of the items he sought, leaning against a row of oxygen tanks. After grabbing it, he hurried toward the door, tucking the white cane beneath his arm, and eased out into the fresh air.

A herd of stilts stood in the center of the nearest intersection.

Quinn froze, his muscles locking against joints.

There were at least thirty of them, the tallest looming above the rest so high he had trouble fathoming how tall it really was. Its head surpassed the second story of the nearest building by at least five feet, its frame so thin and rickety, it swayed with the wind.

The stilts barked and grunted at one another.

Quinn edged backward.

Three feet from the building.

His foot crunched broken glass.

The closest of them began to turn, and he bolted to the door, sliding inside and letting it close, the short jangle of the bell overhead making him wince. His heart banged in his ears covering any sounds from outside. He crouched near the door, peering through the front windows that lined the street.

A spindly leg and torso stepped into view.

Quinn slunk down, hand scrabbling for the lock on the front door, but there was none. It locked from outside. He cradled the bag and cane and crawled forward, skirting a display for shampoo as the door rattled behind him.

He didn’t look back, only moved, ignoring the rustic tinkle of the bell above the door.

It was going to see him.

Quinn slid around the end of the aisle and waited, sweat trickling down his nose, down his spine. Something scraped near the front of the store. The deep croaking filled the space, then silence. He chanced a look around the shelving.

The stilt stood near the door, its long head brushing the ceiling. Its hands clenched and released over and over as it sniffed the air. Smelling. Seeking.

It moved into the aisles, feet rasping on the tile floor. Quinn lunged forward, crawling as quietly as he could to the pharmacy. Then he was through the open door, past the pick-up window, shoulder blades against the desk, breath racing in and out of his lungs. Without waiting, he sidled into the first aisle and made it to the back of the store.

There was no rear exit.

He spun in place, looking for a window, another doorway, anything.

Something tipped over in the front of the store with a crash. He used the cover of the sound to move back along the rows of drugs before setting the bag and cane down. He glanced over the top of the pick-up counter.