After the End: Survival

by Stebbins, Dave

  AFTER THE END

  SURVIVAL

  Dave Stebbins

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  After the End – Survival

  Copyright © 2015 Dave Stebbins

  All rights reserved.

  Important Note to the Reader:

  The medical details in this novel do not constitute medical advice. Consult a physician if you are in need of medical care or advice.

  It’s tough to make predictions, especially about the future.

  Yogi Berra

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 1

  He leered as she crawled under a greasewood bush, her pale skin made fluorescent in the firelight. An evening breeze brought the smell of juniper and a moist, fetid odor from the stream. Cottonwood trees swaying along the water's edge sounded like dozens of rattlesnakes.

  God knows there are enough rattlesnakes.

  She was a little thinner than the others, but it was her hair that really attracted him. Long, black, perfectly straight, it came almost to her waist when she stood.

  She was unable to stand right now.

  He was mildly concerned with her gaunt appearance. Her group's diet seemed to consist of mostly canned goods, occasionally supplemented with fresh food obtained by barter with their neighbors.

  So whatever caused her to be thin, he reasoned, was likely not contagious. Everyone else in her group looked healthy, anyway. Maybe she was just skinny. You could count her ribs, sure, but she had a nice ass.

  The thought made him smile.

  "Don't you run off now, darlin'. Daddy's got something for you."

  CHAPTER 2

  Pete Wilson sat up on the edge of the bed and put his feet flat against the bare floor. He hunched forward, his freckled arms locked straight at the elbows, hands grasping the edge of the mattress. Coughing once to clear his throat, he scratched his beard and sighed deeply.

  "Up and at 'em," he said to himself.

  Pete sat immobile for another moment, then reached for socks and worked them up pale ankles, stood and got into his jeans before bending forward to slip on worn boots. He did not tie them, his bladder dictating a mild urgency as he walked out the back door to the outhouse. Watching the yellow stream pass through the wooden opening, he thought how ludicrous it was, walking out of a home with two fully appointed bathrooms to urinate in a hole in the ground.

  He clomped back to the house and turned on the radio. While waiting for the methane-powered burner to boil water for tea and oatmeal, he put on a light blue, long sleeved cotton shirt, laced his boots and combed his hair. He ate quickly. On the radio, a DJ's voice talked over the last fading notes of the music.

  "Six-fourteen, good morning campers! Larry Maxwell with you, and we've got another beautiful Panhandle day. Sixty-eight currently, ninety-two the high yesterday, should be about the same today. Music from Eric Clapton waiting in the wings, don't touch that dial."

  What the hell would I change it to, Pete grumbled. There isn't but one station around anyway. Larry Maxwell had done a lot to keep the area communities informed, but ever since KAMR had gone on the air, Larry had blithely gone on as though nothing had changed.

  Amarillo, three years ago a bustling city of one hundred-ninety thousand people, had evolved into about a dozen roughly defined communities totaling just under eight thousand survivors. The Westgate neighborhood was made up of almost eight hundred people, living in some three hundred houses. The community took its name from a nearby mall, and consisted of four square miles of three and four bedroom upscale homes. The current residents chose these dwellings not for their prestigious location or the fancy cedar shake roofs, but because each house had a fireplace. What had been a luxurious amenity now meant survival when winter temperatures plummeted into single digits. Executives had once paid extra for the vaulted ceilings and rustic brick walls. The present inhabitants simply appreciated the relief they provided in summer's blazing heat. Few niceties remained. Had the previous owners been alive, they would have shuddered at the absence of sentiment with which the unoccupied homes were torn apart for firewood.

  Pete Wilson presently served as the Westgate area's doctor. Three years ago, before the Change, Pete worked as an emergency room nurse at Baptist St. Anthony Hospital, three miles away. In less than six months, a virus decimated ninety-five percent of the world's population. Cold, starvation, and disease had taken more. The survivors were those who possessed a genetic ability to defy the microscopic invader.

  What made Pete particularly effective as a healer was his knowledge of herbs. Before the Change, growing herbs was an enjoyable pastime. Now, his hobby meant survival, for himself and those in his community.

  Pete still remembered his first patient. It was almost three years ago that an eight-year-old boy had fallen against a shard of broken glass. The six inch laceration on his left upper arm was deep. Five days after the accident, the boy developed a fever, the wound oozing a foul smelling, yellow liquid. The boy's adoptive family lived near Pete, and knew vaguely of his medical background.

  "Hey! Anyone home? Wilson! You there?"

  It was a hot August afternoon, and Pete was spending it sensibly enough, sprawled flat on the living room floor, an opened can of peaches and a glass of water on his left, the remnants of a fifth of Jack Daniel's best on his right. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of cutoffs. Four months before, the Change had killed his wife, both of his sons, their wives and his six grandchildren. Pete noticed heat, cold and hunger, but little else. He was able to respond appropriately by adding or taking off clothing to achieve an acceptable level of comfort; eating when he was hungry; bathing when he noticed his own stench. He'd acquired a fondness for alcohol, straight up, without the unavailable luxury of ice. He was numb, without emotion. Numbness was desirable. It prevented pain.

  Pete shuffled to the door. He opened it, and was briefly blinded by the bright light. Focusing on the figure in front of him, Pete saw a man about five foot eleven, medium build, in a white T-shirt and jeans. Pete had seen him around while both were foraging area homes and stores. He'd forgotten his name, just a fuzzy recollection that the man and the woman he was living with had taken in about a half dozen orphans.

  The man peered at Pete for a second, recognized the blank stare and what it represented. He had seen it in many others.

  "Wilson. Hey, I need you to look at one of my kids. He's got a bad cut on his arm."

  Pete just stood there, and continued to stare.

  "Wilson," continued the man, nonplused. "Put on your shoes, put on a shirt. You need to look at one of my kids. C'mon man, shoes first."

  Pete stared another moment, then went inside and slipped on a pair of old gray Nike's.

  "Shirt," the man commanded, after Pete stood transfixed, unable to remember what to do next. Pete slipped on a dingy white dress shirt
, did not button the front, and followed the man to his house, a couple of blocks away. They went through the house to the back porch, a covered deck on the north side. The boy lay on a steel frame chaise lounge. His eyes closed, cheeks a bright red, respirations rapid and shallow. A plain looking heavy set woman stood by the boy's side. She had a pan of water and several wet towels that she used to bathe the child in an effort to reduce the fever.

  "Take a look at his arm, Wilson."

  Pete bent forward, suddenly remembering the man's name. "OK, Don," he said. Guy thinks I'm an idiot.

  He removed the large washcloth covering the swollen arm. The lacerated edges of skin protruded outward, as if to escape the microbial carnage inside. Yellow pus oozed from the wound.

  "You need to have Doc Flood see him," Pete said flatly. Up until six months ago Jay Flood was a urologist with a thriving practice. The Change transformed him into just another survivor whose knowledge of micro-surgical urology techniques was no more important now than the skills offered by a window glass tinter or insurance adjuster. A good man, Doc Flood was limited in how he could practice medicine.

  "We did. He said he couldn't do much of anything without antibiotics. Told us to keep the arm clean and cover it with warm towels. We've been doing that. It's worse. Wilson, have you got any antibiotics?"

  The world's supply of antibiotics was depleted within the first two months of the Change in a futile effort to slow the viral epidemic. Viruses are protected by a protein coat and replicate inside normal cells, rendering antibiotics useless. Now, there were no antibiotics, and no means to make more. Rumor had it some people were hoarding powdered antibiotics used for livestock.

  "Nope," Wilson answered. "And I don't know who does." He thought of his own grandchildren, now dead. He had watched them die, in one day the disease turning a healthy child into a swollen, panting thing that oozed blood from every orifice, making even tears pink. And all he could do was sit and watch, finally hoping he, too, would grow ill and succumb.

  It never happened. Through the entire Change, when all his world and all he loved died, Pete was never sick. Never even got a cold. Most everyone still alive had the same thing happen, although in a few cases several members of the same family would survive, a fortunate genetic accident.

  Pete continued to gaze upon the boy. Too many people had died for no goddamn reason. The Great Cosmos Out There had screwed up and Pete started feeling irritated. In another moment, it had graduated to anger, the only emotion to break his stupor in a long time. Pete examined the sensation in his mind and probed it, grudgingly recognizing it.

  Clenching his jaw he bent down to examine the wound, more carefully this time. He gently pushed on the sides of the arm to better determine the extent of the swelling, eliciting a small moan from the boy. The arm was hot to the touch. He stood up, wiping his hands on his cutoffs. After another minute of silence, he looked up at the man.

  "I'll be back."

  Great, he thought. I should have said that with an Austrian accent. Then everyone could point to me and say, ‘Look! There's the guy who thinks he's Arnold Schwarzenegger.’

  Pete walked home, thinking as he went. OK, we got several things going on. We got the infection, we got the fever, which is the body's reaction to the infection. We got dehydration from the fever and that's going to mean less blood volume and fewer white blood cells getting to the wound to fight the infection. We got a semi-comatose kid who isn't eating or drinking, so his nutritional intake has gone to hell, compromising his immune system. Eventually the infection's going to get into his blood and then he'll die.

  So, we got to get him hydrated and we got to help his body beat the bugs that are keeping the cut infected.

  Piece of cake.

  Back home, feeling the afternoon heat Pete put on a western style straw hat. He walked into the back yard to what remained of his herb garden. Some of the weeds in it were waist high. Jeez. We might have a little problem here. Even if he'd been inclined to water it, there had been no running water for the past three months. The hot weather had taken its toll on the plants.

  Echinacea, commonly known as purple cone flower, thrives in poor soils and under full sun. Pete's garden had plenty of both. He pulled up two of the plants, took a knife and cut and split the roots, laying them on the warm concrete patio to dry. Earlier that spring Pete had brought his seven potted aloe plants outside. Three of them still survived, their normally swollen leaves shrunken from lack of water. He dipped water out of an almost-new Kenmore washing machine and watered the parched plants. The appliance looked a little out of place under a roof gutter rain spout, but it was serving well as a water barrel.

  He pulled a mountain bike out of the garage and pedaled steadily to Baptist St. Anthony Hospital, three miles away. From the outside, the facility looked pretty much like it always had: a lot of pale concrete and glass. Pete walked through the open doors of the emergency department ("Care Center 24") looking for an IV bag, tubing and needles. Somebody had beat him to it. A lot of somebodies; the place was a mess. Linen, wheelchairs, gurneys, and EKG machines were strewn about the floor. He kicked around some, opened a few cabinets, but found no IV equipment. He followed the signs to the nearby x-ray department. There he located a few assorted gauge needles and butterfly needles, two unopened packs of IV tubing, alcohol pads, and an empty IV bag that had been stepped on and broken. Pete stuffed everything into a garbage bag and pedaled back home.

  He grated the cone flower roots and put them in a plastic baggie. He did the same with some yellow and white chamomile flowers he found hidden under a patch of thistle weeds. Pete threw everything into the garbage bag he'd taken from the hospital, including two clean cotton shirts he dug out of a bedroom dresser belonging to the home's previous owner. Then he grabbed one of the potted aloe plants and walked back over to the injured boy's house. Don was gone, but Pete found the woman ("My name's Karen," she said solemnly) still on the back porch, changing an infant's diaper and shooing flies away from the unconscious boy. Two other children, a boy and a girl about the age of five, were playing on a blanket under a tree.

  "I need three pans of boiling water, two small and one large," he said, indicating pan sizes with his hands.

  She nodded and walked to two propane barbeque grills with side burners. Stacks of propane tanks had been scrounged from the neighborhood. Pete noted she got water from one of four 55-gallon plastic barrels that Don had plumbed together, wasting little of the run-off from the roof gutters. He helped her strain the water through a cotton shirt, tore into ten-inch strips. He cut the top of the empty IV bag with a knife and put the bag into the large pan of simmering water. Into one of the small saucepans he put the grated cone flower roots, and into the other, the crushed chamomile. Pete watched as the rolling water changed color with the addition of the plants.

  "Hey Pete, good to see you." It was Don, walking through the doorway of the house to the patio. "Anything I can do?

  "Got any duct tape?"

  "Oh yeah," replied Don, doing an about-face and walking back into the house.

  He returned a moment later and together they repaired the still hot IV bag. Pete added a couple of tablespoons of sugar to the boiling water and Don poured it into the open top.

  Pete walked over to the injured boy.

  "What's his name?"

  "Kyle. Used to live off Paramount Park. His family all died. He just wandered over here on his bike one day, joined us for dinner and stayed. He's a pretty good kid, mind's well and helps out. He's a good scrounger. Doesn't talk much."

  "OK. Look, we need to replace some fluid in this kid. Kyle," he said as an afterthought. "He's dehydrated from the fever and he can’t drink because he’s unconscious. So we’ll replace some of that fluid with sugar water." Pete nodded his head towards the IV bag, resplendent with silver duct tape, hanging from a nail on a rail next to the boy. He had already punctured the rubber seal on the bottom of the bag with the sharp upper end of the IV tubing and watched as the dr
ip chamber filled with water, replacing air with fluid in the clear plastic line.

  Pete had Don grasp the boy's good arm tightly to act as a tourniquet. Unable to find a vein in the arm, Pete found one on the top of the boy's hand. Cleaning the feverish skin with an alcohol pad, Pete was able to penetrate the vein with a twenty-three gauge butterfly needle. Dark red blood moved slowly up the hollow plastic line. Quickly taping the two yellow "wings" of the needle to the boy's hand, Pete connected the line of the butterfly needle to the end of line coming from the IV bag. He released the small plastic clamp on the IV line and watched as the chamber on the IV bag began to drip and the blood in the plastic line near the boy's hand flowed back into the needle resting inside the vein.

  Pete walked over to the aloe plant and cut off a leaf. He squeezed some the clear gel from the leaf on the boy's lacerated arm, then took a warm length of cotton that had been simmering in the saucepan with the chamomile flowers. He rolled the warm, wet cloth into a ball and pressed it against the cut, wrapping it in place with a cotton strip. The boy moaned once and stirred.

  "Karen, could you take that other saucepan off the grill, strain the fluid and put it in a thermos?”

  Pete stayed on the porch all night. Karen brought him food and a blanket. He changed the dressing every two hours, and filled the IV bag once during the night. The boy urinated about four in the morning; Pete put a dry sheet under the unconscious youth.

  At sunrise, Pete was dozing in his lawn chair when Karen touched his shoulder. Smiling, she nodded toward the boy. Pete inhaled sharply and sat on the edge of the chair for a few seconds. He walked over to the boy. The child's eyes focused on Pete's face.

  "Hey, Kyle. How ya doin'?" Pete felt the boy's forehead. Only a little fever.

  "Fine," the boy answered automatically. "My arm hurts."

  "Let's see if we can do something about that." Pete gave the boy an aspirin, and had him wash it down with some cone flower root tea.