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"Drove."
"Don't hand me a line of crap, son. Where'd you steal this?" It was the older man who had spoken.
"You going to take my money or ain't you?" said Tanner.
"I'm not going to take it," said the bartender.
"Then screw you," said Tanner, and he turned and walked toward the door.
As always, under such circumstances, he was alert to sounds at his back.
When he heard the quick footfall, he turned. It was the man who had inspected the bill that stood before him, his right arm extended.
Tanner's right hand held his leather jacket, draped over his right shoulder. He swung it with all his strength, forward and down.
It struck the man on the top of his head, and he fell.
There came up a murmuring, and several people jumped to their feet and moved toward him.
Tanner dragged the gun from his belt and said, "Sorry, folks," and he pointed it, and they stopped.
"Now, you probably ain't about to believe me," he said, "when I tell you that Boston's been hit by the plague, but it's true, all right. Or maybe you will, I don't know. But I don't think you're going to believe that I drove here all the way from the nation of California with a car full of Haffikine antiserum. But that's just as right. You send that bill to the big bank in Boston, and they'll change it for you, all right, and you know it. Now, I've got to be going, and don't anybody try to stop me. If you think I've been handing you a line, you take a look at what I drive away in. That's all I've got to say."
And he backed out the door and covered it while he mounted the cab. Inside, he gunned the engine to life, turned, and roared away.
In the rearview screen he could see the knot of people on the walk before the bar, watching him depart.
He laughed, and the apple-blossom moon hung dead ahead.
Evelyn listened. Was she hearing things that weren't really there within the belltones? No. It came again, a knocking on the front door. She moved to the front of the room and looked out through the small window.
Then she unbolted the door and flung it wide.
"Fred!" she said. "This..."
"Back up!" he told her. "Quick! All the way across the room!"
"What's wrong?"
"Do it!"
She moved ten paces back, her eyes narrowing.
"Are your parents home?"
"No."
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He was eighteen years old, and his dark hair was straight and unruly. His angular jaw was clenched tight, his breathing was rapid, and his eyes drifted from place to place.
"What's the matter, Fred?"
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"I… Oh, no!"
He nodded. "I think I've got it. I had a fever earlier, and now I've got a chill. My armpits hurt, my throat is sore. No matter how much I drink, I still feel thirsty. That's why I don't want you to get near me."
Evelyn raised her hands to her cheeks and stared at him over the bright hedge of her nails. "After last night;" she said, "I... I haven't been feeling so good, either."
"Yeah," he said. "I probably killed you last night."
Evelyn was seventeen, had reddish hair, and her favorite color was green.
"How… What can we do?"
"Nothing," he said. "We can go to the clinic, and they can put us to bed and watch us die."
"Oh, no! Maybe the serum will come in time."
"Ha! I came to say good-bye, that's all. I love you. I'm sorry I gave it to you. Maybe if we hadn't done it… Oh, I don't know! I'm sorry, Evvie!"
She began to cry.
"Don't go!" she said.
"I've got to. Maybe you're only catching a cold or something. I hope so. Take some aspirin and go to bed."
He rested his hand on the doorknob.
"Don't go," she said.
"I've got to."
"To the clinic?"
"Are you kidding? They can't do anything. I'm just going, away..."
"What are you going to do?"
He looked away from her blue-green eyes.
"You know," he said. "I'm not going to go through all that misery. I've seen people die of it. I'm not going to wait."
"Don't," she said. "Please don't."
"You don't know what it's like," he said.