One Second After by William R. Forstchen Page A

don’t have a record for you on file, and that, sir, is a controlled substance.”
    â€œI’m from out of town, damn it. Don’t you hicks up here understand that? Now listen, bitch, I want that prescription.”
    John caught the eye of Liz, the pharmacist. She was in her early thirties and, John always thought, about the most attractive pharmacist he had ever laid eyes on. She was also married to an ex-ranger. Unfortunately, her husband was nowhere around and with Liz at not much more than five two and a hundred pounds, she was definitely way out of her league.
    Liz looked at him appealingly. John took it in, looked around, a book and magazine rack by the counter. Nothing he could use. The cooler for beverages, however, was about twenty feet away.
    He backed over to it, not many had hit here yet, reached in, and pulled out a liter bottle of Coors beer. Makala was looking at him with disgust, not understanding what was happening.
    Liz, coming up to the counter, tried to confront the belligerent customer, extending her hand for him to calm down.
    â€œListen, damn it. OxyContin, you hear me. I’ll take thirty and you can call my doctor once the power comes back on and he’ll confirm it.”
    â€œSir. Please leave this store.”
    â€œThat’s it! Both of you bitches, get out of my way.”
    He started to climb over the counter, Liz backing up.
    John was up beside him and slashed out, the bottle smashing across the side of the man’s head, shattering.
    As he started to collapse, John pulled him back from the counter, flinging him to the ground, and for good measure stomped him in the solar plexus, doubling him up.
    The man was on the floor, keening with a high, piercing shrill. Everyone else stood silent, stunned. John looked over at Liz.
    â€œSorry.”
    He actually felt embarrassed by what had just happened. He had broken a societal taboo; folks around here did not go around smashing beer bottles across a guy’s head, from behind, in the local pharmacy. John almost expected an alarm to go off, the police to come barging in. . . . There was only silence except for the pitiful cries of the man on the floor.
    Still silence. John looked at the others lined up. Several turned and fled. One woman was shaking her head.
    â€œIs this how you treat strangers in this redneck town?” she snapped. “I’ll be damned if I ever stop here again.”
    She stormed out.
    He recognized one of the men. Pat Burgess, a Baptist minister, part of his Civil War Roundtable club.
    Pat nodded.
    â€œGood work, John. Sorry, but with my heart, I’d most likely pitched a coronary if I had taken him on.”
    It snapped John out of the momentary haze, the shock, back to the realityof where they were and what had to be done, for that matter what he was here to do.
    â€œPat, can you see to him? Get a belt or something and tie his hands first. Maybe somebody can look at his face and see if I cut his eye.”
    â€œYou did, you goddamn bastard. I can’t see! My lawyer’s going to rip you an extra asshole!”
    The man started to scream again and John tapped him with his shoe. He cringed, falling silent.
    John leaned over.
    â€œListen to me. You threatened these women. One more word and I will cut your eyes out,” John said, and the man fell back to crying, clutching his face, blood leaking out between his fingers.
    John looked back at Liz, then stepped around behind the counter.
    â€œLiz, can we talk for a moment?”
    â€œSure, John.”
    He motioned to the back corner of the pharmacy area and the two went into the locked area and half-closed the door.
    â€œThank God you came in, John,” Liz whispered hoarsely. “I’ve had three like that already. We bluffed the other two out, but that guy was crazy. Most likely addicted. Doesn’t travel with any in case he ever gets stopped, and his supply is at home.”
    â€œLook, Liz, I need a