One Second After (14 page)

“Who?”

“I don't know. The one with the gun had a shaved head, earring, tattoo of a serpent on his left arm, red motorbike.”

“Animals,” John said coldly.

Tyler was on a morphine pump. Jesus, if he comes round it will be hell for him.

“That's what I called them and they laughed.”

John found he couldn't answer her and was filled with a sudden pity for her. She was a good woman, her eldest son a member of his scout troop a couple of years back.

“I'll get into town and see if we can get these people evacuated somehow.”

“Thank you.”

“I'm taking my father-in-law out now.”

“That's good.”

“What about his feeding tube, the formula?”

“I wouldn't trust the formula anymore. It's supposed to be refrigerated.
We still might have some cans of Ensure. Use a funnel and gravity feed it into him.”

John nodded, stomach rebelling.

“I better go.”

He left her in her miserable solitude, and went into the next corridor. It was a deeper hell here. The entire wing was the “restricted wing,” all the patients with Alzheimer's or another form of severe dementia. A number of them were out in the hallway, those capable of some mobility wandering aimlessly, at his approach reaching out with withered hands, some speaking, others just muttering or making incoherent sounds. He felt as if he had just fallen into a surreal nightmare. He could not stop for them, help them; to do so would trap him in the nightmare forever.

Passing an emergency exit door, he looked outside. There was a patient slowly shuffling towards the woods. With the entire security system down, the ankle bracelets that were touted as the newest thing in safety, which automatically locked the door and set off an alarm at the nurses' station if someone with dementia tried to open it, were now deactivated. It was a wonder that any who could still walk were inside the building, and he wondered how many had indeed just wandered into the woods.

He spotted a gurney at the end of the corridor, and as he approached it, to his horror he saw that the body of small, withered old man was on it, an elderly woman standing beside the body, stroking the man's hair.

John approached, determined to take the gurney, if need be, but as she looked up at him, his will failed and he backed away, then fled the ward.

He returned back to the wing where Tyler was. Somehow, Jen had indeed cleaned him up, a pile of torn soiled sheets tossed on the floor, a torn blanket wrapped around him. She looked at John, eyes calm, her strength amazing him.

“Did you find a gurney?”

“I'll carry him out.”

She had already disconnected the hose of the feeding tube and the IV tube. John slipped his arms under Tyler and stood up. The man, in spite of his wasting away, was still heavy, and John braced himself for a second before daring to take a step. He turned to ease out the door and then continued out into the corridor, walking fast, a race against dropping Tyler. They went past the desk, Caroline said nothing, Jen raced ahead to open the back door.

In the corner of the sitting room John saw the slumped-over body of Miss Kilpatrick in the corner, a pool of drying blood was soaked into the berber carpet beneath her, flies were swarming on it.

Gasping for breath, John was out the door and down to the car, laying Tyler down in the backseat. He opened his eyes; there was a glint of recognition.

“It's OK, Tyler; we're taking you home. It's OK.”

He couldn't speak. The cancer had long ago devoured his throat, vocal cords, and spread into his chest. His breathing was raspy, sounding like another bout of pneumonia was setting in.

Still, he had enough strength to grasp John's arm and squeeze it, then let go.

“Jen, start the car; I'll be right back,” and John handed her the keys.

He went back in and returned to the nurses' station.

“Caroline, I need some Ensure.”

She nodded towards the storage room. He went in, again a struggle for control. Someone had vomited on the floor. He gingerly stepped around the mess, tearing open storage cabinets; the bandage that covered his injured finger was soaked through with God knows what and finally just slipped off. Empty shipping cases of the precious liquid were scattered about, and when just about to give up, he found two cartons of twenty-four cans, grabbed them, and stepped back out.

He started for the door, hesitated, and then turned, going back to the room with the two old men. He took two six-packs and placed them on the old veteran's lap.

“Thanks for what you once did for us, Sergeant,” he whispered.

The old man smiled and nodded. John felt a bit foolish at first but could not stop himself. He came to attention and saluted the old man, who stiffened in his chair, smiled, and returned the salute. John left him and headed to the car.

Dumping the cans onto the floor of the front seat of the car, John climbed in.

“Get us the hell out of here,” John said.

He turned away, blocking out the sight of the demented patients wandering about outside. If he stopped for them he would be pulled back into the nightmare, with Tyler stuck in the backseat in the sweltering heat.

They drove out and several minutes later were back home.

“Ben, Elizabeth!” John shouted.

The two kids, soaking wet, came out of the pool, laughing, but then slowed as they saw John struggling to maneuver Tyler out of the car.

Elizabeth stepped back.

“Oh, Pop-pop,” and she began to cry.

“You need help, sir?” Ben asked nervously.

“Just get the door.”

John carried Tyler in, Jen following, and headed for Jennifer's room, putting him down on her bed, and then stood up.

Jen pulled a chair over and was by Tyler's side, gently brushing his cheek.

“It's OK, Tyler. We're home; we're home,” she whispered.

John stepped back, suddenly feeling a terrible need to wash. Elizabeth stood in the living room, looking wide-eyed towards Jen's room.

“Elizabeth.”

She was crying.

“It's going to be hard, but we've got to handle it. I want you to go get a bucket of water. Heat it up on the grill, find some soap, some towels, then go in and help Grandma.”

Elizabeth stifled back a sob and nodded.

He was glad Jennifer was not home to have seen this.

He went into the master bathroom. He poured some water from a bucket into the sink and thoroughly washed his hands; then grimacing, the pain coursing up his arm, he doused his wound with some rubbing alcohol.

He cut a piece of old sheeting taken from the linen closet and wrapped it around the cut on his hand and went back to Jennifer's room.

“Mom, you OK?”

She looked up at him and smiled.

“Sure. I can handle this now, John. Thank you.”

Ben came in carrying the warm bucket, Elizabeth hesitating before coming in with a towel and soap.

“Elizabeth honey. Your Pop-pop is a proud man,” Jen said, her features serious. “I don't think he'd want his granddaughter helping with this.”

Jen looked at John.

“And you, John, have the weakest stomach in the world. Why don't you two go outside?”

“I'll stay,” Ben said quietly.

All three looked at him with surprise.

“Heck, I diapered my kid brother a hundred times. I'll help Miss Jen.”

“Good man, Ben.”

“Actually, I better go into town,” John said. “I'll see if we can get some help up there.”

“That's good, John.”

He hesitated and looked at Elizabeth.

“Maybe you should come along.”

“You sure, Dad?”

“It's OK.”

She looked at him with relief and the two went to the car and got in.

“Sorry, Dad, I don't think I could have handled that. I'd of tried, though.”

“Listen, kid, I barely handled it myself. Buckle up.”

She laughed softly, though still shaken.

“This is a '59 Edsel, Dad, no seat belts.”

They drove into town and he immediately felt as if he was now coming into an entirely different world.

Pete's free barbecue was shut down, the small-town feel of an outdoor fair atmosphere gone. Two police officers, both armed with shotguns, stood outside the elementary school, a large crowd standing in line. An open fire was burning, a kettle hung over it.

There were half a dozen more cops and an equal number of firemen in a loose cordon around the town hall, police station, and firehouse. Several men were at the back of Jim Bartlett's Volkswagen Bus, off-loading boxes. There was an assortment of bicycles, a few motorbikes, an old Harley motorcycle, a Jeep from the garage, the antique World War Two jeep, and a few old farm pickup trucks parked there as well, the doors into the firehouse open, the engines rolled out. Boxes, crates, containers filling up inside.

There was another line formed, an old military-style water tank on wheels, a guard by the side of it, the line of people carrying plastic jugs.

John rolled to a stop and got out with Elizabeth.

“One gallon per person,” the guard was saying, repeating himself over and over, as John pulled Elizabeth closer in to his side and headed towards the mayor's office.

Though the downtown area had water, those living upslope were out and now having to do the long walk just to get a single gallon.

One of the guards saw John and nodded.

“Hi, Professor.”

It was one of his old students, graduated several years back, now a teacher in the middle school, and he was embarrassed that he couldn't remember his name.

“What's going on?”

“Well, Charlie declared martial law. We're moving all medical supplies here to the firehouse and any food that can still be retrieved from the supermarkets, but most of that got cleaned out.”

“I saw Food Lion, but all of the markets?”

“Well, sir, I guess you could say it was a riot. Folks just started storming into the markets taking what they wanted and then getting out. It got pretty ugly there for a while. Mostly the outsiders.”

“Outsiders?”

“You know, the folks from the highway.”

The way he said “outsiders” hit a nerve with John. It didn't feel right.

“We had a lot of people coming down the road from Asheville, a lot of them people who live here who got stranded, but a lot of people just getting out of the city as well. A thousand or more flooded in here last night. Word is it's pretty bad up there.

“The folks coming in from Asheville said a mob, mostly kids, started busting up the Asheville Mall, vandals, and part of it burned. Somebody said over fifty people were killed, hundreds of people rampaging through the stores along Tunnel Road.”

He took it in.

“Quite a few dead on the road they say as well. People collapsing, bad hearts, elderly. Somebody said he counted at least twenty dead between here and Exit 53.”

It was hard to believe.

“Thanks. Is the mayor in?”

“She sure is. They're having some sort of conference in there.”

He didn't ask for permission; he just headed in and parked Elizabeth by the door, telling her not to move. As he walked in, his eye caught the commemorative plaque: “9.11.01 In Remembrance of the First Responders Who Gave Their Lives . . . Rest in Peace.”

Half a dozen men and women milled about in the corridor. The door into the conference room was closed.

“I'd like to see the mayor,” John said to one of the cops standing by the door.

“There's a meeting on in there, sir.”

“I know, but this is urgent.”

“I think, sir, you'll have to wait.”

“This can't wait,” John said loudly.

“Sir, please just go outside and wait.”

The memory of the vet, begging for a drink of water, pushed John forward.

“I think I'll see her now,” John said sharply. “Now step aside.”

“Sir, don't force me to stop you.”

He could see that the cop, not much more than a kid, was still out of his league. A week ago he was most likely the junior kid on the force, the biggest challenge ever faced a drunk on a Saturday night.

John reached past him, grabbed the doorknob, and pushed the door open.

“Sir! Please step back.”

Charlie, Kate, and Tom were in the room, along with Doc Kellor and, interestingly, Washington Parker and an elderly couple who looked vaguely familiar.

“It's OK, Gene. That's Professor Matherson. Come on in, John.”

John gave a curt nod to the young policeman and walked in. Everyone was gazing at John, and he suddenly felt a touch of embarrassment for barging in thus, but the memory of what he had seen in the nursing home stilled that.

“What is it, John, that's got you all fired up?” Charlie asked.

“I was just up at Miller's Nursing Home. My God, it's a hellhole up there.”

“We know all about it, John,” Kate said. “Mr. Parker here is sending a bunch of kids, volunteers from the college, to help out with some food and water. Kellor's canvassing the refugees for nurses to go help as well.”

“I think it's going to take more than some kids and a few nurses,” John replied, “but thanks, Washington.”

“You know they were robbed? Some punks stole all the morphine and painkillers?”

“We're on that, too, John,” Tom said softly.

Now John did feel embarrassed.

Charlie hesitated, made eye contact with Kate, and she nodded.

“John, actually, I should have invited you to this meeting,” Charlie said softly. “We're talking some things over. Maybe you can give us some input.

“Do you know the Barbers?”

John looked over at the elderly couple. In fact, he did know them. They had a summer home, actually more of a mansion, up in the Cove, just up the road from his in-laws.

They looked haggard, Mrs. Barber pale, struggling, it seemed, to stay awake.