We were sitting in one corner of the hospital cafeteria, eating soup and drinking tropical punch Kool-Aid while Marta took her lunch. Marta loved the powdered drink mix like one of her kids, and I was happy to indulge her. Mike, on the other hand, called it bug juice and refused to touch it for reasons he refused to explain.
“Better a wire transfer than a burned-out piece of property with a mortgage attached to it,” she’d explained after I’d taken the plunge to ask her about her apparent good mood after selling their dream home.
“But you loved that house,” I’d protested, still shocked by her rapid change of opinion on the matter.
“Bryan, going back to Fort Worth opened my eyes. Heck, getting into a shootout in the middle of a highway did the trick for me,” she expanded on her explanation, keeping her words low as she glanced around at the scattering of uniformed peace keepers.
“You and Mike killed two carloads of thugs,” she hissed under her breath, “and I never saw a single cop show up. And whatever you saw at the storage location still has Mike on edge. And no, I still don’t want to hear about it,” she finished, holding up a hand to stop me. “I finally saw the city, any city, as an eventual death sentence for anyone trapped inside. I’m just glad you had this place as a refuge for us and the babies.”
With that, Marta changed the subject back to something more suitable for public conversation, bringing up the recent hatching of several new chicks and Tammy’s admonition to the other kids not to play with them. Marta confessed her pride in her daughter’s new mature attitude towards the farm animals, and I told her Tammy was reminding me more and more of her aunt Nikki.
“Good grief, don’t let Nikki hear you say that,” Marta warned. “She used to go on and on about how much she hated growing up in the country. You’re going to ruin her reputation.”
“Oh, she hated it all right,” I agreed. “Didn’t mean she wasn’t good at doing the job, when she had to pitch in and lend a hand. She had the same job, back then, tending to the chickens. Nikki hated living out in the country and being away from her friends in town, but she was a darn fine chicken wrangler back in the day.”
We shared a little chuckle, but I knew time was running short and Marta would need to get back to work. She only had a half hour for mealtime, and the hospital was running at close to maximum capacity, with a shortage of staff despite the incentives being offered by the administration. And based on what Marta had explained before, the managed healthcare corporation that ran this and a whole string of other hospitals in the state were out of the picture, functionally bankrupt, and the Texas State Department of Healthcare Services had to step in and take over.
That was a new common term I’d started hearing. Functionally bankrupt. Meaning a company had gone broke and been effectively taken over in receivership by the government. The paperwork might be lagging behind, but when a key business couldn’t make payroll for whatever reason, the Feds, or in this case the state of Texas, stepped in to provide a veneer of solvency. For now, the state was handling payroll and covering the costs for supplies, or just outright bringing in the supplies from stockpiles for use by the state supported hospitals. Private healthcare was rapidly becoming a thing of the past, and no one seemed to notice the passing.
“How are things here overall?”
I asked my question carefully, shifting gears as I glanced around the room one more time. Thanks to tireless effort on the part of the National Guard contingent working with the state healthcare service, those medical supplies continued to arrive via convoy, but I worried how long the effort might continue.
“Same old, but everybody is braced for conditions to get worse as the supply chains continue to break down. Got a whole slew of folks coming in with bad water. Dysentery cases on the rise, too. We are just barely able to keep up with the IV fluid for now, and that’s going to dry up soon, no pun intended.”
I nodded. Not unexpected given the circumstances. With the power still out in places in the county and all the flooding, every source of surface water in the whole darned country was likely contaminated with e. coli, giardia and worse. That old saw about ‘running water not being contaminated’ had probably killed more people than all those who’d died from the violence so far.
And the Guard could only ship what they had stockpiled, and those warehouses had to be running short. Some of those supplies had to be held back for the troops, after all.
“Any more grumblings about cutting the staff again?”
“Nope, not that I’ve heard. All I’m hearing is that two more nurses got notice they are being recalled back to active duty military. Reservists, or former officers. Not sure which. That’s got the rumor mill back on the war, though. This whole Pancho Villa thing has folks in a tizzy, but of course, nobody knows anything.”
In the last month, the undeclared border war with Mexico had ratcheted up again in intensity, and it didn’t take a crystal ball to see that the coiled tension would only continue to grow.
Whatever rumors that might have triggered the mass migration back to Mexico, the ensuing months of bloody clashes left a pile of bodies on both sides of the border and a whole lot of hate. In Texas, the television images of Mexican border guards and Mexican Army personnel gunning down the returning Mexican citizens with American citizen dependents in tow kept the pot boiling, as did the uprising of ethnic Mexican gangs still in the States who were using the fighting as an excuse to rape, murder and pillage.
On top of the fighting taking place inside the United States and all along the southern border, momentous events were taking place in Mexico in the wake of the tsunami damage along the Mexican West Coast, including the virtual destruction of the entire Baja peninsula, and that I feared would only worsen the situation.
By the time the U.S. news media got around to announcing the military coup that toppled Mexico’s old civilian government, the word had already been on the street for over a week as radio broadcasts continued to stream across the southern border. The general who seized the presidential palace in Mexico City had given numerous press conferences where he proclaimed his only desire was to protect the country from dangerous outside interests that threatened Mexican dignity and sovereignty.
To the Mexican people, the words might have been meant to offer reassurance, but his frequent invocation of that hero of the Revolution, Pancho Villa, made folks north of the border more than a little nervous. Too many people already had the Reconquista spirit going on, and I worried about those fanning the flames. Was it this new generalissimo, or was somebody pulling the strings behind him?
“You think he’s serious about pacifying the cartels?” Marta asked. I could only shrug, but I did have my thoughts on other matters.
“Whether he does or he doesn’t, at least he’s breaking the official silence on the meteorite strike,” I said, trying to put a positive spin on things.
Word had been circulating for months about the actual cause of the string of disasters plaguing the world, but almost all of it had been speculation or reports coming from unnamed sources. The British Broadcasting Corporation being a notable exception, but even the Beeb was lacking in first-hand sources. Nobody trusted mere words these days, and without video of an event, it didn’t happen. That made getting images rather difficult, because, of course, if you were close enough to have witnessed the impact, then you were, almost certainly, dead.
General Bautista either didn’t know, or didn’t care, why some of the world leaders were willing to bend the truth about the meteorite strike, and he spoke about it in his speeches as if it were common knowledge. The Devil’s Fist, he called it. El Puño del Diablo.
“That’s fine, but is he really planning to march his army north and reclaim Mexico’s lost territories?” Marta asked with some concern now present in her voice. “Whatever the case, I’m afraid it is going to cause us problems here.”
I nodded, reading her meaning. The work being done by Dorothy and Marta not only brought in hard currency and t
rade goods in the form of their fuel allotment for the families, but it also benefitted the greater community. I only wish the hospital was closer, but New Albany’s last real hospital had been closed three years ago, and of the three urgent care facilities in Albany County at the time of Rockfall, only the one in the tiny little hamlet of Royer was left after hurricane damage took out the ones in Martelle and New Albany.
Royer was located in the far north east portion of the county, just a mile from the Sabine River and Louisiana, and approximately fifteen miles from the homeplace. It was a closer commute than Jasper, but not only was the facility little better than a Doc-in-a-Box, the word was that the entire security force consisted of a single squad of National Guard on site. No sheriff’s department presence at all, since Landshire couldn’t spare the deputies from their road bandit business to actually protect and serve his community. No way would Wade risk Dorothy’s safety there, and the same went for us and Marta.
After Marta and I finished up our lunches, she hurried off to relieve one of the other nurses while I bused what little trash we’d generated at the table and wiped down the Formica top with an antiseptic wipe I kept in a small plastic box for that purpose. The diluted chlorine solution used to moisten the scrap of cloth would kill any germ that had the audacity to hang out in the cafeteria.
After taking care of this minor housekeeping chore, I settled back in my seat and picked up my latest library book, this one of square foot gardening. I’d bought the thing years ago, but never got around to reading it. Since there was a whole section on greenhouses, I thought this would be a good reference for me to use.
Looking up at the sound of doors opening and closing, I noticed a few new faces and a couple of National Guardsmen I recognized from my previous visit. I wondered about those men, but ultimately I decided to keep to myself and allow others to initiate contact. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t eavesdrop shamelessly.
Taking on this assignment had not only given me an opportunity to get out of the house for the day, it had also provided me with a chance to get to know the deputies and National Guard troops working out of the hospital. After our initial shaky introduction, or standoff, as Mike chose to describe it, I’d managed to parlay my history with one of the deputies I’d gone to high school with into a grudging acceptance of my presence. Keith Millwood had been a casual acquaintance back when I’d gone to school here, but his assurances that I was an okay guy meant I was treated decently by most of the other deputies who rotated through on security.
In fact, once I was checked in with the front office after dropping off Dorothy and Marta, and then providing my particulars and who I was there to escort, I was provided with a laminated Visitor pass on a lanyard by one of the orderlies. Bruce was a big, gruff guy in his fifties who looked like he might have been a biker in a past life. He informed me that sidearms were permitted, but to leave my long arms locked up in the security armory or in my vehicle in the staff parking lot. I noticed he also had a pistol suspended on a shoulder holster under his white smock. He had also pointed out that in case of another attack, my duty station would be in the cafeteria, where most of security types hung out anyway.
Actually, I wasn’t the only ‘escort’ cooling his heels at the hospital, as I’d quickly found out that morning. Several of the nurses, and at least one of the doctors, had family members or friends who acted as guards for employees shuttling back and forth to work. Most lived closer, but I learned from a few conversations the dangers of highwaymen and ambushes weren’t limited to Albany County.
I had my book in hand and tried to stay out of the way as groups cycled through the tables, either eating or for a quick break, but after Marta’s lunch break, two of the soldiers I recognized from my first visit caught sight of me and sauntered over to my corner table.
Corporal Gaudette no longer had his arm in a sling, but I could see he was favoring his right side as he eased a chair out to sit. He did so without an invitation, but his easy smile held no warning of fell intent. I had gotten the feeling that the corporal was a bit of a joker, but not the malicious type.
“Come on, Corporal. Take a load off and sit a spell,” I said drily, and I caught a grin from his partner, Private Mendoza.
“Glad to see you still have your sense of humor,” Gaudette said, giving me a nod as he sank back into the seat, and the private joined us a moment later.
This close, I noted the clean uniforms and the worn expressions on both their faces, which led me to believe the hospital was letting them use their laundry service, and the men were too tired to have taken care of the chore themselves. They were clean-shaven and squared away, as Pat might have said, but they looked like men who were trying to make bricks without straw.
“Just like everybody else here, Corporal Gaudette. I’m just taking it day by day,” I replied easily, trying to defuse any tension. “Glad to see you getting around better, anyway.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hardin,” Gaudette replied. “Please, call me Clay. And this is Al,” he continued, giving the quiet private a tilt of the head as he made the introductions.
“Thank you for your service here, gentlemen, and call me Bryan. I appreciate what you and your fellow soldiers are doing in protecting the hospital. And my sister-in-law.” I looked to each man in turn, making eye contact as I did so. Not as a challenge, but in acknowledgment. Then I pressed on.
“Now, pardon my directness, but both of you look ready for some downtime, or at least a nap. So…to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Keith was right,” Al Mendoza quipped, turning to his partner. “He might talk pretty, but he don’t beat around the bush.” Then, bringing his focus back to me, he continued. “Clay and I, we just wanted to pick your brain a little bit about the area. We’ve already talked to Keith and a few of the other deputies, but even though they’re local, their jobs have kept them pretty much either at home, or on duty.”
I thought about what Al said. “Sorry, I just assumed your unit was local. Where are you guys out of?”
“Al and I are from Big Spring, but our unit is out of Ft. Stockton,” Clay explained. He sighed then, and the man seemed to deflate a bit at the effort. “Al and I, we’ve been in for a bit. Did a tour in Iraq and we’ve seen some stuff. But what’s going on now, has both of us worried.”
“You’ve got family back in Big Spring?” I guessed, and by the way the two men winced, I knew I had zeroed in on at least part of their problem.
“Yeah,” Al replied, rejoining the conversation. “My wife Sophia, and our two boys. For Clay, it’s his parents. Oh, and maybe his ex-wife, if she can keep her legs together.”
“Fuck you, Al,” Clay shot back, his words nearly slurring from his lack of sleep. I noted the bags under his eyes, and I wondered what kind of schedule they were keeping here. Thinking back, I noted the numbers and realized they were less than before.
“Look, we just wanted to get the lay of the land around here from the locals. We’re thinking about having our families relocate somewhere less…exposed,” Clay explained.
“You guys must be getting ready to redeploy down on the border,” I observed, and both men leaned closer as I lowered my voice, but neither one confirmed nor denied my statement. They didn’t need to, not with the way their eyes darted this way and that as they frantically scanned the room for anyone paying us too much attention.
“Relax, guys, I’m not one for sharing gossip,” I assured them, which was true. “This information goes no further.” I lied about that part, though. This was information I couldn’t afford to sit on, not with the stakes involved. I would have to share it with the family, and with Wade’s people.
“But to answer your unspoken question, I wouldn’t bring them here unless you can spare enough shooters to provide around-the-clock security. I don’t know how bad things are out west, but here we are still dealing with the fallout of Houston and the rest of the Gulf Coast basically falling off into the ocean.”
“Yeah, we
heard about what you and your brother did for those folks outside Woodville,” Al noted, his voice conveying a tone of quiet approval, “but that’s just out in the boonies, isn’t it? If we could secure them housing in town, they should be fine, right?”
I knew the young man was looking for reassurance, but I wasn’t going to lie to him when it came to his own family’s safety.
“I don’t know how you might pull that off, though,” I replied skeptically. “Housing is at a premium here with the hurricane losses, and not getting any better. I don’t honestly know where is safe, these days. You can’t get your family onto some kind of on-base housing?”
“Staff Sergeant Hall said he would check into that option while he’s working with the LT to get us back on the road to link up with battalion,” Clay explained. “Bliss is a no-go right now, though, and Dyess is the same. I don’t know of any place else close by.”
I felt a touch of memory tickling at the back of my brain. I’d been to that part of the state many times in the past, but I wouldn’t consider myself an expert on the area. But there was something there.
“How much time do you guys have to find a place? And what’s the plan for the hospital?”
“We have another two weeks here, then we’re moving out. The LT said we’ll be leaving a squad behind, but I don’t know the details. Rumor has it, the Texas Guard has some volunteers coming, but they aren’t the usual trained troops,” Al explained, “so you’ll probably be seeing more deputies.”
Al Mendoza paused, his face twisting into a grimace before he continued. “I’d suggest you have a talk with the hospital administrator soon, see about maybe setting up some formal recognition of you folks. Somebody like you might be good to have around, if your wife doesn’t squawk about it.”
“Lost my wife about five years ago, but I have too many responsibilities as it is, taking care of my brother and sister and their families,” I replied absently, my brain still processing through memories from my years of travel. There was something there, just beyond my reach.
Tertiary Effects Series | Book 3 | Bite of Frost Page 2
