“I got a couple of spare doctor’s bags full of the usual. Got extra dressings, you name it. It’s yours, you need it.”
“That’s great, Bob. Where you from?”
“Vicksburg originally, was living in Smyrna when the Turn came. How about you folks?”
“Atlanta,” Stevens replies. “Had a small practice in Brookhaven before everything went to hell.”
“Also from Atlanta,” the girl chimes in. “Was going to school at Georgia State.”
Stevens has a pleasant look on his face. “You been drinking, Bob?”
“Huh?”
Stevens gestures toward the silver flask partially visible in Bob’s hip pocket. “You been drinking today?”
Bob lowers his head, crestfallen, ashamed. “Yessir, I have.”
“You drink every day, Bob?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hard liquor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bob, I don’t mean to put you on the spot.” The doctor pats Bob’s shoulder. “It’s none of my business. I’m not judging you. But can I ask how much you’re putting away every day?”
Bob’s chest tightens with humiliation. Alice gazes elsewhere for a moment, out of respect. Bob swallows his shame. “I have no earthly idea. Sometimes a couple of pints, sometimes a whole fifth when I can get it.” Bob looks up at the slender, bespectacled doctor. “I’ll understand if you don’t want me getting near your—”
“Bob, relax. You don’t understand. I think it’s fantastic.”
“Huh?”
“Keep drinking. Drink as much as possible.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You mind sharing a sip?”
Bob slowly pulls the flask, not taking his eyes off the doctor.
“Appreciate it.” Stevens takes the flask, nods a thank-you, and takes a pull. He wipes his mouth and offers it to Alice.
The girl waves it off. “No, thanks, it’s a little early in the day for me.”
Stevens takes another sip and hands the flask back. “You stay here for any length of time you’re gonna need to drink heavily.”
Bob puts the flask back in his pocket. He doesn’t say anything.
Stevens smiles again, and there’s something heartbreaking behind the smile. “That’s my prescription, Bob. Stay as drunk as possible.”
* * *
On the other side of the racetrack complex, beneath the north end of the arena, a wiry, tightly coiled individual emerges from an unmarked metal door and gazes up at the sky. The rain has ceased for the moment, leaving behind a low ceiling of sooty clouds. The wiry gentleman carries a small bundle wrapped in a threadbare woolen blanket the color of dead grass, gathered at the top with rawhide.
The wiry man crosses the street and starts down the sidewalk, his raven-black hair slick with moisture and pulled back in a ponytail today.
As he walks, his preternaturally alert gaze is everywhere, practically all at once, taking in everything that goes on around him. In recent weeks the emotions that have plagued him have subsided, the voice in his head silent now. He feels strong. This town is his raison d’etre, the fuel that keeps him keen and sharp.
He is about to turn the corner at the intersection of Canyon and Main when he notices a figure in his peripheral vision. The older guy—the drunk who came in a few days ago with the nigger and the girls—is emerging from the warehouse at the south end of the racetrack. The weathered old dude pauses for a moment to take a gulp from his flask, and the look on his face after swallowing and cringing at the burn is apparent to the wiry man even a block away.
In the distance, the older dude grimaces as the alcohol streams down his gullet, and the grimace is weirdly familiar to the wiry man. The grimace—full of shame and desolation—makes the wiry man feel strange and sentimental, almost tender. The older man puts the flask away and starts trundling toward Main Street with that trademark gait—half limp, half drunken amble—which many homeless people get after years of struggling on the street. The wiry man follows.
Minutes later, the wiry man cannot resist calling out to the juicer. “Hey, sport!”
* * *
Bob Stookey hears the voice—gravelly, lightly accented with a trace of Southern small town, echoing on the breeze—but he cannot locate the source.
Bob pauses at the edge of Main Street and looks around. The town is mostly deserted today, the rains driving denizens indoors.
“‘Bob’ is it?” the voice says, closer now, and Bob finally sees a figure approaching from behind.
“Oh, hi … how ya doin’?”
The man saunters up to Bob with a forced smile. “I’m doing great, Bob, thanks.” Wisps of coal-black hair dangling in front of the man’s chiseled face, he carries a bundle that seems to be leaking moisture, dripping on the pavement. People around town have started to call this man “the Governor”—the name has stuck—which is fine and dandy with this guy. “How you settling in to our little hamlet?”
“Real good.”
“You meet Doc Stevens?”
“Yes, sir. Good man.”
“Call me ‘the Governor.’” The smile softens a bit. “Everybody else seems to be calling me that. What the hell? Kinda like the ring of it.”
“The Governor it is,” Bob says, and glances down at the bundle in the man’s grip. The blanket leaks blood. Bob glances away quickly, alarmed by it, but feigning ignorance. “Looks like the rains have blown over.”
The man’s smile remains stamped on his face. “Walk with me, Bob.”
“Sure.”
They start down the cracked sidewalk, moving toward the temporary wall that stands between merchant’s row and the outer streets. The sound of nail guns snapping can be heard above the wind. The wall continues expanding along the southern edge of the business district. “You remind me of somebody,” the Governor says after a long pause.
“It ain’t Kate Winslet, I’m betting.” Bob has had enough alcohol to loosen his tongue. He chuckles to himself as he trundles along. “Or Bonnie Raitt, neither.”
“Touche, Bob.” The Governor glances down at his package, notices the droplets of blood leaving little coin- sized marks on the sidewalk. “What a mess I’m making.”
Bob looks away, scrambles to change the subject. “Ain’t y’all worried about all that pounding racket over there drawing walkers?”
“We got it under control, Bob, don’t you worry about that. Got men posted out on the edge of the woods, and we try and keep the pounding down to a minimum.”
“That’s good to hear … got things figured out pretty good around here.”
“We try, Bob.”
“I told Doc Stevens, he’s welcome to any medical supplies I got in my stash.”
“You a doctor, too?”
Bob tells the man about Afghanistan, patching marines, getting an honorable discharge.
“You got kids, Bob?”
“No, sir … for the longest time it was just me and Brenda, my old lady. Had a little trailer outside of Smyrna, not a bad life.”
“You’re looking at my little bundle, aren’t ya, Bob?”
“No, sir … whatever it is, it’s none of my beeswax. Doesn’t concern me.”
“Where’s your wife?”
Bob slows down a bit, as though the mere subject of Brenda Stookey weighs him down. “Lost her to a walker attack shortly after the Turn.”
