After the End: Survival

by Stebbins, Dave

  "What did you do to your hand?"

  "Roping."

  "How long has it been since you hurt it?"

  "Week. You need a driver?"

  "Actually, I do. Can you manage?"

  He looked at her a little disgustedly. Walking over to the boy, he took the IV bag off its nail on the wall and jammed it between his teeth. Quickly, but with surprising gentleness, he picked up the boy. Judy ran to open the door to the SUV. In a few minutes they were on their way to Amarillo.

  She stayed in back with the child, wrapping him blankets in an effort to retain body heat. She kept his head elevated and immobilized.

  Her cowboy driver stopped at the mud slide that had confounded her earlier. A few horse drawn vehicles had been through it already, using the depressions her tires had made through the gunk as a guide. He went to the back of the vehicle and retrieved the shovel, using it to lower spots that might cause the car to high-center. He handled the tool easily, his injured finger jutting delicately away from the handle, like a dilettante would hold a wine glass. Fifteen minutes later they bounced and slid their way through the mud, Judy doing her best to stabilize the boy's head.

  Arriving at the hospital, the cowboy carried the child inside, Judy opening the doors.

  "Right here," said Latesha, pointing to a bed a few feet from her desk.

  There were other patients in the large, open ward and several observed the proceedings with interest. One man, his leg in traction with a broken femur, recognized the cowboy.

  "Hey Shorty! What the hell are you doing here?"

  The cowboy merely nodded once as he lowered the boy to the bed. His taciturn demeanor played no favorites. Latesha looked at his bandage and pointed to a sink.

  "Take that nasty thing off and wash your hands. Then sit down in that chair."

  "Do what she says, Shorty," said the man from his bed. "That woman’s flat mean.”

  While Shorty washed his hands, Dr. Flood came out of his office and began examining the boy. A few minutes later, he removed the stethoscope from his ears and clicked a ball point pen a few times.

  "OK. His temp's coming up, so I think the hypothermia's resolved. We can't do much with the head injury right now except keep him quiet and watch for signs of a subdural hematoma, vitals every fifteen minutes, Latesha. I'm worried about the fluid in his lungs. He must've sucked in some of that creek water. Kid's gonna end up with a royal case of pneumonia." Jay Flood stared pensively at the child for a few seconds, clicking his pen some more, then turned to the cowboy.

  "I'm Jay Flood. Ms. Williams here says I need to look at your hand. Let's see what you've got." After a fifteen second examination, he said, "We need an x-ray. Follow me."

  The hospitals x-ray machine was a portable flouroscopic unit with a television monitor. Mounted on a large, swinging ‘C’ arm, the machine was used in operating rooms before the Change.

  After seating Shorty next to the unit, Jay flipped a wall switch and walked out a side door. Those inside heard a sound like someone trying to start a balky lawn mower and then an engine roared into life. Dr. Flood walked back inside. Turning on the x-ray device, he donned a lead apron and positioned the injured hand on the machine. Using a foot switch to activate the flouroscopy, he took three views of the extremity, peering at the TV monitor.

  "Looks like you've got a tiny chip fracture, but that's no big deal. The real problem is your finger’s dislocated. We just need to slip it back into place. You may find this to be a little uncomfortable. Latesha?"

  The nurse had walked up behind Shorty. She grasped his wrist tightly with both hands. Jay grabbed Shorty's finger and pulled hard and steady. The cowboy grunted and arched his head backward, his hat falling to the floor. His face turned beet red. Jay and Latesha continued their tug-of-war, with the doctor manipulating the finger back into place.

  "OK. Let's take a peek," he said, again viewing the hand on the flouroscopic unit. "Looking good." He walked over to the wall switch and turned off the generator. Shorty's face had become very pale. He was covered in sweat.

  "How are you doing?" Jay asked.

  "Didn't feel a thing," the cowboy whispered.

  "Well, good. I must be improving. Last guy I did this to passed out. Ms. Williams will wrap it and we'll even give you a brand new splint. After three weeks you can take it off, but go real easy on that finger for a while, OK?"

  Shorty nodded.

  "Judy," Jay said to the Claude nurse, "you did a good job with that little boy. We’ll just have to wait and see. I understand you and Pete attended the dead girl over by Westover."

  Judy nodded and gave him the details. Latesha listened while she wrapped Shorty's hand, occasionally clucking her tongue.

  "That man's got to be stopped," Jay said when Judy finished speaking. "It just really bothers me to see kids die." He turned, looking at the small pale figure lying on the hospital bed.

  Pete had gone home, exhausted. Removing his shoes, he had lain down on the living room rug and immediately fell asleep.

  He was awakened by the sound of his name coming over the radio.

  "Pete, this is the S.O. Do you copy, Pete."

  Bleary eyed, he reached over and keyed his radio. "What!" he snapped.

  "Pete," said Patty White, nonplused, "you're needed at 200 South East Third. STAT."

  Patty never abused the term STAT.

  "I'm at my twenty, Patty. It'll take me maybe twelve, fifteen minutes to get there. What have you got."

  "Officer down, deceased," she said flatly. "You're asked to be part of the investigation."

  "Ten-four. Are there any injured?"

  "Negative."

  "I'm on my way. Clear."

  CHAPTER 21

  Pete arrived at the Probation and Parole building fourteen minutes after he'd received the call. There were four vehicles there, all law enforcement. Walking inside, he heard voices from the end of the hall. His footsteps had a hollow sound. The air here was musty, but with an edge. A kind of rusty iron smell that you taste near the back of your throat.

  It was the smell of blood. There's nothing else quite like it.

  The River Road deputy that Pete had seen at the dinner the night before came out of a doorway and squatted down, leaning back against the wall. He stared straight at the floor and did not acknowledge Pete as he walked past.

  Entering the doorway the deputy had just exited the first thing Pete saw was a man, slouched over a desk. Only his back was visible. The desk was covered with files, neatly stacked in a semi-circle around the man's shoulders. The exposed tops and edges of the files nearest the man were splattered with blood and a stringy, gelatinous gray and white material. Pete leaned over to look at the dead man's face.

  It was David Rodriguez.

  "Oh, shit."

  David's arms hung limply at his sides. A revolver lay on the floor next to the chair. Automatically, Pete felt David's neck for a pulse.

  "I think you'll find he's pretty dead," said Sheriff Westlake.

  "Just going through the motions, Sheriff. What can I do to help here?"

  "We need an official cause of death. Everything points to suicide. Dammit, David was my friend. You saw him at the dinner, how did he seem then?"

  "He was fine. Good spirits, joking with his wife, enjoying himself. It doesn't add up. What about fingerprints?"

  “That's next on the agenda. Plus, we’ll need to interview everyone David came in contact with over the last couple of days, and locate anyone who may have seen him come into the building this morning."

  There were two other deputies in the room. Pete knew that most people surviving the Change had the ability to cope with the sudden loss of family and friends. Not everyone had this ability. Suicide, though less frequent now, was not unusual. Some survivors of the virus were engulfed by feelings of unfathomable emptiness and loneliness. Pete searched for some analogy, and the closest he could come up with was being adrift in a calm sea. No wind, no waves, no clouds, no . . . nothing. It was an
overwhelming sense of isolation without hope of relief.

  Thus, every survivor developed a coping mechanism, or died. The children were the most remarkable. Pete envied them as they played, running and laughing, as though they had a duty to the deceased to enjoy life.

  And women were mostly strong, focusing their energy on the living. The nurturing, mothering instinct most women are born with enveloped all life: plants, animals, children, especially children, other women and men.

  And without the women, the men would be lost. Because it’s through the eyes of a loving, caring woman that a man sees himself. Without that, a man might succeed and prosper, he might grow strong and powerful, but in time life loses its luster and meaning. The daily victories become hollow and insignificant. As each day begins, the man sees not the challenges, but only futile exercises. He may become cruel and bitter, or weak and vulnerable. And his mind comes to the edge, and he looks into the darkness. And if the Earth's pull is not strong enough he will step into the abyss.

  Anyone watching Pete's face at this moment would have seen a slight, almost imperceptible change. But the difference was there.

  Unbidden, his own personal coping mechanism was activated. And his mind became a cold and ruthless thing.

  Through new eyes, he saw the scene before him. Blood and brain matter were sprayed across the desk to David’s left. Grasping the sides of the dead man's face, Pete turned the head slowly from side to side. The entry wound, complete with powder burns, was on the left side of David's head, above and forward of the ear. The exit wound was behind his right ear. Pete recalled seeing David the night before, eating and drinking with his right hand. To make this morning's scenario consistent with suicide, David would have held the pistol toward his head with his left hand. After pulling the trigger, he would have needed to drop the gun, then swivel around and lay his head neatly on the desk.

  "Anybody moved anything?" asked Pete.

  "No. What you see is the way it was when we got here."

  "Who found the body?"

  "Frank Klein, my River Road deputy," said the sheriff, using his thumb in a jerking motion to point to the hallway.

  Walking back out through the doorway, Pete sat next to the deputy.

  "Frank, we need to talk."

  The man remained motionless for a long ten-count, then nodded.

  "What made you stop here?"

  "I was headed back up to River Road. Saw David's truck parked outside." His voice was unsteady and he cleared his throat.

  "Did he say anything to you last night about needing to come here?"

  "No. Him and Yolanda, they carried on like they always do. He had a few beers, but he doesn’t ever drink much. They left early, maybe ten o'clock, so they could pick up the baby and go home. Man, I can't believe this is happening."

  "What could have brought him here?"

  "I don't know. He didn't say anything about needing to come here or even coming into town, as far as that goes. Him and me are buds, all right? Whenever he drove into town he'd give me a shout on the radio and we'd meet for lunch or whatever. I know he was really bugged about the Shupe girl they found near Canyon. It’s his turf, right? He took it kind of personal."

  "OK. You're driving back home this morning, you see David's vehicle. Then what?"

  The deputy shrugged. "I walk through the front door. The lock had been forced, but looked like it'd been broke for a long time, you know, leaves and trash in the foyer. What with all the scroungers, that’s nothing new. I walk inside, don't hear anything, holler out David's name a few times, still don't hear anything. So I get a kind of bad feeling, draw my weapon and kind of tiptoe around till I find this." He jerked his head toward the doorway. His eyes narrowed, and he turned to face Pete. "He didn't fucking kill himself. He honest-to-God wasn't the type." His tone was challenging, as if he dared a rebuttal.

  "I know. You're right. Excuse me for a minute."

  Walking back into the office, he saw the sheriff on his hands and knees.

  “What are you looking for?”

  "The damn bullet."

  "Good luck. I'll take him to the hospital for an autopsy. Frank doesn't think it was a suicide and I agree. I think we need to look at this as a possible homicide."

  The Sheriff looked doubtful.

  "Whatever. We'll see if fingerprints turn up anything. How long will you need the body?"

  "Give me a few hours."

  "OK. Call me when you're done. I need to take him down to Canyon. I am not looking forward to telling Yolanda."

  "I'd like to go with you."

  "That's fine. Keep me posted."

  Using a collapsible canvas stretcher from Pete's SUV, they carried David's body outside. His head was wrapped in green plastic, ostensibly out of respect but mostly to prevent gore from dripping inside Pete's vehicle.

  At the hospital he and Jay Flood took two skull x-rays and were able to trace the bullet's path. It verified Pete's original premise that the projectile had entered near the left temple of the deputy's head and had exited on the right near the back of the skull.

  "Pretty tough shot to make no matter which hand he used, if he did it himself," Jay commented. They could find no other injuries. Pete radioed the sheriff to let him know they were ready to take David home. While waiting for him to arrive, Pete and Jay made rounds of the hospital's inpatients.

  The man who had survived his appendectomy was semi-comatose. A raging fever was sapping his strength. He appeared to be losing his battle against infection from a ruptured appendix. Other than running IV fluids into a vein there was little else they could do. A young woman was wiping the patient’s brow with a cold wash cloth, speaking softly close to his ear. She glanced up once at the two men as they approached but otherwise ignored them. Both men knew the prognosis was grim.

  "And little Brandon here has had quite a trip," Jay said, as they walked to the bed of the injured child. A thirty-something woman in a denim dress smiled nervously at the men.

  "I sure wish he'd open his eyes," she said.

  "I think Brandon's head will be fine, Mrs. King. We just need to keep him still to be on the safe side. That's why we gave him a little bit of Valium. Our big concern is the fluid in his lungs. We'll have a better idea by morning if he's going to develop pneumonia. How did he end up in that creek?"

  "Lord, I wish I knew. We've got a baby calf in the barn we're bottle feeding. Brandon's kind of adopted the little fella." She glanced towards the boy. "He went out early this morning to feed him. It started raining real hard. I didn't think much of it. I just thought he was staying in the barn with the calf." Her eyes started welling with tears. "He must've gone down to the creek, exploring, I don't know. That creek gets so high, so fast, every time it rains. He must've fallen in and swum downstream till he got tired."

  Yeah, Pete thought. Like I can swim down Niagara Falls. He made no comment, knowing how bad she felt, understanding her need to minimize the severity of the situation.

  Understanding the importance of hope.

  The two men walked over to the body of David Rodriguez and used the stretcher to carry him out to Pete's SUV.

  “So how's the antibiotic situation coming along, Pete?"

  "You mean since we last talked about it," checking his watch, "seven hours ago?" Actually, Pete was surprised at how late it was. The clouds had started breaking up, and the sun was hovering above the western horizon, bathing the world in a reddish glow.

  "You telling me you've been busy?"

  "Jay, I hope I don't have too many days like today."

  The doctor reached over and squeezed Pete’s shoulder.

  "Things always look better in the morning."

  "Can I get that in writing?"

  "Absolutely.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The drive from the hospital to David's home in Canyon took almost thirty minutes. Pete's SUV became a temporary hearse. The sheriff followed in his vehicle, a white Suburban. David's head had been swathed in gauze, with a la
yer of plastic hidden underneath the wrapping to protect against leakage. Pete did not feel well-suited in his role as undertaker. For one thing, he mused, swerving to miss another pothole, I'm not jolly enough. The morticians he'd known, unless actually on the job, were pretty funny guys, the life of the party and all that. Like they were compensating for all the grieving they had to be around. Well, how about neurosurgeons or oncologists? They dealt with people who spent a lot of time at death's door. Were they mostly happy? Not particularly, not the one's he'd known. Especially not the neuro guys. How about preachers? They had to preside over a lot of funerals, deal with a lot of grief. No, they don't count, because they also get to be there for the happy stuff, weddings and christenings and such.

  Pete's thoughts continued meandering, putting off dealing with David's death. Yet, one part of his mind remained clear and sharp, an incisive gleaming blade, calm, steady and patient, biding its time. Pete knew it was there but kept it subdued and safely out of sight.

  Being underestimated has the advantage of delayed gratification.

  The two vehicles drove down Eighth Avenue in Canyon and parked in front of David's house. Neighbors were outside in the cool dusk and observed them with interest. Fuel was limited even for those receiving an allotment from the city. Two vehicles together meant something out of the ordinary.

  The men slowly walked up the sidewalk. Yolanda must have heard the car doors closing because she met them at the front door as they approached the house.

  "Hi Sheriff, hello Pete," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Her cheeks were a little flushed and Pete imagined she'd been cooking supper. "David's still not home, that man's been working, he even missed lunch. He told me he probably wouldn't make it for lunch, but I made him some anyway. It was just sandwiches because with David you never know."