The Scourge (Book 1): Unprepared Page 8

  “That’s why we can’t get money,” said Brice. “Banks are afraid of a run on their reserves.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What else?”

  Mike didn’t answer. His attention was on the entrance to the pharmacy. There was a crowd of people at the sliding doors. He counted twenty. His chest tightened and images of the fight in the grocery store the previous day flooded his mind.

  He stopped fifty yards from the entrance and watched the crowd. They weren’t unruly, but some appeared restless, standing on their tiptoes to peer into the store, checking their watches, raising their arms as if to ask what was taking so long.

  “Not sure we should keep going,” he said to Brice. “That situation looks like it could get bad.”

  Mike motioned to the crowd. There were thirty people or more crammed onto the narrow curb that ran along the length of the strip center’s connected storefronts.

  Brice waved him off. “We’re just going to use the ATM. We don’t need to wait in the line.”

  Before Mike could caution him, Brice forged ahead and began a conversation with a couple of men standing on the edge of the curb. Brice motioned into the store. One man shook his head. The other laughed. Mike wasn’t close enough to hear them. He didn’t need to be. This wasn’t going well. Another man, not part of the original conversation, joined in and jabbed a finger at Brice’s chest, knocking him back a step. He bumped into a woman who lost her balance and spilled into someone else. The crowd got louder. Attention switched from the store’s interior beyond the open entrance doors to the curbside disturbance.

  Mike took measured steps toward what appeared to be a deteriorating situation. Sweat beaded at his temples. He felt it on his neck beneath the collar of his shirt. His headache threatened to pulse back to life.

  Mike Crenshaw was a good man with good intentions. He always sought to do right by people. But one area in which he fell miserably short was confrontation. He did everything to avoid it.

  Being conflict avoidant was one of the things that held him back as a salesperson. Hank had told him as much. He needed to like the fight, the excitement of a heated negotiation, his boss explained. Mike knew he’d never be that guy.

  He was the kind of man who’d apologize for asking the server to bring him flatware or refill a long-empty glass of water. He’d tell his mother everything was great, inflating his income, rather than endure her chastisement for his being a month late on his credit card or for wearing shoes with holes in the soles because he couldn’t afford new ones. He’d forgive the book or bottle of cooking oil his neighbor never thought to return. Mike certainly wasn’t someone who ran toward a fight.

  But here he stood, panic welling inside his gut, as his friend was about to start a riot outside a pharmacy. Brice was anything but conflict avoidant. The guy welcomed conflict, thrived on it. He loved the high energy confrontation of a sale. He offered sarcastic “you’re welcomes” to people who didn’t thank him for holding open a door, and he was willing to throw punches over a cash withdrawal in the midst of a burgeoning pandemic.

  Brice didn’t get a chance. Someone else struck first. The swing caught Brice on the jaw and spun him sideways before he went down to one knee. A second punch missed him as he dropped and struck an unwitting older man in the shoulder. Then it erupted into a melee.

  The edges of the crowd scattered. Some took a few steps back to avoid the confused fray. Others hurried away toward the parking lot, glancing over their shoulders as if running from a pursuer in a dark alley.

  Feet cemented in place, Mike’s chest pounded. Sweat bloomed at his temples and on his neck. It was a cold sweat. Nausea welled in his gut.

  Brice tried to stand but couldn’t. He was on one knee, trying to block people from falling onto him. It didn’t work. Someone tumbled backward onto him and knocked him to the ground. His head hit the concrete with a slap and he was out, his nose and mouth bleeding. All around him men and women shoved and pushed. Punches flew.

  Mike spun around, looking for someone to help. Where were the police? Where was the shopping center’s security? Weren’t they always riding around on a golf cart looking for people to harass?

  Nobody was coming. Nobody.

  Mike puffed his cheeks, swiped the thick sheen of sweat from his forehead, and picked up his leaden feet. As quickly as he could, he moved to the edge of the fight. Tensing his body and clenching his jaw, he shoved aside one man and another to get to Brice.

  He knelt down next to him. Using his elbows to fend off errant feet threatening to step on Brice’s arms and legs, he shook his friend. He shouted above the din of the fight, which, incredibly, still involved a half dozen people.

  Brice’s eyes fluttered open and he groaned. He tried moving and grimaced.

  “C’mon,” said Mike. “I’ve got you.”

  Mike took a knee to the back. He ignored the jab of pain and maneuvered closer to Brice to help him to his feet. By the time he’d gotten him up, standing and ready to move, the fighting had become angry shouting. One voice was louder than the others. Mike noticed it belonged to a Seminole County sheriff’s deputy. The thickly built man in his forest green uniform had one man up against the front of the building. He already had him cuffed and was searching him.

  A second deputy was separating two other men. He had his hands up, calming them as they pointed angry fingers at each other. Both were bloodied. One had a torn shirt. The other had scratches along the side of his face.

  Mike slung Brice’s arm over his shoulder and held his wrist with one hand. He wrapped his other arm around Brice’s waist and helped him back to the parking lot. Neither deputy appeared to notice or care about them as they limped away from the scene of the crime.

  Brice grunted. “What happened?”

  “You started a fight,” said Mike.

  Maneuvering across the packed parking lot was more difficult with Brice at his side. He couldn’t slip between cars and had to go around them, moving along the narrow, unmarked lanes of traffic that ran along the edges of the lot and between the rows of parking spots.

  It also wasn’t easy because of Brice’s heft. He was a big dude compared to Mike and wasn’t completely walking under his own power. His steps were uneven and he wasn’t actively holding onto Mike, clearly still out of it. Mike moved with purpose, and the powerful mix of fear and adrenaline gave him the strength.

  “Fight?” Brice asked groggily.

  No doubt he had a concussion. If the first blow hadn’t knocked him senseless, hitting the concrete sidewalk outside the pharmacy did the job.

  “Yeah,” said Mike. “We can talk about it later. Let’s get you back to the station.”

  “No,” Brice whined. He sounded like a child. Clearly he wasn’t aware of what he was saying or how he sounded. “I don’t wanna go there. I don’t wanna die.”

  Mike helped Brice up onto the esplanade and started to move around the palm tree closest to Lake Mary Boulevard. A commanding voice stopped them.

  “Hey, hold up.”

  Mike stopped, one foot on the grass and one on the curb, and spun as best he could. A deputy in his patrol car was behind them. Mike’s anxiety spiked again. One confrontation was enough for the year, let alone today. He turned around awkwardly, still mostly supporting Brice’s weight.

  “Yes, sir?”

  His voice was more of a breathless squeak than he’d expected. He cleared his throat and repeated the greeting. The deputy had his window down and was leaning out of his patrol car, a white Dodge Charger with green and gold lettering.

  “He okay?” he asked, motioning to Brice.

  His blond hair was buzzed so that he appeared bald. His reflective aviator glasses hid his eyes. There was a tattoo on his thick, muscled forearm. Mike recognized it immediately. His father had nearly identical ink on his chest. Mike’s stomach lurched.

  It was an eagle sitting atop a globe. Behind the globe was an anchor. Stretching from the eagle’s beak and flying above it was a banner wi
th the Latin Semper Fidelis written across it. The deputy was a former Marine.

  “I think so,” said Mike. “He might have a concussion. He got knocked out.”

  “I got knocked out?” asked Brice.

  Mike ignored him, keeping his focus on the deputy, who jerked a thumb over his shoulder and toward the strip center pharmacy. His forearm flexed, warping the tattoo. “You were part of that fight?”

  “Yeah,” said Mike. “Uh, yes, sir.”

  The deputy might not have been any older than Mike. He might have been younger. It was hard to know with the sunglasses covering his eyes, the super-short hair, and the uniform. Still, Mike knew he should offer respect.

  The deputy jutted his chin at Brice. His flat expression was unchanged. “One of the guys back there said your friend here started the whole thing,” said the deputy. “Said he took the first swing.”

  Brice laughed. It sounded like a drunk chuckle.

  The deputy put the Dodge in park and shut off the engine. “Something funny?”

  “No, sir,” Mike said with a tone that likely betrayed his nerves. “He’s loopy from the concussion.”

  “Did he start it?”

  “No,” said Mike. “He didn’t throw a single punch.”

  The deputy opened his car door and swung a tree trunk of a leg from the front seat. He used the door to brace himself as he stood. He adjusted his black leather duty belt, lifting it up on his hips. He stood at the open door, one hand on his pistol and the other on a Taser. A brass nameplate on his chest read MARYLAND.

  Bile crept up Mike’s throat. This was a bad day.

  “One witness tells us your friend here tried cutting the line,” said Deputy Maryland. “He pushed people. He was belligerent. Another says he asked to cut in line but was polite about it. Then he got blindsided. My experience tells me the truth lies somewhere in the middle.”

  Mike adjusted Brice’s arm around his shoulder and reaffixed his grip on his friend’s wrist. He swallowed hard, tasting the sour bile in his throat.

  “He wasn’t, sir,” said Mike. “I saw the whole thing.”

  Maryland braced an arm on the open door. “What happened?”

  Mike’s back was killing him, his shoulders were sore, his mouth was dry, and his head was throbbing again. The world was falling apart, and he was getting questioned by law enforcement. He wanted to tell Deputy Maryland to screw himself and worry about something more important.

  “We were trying to withdraw money,” said Mike, exhaling to keep himself calm. “The ATM at the bank wasn’t working.”

  Deputy Maryland lifted his head, as if glancing at the bank beyond the Ligustrums and palms. He pulled a small notepad from his front pocket and clicked a pen with his thumb, scribbling something on the pad.

  “There’s an ATM inside that pharmacy,” said Mike. “We walked over there and saw the crowd. My friend—”

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Brice.”

  “What?” asked Brice.

  Mike ignored him. So did the deputy.

  “What’s the last name?”

  “Booker,” said Mike.

  “Spelled like it sounds?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your name?”

  “Mike. Michael Crenshaw. Spelled like it sounds.”

  “You have any ID?”

  Mike nodded. “You need it?”

  Deputy Maryland didn’t respond at first. He was writing on his notepad. After a few seconds, he looked up and sighed. His barrel chest, which was even more impressive in the ballistic vest he wore under his polyblend uniform, seemed to get bigger as he appeared to consider Mike’s predicament. It would be tough to get his ID without letting go of Brice.

  “I’ve got to write up a report on that fight,” said Maryland. He sighed again. “Finish your story. Then we’ll worry about the IDs and getting your friend some help. He looks punch-drunk.”

  Mike adjusted his grip again and winced. His lower back was seizing from holding Brice. Maryland pursed his lips and then frowned. He moved from the front of the car to the rear and opened the door. He motioned to Mike.

  “You can put your friend back there.”

  Mike furrowed his brow and hesitated. “Is he under arrest?”

  “No, I’m trying to give you a break. Mr. Booker looks heavy.”

  Mike narrowed his eyes. He didn’t move toward the car.

  “I’ll leave the door open if that makes it any better,” said Maryland. “I’m trying to help here.”

  Mike nodded and Maryland moved to help him get Brice into the back of the car. It struck Mike that despite his friend’s obvious injuries, the deputy hadn’t offered him any medical attention. They lowered Brice into his seat and stepped clear of the car. Mike positioned himself in a way that would prevent the deputy from closing the door.

  “You think we could get him some help?” Mike asked.

  Deputy Maryland took off his sunglasses and tucked them in his breast pocket. His eyes were bright blue. They looked tired. There was puffy skin underneath them. His lids drooped, giving him the appearance that he was always squinting. His eyebrows were almost nonexistent given how blond they were. Mike realized Deputy Maryland was older than he’d first appeared.

  “Finish your story,” he said. “I’ll check out your IDs. If everything’s good, I can give you a lift to the hospital. Though, I can tell you, it’s pretty busy. Also, I don’t know if you want to be in a place where so many sick people are. Seriously, Mr. Crenshaw, it’s not what I would do.”

  “What about an urgent care?” Mike asked. “There’s one on Rinehart.”

  Maryland considered this. He glanced at Brice, who was still struggling to maintain consciousness. “Okay. Let’s finish this first.”

  Mike slouched against the open door, giving his back a rest. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and told the deputy what he’d seen. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed over his driver’s license. Leaning into the back seat, he managed to get Brice’s stainless-steel wallet and, after struggling to figure out how to open it, pushed a button that revealed his license. Mike pulled it free and handed it over.

  “Give me a minute with these,” he said. “Due diligence and all.” Maryland pressed a radio mic clipped to his lapel. He inclined his head toward the mic and spoke in codes Mike didn’t understand. The officer slid into his driver’s seat and started punching a tablet attached to his dash between the driver’s and passenger’s seat, entering information into what looked like a database.

  Brice groaned again. “Dude,” he said. His voice was gravelly, but he sounded a little more coherent. “My head hurts. You got some aspirin?”

  “Not right now,” said Mike. “We’re getting you some help as soon as the deputy is finished checking us out.”

  Brice opened his eyes, widening them as if trying to focus. “Deputy? What happened?”

  Maryland got out of the vehicle. It shifted with his weight, lifting underneath Mike’s arm as he leaned on the door.

  “You’re clear,” said the deputy. “Not even a traffic ticket. Your friend too.”

  Maryland handed back the driver’s licenses. “I think your friend here is an idiot. He never should have tried to cut the line, even if he was only asking. Tensions are too high. Everyone’s on edge with this disease. We’ve got little skirmishes like that happening all over the county.”

  “All over?”

  Maryland slid the notepad into his breast pocket and pulled out the glasses. He put the aviators back on his face, covering his eyes. “Yeah. Nothing major. Arguments over gasoline, water, canned food. We did have one guy pull a knife over a box of cold medicine.”

  “Really?”

  Maryland motioned for Mike to walk around to the passenger’s side. Mike followed the lead and climbed into the back seat. Maryland shut Brice’s door. When he got back behind the wheel, he glanced back at Mike. “I take you to the clinic, how are you going to get b
ack? It’s a couple of miles from here. I can’t stay. I’ll have to get back here to finish things up.”

  “I’ll figure it out,” said Mike. “I have a better chance of getting Brice there faster with you driving. That’s all I’m worried about.”

  Maryland shrugged. “Okay. You got it.” He pinched a radio mic clipped to his lapel and spoke in code again. He was clear from the scene. He put the car in gear, flipped on his lights, and whooped the siren a couple of times. He jumped the curb and went against traffic. Cars inched away from him as much as they could as they sat stuck in the gridlock.

  “So you were saying there are fights all over the place?” Mike asked, wanting to find out more.

  “Yeah,” said Maryland. He cut between two cars and sounded his siren again. “It’s pretty crazy. I mean, we’ve seen an uptick over the past few days as this thing has spread. Like I said, nothing major. A lot of nuisance calls. A few assaults.”

  Mike shifted his weight on the solid, uncomfortable back seat of the patrol car. “It seems kinda fast, people panicking.”

  Brice was strapped in next to him. His head was leaning against the door. His arms were folded across his chest as if he were hugging himself. His eyes were squeezed shut, pain etched on his bloody face.

  Maryland shrugged. He waved at an SUV to move out of his way. “Is it fast?” asked the deputy in a tone that suggested he disagreed with Mike’s shallow assessment. “This thing’s been building for weeks. You see it on the news, all these dead bodies. Then you find out it’s coming here? Or it’s already here? It’s like a hurricane, you know? Some people prep ahead of time. Most people wait.”

  Mike said nothing. The deputy knew better than he did. Besides, there was an excellent probability that it had been building for days or longer and that Mike simply hadn’t been paying attention.

  The deputy maneuvered the Dodge around another SUV and forced his way into the narrow gap between a pair of cars. He chirped the siren and crossed an intersection by swerving across oncoming traffic. The traffic wasn’t oncoming. It was stopped.

  He jumped a curb and the patrol car bounced on its suspension. The front end scraped against concrete and Mike felt the vibration in the seat under him. He braced himself against the door as the car settled, and the deputy parked it in front of the entrance to the urgent care clinic.