Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 110757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
But it’s a bite on my left ass cheek that’s taking me out. Mae would think it’s hilarious.
I think it’s a spider bite, but I can’t see it to know for sure. It’s warm and has swollen in the past two days, so I think it’s infected.
That’s a problem, and so is my lack of salt. The seasoning that used to be sold cheaply by the carton, that filled shakers on every table in every restaurant, has become my body’s greatest need.
People require a certain amount of salt. Knowing that, I stretched my canned goods out for a long time to make sure I was getting some. When I ran out, I found saltbush in the alkaline Idaho soil and got as much salt from the leaves as I could.
It’s not enough, though. My low-grade headache has intensified in the past week, and I’m tired all the time. I need to venture into Carson City for antibiotics and salt.
I dread having to trade one of my guns or knives for what I need, but I don’t have anything else of value. All the weapons in the world won’t help me if I’m dying from sepsis.
The city is speckled with bright lights. I increase the magnification on my binoculars to see what details I can make out.
Smoke pours from the stacks of a massive building. The streets seem to be maintained rather than overtaken by greenery like in most cities. Vehicles are moving, headlights lit.
There’s a silver dome. A flag mounted on a tall pole next to it has vertical stripes and a single star in the middle. That must be the former Capitol building. It’s probably also the current Capitol building, given what I’ve heard about Soren Whitman, the man who declared himself the president of what he calls New America.
Right. New America, same old bullshit—but magnified. I’ve heard mostly white men rule here, and they’re swallowing up people and land to grow their empire.
A couple I met a few months ago told me this place seems like it was before. There’s order. Stocked grocery stores and pharmacies. Neighborhoods with streets where people mow their grass and leave their porch lights on at night.
But being part of it requires subservience to authoritarian rule. It’s especially bad for women. Even men who don’t fit the mold are forced into working twelve hours a day just to have food, clean water, and a bed to sleep in.
I’m hoping to slip in and out of here quickly, with antibiotics, enough salt to last me a very long time, and some food. My weapons are valuable since they were manufactured before the virus. The new ones being made are of much lower quality.
Right before sunrise, I’ll find a safe point to hide and do surveillance for a few days. Two days, probably, because I’m concerned about the infected bite and my headache has become so intense it’s hard to even think.
I don’t think my disguise worked. I traded the knife I use least often for clean clothes and shoes, hoping to pass as someone who lives here. My hair is tamed into a low ponytail and most of the people I’ve passed in Carson City haven’t given me a second glance.
This guy at the pharmacy, though, is looking too closely at my face.
“Five hundred credits,” he says dismissively.
“I need to trade for it.” I look over each of my shoulders before softly telling him, “I have weapons.”
I don’t like being here. The interior of this store is bright and closed in. The shelves are lined with products that look wrong. Medicines in tiny containers without safety packaging. Bandages sold in small stacks tied together with twine. I passed a shelf of plain, unlabeled white plastic containers about the size of a two-cup measuring cup, a sign beneath them that just read “lube”.
The man behind the counter tips his head just slightly, indicating that he wants to take me somewhere else. My heart races as I follow him, an inner voice telling me to get out of here.
It would take me too long to get to my gun if I need it, but no one wears visible weapons here.
I take a calming breath. I’m desperate, so if this guy wants to see my tits in exchange for the medicine, I’ll take that deal. I still have limits—he’s not sticking his dick in me.
My body doesn’t even feel sexual anymore. In the woods, I spend most of my time just meeting my basic needs like food and water. I get so lonely that I spend a lot of time imagining conversations I’d have with people if I could. It’s been more than two years since Ellery died, and our occasional hugs were the last human touch I experienced.
The man walks into a small room, flipping a light switch on the wall. Supplies line shelves on the walls and there’s a mop in one corner.