Chernobyl

by Frederik Pohl

  "You will eat when you are told to. There will be food at the bivouac area, probably."

  "Yes, sergeant," said Konov, "but that, too, is a question: if our trucks are being used to take these people out of danger, how will we get to the bivouac area? It is at least ten kilometers from here."

  The sergeant said thoughtfully, "It is nearer twenty." He looked at Konov, and then added cheerfully, "But you won't have to walk. I was about to select a man to board that bus to keep the refugees in order. You'll do. Get on it."

  "Get on it to where?" Konov demanded, recoiling a step.

  "To wherever it goes," said the sergeant, reaching to pluck the dosimeter from Konov's blouse pocket. "But first give me that; we will need it for the patrols that remain on duty here."

  "But, Sergeant!" Konov yelped. "I don't know what it says! If it turns out I have already been exposed to too much radiation, how will we know?"

  "Of course we will know," said the sergeant, jerking a thumb toward the bus, "because we will get a report from wherever you are going to tell us that you are dead."

  The mood in the bus was cheerful enough at first; someone had an accordion, and a few people in the front were singing as though they were teenagers off to their Komsomol camp for the summer. Then the bus rolled out onto the highway. It had to squeeze past a long line of Army vehicles, ambulances and heavy machines rolling toward the plant.

  Everyone in the bus craned to look at the convoy. The holiday mood evaporated at once.

  The bus was filled with people and their belongings. There was no seat for Konov, only the stairwell by the bus door; but at least he was on what seemed to be an intercity bus, not one of those urban ones where even the stairwell was so cramped no one could sleep in it. Konov did sleep, leaning back, his head almost under the driver's seat.

  So, after a while, did most of those on the bus, even Kalychenko. He and his fiancee, too, had been lucky. They had managed to get two seats together. They had even managed to get into the very back of the bus, where there was a little more room on the floor to set down Raia's straw suitcase, her cooking pots, her sack of flour, and already-melting half kilo of lard; a J every ten minutes for the first fifty kilometers she would jerk up straight in her seat with something else she had forgotten; "The wine, Bohdan! The champagne for our wedding, it's still in the kitchen cabinet, they gave me no time to think!"

  And Kalychenko would hush her, his arm twitching with pins-and-needles as it rested around her shoulder where she had been leaning against him: "Shush, Raia, it's all right. We're not leaving forever, you know?"

  But was that true? Kalychenko knew quite well that "three days" might indeed stretch to forever. The fact that the town had been evacuated so hurriedly and utterly was certain proof that the radiation level had been not only above warning levels but definitely very dangerous indeed. (And how much radiation had each of them received already? Not as much for Kalychenko himself as he would have if he had remained at his post of duty, of course — but that line of thought led him to worries almost worse than future leukemia.)

  He performed calculations in his mind, trying to remember the half-lives of all the deadly radionuclides that were likely to be in the smoke from the explosion and fire. Suppose (he thought) the firefighters and the engineers managed (somehow) to put out the flames and control the fission reactions. Suppose they sealed it all off. Very well. There would still remain all the tiny radioactive particles that had already fallen from the sky. The soot from the fire, the morning dew, the air itself had already left invisible films of radioactive cesium, iodine, strontium, and a dozen others. And all of them were still there in Pripyat, emitting radiation. Well, but some of them had short half-lives, he reminded himself. In just a few days half of the iodine would have radiated itself into some other element, a harmless one; in a few months the same would be true of the cesium, the strontium. In just a year or less the radiation would be only a fraction of its current levels.. .

  A year or less! He did not even think of the long-lived transuranics, like plutonium, with a half-life of a quarter of a million years. A year was already an eternity.

  And anyway, it all depended on how much there was to begin with. A quarter of a little bit was perhaps no more than the normal background, while a quarter of very much might still be enough to kill. And, worst of all, when could they start the patient clock that would tell them when they might return? For as the bus pulled out of Pripyat, Kalychenko had craned his neck to stare back. He could still see, in the waning light of that April day, the distant, uneven column of smoke. There seemed to be helicopters fluttering around it — sight-seers? Foolish ones, if they were, because if they flew through that plume, they would learn caution very thoroughly, if too late to do them any good.

  The plume had been not one whit smaller or less frightening than it had been the day before.

  So it could easily be a year before any of them saw Pripyat again. Kalychenko told himself. It could be much longer. It could be never. And what then of his precious stereo from East Germany, his magnetizdat tapes of Okudjava and the Beatles, his hopes for a car, his career? What of Raia's ten thousand forgotten treasures? What of their wedding? When she started up again—"My raincoat from Czechoslovakia! What if it rains where we're going?" — he patted her silently. It would rain, all right. It would rain many, many times before she saw that smart, new, black trench coat again.

  When he woke from an uneasy sleep an hour later, it was because Raia was leaning across him. She was trying to help the woman in the seat ahead of them with her wailing baby. The infant had soiled itself, and the mother was trying to make a flat space on the clutter of bundles, bags, and personal possessions of all kinds that were piled in the aisle so she could change it. Under the circumstances, it was a major undertaking. The mother had not failed to bring everything she needed with her, especially including the rolls of gauze bandages that were used for diapers. Unfortunately, the child was in her lap and the bandages were in a bag buried somewhere along the aisle of the bus.

  Kalychenko suffered his fiancee to climb over him, changing seats so that she could be more use to the woman ahead. Raia held the crying infant's shoulders securely while the mother dabbed him clean, then grumpily wound a head scarf around the baby boy's bottom.

  Kalychenko averted his eyes. He could not avert his nose, and when the woman carefully rolled up the soiled diaper-bandages and deposited them at her feet, he complained to his fiancee, "She should throw them out the window! It's not fair, making us stand all that stink!"

  Then it was Raia's turn to shush him. "And then what would she use when we got where we are going? It's all right, Bohdan. Here, let me make it smell better—" From her pock-etbook she pulled out a little flask of cologne and patted it on

  Bohdan's cheek. "You don't mind about the scarf, do you?" she added shyly.

  "The scarf? You mean you gave that woman my sling?" Kalychenko was suddenly outraged.

  "But you don't seem to need it anymore, Bohdan dear. You lifted the bags with both hands. And, think, in just a few months, when we have our own little one—"

  "I suppose it is all right," he grumbled. "Let us go back to sleep." Obediently Raia put her head on his shoulder again and presendy closed her eyes.

  But for Kalychenko it was not so easy. Raia's last remark had reminded him of another problem of radiation. What about the baby she was carrying? Just how much radiation had Raia absorbed? He didn't know but had an uneasy feeling that pregnant women, or their babies anyway, were especially subject to radiation damage. In any case, he told himself, there was nothing he could do about it right now. But he remained wide awake, trying not to think.

  He squirmed carefully in his seat, not wanting to disturb Raia. The woman ahead had politely opened her window a crack to try to dissipate the odor pervading her immediate area, but as a result a blast of damp, cold night air was striking Kalychenko just on the side of his head. His bladder was full. His future was murky. His mood was dour.


  There was no doubt in Kalychenko's mind — well, no real doubt — that he wanted to go through with marrying Raia, even less that he wanted the child she was carrying. Of course, one should have a son! But his stomach churned with fear. Perhaps there was a way to have Raia checked for radiation. As for himself, the little bruises on his elbow, got when he fell as he fled the exploding reactor, no longer seemed very convincing even to him. Especially since Raia had given his sling away! The sling, of course, was no more than camouflage, simply circumstantial evidence to add credibility to the story he was planning to tell; but Kalychenko was aware he would need all the help he could get when questions were asked.

  And, sooner or later, questions surely would be asked.

  Kalychenko groaned — stifling it, so Raia would not hear— and tried to settle himself again for sleep. But the bus seemed to be slowing down, even stopping. It came to a dead halt, then lurched slowly forward again.

  Kalychenko tried to raise himself to see ahead. There were lights in the road. Someone was shouting directions; the bus crept forward, then turned into a space on the side of the highway and came to a complete stop. The passengers began to stir.

  The overhead lights on the bus came on and the door opened. Up ahead there was a muttered colloquy between the driver, the soldier who had gotten on with them, and someone from outside; then the soldier stood up: "Everybody is to get out here," he cried, his voice hoarse with sleep and fatigue. "Leave your belongings on the bus. Now, please, hurry up!"

  It had not, after all, been altogether a good idea to sit at the back of the bus, for it took them forever to get out.

  Emptying the bus was a complicated logistical problem. First the people in the front seats had to stand up and lift some of the things from the aisles onto the seats they had vacated before those in the next row could move into the aisle. The process had to be repeated, row by row, the whole length of the bus before it came to Kalychenko's and Raia's turn. There was no way to speed the process. All they could do was peer out the windows. They could see that they were in what seemed to be an agricultural station of some kind. There were other buses there, a dozen of them or more, and people milling around under bright lights. As they limped forward and stiffly disembarked, the soldier was calling, "Please, everybody! Listen. Remember your bus number, bus number eight two eight. Eight two eight, remember! When the bus number is called, follow instructions — and especially when it's time to go, make sure you get back on bus eight two eight, for it is my ass if you aren't!"

  An old woman chided him: "Is that a way to speak, a Soviet Army soldier? Would your mother like to hear such talk?"

  "I'm sorry," Konov said, abashed. "But please — bus eight two eight, don't forget!"

  Men were drifting to the right, back down the road they had traveled, women to the left. Kalychenko went far enough to avoid the messes those before him had made and then relieved his bladder at the side of the road, stretching and shivering in the cold night air. One by one the buses were pulling up to a gasoline truck for refueling, then returning to their parking spaces while the drivers hurried to take care of their own needs. They closed the doors behind them. Soldiers— other soldiers, with the green flashes of the internal army— were keeping everyone but the drivers away. Still other soldiers were clustered around a pair of wooden tables, with people lined up before them, and from the back of a truck dirty, tired Komsomols were serving some kind of food.

  Well, at least that was something. Kalychenko looked around for Raia, and when she returned from her own necessities along the southward stretch of the road, they lined up to get what was offered. The Komsomols looked both exhausted and keyed up as they dished out bread, sausages, and strong tea.

  "I wonder where we are?" said Kalychenko as they found a low wall to sit on while they ate.

  "A woman said it is a place called Sodolets," Raia told him, raising her voice to be heard. It was a noisy place to be, with bus motors grumbling and racing as new ones arrived and old ones left. "South of Kiev. We've come a long way." She was gazing at the mother from the bus who, her back modestly turned, was nursing her baby. "I hope we're nearly there," Raia fretted. "It's not good for the child, being up so late in this night air."

  "It's not too good for me, either," Kalychenko grumbled, but softly. And then their bus number was called and they lined up one more time, under the bright lights, before the tables where an Army colonel was standing, scowling, smoking a cigarette while two lieutenants were, wonder of wonders! Giving away money! When he reached the head of the line, Kalychenko displayed his passport. The lieutenant painstakingly copied his name onto a long list and then carefully counted out twenty new ten-ruble notes into Kalychenko's hand. "For what?" Kalychenko asked, astonished.

  "For you," said the lieutenant. "To help you get settled in your new home. A gift from the peoples of the Soviet Union. Now move along quickly, there are others behind you!"

  Kalychenko counted over the notes, frowning. He followed Raia to where the passengers from bus number 828 were now ordered to assemble. The soldier from Pripyat was standing there at the closed bus door, a mug of tea in his hand. He looked more cheerful than before, and he nodded to Kalychenko. "Now all of you listen," he ordered. "When you get back on the bus, be sensible. The ones in the last rows go first. Take the same seats you had before. Otherwise it will simply be a disorderly mess, and—"

  Then he fell silent as an Army captain came up with a clipboard. "Reboard now," he ordered in a weary voice, punching at the door until it opened. "Just a few more hours, Comrades, then you'll be in your new homes. Where?" He looked at the clipboard. "This is bus number eight two eight? Well, you've got a trip still ahead of you. It's a place called Yuzhevin."

  Chapter 16

  Sunday, April 27

  Radiation kills the cells of living things by spoiling the way the cells grow, and so it is the fastest-growing parts of the human body that suffer the most. The lining of the mouth and the digestive tract are quickly damaged, but it is the bone marrow that is most at risk. The marrow of the bones is where the blood's cells are manufactured, thousands at a time, to replace those that are always being lost in the body's normal wear and tear. When the bone marrow is damaged by radiation, blood counts drop. The blood loses its ability to fight off infection, to carry oxygen from the lungs, even to clot. It does not much matter whether the harmful radiation comes from nuclear war, from a natural source, or from something like Chernobyl. What matters is how much radiation is received.

  There are many ways of measuring the damage caused by radiation, but the handiest unit is called the "rad," which is short for "radiation absorbed dose." (In technical terms, one rad is defined as that amount of ionizing radiation that deposits 100 ergs of energy in each gram of exposed biological tissue.) The number of rads tells the story. A person who has received no more than 150 rads is likely to recover completely. Around 300 rads his life is in balance, but blood transfusions, antibiotics, and the best of nursing care should pull him through.

  Five hundred rads and over means that the bone

  marrow is destroyed, and without bone marrow no one can live for long.

  In the swaying, jolting ambulance en route to Hospital No. 18 in Kiev, Tamara Sheranchuk wished she had ironed fewer of her husband's shirts and taken more time to look at his books. Perhaps there would have been something in them about these "rads" and "roentgens." She knew very well that such dose numbers were very important. The experts from Moscow's Hospital No. 6 had explained that to all of the Pripyat and Chernobyl doctors, in that quick, twenty-minute briefing that was all anyone had time for that weekend. Unfortunately, she didn't really know what they meant. Even more unfortunately, the casualties who came to her medicpoint didn't wear numbers. Some of them didn't wear much of anything at all. Before they got to the medics they went through radiometric screening. As often as not, the counters squealed the alarm as they sniffed the garments, and then their contaminated outer clothing was taken away f
rom them and added to the heap of condemned goods. They were lucky if they got a smock or a bathrobe from the dwindling stores to cover their underwear. They were luckier still if it was only their clothes that made the detectors squeal.

  And even the ones who had swallowed or inhaled radioactive material were not as frustrating as those who had merely been exposed to intense radiation. They were the hardest ones to diagnose. There wasn't any visible wound. They were weak, they felt nauseated, they vomited unpredictably; yes, very well, those were precisely the early symptoms of radiation sickness. They were also the symptoms of shock or overexertion or a hundred other things, even simple fatigue, and certainly every human being working to control the damage from the accident had every right to a great deal of fatigue. Including Tamara Sheranchuk herself.

  So what Tamara had been doing, before she was ordered onto an ambulance to accompany four of the seriously wounded to Hospital Number 18 in Kiev, were the simple medical things she had always done for injured people: poultice and debride, sew and dress. It was not enough.

  There wasn't really room for four patients in the ambulance, much less for Tamara herself and the stands that held the plasma and antibiotics that trickled into the bloodstream of two of the patients. There were not enough clamps for so many stands, and so, as the ambulance swayed, Tamara had to have one hand to steady a glucose drip and another to catch a stand of saline solution that was about to topple, and none at all to keep herself from bouncing about.

  These particular patients had — at least, were thought to have had — only light doses of radiation, if any at all. Three of them were seriously burned. Unfortunately, only one of the three was unconscious. The other two could not help moaning and crying out as the ambulance lurched and Tamara fought to stay awake and steady the IV stands. There was a nasty smell in the ambulance, part vomit and part smoke and part what really smelled most of all like burned meat.