Nightmare in Slow Motion

by Kyle Pratt

  As they walked by, Peter looked at the people in the cars. Age made no difference; they were all frightened. Some cried.

  “Arghhhhhhh.” The muscles in Leslie’s neck stood tense. Her brow furrowed as she stopped and panted. “It’s not going to be long now.” After a moment, she stumbled forward.

  Leon shifted her weight onto him. “Let’s hurry.” He stepped forward.

  A car inched across their path.

  Peter waved for it to stop.

  The three hurried across the street.

  As they passed the tall building Peter had indicated, the modern steel and glass five-story hospital came into view. A helicopter lifted off from the building roof.

  Peter and Leon carried her down the street and across the jammed parking lot as another chopper approached.

  “They’re evacuating the hospital.” Leon shook his head as he pointed to the helo.

  “No!” Leslie cast him an angry look. “Not before I get there.”

  “Don’t worry.” Peter gestured toward approaching helicopters. “If the choppers are still coming, doctors are still there.”

  Straining and groaning, Leslie hung on as the three hurried the last hundred yards to the hospital.

  A crush of people bumped and jostled Peter as they moved across the emergency room. Doctors and nurses rushed through with gurneys and wheelchairs. It wasn’t chaos, but it wasn’t far from it.

  Peter stepped in front of a nurse. “This woman is in labor.”

  The nurse pointed. “Check in at the admissions desk.”

  He stood just over six feet tall, but through the mass of people Peter couldn’t see a counter. When he looked back the nurse had disappeared into the multitude.

  The three weaved, pushed, and apologized their way across the lobby to a kiosk and one beleaguered admissions clerk.

  Leaning against the counter, Peter gestured with one hand. “This woman—”

  The clerk held a finger up to Peter, clutched a phone receiver in her other hand and spoke to an orderly nearby. “Take the man with gunshot wounds to room five. The lady with the compound fracture goes to seven.”

  A young man rolled an empty gurney to the counter and spoke to the clerk. “Where do you want this?”

  The clerk, now speaking on the phone, didn’t seem to hear.

  In his most official voice, Peter said, “Take this woman to maternity—stat!”

  Peter and Leon helped Leslie onto the gurney.

  “Thank you.” Worry seemed to ebb from her as the young man wheeled her away.

  Peter waved as she disappeared into the crowd. He felt a weight of responsibility lift. Now, he and Leon could focus on their own journey to safety. With a tilt of the head, he indicated a nearby side exit. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Stepping out a door, Peter spotted a state patrol mobile command center. “We should check in. Maybe they have communications with our department.”

  As they jogged across the parking lot, Leon pointed to a police lieutenant standing with other patrol officers near the command center. They changed direction and headed directly toward the officers.

  The lieutenant wiped his forehead. “What do you guys need?”

  Leon slowed to a walk. “We can’t communicate with our department, so we thought we’d check in here.”

  He shook his head. “The command center is heading south, pronto.”

  Worry about Peter’s own family churned constantly in his gut, but the mention of south brought the anxiety to the forefront of his mind. Hopefully, his wife and unborn son were safe on the family farm, but they might be less than thirty-five miles from where he stood, at their suburban home. He wanted to be with them. He wanted, needed, to run to her. Instead, he nodded. “Can you spare some gasoline?”

  “Or give us a ride,” Leon added.

  “No to both. Sorry. We’re full up with others who need a ride and we’re short on gas, but….” He opened the trunk of a nearby patrol car and pulled out an orange case and a five gallon gas can. “Siphon the gas from the car of any doctor. They won’t need the fuel. They’re being evacuated by air to Madigan Army Medical Center, along with the patients.”

  “Thanks.” Peter took the kit from the lieutenant.

  The two hurried toward the reserved section of the parking lot, Leon looked up at a helicopter as it lifted from the roof and sped south. He laughed.

  Peter shook his head. “What could be funny right now?”

  “It occurred to me that Leslie will probably reach safety long before we do.”

  “That’s funny?”

  Leon shrugged. “In a macabre, ironic, sort of way … sure.”

  Again, Peter thought of Sue. “Come on, let’s get moving.” He picked out a car and ran to it ahead of Leon.

  Peter already had gas flowing into the can when Leon caught up.

  The can was nearly full when the lieutenant pulled alongside them in a squad car packed with other officers. “The navy has the terrorists surrounded on a fishing boat just off of West Seattle. Military, Homeland Security and police are moving in. They’re trying to talk them into surrendering.” He shook his head. “If the other attacks are any indication, these jihadists are intent on dying and taking a lot of people with them. It won’t be long now.”

  Peter nodded and looked north. “Thanks.” He grabbed the gas can and dashed across the parking lot.

  “Wait for me,” Leon yelled.

  Peter didn’t answer as he ran back toward the squad car.

  On a normal day this amount of traffic would have been considered heavy but, here the vehicles at least moved, albeit slowly, unlike the freeway and many other streets. Peter looked forward to heading south again. He dashed around the creeping vehicles to reach the squad car. Staring north he poured the gas into the tank. The normally noxious fumes now smelled like hope as they chugged reluctantly from the can into the tank.

  Leon ran up, flew into the car, and started it.

  Peter tossed the empty can and siphon kit in the trunk, ran to the passenger side and jumped in as Leon popped the car into gear.

  Tires squealed.

  Leon slid and bumped his way into the southern flow of traffic.

  Again, Peter tried to phone Sue, but heard nothing. A half-mile farther along the road, he glimpsed the freeway. It reminded him of a logjam on a river. Still, Peter remained hopeful that in a couple of hours he would be home. Even the cold drizzling rain had stopped.

  Barely three miles south of the hospital, a high-pitched squeal reverberated from the radio.

  The car sputtered and died.

  Leon spun around in his seat.

  Slumping forward, Peter shouted, “Cover your eyes!”

  In the side mirror Peter glimpsed a helicopter as it fell from the sky, crashed on a nearby apartment building, and burst into a ball of flame. He pressed his eyes closed and threw his arms over them. Even so, red light shined through. “Too close! We’re still too close!”

  Screams echoed in his ears.

  Several moments later, when the light faded, he opened his eyes.

  A boiling mushroom cloud grew in the north. Lightning lit the sky. The gates of hell had been thrown open and every demon Peter ever imagined danced in the fire- laced storm.

  The top of a nearby apartment building burned like a torch where the helicopter had crashed.

  Typhoon-like gusts shook the car and peppered it with stones and debris. A myriad of cracks spread out across the rear window.

  “No! No!” Leon slammed his fist on the steering wheel and dash.

  “Don’t panic now,” Peter rested a hand on his shoulder. “The pulse from the blast burned out the car’s electronics.”

  Leon fumbled with the keys. Then he turned to Peter with terror-filled eyes. “I can’t see.”

  “It’s flash blindness. In a few hours your vision will … should get better.” Peter glanced at the ever growing cloud. “Right now we need to find shelter.”

  Thunder boomed across th
e sky.

  Peter shook his partner with one hand and opened the car door with the other. “We’ve got to go! I’ll lead you.” The storm seized the door and yanked it from Peter’s hand. He stepped into the tempest.

  The wind carried the sound of screams, prayers, and cries for help.

  Peter struggled to keep his footing as the growing throng of people buffeted and pushed against him. Dust spun in the air. He knew this area, but in the windstorm landmarks were hard to see. Voices shouted out of the wind.

  Leon planted both hands on the squad car. “Where do we go?”

  A panicked hoard emerged from the dust storm. Like a swarm of locusts they rushed southward threatening to destroy all that they encountered.

  Peter clutched Leon’s hand and placed it on his belt. “Grab ahold. Don’t let go!”

  The veneer of orderly conduct stripped away as screams, from soprano to tenor, filled the air. Ten yards away a little girl fell. A woman screamed as others trampled the child. Still more tripped over the bloody body and were crushed by the throng. No one stopped.

  Peter stepped into the flow of people.

  Leon tugged on his belt.

  Peter veered toward the edge like a swimmer exiting a riptide. “Still with me?”

  “Still here!” Leon shouted.

  Peter struggled to keep pace with the mob, and not be flung to the ground by it, as he angled out of the flow. A gray snow fell from the sky. It seemed too soon for fallout to pour down, but he couldn’t be sure. How much had he inhaled? He tried not to breathe. To survive they needed to get off the street.

  The day grew ever darker as dust blotted every hint of the sun’s disk.

  Ahead Peter spotted the vague outline of a stone bank building, built nearly a hundred years earlier. He called over his shoulder. “Hold tight.”

  Leon tugged on the belt. “I am!”

  Seconds later Peter felt a sharp tug on his belt. “Hang on. We’re almost there.”

  He heard Leon’s voice, but didn’t catch the words.

  It took nearly a minute to bump and push across the panicked flow of humanity and emerge near the entrance of the bank. He turned to Leon, but he stood alone. He called to his partner, as panic rose within him. He shouted, but his voice was absorbed in the countless voices carried on the wind around him. Peter scanned the crowd, but didn’t see Leon. Somewhere in the mass of frightened people his blind partner struggled to survive.

  An old woman with blank eyes, slammed into Peter, and nearly knocked him down.

  He reached for her.

  Their hands touched.

  Others pushed and bumped into her.

  She spun around and stumbled along with the flow of the frightened mob.

  As Peter watched, she disappeared from view. Like Leon? A noise behind him caught his attention. A cluster of people gathered under the portico of the old stone bank building. The group probably gathered there because of the cover, but such structures often had basements and fallout shelters. With one last look for Leon, he jogged toward them, others joined the huddled throng of people.

  Tan and gray dust covered everything like light snow. Several men banged on the glass that formed most of the door.

  “Stand back,” Peter said with greater calm than he felt. He pulled his weapon from the holster and fired a shot that shattered the glass.

  An older man, with thinning gray-haired man and wearing a sports jacket, kicked out most of the remaining shards.

  A middle-aged man in a three-piece business suit, hurried through, cutting himself on one hand as he did.

  The older man took off his jacket and used it to break out more of the glass. “Be careful,” he said with a British accent. Then he helped several women and children into the building.

  Peter counted seventeen people pass through the door. Then all that remained were him and the British gentleman. Peter gestured for him to enter.

  With a nod he did.

  Peter looked over his shoulder for Leon and then took a black marker from his pocket and on the unbroken glass pane of the adjoining door wrote, “19 survivors inside.” He followed the others into the dark bank building.

  When he stepped inside the man with the British accent pointed to the notice of survivors. “Is that for searchers?”

  Peter nodded.

  “I hope they see it.”

  The group gathered in the middle of the lobby. Peter dusted off his clothes and ran fingers through his short dark hair. The sports jacket man did the same, followed by several women as the brushing action moved through the group. Some cried.

  Peter wondered how much radioactive fallout they were brushing off—and how much remained on them. Without a word to the wretched group, he went in search of the basement.

  That morning he awoke as a police officer, sworn to uphold the law. He had assisted with the evacuation of one hospital and brought Leslie safely to another. Since then he had stolen gasoline and broke into a building. He felt no guilt, but those events reminded him how quickly, and drastically, life had changed.

  Peter spotted a faded fallout shelter sign and jogged toward it.

  “Where are you going?” the man in a business suit asked.

  “To find that shelter.” Peter pointed to the sign.

  The man laughed. “Those haven’t been used since the cold war.”

  The British man shook his head. “But it would still be there.”

  “Would we be safe inside?” a woman asked.

  “Safer than outside and safer than here.” Peter gestured toward several large windows. “Gamma radiation flows right through those.”

  The man in the three-piece suit wrapped his cut hand in paper towels. “How come you know so much?”

  “My dad’s a prepper,” Peter said walking away.

  “A what?”

  “Someone who’s prepared,” he said over his shoulder. Peter continued on following the faded fallout signs to a stone stairway at the back of the building.

  Others followed.

  Out of habit he flipped a nearby light switch and then grumbled when no illumination appeared. He grasped his flashlight and proceeded down the stairs. Others used their cellphones as lights, but Peter wanted to save the battery.

  Deep shadows and stale air greeted him as he descended the steps. From the landing at the bottom he could see eight doors, four on each side. The nearest had a sign, “Storeroom 1,” and an expensive keypad lock. The next door, “Storeroom 2,” used a deadbolt. Peter considered kicking the doors open or using his pistol, but decided to check each before resorting to such measures. The next two doors were label as storerooms and locked.

  The fifth door still had the “Men’s Room” sign on it and opened to a small restroom with antique plumbing. The next led to the women’s room.

  The seventh door was simply labeled “Janitor” and stood unlocked.

  Peter stepped into a musty, windowless supply room. He coughed on the stale air, but knew it wouldn’t kill him, like the fallout-laced air outside. He nodded at the thought that this might have been the original fallout shelter. If not, it would still provide the protection they needed. Metal shelves, stacked with cleaning supplies, lined both sides of the gray room. At the rear were buffers, brooms and a deep sink. Peter turned the hot water valve.

  Only gurgling came forth.

  The cold water faucet produced a slow drip. He turned it off. “We need to gather all the water and supplies we can find.” Peter pointed to a young man and woman holding tightly to each other. “You two find the breakroom and bring all the water and food here. Water is more important than food, so do that first.”

  They nodded and left.

  “We’ll need to remove the mops, buckets and other cleaning supplies. Then take the shelves out, to make enough room for all nineteen of us.

  The British accent gentleman gripped a buffer.

  “My name is Peter.” He touched the man’s arm.

  “Mine is Anthony.” He said with a nod of the h
ead.

  “Are you from England?” Peter asked.

  “Yes, many years ago.”

  The two shook hands.

  Several women grabbed cleaning supplies from a shelf and walked away.

  Most of the others stood in the hall with blank expressions.

  Holding an armful of cleaning supplies, Peter shook his head at the frightened cluster. “I know we’ve been through a lot today, but I’m going to need your help preparing the room if we’re going to live.” Peter dropped the articles in the hall and turned to gather more.

  Several others followed him into the room.

  The only light in the hallway shined down from upstairs. The storeroom stood around the corner, but near enough to the steps to receive some light. Did the pale glow bring gamma radiation? His father would have known. Instead of thinking he had a weird dad, he now wished he had paid more attention. He set the flashlight high on a shelf where it provided additional, albeit limited, light for the room.

  “Where do you want all this cleaning stuff?” a young man with long brown hair asked.

  “Just dump it outside. We don’t need to be neat.”

  As Peter turned to leave, with hands full, the man in the three-piece suit stood in the doorway. “That’s your plan? Clear out the room? Then what? Die in there?”

  “No.” Peter shook his head. “If we can find enough water, I plan to survive in there until searchers find us or most of the fallout clears. Now, get out of my way.”

  “How long will that take?” three-piece suit grumbled, but stood aside.

  Since he had no idea, Peter didn’t answer.

  By the time the couple returned with a half-filled water cooler jug much of the cleaning gear had been emptied from the room.

  “The pipes just gurgle.” The young man said. “No water comes out.”

  Peter hadn’t expected the upstairs faucets to work, but they would need more water both for drinking and washing. He forced a smile. “We can get some water from there.” He pointed to the deep sink. “You did good. Go, see—”

  “Good?” Three-piece suit grabbed the jug. “Have you counted? There are nineteen people in this building. How long do you think this water will last us?”

  “What’s your name?” Peter asked politely.