Officer Of The Watch: Blackout Volume 1

by D W McAliley

  Bill swallowed hard. "I know," he said. "And it gets worse. Did y'all see the tanks?"

  Ch. 32

  A Helping Hand

  Joe drove down Highway 17S along the edge of the Great Dismal Swamp. On the right shoulder of the road trees and brush grew thick and heavy, coming almost up to the edge of the pavement. On the other side of the hedgerow were a narrow, but deep canal, and then the swamp itself. To the left, wide open fields planted with soybeans and peanuts stretched to a thin dark line of trees that had to be at least a couple of miles distant.

  The shadows cast by the trees on the right side of the road were beginning to stretch in the late afternoon sun, and Joe was looking hard for a place to stop for the night. He had only driven this route to Norfolk a handful of times, and never in the dark. Most of the turns and side roads were familiar to him, but he wasn't sure how he'd manage in the pitch black night. Plus, a moving set of headlights on a dark and deserted highway would stand out to anyone close enough to see them.

  Joe snapped quickly out of his brooding thoughts as a small figure stepped out into the road a half mile ahead and started frantically waiving around a white piece of fabric. Joe slowed down, and as they got closer he could see that the figure was a young boy of ten or eleven waiving a white T-shirt much bigger than himself. The boy didn't budge from the middle of the road, forcing Joe to come to a complete stop or hit him.

  The boy ran up to Joe's door as he rolled the window down. "Mister!" he called, breathless. "Mister you gotta come help! He's hurt bad, and you gotta come help!"

  Joe frowned. "Hold on, son," he said. "Who's hurt bad?"

  "My little brother," the boy panted. "He fell this morning and his arm's hurt bad. Momma said come and stop the first people I seen, an you was them."

  Before Joe could say anything else, the little boy turned and sprinted down a gravel drive towards an old colonial farm house. The house was set in a semicircle of towering oaks about a quarter mile from the highway. Behind the main house was a large cattle barn and three smaller side barns and out buildings. The boy stopped about halfway to the house and started waving his shirt again.

  Joe looked over at Tom who shrugged and said, "Your call, man, but Chris was a PJ and I bet he could help."

  Joe nodded and turned the Humvee off the highway and drove down the dirt driveway after the boy. When he saw the truck was following, the boy turned around and took off running again, glancing back every few yards to make sure Joe was still behind him. The boy bounded up the steps of the wrap-around porch and through the front door when he reached the house. Joe pulled the Humvee in a wide arc in the flat yard of the house and positioned the vehicle so it was facing out the driveway they'd just come down in case they needed a rapid escape.

  As Joe parked the Humvee, an older man in faded denim coveralls and a flannel button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows came out of the farmhouse. He carried a double barrel shotgun in one hand and a massive Browning automatic rifle in the other. The old farmer set the shot gun down against one of the porch columns, but he held the BAR with the ease and comfort that only comes with an intimate knowledge of a weapon system.

  "Tom, you stay put," Joe said, "and be ready to jump in the driver's seat and take off if that guy tries to shoot me."

  Joe got out of the Humvee slowly, leaving his M-4 behind. He walked around the back of the vehicle and smiled reassuringly at Henderson and the rest of his passengers. As he came around the rear of the truck, the farmer focused on him and nodded. He didn't raise his gun, which Joe decided to take as a good sign, whether it was one or not.

  "Your boy said someone was hurt," Joe called. "I've got a trained Air Force combat medic with me. He might be able to help."

  The old farmer leaned casually over the waist high railing that went around the porch and spat thick purple tobacco juice into the azalea bushes.

  "I seen you eyeing Betsy here," the farmer said, as he patted the butt of the BAR in his hands. "I carried her from Normandy all the way to Berlin. Marched through six different countries and the damned Ardennes. This ol'BAR put more Krauts in the dirt than the plague. So if things get sideways, I want you to know what's comin."

  "I understand," Joe said carefully. "We don't want any trouble, Mister. Just want to help if we can and be on our way."

  The old farmer nodded. "Much obliged for the help. The boys are inside. You and the medic can come in; the rest of 'em stays out here."

  Joe nodded and Chris hopped out of the back of the Humvee. They both left their side arms in the truck also, just to be on the safe side. Chris brought the small med kit from the back of the Humvee, and the farmer led them inside and up a narrow set of stairs to a bedroom on the second floor. The boy from the road was sitting on the floor next to an old wood-frame bed along with a pretty middle-aged woman that looked like the mother. An elderly woman rocked slowly in a weathered wooden rocking chair in one corner of the room. In the bed was a small boy with his right arm propped on a stack of pillows and quilts. The boy's face was pale and sweaty, and his arm was swollen and turned at an impossible angle roughly halfway between his wrist and elbow.

  Joe and Chris stepped into the room first, followed by the old farmer and "Betsy." The elderly woman looked up from a bundle of yarn she was crocheting, and her face twisted into a sour frown. "Gilbert, why are you carryin around that damned ol' rifle? You can't see good enough to hit the toilet half the time. God help us you decide to start shootin."

  "Maimey, you hush up now," Gilbert growled back. "I can still see good 'nough to knock a walnut out the top of the tree on a windy day. 'Sides, these boys looks like they got trouble followin them 'round like flies on a dog turd. If'n you can't see that, then you's blinder than I am, old woman."

  Maimey snorted hard through her nose and shook her head to show what she thought about that. Gilbert sullenly set the BAR in a corner of the room. He leaned against the nearest wall, his arms folded across a barrel chest, frowning and rolling a ball of chewing tobacco around in his mouth and grumbling under his breath.

  "Don't mind them," the younger woman said from the bedside. "They bicker like that all the time, but they're harmless. Can you help my boy?"

  Chris knelt by the bed. "Ma'am, my name is Chris, and I'm an Air Force medic. I'll do everything I can for him, okay?"

  The woman trembled a little and unshed tears filled her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, patting the young boy's hand. "Thank you so much!"

  Chris nodded and began examining the boy's arm carefully. He gently lifted the boy's thin wrist, careful to support the weight of his hand. The boy winced sharply but didn't cry out and didn't shed a tear. After a moment, Chris laid the boy's hand carefully back on the pillows.

  "His arm's broken," Chris said, "but it seems to be broken cleanly. I'll need to set the bones and splint the arm. I don't have plaster to make a cast, but a splint should hold it as long as he stays still and doesn't try to use the arm."

  The woman tensed, the tears streaming down her face now. The older boy patted his mother's back, trying to hide his own tears.

  "What's the boy's name?" Chris asked.

  "Steven," the mother said through her tears.

  "Okay," Chris said, "I know you're scared, but I need your help, Ma'am. I'm going to need strips of cloth, linen if you can manage it, to wrap the splint. I'll need four pieces of board about two inches by two inches and maybe sixteen inches long or so. And I'll need a wood spoon. As big as you can find, okay?"

  The woman nodded and left with the older boy in tow to collect the supplies. Maimey rose slowly and laboriously from her rocking chair, her crocheting project tucked under one arm. She went to the boy and patted his hand.

  "Don't worry, baby," Maimey said. "The Doctor here's gonna take good care of my baby boy."

  Gilbert leaned down and grabbed his BAR. "I'll get the wood you need," he said gruffly.

  The old farmer reached down and pinched the boy's toes through the blankets on the bed, and
the little one smiled wanly at him. Maimey sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing Steven's hand and singing softly to him. After a few moments, the boy's eyes drifted closed and his breathing deepened as he drifted into a shallow sleep.

  Maimey stood and fixed Chris with a hard glare. "You fix him up, you hear?" she demanded. Chris nodded, and Maimey seemed satisfied. She made her way back to her rocking chair and settled herself back in her seat. She rocked slowly as she crocheted, singing softly to herself.

  CH. 33

  A Fork In The Road

  The shade of the ancient oak trees surrounding the broken farmhouse ruins gave some relief from the late afternoon heat, but not much. The air was thick with gnats, mosquitoes, and the sour smell of people who desperately needed a shower. Without the slight breeze to cool the sweat on Eric's face, it would have been nearly unbearable. Even with the breeze, though, uncomfortable barely described the way he felt and the expression on every face around him. The group was tired, nearly exhausted, but they were still together.

  Eric sipped slowly on his bottle of purified water. With the supplies he and Mike had been able to salvage from his house, the group had enough food for several weeks, if they were very careful about rationing. The water was a different story altogether. Even if they were careful and used the water only to drink and not for food preparation, they had at best a three day's supply.

  Eric stood and leaned against the Bronco, facing the rest of the group. "We've got to make some decisions," he began, and every pair of eyes turned towards him expectantly. Eric shifted his weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable with the attention and the expectations. He continued, "We have enough food for a while, but our water won't last more than a few days. Besides, with all of the military hardware moving around in this area, I don't think it's going to be a safe place for much longer."

  "We could try and find a camp," Imogene said. "There might be one closer to the city, like Mike was saying yesterday."

  Mike shook his head. "I don't think so," he replied. "Eric and I saw National Guard troops setting up what looked like a standard FEMA refugee and evacuation center in a city park on the way to his house. I saw what those little relocation camps turned into during Katrina, and that's the last place you want to be, trust me. If they don't have some kind of organized, large scale program going, then we're better off on our own."

  "Okay, so what do you suggest, son?" Bill asked, scratching idly at his left shoulder. The wound was clean, and they were still changing the bandage once every few hours, but the sugar wasn't liquefying as much anymore, and the tissue deep in the wound was already starting to mend itself. With the healing, though, came the itching.

  Eric nodded to Christina. "Tina and I have talked about this before," he said, "and we're heading to my family's farm. It's about three hours from here, out in the middle of nowhere. We've got plenty of room, good wells, and lots of fields. I don't know what you guys are planning, but that's where we're going."

  Bill and Imogene shared a look, and Imogene smiled slowly.

  "Eric," she said softly, "the only place we've really called home in a long time is probably in a pile of ashes on the side of King's Mountain. And even if our camper is still there, we can't float the truck across to hook up to it again. A long time ago, Bill and I decided not to take anything on the road with us that we weren't willing to lose except for each other. I think, if you'll have us, we'll go with you a while longer."

  Bill nodded his agreement and patted Imogene on the hand. He didn't speak, but everyone was doing their best not to look at Bill's bandaged shoulder. If not for Eric's quick thinking, Bill never would have left the Stop-n-Shop.

  Mike shrugged slightly, staring at the ground. After a moment, he said, "I don't have any family that'll speak to me anymore. I tried for a long time, and some bridges are just.... well, burned. Claire had kids around here, though. Two daughters live in this area, and she's got a son in college at the University on the other side of town. They deserve to know what happened to their mom."

  Mike didn't look up for a long time, and no one really knew what to say. Finally, after a long moment of uncomfortable silence, Eric leaned into the window of the Bronco and pulled out the keys. He extended them to Mike, but the Ranger shook his head.

  "Mr. Sheickles gave that to you," Mike said, with a slight smile. "If he saw me cruising around town in it, he'd probably shoot me...and then you."

  Eric couldn't help but laugh at that and found that he suddenly had an uncomfortable lump in his throat. He turned quickly away and started setting aside supplies for Mike to keep. The rest of the group went about saying their good-byes as Eric packed one of his trail bags. He put in three days worth of food rations, but a good third of their water. The rest of the group was facing a three hour car ride, barring any unforeseen complications, but there was no telling when Mike would find another reliable supply of good, clean water.

  By the time Eric had the bag packed, the rest of the group was in their vehicles, ready to pull out. Eric handed the bag to Mike, who started to protest when he felt how heavy it was, but Eric stopped him.

  "Look, you're going to need it a lot sooner than we are," Eric said firmly. "My family's got two wells and a cow pond on the property. You're lucky I didn't leave all of it for you to carry."

  Mike finally nodded and jerked his thumb toward Bill's truck. "I left pretty much everything from the Ranger station," he said. "I kept one of the M-4's, a Beretta, and fifty rounds for each. I've got my own field First Aid kit, and anything else would just be more weight."

  Eric nodded, unsure really of what to say. After a moment, Mike took his hand and shook it hard. "I've spent a good part of the last few years trying my best to avoid situations like this," Mike said, "but I guess sometimes you just don't have a choice."

  Eric frowned. "You could come with us Mike. You've always got a choice."

  Mike just shook his head. "Not when what you do is part of who you are," he said softly.

  With one last nod, Mike shouldered his pack and went to sit on the faded, splintered boards of the porch behind him. Eric climbed into the cab of the Bronco and pulled out. His last view of Mike was in the fading red glow of Bill's tail lights as they drove down the rough and weathered gravel road, one hand raised and his rifle in the other.

  Ch. 34

  Paint Me A Picture

  Chris knelt on the bed and looked the little boy squarely in the eyes. He took a deep breath, and nodded. "Yes, Steven," he said, "it is going to hurt. I don't want to lie to you. But your arm will feel better after it hurts, okay?"

  The little boy frowned and tears filled his eyes instantly. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, though, and none of the tears reached his cheeks. Steven closed his eyes for a moment and took several slow, deep breaths.

  "The bones in your arm," Chris continued, "are in the wrong place, and I have to put them back in the right place. That way they can heal straight and strong. The pain will be quick, but bad. I'll tell you before it happens, so you don't have to worry, okay? I'm a doctor and I can help you, but you have to trust me."

  The boy's mother stroked his hair softly, and after a moment he opened his eyes. Maimey stood from the rocking chair in the corner and patted Gilbert on the way out the door. The boy's brother whispered something to him and then quietly slipped out the door. Gilbert extended a hand to Steven's mother, but she shook her head firmly.

  "I'm staying with him, Daddy," she said. After a tense moment, Gilbert turned to go.

  The old farmer paused to fix Chris with a stare and asked, "Can you really fix his arm?"

  Chris nodded slowly, and said, "It won't be pleasant, but I can set it."

  Gilbert closed his eyes briefly and placed a rough hand on his shoulder. Then he stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him. Steven was breathing a little quicker now, so Chris put a hand lightly on his foot.

  "Steven," he said calmly, "it's okay. I'm not going to do anything without telling you first. Right now,
I'm going to fix some things for the splint that's going to go on your arm to help hold it still when I'm done. It will protect your arm from bumps while it gets better."

  Steven took a deep breath, and nodded once. Chris took some linen strips from the boy’s mother and lined them next to the boy in the bed. She'd cut up three bed sheets, so the pile was more than enough to serve for wrapping Steven's arm and securing the splint in place. Afterwards, he might even have enough to make a simple sling, assuming she hadn't cut up the pillowcases yet.

  "Do you have a special place that you like to play around this farm?" Chris asked as he tied some strips to the wood lengths. Steven nodded once again, and Chris smiled. "I thought you might. I grew up on a farm kind of like this out in Kentucky. My dad was in the Army, and we moved around a lot when I was younger, but there was a farm in Kentucky that always stands out in my mind. I played there a lot when I was about your age, and even a little younger. What is your favorite place, the barn? I bet you can play hide and seek like crazy in a barn like that."

  Steven smiled, but suddenly looked shy and didn't give any other response.

  Chris shrugged and continued. "We had a silo at our farm. An old round building that was tall and hollow inside. I used to climb in that building, and one day I fell. I got hurt too, but it was my leg. A doctor fixed me up like I'm getting ready to fix you up, and my leg got better. Then, just to prove it was better, I got a job jumping out of air planes and getting paid for it!!"

  Steven giggled and the boy's mother smiled.

  Chris looked at Joe and motioned for him to come closer. "Okay, you're going to need to hold his legs," Chris said softly. Joe swallowed hard, but gripped the boy’s legs just above the knees. "If he moves around, it could do more damage in there," Chris said as he looked at the boy's mother. "Ma'am, are you sure you want to stay in here?"