Reborn Before the Apocalypse: The Last Medic System

5. The Scavenger

The white letters still glowed in the air, and Caleb sat on the crate with his hand pressed to his shoulder. Rain ticked on the bay roof, and the damp smell of concrete crept around his boots.

"You do not have to explain that rule to me, Triage, because I know it better than anyone alive," he murmured at last.

"I know you do," Triage replied. "That is why I wrote it for you."

Caleb rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Why that rule, and why that one first, when I have a hundred questions about you?" he asked.

"Because that rule keeps you alive long enough to ask the other ninety-nine," Triage answered. "A medic who is empty cannot help anyone."

Caleb gave a slow nod and swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "That is true, and I learned it the hardest way there is," he admitted.

"Then learn it again, and learn it gently," Triage urged.

Caleb ran his thumb along the rough cloth of the sack beside him. "Then I will keep it, and I will keep it hard," he vowed.

"Good," Triage answered. "Now tell me what you plan to do with the night."

Caleb stood up and hauled the sack onto his shoulder with a grunt. "I plan to count every box in that pharmacy, because Gerald counts with hope and I need to count with my own eyes," he explained.

"You have six credits, and I would not spend them yet," Triage advised. "Count first, and then decide what you need."

Caleb stowed the sack in his locker, and the cans clanked against the metal wall. Then he walked down the hall toward the pharmacy, where the lights had dimmed to their night setting and the tubes overhead buzzed like trapped flies.

Gerald Finch stood at the pharmacy window with his coat half on and his keys in his fist. "Caleb, I told my wife I would be home an hour ago, so please say this will be quick," he begged.

Caleb frowned at the dark circles under Gerald's eyes. "You were here when I came on this morning, so how long have you worked today?" he asked.

"Sixteen hours, because the night tech called in sick again and nobody else would cover," Gerald admitted with a tired shrug.

"Then I will be quick, Gerald, because I only need to count the back stockroom," Caleb promised.

Gerald scratched the back of his neck and glanced up and down the empty hall. "I could lose my job for handing you my keycard, and you know it," he fretted.

"You will not lose anything, because I will touch nothing and I will put every box back where I find it," Caleb countered.

Gerald studied his face for a long moment. Then he sighed and pressed a white plastic card into Caleb's palm.

"Fine, but the lights are dead back there, because the breaker tripped last month and maintenance says the fix is in next quarter's budget," Gerald grumbled.

"I have the big flashlight from the rig, so I will manage," Caleb assured him, and he lifted the heavy black light in his other hand.

"Pull the loading door tight when you leave, because the latch sticks and it will not lock unless you shove it," Gerald warned.

"I will shove it hard, and I will bring the card back before you open in the morning," Caleb said, and he gave Gerald a grateful nod.

Gerald pulled his hat low and shuffled toward the exit. At the corner he turned and gave a tired wave, and then the far door swung shut behind him with a soft click.

Caleb swiped the card, and the stockroom lock buzzed and let him in. The air inside was cold and stale, and it smelled of dust, old cardboard, and a faint, sharp trace of rubbing alcohol.

He clicked on the flashlight, and a yellow beam cut across rows of tall metal shelves. Most of them stood bare, and the few boxes that remained sat in lonely little groups.

"This is worse than the sweep made it look," Caleb whispered.

"The sweep showed you the stock," Triage replied. "It could not show you the silence around it."

Caleb walked down the first aisle and ran the beam over each shelf. He counted out loud, because the old habit steadied his hands, and his voice sounded small in the empty room.

"Saline, six bags," he counted. "Gauze, four packs, and no gloves at all."

He moved to the second aisle and tapped a shelf with his knuckle, and the hollow ring echoed down the row. "Syringes, three boxes, and one of them is crushed," he continued. "Tape, two rolls, and both are nearly gone."

"What about masks and tubing?" Triage asked.

Caleb swept the beam across the empty rack and shook his head. "There are no masks in this room and no spare tubing either, so one bad night would drain it dry," he said.

"Then count it twice, because the second count is the one you will trust," Triage advised.

Caleb nodded and went back over the shelf, and the cardboard dust tickled his nose until he sneezed into his sleeve.

"The antibiotics are on the back left wall," Triage reminded him.

Caleb swung the beam to the far corner and found rows of white boxes with red dates stamped on their sides. He crouched beside them, and the cold of the floor soaked through his knees as he read each label.

"Amoxicillin, eleven boxes," he said. "Cephalexin, nine, and doxycycline, six."

"That is the whole back room, and the shelves at the window hold only a few more," Triage confirmed softly. "It matches the numbers from the sweep."

Caleb sat back on his heels and let the beam droop toward the floor. "If the dates are right, these will be used up or expired long before the fever comes, and then I will have nothing," he muttered.

"Then you will need fresh stock, and you will need a trade partner to get it," Triage answered. "A trade needs two sides, and so far you have only one."

Caleb frowned at the boxes and tapped the red date with one finger. "What can I even offer a supplier, when I have a half-empty kit and six credits?" he asked.

"Start with what they need, because a fair trade begins with their problem and not with yours," Triage explained. "Learn the need first, and then find the price."

"Dot paid me in beans, and beans do not cure infections," Caleb said with a tired laugh.

"Beans do not, but they taught you how the system works," Triage replied. "That lesson will be worth more than the beans."

Caleb pulled the squashed half sandwich from his jacket pocket and peeled back the paper. "Owen made me promise to eat every crumb, and he is stuck on a double, so I will check my own work," he said, and he took a big bite.

The turkey was cold and the bread was a little stiff, but the taste still felt like a warm hand on his shoulder. He chewed slowly and listened to the rain on the loading dock beyond the far wall.

"Eating on shift is a human thing, and I will not stop you," Triage remarked dryly.

Caleb snorted and swallowed. "That is the first joke you have told me, and it was not bad," he admitted.

A faint scrape came from the back of the room, and Caleb stopped chewing. It was the sound of metal on metal, thin and patient, like a key that did not belong in its lock.

He clicked off the flashlight, and the dark closed in around him like a wet blanket. He pressed his back against the shelf and held his breath, and his heart thumped loud in his ears.

"Triage, who is that?" he whispered.

"I read stock, not people, so I cannot tell you," Triage replied in a hush. "I can tell you the loading door is no longer locked."

"Of course it is not," Caleb breathed. "Gerald said it sticks, and a good shove opens it from the outside too."

Caleb tilted his head toward the faint scraping. "Can you warn me when they move?" he whispered.

"I can warn you about stock, and I cannot warn you about people," Triage answered. "You will have to use your ears."

Caleb nodded in the blackness and pressed his palm flat against the cold shelf. "Then I will listen very hard," he promised.

The loading door groaned on its hinges, and a cool, wet wind rushed down the aisle. It smelled of rain, rust, and diesel from the dock, and it lifted the dust from the floor in a thin, gritty cloud.

Soft footsteps followed, quick and sure, and they did not slow once in the dark. Caleb counted them in a whisper so faint that it was hardly a breath.

"One, two, three, four, five," he mouthed, and the steps turned a corner and kept going.

They stopped at the back left wall, only a few yards from where he crouched. A zipper rasped open, and a low, rough voice muttered to itself in the gloom.

"Left wall, third shelf, bottom row first, and do not touch the saline," the voice whispered.

Caleb's eyes went wide in the blackness. "She knows exactly which shelf holds the antibiotics, and she did not even search for it," he mouthed.

"Someone has walked this room before," Triage murmured. "Someone has done it more than once."

Boxes thumped softly into a bag, one after another, and the cardboard crackled as they landed. The sound was steady and practiced, like a person who had done the same job a hundred times.

Caleb eased his weight onto his other foot, and the old floor creaked under his boot. "There is an alarm button by the door, and it is twelve steps behind me," he whispered.

"If you press it, the noise will bring people," Triage replied. "It may also bring a bullet, because she is close and you are loud."

"Then I will talk to her first, and I will keep my hands open," Caleb decided.

He wiped his damp palm on his trouser leg and breathed in the cold, dusty air. The smell of rain and rubbing alcohol mixed on his tongue, and his mouth tasted like pennies.

Caleb weighed the choice in the dark, and his hand tightened on the flashlight. "If she takes all of it, the hospital has nothing, and I cannot let that happen," he whispered.

"Remember the rule, and remember you are one man in the dark," Triage warned. "You do not know who she is or what she carries."

"I will not give until empty, and I will not let anyone else empty us either," Caleb answered through his teeth.

He rose slowly from his crouch, and his knees popped in the silence. The thumping at the shelf stopped at once.

"Who is there?" the rough voice demanded, and it was no longer a whisper.

Caleb thumbed the switch, and the beam burst across the aisle like a slap. "Put the box down, because those antibiotics are all this hospital has," he called.

A woman crouched by the bottom shelf with a half-full pack open at her knees. She wore a dark jacket with the hood pushed back, and her short hair was wet with rain. The air around her smelled of rain and woodsmoke.

She squinted into the glare, and her jaw was tight and her eyes were hard. One hand held a white box, and the other hand was already slipping behind her back.

"Are you hospital security?" she demanded, and she shielded her eyes with her free hand.

"No, I am a medic, and I am only counting stock," Caleb answered.

"A medic with a flashlight and a sandwich wrapper," she observed, and her eyes flicked to the crumpled paper in his fist. "Who else is in here with you?"

"Nobody, only me, and I will swear to that on anything you like," Caleb replied.

"You had better hope that is true," she warned, and she did not blink.

"Let us talk first, because nobody needs to get hurt in this room," Caleb urged, and he kept his palms open and still.

"Talking is for people who are not shining a light in my face," she countered. "Lower it, slowly, and point it at the floor."

Caleb tilted the beam down until it pooled on the dusty tiles between them. The glow lit her boots and the muddy cuffs of her jeans, and he saw her shoulder shift as her hand closed on something behind her back.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," she ordered.

Caleb raised both hands slowly, and the beam shook against the floor. "Those boxes expire in nineteen days, and I counted them myself tonight," he said.

"I do not care when they expire, because a dead date is better than no date at all," the woman snapped. She dropped the box into the pack and stood up in one smooth motion.

The pistol came out from behind her back, and it settled in her steady hand. The black muzzle stopped an arm's length from Caleb's face, and the whole stockroom went still.

"My name is Nora Vade, and the next thing you say decides whether you walk out of here," she said quietly.