After the Rain

by Chuck Logan

  She heard Dale’s awed voice: “No shit. Look…”

  Then she saw George sweep the pistol up smoothly, stick it pointed up under Dale’s chin, and pull the trigger. The gunshot rolled inside the confined camper, knifed her eardrums, as Dale’s shoulders and head jerked once and he slumped forward. A spray of red dotted the inside of the windshield.

  Efficiently, George withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the gun down. Then he placed it in Dale’s limp fingers. For a moment he cocked his head, looking out the driver’s side window. As he listened he mopped sweat from his brow with the hanky, then put it back in his pocket.

  Then he turned to Nina. She glared back at him, pulled herself up by yanking on her fastened left arm; sitting now on the slanting bed, she cocked her right hand.

  George grimaced at her. “It’s done. I could hear it, you know. Just a faint bump. And the water in the glass did jump a little bit.” He bent over the passenger seat, and when he straightened up, he was holding one of Dale’s Epipens in his right hand like a dagger. He stared at her for a moment. “Look at you, you’re all covered with blood. I’ll make this easy on you,” he said.

  Nina’s breathing was still ragged from exertion. No time to think about anything else. She concentrated on his left eye. C’mon, just bring it closer.

  He twisted the injector, exposing the needle. Then he gestured. “So where do you want it?” His left hand snaked out and pinched at her right inner thigh. “How about somewhere nice?”

  “No!” Nina screamed, rearing up, bringing up her free hand.

  George laughed, ducked back, and feinted to the right, then changed direction and jabbed the needle into her right calf muscle. As the dose of ketamine entered her bloodstream, Nina started counting, hoarding her strength. C’mon, you fucker, don’t just stand there.

  But he did, he just stood watching. And Nina could feel the first wave of coldness like icy gloves and slippers on her hands and feet. But then he leaned forward and extended his hands, palms out toward her face. “This won’t hurt,” he said, “I promise.”

  When he was within her reach she launched her right hand at his face. But the damaged muscles failed, the bloody, rigidly extended forefinger merely slapped his temple weakly and fell away.

  George laughed. “See? It was a mistake to send a woman.”

  As he leaned forward to smother her she put everything into one last explosive surge. She missed again but on the way down, her fingers snagged in the chain around his neck.

  The muscles that extended her arm were shot, but she discovered that the contracting muscles still worked. Her bloody fingers found purchase on a medal attached to the end of chain, clamped tight, and yanked. George pitched forward. Immediately, she whipped her bloody arm around his neck, locked her elbow, and jerked him down.

  Her biceps and parts of her forearm still worked. George wasn’t laughing anymore. Methodically, then desperately, his strong hands clawed to break the hold.

  Nina tasted salt and copper and bile as she reached down deep to where the lizard lived. Pure primal instinct now, she embraced him, smelling his minty Binaca breath, the Vitalis in his sleek hair. Their faces almost touched. His dark brown eyes were no longer amused, or even angry.

  Fucker’s scared.

  Good.

  Sobbing with exertion, she tightened her arm and drew him close enough for her parted lips to press against his throat. Almost erotic, she hunted for the pulse. Found it. Gauged the depth and bared her teeth.

  She relished his scream, the frantic spasm as he tried to pull away. After the powerful bite, with the last of her strength, she tried to rip and gnaw. But her jaw went slack. The ketamine…

  George’s scream ended in a wet slobber as he clamped one hand on his ragged neck. Triumphantly, Nina saw the blood pumping through his fingers. Spurts of it. Streams. But he still had the strength to grab at her encircling arm with the other hand. She was on empty and he stripped her arm away. His stiff hand came down on her throat and she tried to lower her chin, raise her shoulders.

  But he was too strong. He shoved the powerful arc formed by his thumb and first finger down into her throat.

  Cold bubbles filled her body with floaty pressure. She lost air. She lost light. Her extremities went numb as her chest filled with ice water. She was choking outside, drowning inside. Distinctly, she looked down on a last image of her own body locked in a death hug with George Khari.

  Far away.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Broker woke up in the process of being bodily thrown into the backseat of the Red Wing cop car. His head throbbed, a knee slammed down on his chest as the car’s rear tires threw dirt, accelerating. He looked up. Yeager. Scrambling in on top of him.

  “Sorry,” Yeager gasped. He was goggle-eyed, panting, shutting the door, looking out the rear window. Broker winced and felt the lump on the back of his head. Yeager held up an old-fashioned braided leather sap. “Me and Holly did a number on you to get you outta there.”

  There.

  Broker lurched up. The cop was hunched over the wheel, flooring it. Broker twisted. His vision spun, frantic activity to the front, the Black Hawk was airborne, gaining altitude. Everybody had their mouths open, one long yell. Him, too. He looked out the rear window as they fishtailed through the cyclone fence perimeter. Screened by the silver mesh, Broker saw the deserted site: the black billowing smoke of the dozer, Holly standing at the edge of the excavation pit, vigorously waving his arm next to the Deere and the bigger dozer. The gray domes loomed over the struggling yellow machines, dwarfing them.

  The dozer driver was no longer hauling the Deere tractor. He had maneuvered it to the edge of the pit and was now trying to shove it in with the blade. But the two machines had tangled together, sixty tons of grinding steel. The driver stood at the controls, craning his neck to see Holly’s hand instructions. Working out some problem. They were mired in the mud, losing traction.

  “Jesus,” Broker shouted. They were, what?—a hundred yards from the reactors?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Yeager shouted back.

  “How they doing?” yelled the Red Wing cop behind the wheel. His wide eyes filled the rearview mirror, a study in controlled panic.

  “Trying to push it in and they got hung up in the mud,” Yeager shouted back.

  “Not good,” yelled the cop, forcing himself to slow down, picking his way through a moving field of running people and vehicles. Headed for the parking lot.

  “Hey,” Broker said as the Deere teetered over the edge. He saw Holly rapidly waving his arm—urging the dozer driver to drive his machine into the pit. Broker saw the driver jump as the dozer tipped in on top of the Deere. He landed on the ground next to Holly. They started to run…

  Broker felt the concussion tug the fillings in his teeth—the day shivered, and in that split second Broker grabbed Yeager’s neck and pulled him down in the seat. “Duck…,” he yelled. Then they were slammed sideways. His mouth and eyes clogged with grit as he glimpsed, but did not hear, the rear window disintegrate. The seat of the cop’s pants appeared as he smashed forward over the dash, into the windshield. No one had been thinking seat belts.

  Somehow the cop held on to the wheel, flopped back; bleeding from the head, face, neck, and scalp, he fought the wheel. No sound anymore, everything going fuzzy, then opaque with the rolling cloud of dust. They landed back on four wheels, skidded blind, and collided at about twenty miles an hour with something in the churning, silent gloom.

  They came to a stop. Broker shook like a dog stepping out of a puddle. Cuts. Blood leaking through his mud-pie hands. Too quiet for all the stuff still flying through the air.

  Must have burst his eardrums.

  He groped toward Yeager, who was similarly attired in grime and bleeding cuts, tasted the particles of clay and silt and sand that coated his tongue, felt it embedded in his teeth. Just plain old dirt…

  Then the sheer terror smacked him alongside the head. Could you taste radiation
?

  Was that how it was going to be?

  Yeager’s lips moved. “What happened?”

  Broker shook his head. Pointed to his ears. “Can’t hear.” Tried to read Yeager’s lips. “Don’t know. It went off.”

  Lights probed the murky silence. Shadowy figures sleepwalking, fighting for their balance; cops in blue, firefighters in yellow. They were helping people to their feet. EMT was there. The white of dressings. The red of blood. Some people they left where they lay.

  Broker had to know. He struggled out of the car, pushed aside the rescue workers. “Help him, help him,” he yelled, pointing to the barely conscious copper in the front seat. He lost track of Yeager.

  Go find out. He started back toward the explosion. Clods of dirt were still raining down through the sandy half-light. He tripped on something. The flattened fence.

  The next thing he tripped on was a twisted section of tread from the dozer. Like a smashed mechanical snake belly, the grouser pads had been ripped from the cleats, the treads themselves bent by the force of the blast.

  Broker grimaced. Holly and the driver…They’d essentially been standing under a B-52 strike.

  Did it hit the reactor?

  Then—Oh shit—his feet went out and he tumbled down a slope of loose sand and—Jesus!—he hit something metal, red hot, that seared his forearm. Scrambling back, waving his hands in the dust, he tried to see.

  Coughing bad now, eyes stinging. Impossible to see.

  But he had to find out. Was it safe for his baby? Was it in the air, invisible? He balled his bleeding fists. Swung them in helpless fury. Somebody better tell me something, goddammit.

  But he was half-blind and deaf, lost in the silent limbo.

  Broker sat in a field about a mile from the plant and watched a giant traffic jam still in progress where they were evacuating the Treasure Island Casino. Someone was saying that back in the seventies, the BIA told the Sioux band it was just a steam plant they were being forced to host on their land. Broker, still having trouble hearing, didn’t catch it all.

  In fact, he wasn’t catching much. He was vaguely aware of Yeager, keeping an eye on him. Less vaguely, he was becoming aware that all the stuff that only happened to other people—all that stuff he’d kept isolated in his compartments—had busted out and was creeping over him.

  He’d always operated on the theory that someone had to accept the duty of being strong; and, usually, that was him. He ground his teeth. Christ, if he couldn’t even bring himself to say Holly’s name, how the hell was he going to tell Kit about her mother?

  Missing.

  Like the walls that used to shield him.

  Broker sat and stared. Yeager watched him.

  The men in protective suits had picked their way through the debris field and had checked the walls of the reactors and cooling pool. They returned and took off the suits and assured the exhausted cops, medics, and firemen that some engineers had stayed at their posts, that the damage was minimal. Emergency procedures. Backup systems. Yadda-yadda. They walked through the first responders, showing them the readings on their dosimeters. Very low numbers. Well within acceptable limits. It was under control. No general evacuation order. See?

  No one there believed them.

  Broker and Yeager had bathed in a makeshift shower, had exchanged their potentially contaminated clothes for baggy National Guard fatigues. They sat numb, dotted with minor dressings, drinking Red Cross coffee. A TV was propped up on the hood of a Goodhue County patrol car, plugged into an emergency generator. The governor of Minnesota was saying everyone should stay indoors, and that it was going to be all right. The hundred-plus cops, firemen, and medics who had been ordered off the blast site did not look convinced.

  The governor said most of the blast had been absorbed by the excavation and the heavy dozer. Yes, the shock had caused minor damage to the cooling pool and one of the reactor containment walls. Some of the water pipes in the reactor were affected and there had been a small release of radioactive steam into the atmosphere.

  But, the governor assured, it was minimal.

  “Sure it was,” quipped a cop from Hastings. “That’s why he’s talking from his desk in St. Paul.”

  Nine bodies had been retrieved. Eighty or ninety people had been injured, three critically. Most of the deaths and injuries were the results of flying debris and several car accidents in the dusted out aftermath of the blast.

  Broker sat and stared, just barely making it out when Yeager started yelling his name.

  “What?”

  Yeager held up his cell phone.

  “What?”

  “It’s Norm, in Langdon. He’d put out a regional BOLO on Dale Shuster, remember?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They found him, dead, at a rest stop south of Le Sueur. And that Khari guy.” Yeager pounded Broker’s shoulder. “That ain’t all they found. She fucking made it, man.”

  All Broker’s remaining armor fell off at once and he began to tremble. It took an immense effort to unclench his fist from around the mashed blue cigarette pack. With shaking fingers, he withdrew the two remaining, battered smokes. He gave one to Yeager and put the other in his mouth.

  “You got a light?”

  The three men in the corridor outside Intensive Care in the Mankato hospital weren’t wearing uniforms. Broker thought he might have seen the black one before, that night on the highway outside Langdon. They could have been three Extreme Iron Man competitors who just happened to be in the vicinity. To Broker, they reeked of well-thought-through death.

  “Where’d you come from?” Broker wanted to know.

  The oldest one came forward, extended his hand. “Dr. Warren Burton. I’m a friend of Nina’s.”

  “I didn’t know they had healers in Delta,” Broker said.

  Burton was affable and rolled with it. “Well, there’s always torture.” He watched Broker for several seconds with his highly trained eyes. Then he said, “It’ll go easier, for you and for her, if you work with us.”

  Broker nodded. “No problem. Answer the question. How’d you get here so fast?”

  “A Minnesota Highway patrolman found her. Shuster and Khari had her in an RV, parked off in the trees at a rest stop. Some people heard her screaming and called nine-one-one. She was tied down and pinned under Khari’s body. She’d worked a hand free and fought him. It got pretty intense. He bled out and his body lay on top of her for several hours. She tore out his throat.”

  “With her hand?”

  “No.”

  After a moment, Broker said, “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “The cop got her out of there, but she didn’t have any ID. She was in deep shock. Still is. All she’d say was her name, rank, and serial number. That’s how they got to us,” Burton said.

  “I want to see her,” Broker said.

  Burton nodded. “The docs here are good. They’re letting me sit in. To prepare you, her face is pretty beat up but it’s superficial, just bruising. Her right arm has suffered some major soft tissue and tendon injury and is immobile. We’ve got her pretty heavily sedated, as you can understand. She’s just in here.”

  Broker started toward the door to the ward. Burton accompanied him. At the door he stopped and said, “I served with Colonel Holland Wood. You were with him at the plant…”

  Broker didn’t trust his voice. So he just stared at Burton, waited until he stepped aside and then went into the ward.

  They had her in a corner by a window, screened off. One cheek was bruised and swollen. Purple blood bruises splotched her neck. Her wrists and ankles were bandaged. Her right arm was immobilized in a plastic cuff, an IV drip in her left.

  Her instincts were switched on. After this, they probably would be for some time. She jumped alert at the movement when he came around the screen. She tensed and her green eyes acquired him, evaluated him for threat. Then the shrill vigilance sunk back into a quieter narcotic flux.

  Did she recognize him
? Was that important to her now?

  He went to the bed and took her left hand in his.

  “Nina.”

  Her smile faltered. “Don’t say anything, about Kit or anything, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s something important I have to tell you about Ace Shuster. But I can’t remember it just yet.” Abruptly, she pulled her hand away and started plucking at the hospital gown over her chest. A scrubbing motion.

  “They cleaned me up,” she said, “but it was all over me and I think they missed some here.” Her hand went to her throat. “And here.”

  He decided to wait on telling her that his folks were bringing Kit…

  Mom’s job is making it so people can believe what they want.

  Broker shifted from foot to foot, fresh out of tricks. Well, so much for keeping things in compartments. After Vietnam he’d vowed he’d never allow his heart to be broken again.

  So much for vows.

  “I love you,” he said. He held her hand and said it over and over.

  He sat with her all night. She had never seen him cry before and he wondered if, later, she would remember it.

  E-Book Extra

  After the Rain is my sixth novel—the fifth featuring Phil Broker—and it’s been suggested that Broker and I have more than a little bit in common. We’re both former soldiers, alienated by the technology craze of the 1980s and ‘90s, choosing instead to drive the back roads, suspecting we’d survive long enough to come back into style.

  I was born a week after the Battle of Midway in a country fighting for its existence. I grew up thinking there were only three ways to go for an American male: fireman, cop or paratrooper. I served in Vietnam; Broker turned out to be both paratrooper and cop. Neither of us was ever a fireman…

  My father was a dark absent figure, who fought pro in Chicago and stayed mixed up with the wrong people. Mom left him when I was an infant. For a while I had a step dad who was a cop in Detroit. After the cop left, when I was eight, my mother sent me to Georgia Military Academy. In 1953 mom and I were driving during a storm in Marion, Kentucky. The car went off the road. I was thrown through the windshield into a swamp. Mom died at the wheel. I floated on my back in swamp water, unable to move because my chest was severely injured. I had deep cuts in my face and jaw; I was choking on my blood. If I panicked, I started to sink; so I had to remain calm, swallow the blood, and stay afloat until help arrived.