Tribulation Force: The Continuing Drama Of Those Left Behind (41 page)

“Above all, do not fear. Live in confidence that no threat to global tranquility will be tolerated, and no enemy of peace will survive.”

As Rayford looked for a route that would get him near Northwest Community Hospital, the CNN/
GCN
correspondent came back on. “This late word: Anti-Global Community militia forces have threatened nuclear war on New York City, primarily Kennedy International Airport. Civilians are fleeing the area and causing one of the worst pedestrian and auto traffic jams in that city’s history.

“Peacekeeping forces say they have the ability and technology to intercept missiles but are worried about residual damage to outlying areas.

“And now this from London: A one-hundred-megaton bomb has destroyed Heathrow Airport, and radiation fallout threatens the populace for miles. The bomb was apparently dropped by peacekeeping forces after contraband Egyptian and British fighter-bombers were discovered rallying from a closed military airstrip near Heathrow. The warships, which have all been shot from the sky, were reportedly nuclear-equipped and en route to Baghdad and New Babylon.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Chloe whispered. “God help us.”

“Maybe we should just try to get to New Hope,” Amanda suggested.

“Not till we check on Bruce,” Rayford said. He asked stunned passersby if it was possible to get to Northwest Community Hospital on foot.

“It’s possible,” a woman said. “It’s right past that field and over the rise. But I don’t know how close they’ll let you get to what’s left of it.”

“It was hit?”

“Was it hit? Mister, it’s just up the road and across the street from the old Nike base. Most people think it got hit first.”

“I’m going,” Rayford said.

“Me too,” Buck said.

“We’re all going,” Chloe insisted, but Rayford held up a hand.

“We’re not all going. It’s going to be hard enough for one of us to get past security. Buck or I will have a better chance because we have Global Community identification. I think one of us with an ID should go, and the other should stay with the wives. We all have to be with someone who can get past the red tape if necessary.”

“I want to go,” Buck said, “but you make the call.”

“Stay and make sure the car is positioned so we can get out of here and get to Mount Prospect. If I’m not back in half an hour, take the risk and come looking for me.”

“Daddy, if Bruce is any better, try to bring him with you.”

“Don’t worry, Chloe,” Rayford said. “I’m ahead of you.”

As soon as Rayford had jogged through the muddy weeds and out of sight, Buck regretted agreeing to stay behind. He had always been a person of action, and as he watched shell-shocked citizens milling about and commiserating, he could hardly stand still.

Rayford’s heart sank as he came over the rise and saw the hospital. Part of the full height of the structure was still intact, but much of it was rubble. Emergency vehicles surrounded the mess, with white-uniformed rescue workers scurrying about. A long stretch of police barrier tape had been stretched around the hospital campus. As Rayford lifted it to duck under, a security guard, weapon ready, ran toward him.

“Halt!” he called out. “This is a restricted area!”

“I have clearance!” Rayford shouted, waving his ID wallet.

“Stay right there!” the guard hollered. When he got to Rayford he took the wallet and studied it, comparing the photo to Rayford’s face. “Wow! Clearance level 2-A. You work for Carpathia himself?”

Rayford nodded.

“What’s your job?”

“Classified.”

“Is he around here?”

“No, and I wouldn’t tell you if he was.”

“You’re all good,” the guard said, and Rayford headed toward what had been the front of the building. He was largely ignored by people too busy to care who did or did not have clearance to be there. Body after body was laid out in a neat row and covered. “Any survivors?” Rayford asked an emergency medical technician.

“Three so far,” the man said. “All women. Two nurses and a doctor. They were outside for a smoke.”

“No one inside?”

“We hear voices,” the man said. “But we haven’t gotten to anyone in time yet.”

Breathing a prayer, Rayford folded his wallet so his ID was facing out. He slid it into his breast pocket. He strode to the makeshift outdoor morgue where several EMTs moved among the remains, lifting sheets and taking notes, trying to reconcile patient and employee lists with body parts and ID bracelets.

“Help or get out of the way,” a heavyset woman said as she brushed past Rayford.

“I’m looking for a Bruce Barnes,” Rayford said.

The woman, whose nameplate read
Patricia Devlin
, stopped and squinted, cocked her head, and checked her clipboard. She flipped through the three top pages, shaking her head. “Staff or patient?” she asked.

“Patient. Brought into the emergency room. He was in a coma last we heard.”

“Probably
ICU
then,” she said. “Check over there.” Patricia pointed to six bodies at the end of a row. “Just a minute,” she added, flipping to yet one more page. “Barnes,
ICU
. Yep, that’s where he was. There’s still more inside, you know, but
ICU
was just about vaporized.”

“So he might be here and he might still be inside?”

“If he’s out here, hon, he’s confirmed dead. If he’s still inside, they may never find him.”

“No chance for anybody in ICU?”

“Not so far. Relative?”

“Closer than a brother.”

“You want I should check for you?”

Rayford’s face contorted, and he could hardly speak. “I’d be grateful.”

Patricia Devlin moved quickly, surprisingly agile for her size. Her thick, whitesoled shoes were muddy. She knelt by the bodies one by one, checking, as Rayford stood ten feet away, his hand covering his mouth, a sob rising in his throat.

At the fourth body, Miss Devlin began to lift the sheet when she hesitated and checked the still-intact wristband. She looked back at Rayford, and he knew. The tears began to roll. She rose and approached. “Your friend is presentable,” she said. “Some of these I wouldn’t dare show you, but you could see him.”

Rayford forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. The woman reached down and slowly pulled back the sheet, revealing Bruce, eyes open, lifeless and still. Rayford fought for composure, his chest heaving. He reached to close Bruce’s eyes, but the nurse stopped him. “I can’t let you do that.” She reached with a gloved hand. “I’ll do it.”

“Could you check for a pulse?” Rayford managed.

“Oh, sir,” she said, deep sympathy in her voice, “they don’t bring them out here unless they’ve been pronounced.”

“Please,” he whispered, crying openly now. “For me.”

And as Rayford stood in the bluster of suburban Chicago’s early afternoon, his hands to his face, a woman he had never met before and would never see again placed a thumb and forefinger at the pressure points under his pastor’s jaw.

Without looking at Rayford, she took her hand away, replaced the sheet over Bruce Barnes’s head, and went back about her business. Rayford’s legs buckled, and he knelt on the muddy pavement. Sirens blared in the distance, emergency lights flashed all around him, and his family waited less than half a mile away. It was just him and them now. No teacher. No mentor. Just the four of them.

As he rose and trudged back down the rise with his awful news, Rayford heard the Emergency Broadcast System station blaring from every vehicle he passed. Washington had been obliterated. Heathrow was gone. There had been death in the Egyptian desert and in the skies over London. New York was on alert.

Buck was nearly ready to go after Rayford when he saw a tall form appear on the horizon. From his gait and the slump of his shoulders, Buck knew.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, and Chloe and Amanda began to cry. The three of them rushed to meet Rayford and walk him back to the car.

The Red Horse of the Apocalypse was on the rampage.