Chosen, Christine Pope [e reader pdf best .TXT] 📗
- Author: Christine Pope
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I filled up the remainder of the duffle bag with my toiletries, although I left behind all the hair-prep tools. What was the point, when there was no more electricity? Maybe if I got really bored I’d invent a solar-powered blow dryer, but in the meantime, that was a whole lot of stuff I didn’t need to drag along.
I took the same no-nonsense approach with my clothes: jeans and T-shirts in both short- and long-sleeved varieties, a flannel shirt I’d inherited from my ex-boyfriend (he was an ass, but that shirt was soooo soft), the all-weather anorak I used when going on hikes. If I really was going north, I’d need some protection, so I added my dark green plaid cashmere scarf and lined leather gloves to the pile, along with the black knitted cap that Elena had once complained made me look like I was about to hold up a liquor store.
Getting it all to fit was a challenge, although leaving out the anorak helped. I could always lay it down in the back of the SUV. When my gaze traveled back to the closet, where all my “fun” clothes still hung, looking a bit forlorn and abandoned, it lingered on the black dress I’d worn out for drinks on my birthday. All right, I knew there was no reason I’d ever need to wear that dress again, but I loved the way it fit, the way it seemed to follow all the curves of my body without clinging too much. But it was made of knit fabric and wouldn’t take up that much room.
Off the hanger, it did roll up into a surprisingly small ball. I tucked the dress into a corner of the suitcase and then zipped the thing closed. A sound outside on the landing made me start, but it was only Dutchie, coming up to investigate what I was doing.
“Just about done,” I told her, lugging the suitcase off the bed and picking up the lighter of the two duffle bags, the one with my underthings in it. I’d come back for the other duffle bag and my coat.
The dog ran ahead of me down the stairs, tail wagging. It seemed she knew what these preparations meant — that I’d be going in the Cherokee soon, and that meant she’d be going along as well.
I set the luggage down by the breakfast bar, then returned to my apartment and gathered up the rest of my things. Sitting on the small side table next to the couch was a wedding photo of my parents, my mother with impossible big ’80s hair but looking beautiful even so, and next to it a snapshot taken last year of the whole family at a football game, Devin wearing his shoulder pads, sweaty and grinning proudly. My heart clenched when I looked at their faces, and yet I knew I couldn’t leave them behind. What if I began to forget what they looked like?
Fighting back tears, I shoved the pictures, frames and all, into my oversized purple purse; I wasn’t sure why I was bringing it, since the backpack I was taking with the rest of the camping equipment was a lot more practical. But that purse seemed to be the last reminder of the “old” me I had — the cell phone, useless now, although a few days earlier I would have said I couldn’t have lasted more than a few hours without it; the tube of lip gloss; my wallet; stubs from movies I’d seen over the last few months; a pen and some tissue, because my mother told me I should always carry a pen and Kleenex.
And my keys. I went out onto the landing, closed the door behind me, and then locked it. I couldn’t really say why, as I doubted any survivors — if there were more besides me and the late Chris Bowman — would bother coming all the way back here to loot the apartment. Our house was one of the more modest ones on the street; there were plenty of better pickings elsewhere.
But that thought only served to depress me, as if the things my parents had worked so hard for had turned out to be worth very little in the end. The first stinging pinpricks of tears told me I’d better abandon that line of thought, as I still had a lot to do.
And maybe, just maybe, I’d feel better once I was gone and away from the place that now only served to remind me of everything I’d lost.
* * *
In the end, the Cherokee was full but not filled. I put two bottles of water in the cup holders, patted the passenger seat so Dutchie would know it was time to get in, and shut the door behind her. After that, I climbed in behind the wheel and closed my own door.
All the exertion had made my wrists start to ache again, but only slightly, which just proved some sort of supernatural healing must be going on. Not that I was going to argue. Heading out into the world while even partly incapacitated wasn’t a very good idea.
So…had my unseen guardian speeded up my healing process so my injuries wouldn’t slow down my departure?
I didn’t know how I should feel about that.
No point in brooding over it now, though. I was just glad that I was able to back out of the driveway without my wrists or hands hurting too much. Today, although the sky was mainly blue, I could see clouds beginning to drift in from the northeast. I hoped they didn’t indicate some kind of weather was on the way; bad enough that the voice expected me to head out of town in a direction of his choosing without having to handle driving in heavy rain as well.
He — or it — had been conspicuously silent so far this morning. It could simply be that he had no reason to intervene while I was packing, since I was already doing his bidding by prepping to get out of Albuquerque.
The local Walgreens was around a half mile from my house. Its parking lot backed up to a middle school, and it felt stranger than strange to get out of the SUV and not see a bunch of kids running around on the soccer field and the track. At least it was far enough away that I couldn’t tell if those fields had little piles of gray dust scattered around on them. No, I realized they probably wouldn’t, as the schools had been closed down fairly quickly…not that it had made much of a difference in the end.
As I approached the drugstore, I saw that the front doors had been smashed in. Glass was strewn everywhere. My hackles went up, and I almost reached back and pulled out the Glock, which I’d tucked into my waistband. The whole incident with Chris Bowman had put me more than a little on edge, and I’d decided to drive with the gun on me. The S&W was way too big for that, though, so I’d gone with the Glock. It would still flatten someone, especially if I hit them with multiple rounds.
But as I entered the store, glass crunching under my hiking boots, it seemed the place was deserted enough. Dark, too — I supposed I should have been expecting that, but in my mind’s eye the Walgreens was always brightly lit, blazing with fluorescent illumination. I paused by the checkout counter, which was close enough to the door that I could see what I was doing, and plucked one of the keychain flashlights off the display there. Not as good as my father’s Maglite, which was buried deep in the cargo area of the car, but it would do.
I turned on the flashlight, grabbed a cart, and made my way to the back of the store where the pharmacy was located. All around me, I could see evidence of looting — empty shelves, racks overturned, aisles filled with discarded bags of Doritos, rolls of toilet paper, kids’ toys. My heart sank. If so much had been taken, what would be left for me to collect?
As it turned out, not a heck of a lot.
There were still some generic medications left in the first aid aisle — ibuprofen, allergy remedies, sore throat lozenges. I grabbed boxes haphazardly and threw them into the cart I’d picked up at the front of the store, figuring something was better than nothing. All was chaos behind the pharmacy counter. I didn’t know if all those items had been taken by people who were sick and trying desperately to alleviate their symptoms, or whether any survivors had realized there was a lot of heavy-duty stuff here just ripe for the picking.
Pretty much anything with an opiate in it was gone, I realized as I ran the flashlight’s beam over the shelves. I could forget about easing the pain of armageddon with a little Oxycontin. All of the high-powered stuff was gone, except for one bottle of codeine-laced cough syrup high on a shelf. I took that, figuring it might come in handy.
The antibiotics were also ransacked, although I found a couple of bottles of tetracycline. Old school, but it would still work just fine for an infected wound or a bout of bronchitis. They got added to the growing pile in the cart.
A lot of the medications had names I didn’t even recognize, so I passed all those by. What I really wanted was the birth control pills, and I found those when I went around a corner, on a set of shelves that were a little disorganized but mainly intact. It made sense; most people probably weren’t thinking of family planning when they were being beaten down by the modern-day equivalent of a Biblical plague.
A small sigh of relief escaped my lips when I found the Ortho-Novum, and I gathered up every little packet they had. Enough to last me for a year, from the looks of it. After that, well…I’d worry about that then.
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