Nightmare in Slow Motion

by Kyle Pratt

  “Why?”

  So, I know who the jerk in the group is. So, I don’t have to refer to you as, Pain in my Butt. “Oh, it just makes conversation easier. My name is Peter.”

  “Yeah, I heard you and Anthony get acquainted. Well, mine is Blaine, Blaine Harrison.”

  “Nice to meet you, Blaine,” Peter said without a hint of sarcasm. “Do you know how to find more water or do you have a better plan?”

  Blaine hesitated. “Well, no, not right now, but this won’t do.”

  Anger flared within Peter. Blaine criticized his ideas without bothering to figure out something better. Peter clenched his fist and considered using it across the man’s face, but instead he took a deep breath. “Perhaps we should continue what we’re doing until a better plan comes along.”

  Blaine thrust the water bottle into Peter’s arms, grunted, and walked away.

  Peter turned back to the couple that found the jug of water. “Collect any water that comes from the deep sink. Then go find any food that is in the building. Break into snack machines or whatever else you have to do.”

  As he set the bottle in the corner of the storeroom Peter noticed a woman grab a crowbar from a shelf. “Could I have that?” With it, he hurried to the first storeroom. With several grunts and pushes he pried it open and stepped in. Stacked to the ceiling were office supplies, furniture and old computer equipment. With a sigh he moved to the next where he discovered old paper files. The third room, labeled “Utility,” contained what he had hoped to find, the water heater. “Yes!”

  Anthony stood in the doorway with a confused look. “What’s got you excited?”

  Peter leaned on the tank. “Fifty gallons of water. We need a hose and some empty water cooler bottles or buckets.”

  Anthony smiled. “I’ll find them.”

  Stepping from the room Peter called out. “I need everyone over here.” As they gathered, he continued. “When Anthony returns we need to use some of this water to wash our skin and hair.”

  “What?.” Blaine frowned. “That’s most of our water and you want to bathe with it?”

  “Just some. So we can get the radioactive fallout off our hair and skin.”

  Blaine looked at his still dusty sleeve, and then cast a disgruntled look at Peter, but within minutes the others were draining the water.

  “Save this water.” Peter said as he gazed at the group. “We’ll use it to flush the toilets.”

  The women filled a couple of buckets and then moved to the storeroom to use the deep sink. The men remained where they were.

  Minutes later a woman returned with wet hair and two empty buckets.

  “Limit your use of water.” Peter tapped the tank. “What we don’t wash with we’ll be drinking.”

  Later, as they gathered in the storeroom, Anthony looked over the supplies. “We don’t have much food.”

  Peter nodded. “That’s true.” In the corner were two water cooler jugs and a small mound of candy bars, potato chips and cookies. They also had whatever remained in the heater. “If we ration the supplies I think we can survive a week. Water will be the limiting factor. When that runs out we’ll have three to five days.”

  Anthony looked grim. “I’ll set up a rationing system.”

  Peter smiled. “Thanks.” He pulled his phone out, intending to call Sue, but the device wouldn’t turn on. He sighed and shoved it into a pocket.

  The next few days blurred together. The normal dim light of the storeroom gave way to darkness, and then returned to twilight and more darkness. Had they been there two or three days? Peter pressed the stem of his watch. The glow displayed both hands near twelve. Midnight. Three days down here, going on four.

  He leaned back against the cool cement. Cool and dark—like a tomb. He shuddered at the thought.

  As a teen, Peter had read a novel about World War III. When his father noticed him reading it they had a long discussion about what it might really be like. His dad said that after the blast radiation levels fell quickly. But Peter couldn’t remember how fast. Would it be safe to leave? Perhaps safe was too strong a term. Would it be possible to leave and survive? He didn’t know.

  As he thought, sleep overtook him. Images of Sue and Leon drifted into the face of the unseeing old woman in the crowd. Then she dissolved into a mushroom cloud with the face of the devil. In the dream, Peter tried to run from the demon.

  With a gasp he awoke to darkness. The sound of shuffling came from the corner where the food and water were stored. Peter wondered if it might be a rat or a large radioactive cockroach. Silently he pulled his flashlight from the belt and turned it on.

  The beam revealed Blaine, with a candy bar sticking from his mouth. He fell back against the wall with a thud, slid down and nearly sat on a woman.

  “I … I’m starving,” the candy bar thief protested. “You and your friend Anthony have no right to ration the food. It belongs to all of us.”

  Anthony and several others woke.

  A large man stood and grabbed Blaine by the collar. “I was going to eat that candy bar for breakfast.” He slammed his fist across Blaine’s face.

  Thinking that Blaine had been adequately punished, Peter clicked the light off.

  After another thud, and a loud moan, Peter flicked the flashlight back on, intending to stop the violence.

  The light revealed the big guy moving to a corner with the stub of a candy bar in his mouth. Blaine, with a bloody nose and mouth, crawled the other way.

  Peter turned the light off and fell back asleep.

  The next morning Blaine kept his bruised face cast down as Anthony served him a half cup of water. He drank it as the others ate the little food that remained.

  Peter munched on his half of a candy bar and downed his half glass of water. Then he retreated to his usual spot, near the door.

  When he was done handing out the rations, Anthony sat beside him. For several hours they talked, dozed, and talked some more. Gradually the light faded and darkness once again filled the room.

  Little more than a whisper, a woman’s voice came across the black. “Will anyone look for us? Why hasn’t anyone found us?”

  “We’re already dead,” Blaine responded. “You just haven’t figured it out.”

  Someone grunted.

  Another cried.

  Retrieving the flashlight from his belt Peter aimed it into Blaine’s face. “Shut up!” The light faded as the batteries died.

  Blaine laughed.

  Toward the end of the sixth day, Anthony passed the last half glass of water to each of the nineteen. When he finished, Anthony motioned for Peter to step into the hall. “You said that when the water ran out we would have three days left. Well, we’re there. What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I hoped that searchers would find us. I hoped ….” Peter shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what I hoped.”

  Anthony looked at him expectantly.

  Peter turned and walked away.

  With no food or drink to break the monotony of the next day the hours crept by. Hunger grew in Peter, but despair and thirst gnawed as darkness fell. By the following morning thirst dominated his thoughts. He imagined drinking, or pouring, water over his head. Peter tried to think of other things. Being in the crowd at a Seahawk’s game came to his mind. Images of the players, and the fans in the stadium drifted along, as his thoughts turned to icy cold beer bought at the game.

  Fitful sleep overtook him.

  The first rays of dawn cast a pale glow over the room; Peter awoke, and wondered what to do.

  As if in answer, a woman with black hair, tinged in gray stood. “I’m leaving.” She shuffled across the room. “If I’m going to die at least I want to be in the sun.” She marched from the room.

  Peter nodded as he stood. “I’m going to find help.

  Leaning against the gray cement wall a young woman stood. “What should we do?”

  “Stay here.” Peter moved to the doorway. “If I find help, I’ll send t
hem back for all of you.”

  Blaine laughed. “He’s leaving us to die.”

  “Shut up!” the young woman shouted.

  Peter exited and climbed the stairs like a man going to his execution. Sunlight poured in from the large windows on three sides of the lobby. In a pool of light the woman that had left moments earlier sat in a plush executive’s chair.

  He walked up beside her. A blue sky and yellow sunlight welcomed him. He stood still enjoying more warmth than he had felt in days.

  She looked up at him. “I won’t go back to that basement.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to.” Peter frowned. “I don’t think I ever introduced myself. My name is Peter.”

  She nodded. “I know. Mine is Debra. How long before I die?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “If you’re not here to take me back then … do you want to join me? There’re more chairs like this one.”

  Peter shook his head. “I’m going to find help.”

  Debra considered that for a moment. “Do you think you’ll find anyone?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve got to try.”

  “I’ve got to stay here.” Debra turned toward the sunlight.

  Peter placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Then he turned and strode out of the building. Almost immediately he encountered the dead.

  First his nostrils were hit by the gagging stench of decay. He stepped around the corner and found eight bodies, covered with gray dust, scattered on the sidewalk and pavement. He could only guess how most had died. Several showed evidence of blunt force trauma. Were they trampled by the crowd? He shook his head. Others had gunshot wounds.

  For some reason he walked to the squad car. Perhaps hoping to find Leon or, more likely, out of habit. Rats scurried away as he approached. Three people lay crumpled and crushed against the rear of the squad car. Staring at the bodies he knew that some emotion should stir within him—horror, outrage, despair, something, but nothing came forth.

  Silently, he turned and walked away.

  In the shadows a large dog watched him. Two others snarled as they darted across the street in front of him.

  Peter rested a hand on his pistol.

  He weaved around abandoned cars for nearly a block before he noticed another person, face down in the gutter. Covered with the gray dust that turned everything into a stark moonscape, Peter couldn’t tell much more. Something pulled him to the lifeless form. He knelt beside and brushed dust from a sleeve. This person wore a dark uniform. Peter’s gut knotted in apprehension. He rolled the body onto its back. His partner, Leon, was dead.

  Finally, the tears flowed.

  Peter sat in the dust for several minutes. Straining and stumbling he picked up the body of his partner and carried him over his shoulder to a nearby hardware store. Peter kicked the door in and, finding a bench at the back of the store he laid his friend down. Then he collected tarps and duct tape. When he had wrapped and taped Leon in the makeshift shroud, he used a marker to write, “Renton Police Officer, Leon Stewart,” on the front.

  “I wish I could do more for you.” Peter saluted his friend, turned and left.

  He knew that any hope of survival depended upon two things. First, he needed to escape the fallout as quickly as possible. Peter decided to follow Highway 99, the major surface street, south as far as he could. Secondly, he needed water, so like an animal in search of prey, his eyes constantly swept right and left hoping to find the life-giving liquid.

  As the hours passed, the sun dipped below the nearby buildings, casting long shadows that soon faded into uniform darkness across the powerless city. Still, Peter resisted the idea of finding a place to sleep. He knew that the next day he would reach home and his wife. Only when he stumbled over a body did he relent and find shelter in the stairwell of an apartment building.

  Thirst haunted his dreams. He awoke during the night and prowled for water. Nearly crazy with thirst he broke into one apartment after another, checking fridges and pantries. In the fifth apartment he found two bottles. He drank one and fell asleep on the couch.

  When the early light of dawn fell across the dead city, Peter awoke. He grinned at the need to pee. Moments later, standing before the toilet, a childhood memory came to him. While still relieving himself, he yanked the lid off the tank and gazed upon several gallons of clean water.

  “In an emergency, you can drink this,” his father had once told him. Then his dad had taken a cup and drank.

  As a ten-year-old, Peter had wanted to appear brave so he followed his dad’s example. The water tasted of minerals.

  Peter found an empty liter soda bottle in the trash, filled it from the tank, and drank deeply of the cool refreshing waters.

  In the pantry he also discovered a few crackers and cookies. Thrilled at the bounty, he found a glass and filled it, then arranged the food like a formal meal before eating. Afterwards, he used a pillowcase as a makeshift pack for his water bottles. Just as he felt ready to continue his journey nausea swept over him, and he ran to the bathroom. Vomiting gave way to dry heaves that left him panting for air on the bathroom floor.

  He wondered if dehydration caused the vomiting, but when diarrhea followed he knew the truth. He had left the shelter of the bank basement and paid a price. Even now radiation destroyed the cells of his body. If he didn’t find help soon, death would take him. He drank a little more water and this time it stayed with him.

  Stepping from the apartment into the morning light, he noticed color had returned to the land. With a smile, he gazed at the blue sky, and the grass in a crack of the sidewalk. Perhaps the water had given him the hope he needed to see it, but the city he walked in today definitely had life and color. Yesterday, he hiked across a world covered with gray fallout. Today, some gray still swirled in the morning breeze, but other colors existed. He stared for over a minute at a green tree and hoped radioactivity wouldn’t kill it. He hoped it wouldn’t kill him.

  Keeping the morning sun on his left, Peter continued south. With each mile he traveled, the buildings shrank from towers, offices and condos to apartments and then individual homes. Fewer abandoned cars littered the roads. Even though the electromagnetic pulse hadn’t reached that far south, the residents appeared to have left, or been evacuated.

  Am I still walking through radiation?

  A few miles ahead a large stream and adjoining lakes divided Kent and Hillcrest. He turned east toward the freeway and the bridge that would take him home. He drank from one of the bottles. If he kept up his present pace he might be home by dusk. He breathed deeply and pushed on.

  Exhaustion crept up on him as he moved along unfamiliar streets. At a park he strolled alone across a grassy lawn. In the shade of an old oak tree, he lay atop a picnic table. He should be hungry, but the thought of food made him queasy. He stood, faltered, knelt and retched. When it passed he sipped more water and leaned against the tree. For a moment he felt better, then his gut convulsed and he vomited. The nausea quickly turned to dry heaving.

  When it subsided he slid lower, exhausted and unable to move.

  Minutes later the sound of vehicles stirred him. Several Humvees sped along the far side of the park and disappeared down a side street.

  “Help!” Peter stumbled to his feet, waved and yelled again.

  They hadn’t heard his feeble cry, but he followed them, on shaky feet, down the slope. Soon his hike took him parallel to the stream and closer to the freeway. When he crested the hill, he fell to his knees in thanks that he might live.

  An army post straddled both ends of the bridge below, six Humvees lined the parking lot nearest to him. On the far side of the bridge, a helicopter sat in the middle of another lot being fueled from a tanker truck. A dozen soldiers mingled near a pair of medical tents at the edge of a field.

  As he stood, Peter stumbled. Barely staying on his feet, he trudged down the slope, too weak to run.

  A man in a biohazard suit came toward h
im as he neared the army camp. “What’s your name?” The man pulled a clipboard from a satchel.

  “Peter Westmore.”

  He looked at the uniform. “You’re a police officer?”

  Peter nodded.

  He pointed. “Well sir, see those civilians standing between the medical tents?”

  About a dozen men stood in a wavy line near tarps hanging from poles about ten feet apart. Peter nodded again.

  “That’s where we’re going.” The man asked rapid fire questions as they walked. “Next of kin? What’s your home address? Social Security number?”

  Peter stopped and turned toward the man. “There are other survivors. I went for help.”

  “I was getting to that question, but okay, we can jump ahead. Where are they?”

  Peter gave the address.

  Clipboard Man wrote and then pointed. “Get in line here behind the others and you’ll be processed.”

  Women’s voices came from the other side of the tarp.

  Peter stumbled forward and collapsed to the ground.

  Clipboard Man and another person helped him to the front of the line.

  “We need to get those clothes off you.”

  As Clipboard helped him undress the other man gave him a plastic bag for his watch, wallet, badge, keys and worthless phone. Still another took his gun.

  Peter was too weak to protest.

  A soldier checked Peter using a Geiger counter with headphones.

  “How bad?” Peter mumbled.

  “That’s for a doctor to say.” Geiger man moved on before Peter could ask another question.

  “We need to get you to the showers.” Clipboard said.

  Peter looked at him with pleading eyes.

  “I don’t know how sick you are, but you will be told.” Clipboard helped him stand. “The shower will help.”

  Leaning against a rough wooden wall he let the water pour onto him while others scrubbed him with coarse brushes. As he dried himself with a towel, hair drifted in the air. He ran moist fingers along his head, and a dozen strands clung to it. This can’t be good.

  A second person checked him with a Geiger counter, and he answered more questions.