The friends noticed when the power blinked on in the Carbondale camp, first with some hesitation, and then more insistently.
The lights pierced the surrounding darkness.
But not everywhere, though. The lights only burned in the tents of arbitrary power.
****
Clive massaged his heavy mustache with his left hand and looked over to his passenger. He indicated to the broader world again, and when he did, his passenger listened.
“There’s no way we can insure fairness in this world, and even if we could, I don’t think I’d want to. People are not equal, and no one can make them what they are not. However, the use of arbitrary power in the hands of tyranny perturbs me. We Luddites look to impair, obstinately, such terrorism wherever we find it.”
Clive looked at his passenger and his passenger looked at him.
“My friend, would you like to do the honors?”
The red-bearded passenger smiled, and his eyes lit up.
Clive lifted up the protective guard on the dashboard, exposing the lighted switch.
****
In the Carbondale Resettlement Camp, the technician had just finished a long day of fixing, and prepping, and wiring, and fueling up the huge generators. He pulled down the three large levers that would connect the machines to the makeshift “grid” in the camp. After running through a series of checks, the technician flipped up a plastic button guard, and then pressed in the red button with his thumb.
The generators fired up in unison, and the technician was pleased to see the lights in the maintenance tent first flicker, and then begin to burn brightly through the plastic windows.
He’d just packed up his tools and was rushing back to the tent to get out of the cold, when he heard the loud rumble accompanied with the otherworldly buzz.
It seemed that there was a split-second of silence before the entire control panel and junction box on the front of each of the generators blew up, showering pieces of metal and wire around the camp like rain.
The technician ran quickly along the packed white snow as the electrical sparks shot out in in white arcs above his head…
From a distance it might have looked like an umbrella, or a fireworks show.
On the other hand, maybe it looked like a mushroom cloud.
It was hard to tell. The artificial light was so brief. And so rare.
****
The red-bearded man smiled when the lights went dark again in the camp.
“I sing the body electric. I celebrate the me… yet… to come!”
He looked at Clive, who smiled at him under his thick mustache. “It’s almost like bein’ the Good Lord there for a few seconds,” he said with a wink, his eyes wide, like a child’s.
He sat there, Clive did, and looked over the dash to the darkened prison camp that was Carbondale, Pennsylvania.
“Insufficient shielding,” Clive Darling said, matter-of-factly. “We tried to warn ‘em.”
CHAPTER 29
Natasha did her best not to show concern on her face, and she smiled stiffly, but she was worried. They were in the middle of nowhere with no antibiotics, no herbal remedies, not even any natural antibiotics like garlic, echinacea, or even honey. She’d instructed Elsie to start a fire in the fireplace to boil some water, while she went to find Peter to determine what she might do next to prepare, aid, and support whatever treatment Lang might need.
She found Peter moving stealthily towards the tree line behind the cabin, catching up with him with a low shout. “The wound is infected, Peter,” she said, “and I don’t think just cleaning it and repacking it is going to do anything but cause him excruciating pain. You’re going to have to come and help.”
Peter grimaced. The last gray-blue of dusk was highlighting the trees, and a cold wind began to whip through them, making the shadows move across the snowy ground. He was concerned about Lang, and he saw fear and nervousness etched across Natasha’s face.
“Absolutely…”
Peter’s mind was torn. He was also concerned with security. Lang was his friend, and was like a son to him, but with the four of them all inside the house, they’d be blind, and exposed. He wasn’t happy about that. Security was really everything right now. If only the women could deal with Lang…
He didn’t know what he might do with the wound that the women could not either. He wasn’t sure there was anything to be done at all.
Still, he had to do something to help Lang or the boy wouldn’t last long. Sepsis was a concern, and there wasn’t anything he could think of at that moment that frightened him more than that. If the infection got into the blood stream… well… he’d just have to see if there was anything he could do.
****
Walking back into the cabin, Peter struggled in his thoughts. Absent a medical solution—and he had to admit that his own library of knowledge and experience had already been taxed to its limit—there wasn’t much left he could do.
The rudiments of an extravagant placebo plan had run through his mind when he first noticed that Lang was getting worse. Convincing someone that a medicine or a procedure is effectual—when in reality it was not—can be very powerful, not just in convincing the injured or sick person that they are getting better, but often enough the positive effects of a placebo extend to actual physiological healing. The body, convinced that something powerful or helpful is going on, will often ramp up its own defenses to match or meet the expected results. In this way, patients have had their pain alleviated during surgery and recovery, and there were even cases of people healed of cancers and other real diseases with the use of placebos alone. In his own mind, Peter called his plan ‘The Sugar Pill Plot.’
Placebos were often just sugar pills, made to look like the real thing. In tests, doctors or scientists gave sugar pills to some subjects while others received real medications. Often, those who received the sugar pills responded to the treatment as positively as those who had received the real medicine.
The mind is a powerful thing. Peter knew that, and, without any other solution, he was contemplating a very involved ruse as a last ditch way to try to help Lang.
He felt in his pocket and noticed that he still had the cell phone from the man he’d been forced to shoot. Peter knew that cell phones were loaded with trace amounts of gold and silver, and that both gold and silver have been used for millennia as antibiotics and antivirals. He also knew that he didn’t have the proper tools, chemicals, or equipment to extract the gold and silver from the phone… but, he thought to himself, and this was the thing, Lang doesn’t know that.
The first thing Peter did was to gather Natasha and Elsie together. He told them that the three of them needed to black out the windows. They were going to have fire and light in the cabin, and they wanted as little evidence of that to be evident from outside the cabin as possible. The smoke from the fireplace was bad enough. Peter thought that he should have asked them not to light a fire in the first place; however, since they’d already started the fire, he would use it to sterilize the knife and prepare his placebo ruse.
Using the flashlight for light, Peter proceeded to cut large squares of carpet from the floor of the cabin and instructed Natasha and Elsie to find nails, staples, or any other materials that might be useful for hanging the squares. He told them that they could fasten them over the windows by pounding bent and rusted nails through the carpet and into the window frames using a brick and a rock they’d found behind the cabin. It took 45 minutes for the water to boil sufficiently for Peter to get to work.
He started by taking the phone apart. He made a big show of the disassembly process. In his mind he noted that he was not only disassembling, but he was also dissembling, which meant lying. It was good that the trick was a secret, because he didn’t know how poorly his word play might be received at such a time.
He removed the chip, the processor, wires, and connector from the phone, all the while announcing loudly and confidently everything that he was doing. He convinced hi
mself of the lie, so that his patient might more readily believe him. He gave a short dissertation on the antibiotic, antiviral, and anti-bacterial benefits of silver and gold in solution. All that part was true, he thought. He worked like a magician, using sleight of hand and showmanship to make the whole display believable. Nobody doubted him. He noted that he was manipulating the trust of his friends, but— He forced the thought to leave him. He didn’t have time for self-recrimination.
“Natasha? Elsie? Have you finished blacking out the cabin?” Peter called out from down the hallway.
“Yes, Peter. It’s all done,” Natasha replied.
“Okay, while I finish this, I want you two to do a top to bottom search of this place. Examine every cabinet, drawer, cubbyhole, shelf… everywhere... anything you find, call it out loudly, OK? You holler out what it is to me, and I’ll tell you if we can use it. There’s probably not much to be found. The place looks like it’s been stripped bare, but you never know.”
He stepped back into the room and then stuck his head into the hallway again, as an afterthought, choosing to err on the side of caution. “Stay away from any windows,” he warned. “Even brushing up against one can cause a disturbance that might be seen from outside.”
The two women called out agreement and began their search. Peter used the momentary diversion to pour out the solution he’d been concocting. He filled an empty coffee cup with water from one of his water bottles, then added a tiny pinch off of the ChapStick to the water. His plan was to heat the water in the cup by the fire so that it would melt the tiny amount of ChapStick. The oily substance would add a peculiar taste that Peter hoped would amplify the placebo effect on Lang’s mind.
****
“An old aluminum soda can!” Elsie shouted from one of the bedrooms.
“Keep it!” Peter responded.
“An empty bourbon bottle!” Natasha yelled, even though she was just fifteen feet away in the little kitchen nook, searching through the cabinets.
“Keep it!” Peter yelled back, laughing.
“A knitting needle!” Elsie hollered.
“Keep it!” Peter and Lang shouted back, in unison. Lang was now laughing through the pain, and the diversion was good for him.
“This place is a veritable treasure trove of valuable artifacts,” he said. He was surprised that there were so many useful things still available in the cabin—items most people would probably think were useless.
Peter took the hot coffee cup away from the fire and allowed it to cool for thirty seconds or so. Then he handed it to Lang and told him to drink it all down.
“Swallow it to the dregs, son. That concoction will make you right as rain.”
Lang did what he was told and scowled a bit from the strange oiliness in the water.
“A quarter bag of sugar!” Natasha yelled.
“Keep it!” Lang shouted, chuckling at the game.
“Woah! Wait!” Peter said. “Did you say sugar, Natasha?”
“Yes, Peter. Refined sugar. Kind of clumpy, but still white.”
“Oh my goodness,” Peter said, and excitement lit up his features. “Bring it here, daughter. You may just be a lifesaver!”
Natasha walked over by the fire with the bag of sugar. “Why?” she asked. “What good is sugar? Are we going to eat it?”
“Well, young lady, refined and bleached sugar has a multitude of excellent uses, but eating it isnot one of them. In fact, one of the poorest uses of refined sugar is as a food substance. It has killed more humans than Stalin and Mao combined.” He paused, winking at Lang, as if to say… it’s true... then he continued. “But it is good for many medicinal reasons, not the least of which is the fact that sugar and honey have been used as an antibacterial agent for millennia.” The older man began to elucidate on the healing properties of sugar but, at that moment, Natasha and Lang were not entirely paying attention. They were looking at one another.
When Natasha had entered the room with the bag of sugar, she’d glanced sideways at Lang. They caught one another’s attention and held the look for what was a tiny moment that seemed like much longer to each of them. The glance was a tiny visual embrace, but then they released it and smiled to one another, as if to say… There he goes again.
****
Monday
No one got much sleep. Treating Lang’s infected wound stretched into the wee hours of the morning, and it had been a soul-wrenching mind siege, every single minute of it.
Before Natasha found the sugar, Peter hadn’t had much hope left at all. The placebo trick wasn’t real or tangible, but, at the time, it was the only real hope he had of halting or reversing Lang’s infection.
The boy had been valiant. He had not even complained, not once, though Peter knew that he was in severe pain. In the older man’s mind, finding the sugar had been a miracle. He’d exhausted his knowledge and experience, and, without just such a miracle, a stupid mind game was all that he had remaining in his bag of tricks.
Peter wasn’t sure how far to take the whole miracle thing. Even if we had the strongest antibiotics, nothing can guarantee success, Peter thought. He grimaced, thinking that such was always the case. There were never any guarantees. Perfectly healthy people were dying by the thousands and tens of thousands every day.
He recalled the story of a group of people who had rescued a young, injured seal. They worked hard and nursed the seal back to health, and on a glorious day under a bright, blue sky they released the seal back into the wild with great fanfare, only to have the seal eaten by a huge shark within seconds of being set free. Life is tenuous. Peter knew that. Even when everything goes right, it is tenuous. He wasn’t deceived about the probabilities of any of them living through the next year. My dear uncle, he thought…
Peter recalled his uncle Volkhov, and smiled when he considered what Lev would have thought of this young man who was being so brave. He wondered, grimly, whether his uncle would turn out to be right – if he’d been correct when he’d predicted that more than 90% of the population would die within a year.
Locating the sugar changed everything. Sugar, indeed, was one of the most effective natural treatments for infection known to man. This was no tall tale or attempt at alchemic voodoo. The problem is that, in order to apply the sugar remedy properly, the wound had to be opened, debrided and prepared. That meant that, due to the pain and sensitivity caused by the infection, Peter had been forced to subject Lang to a torturous several hours of the most excruciating pain that either one of them could have ever imagined.
Using the knife from Lang’s pack, sterilized and wielded somewhat clumsily by a man who was knowledgeable and wise, if not practiced and efficient, Peter had removed all of the dead and infected flesh, some of it already turning gangrenous and rotting into the wound. The process was slow and exceedingly painful.
The debridement, which entailed the physical removal of all dead and infected material from the wound, was difficult, and Lang had to suffer through it without any anesthesia. They didn’t even have the vodka. That had been in Peter’s backpack when it was stolen. All they had now was the leather sheath, and Lang had endured the torture admirably.
After cleaning and debriding the bullet hole (on both sides), a waiting period ensued while the wound bled a bit, and then they waited until that blood seepage stopped and coagulation had begun. Peter then packed the wound with the processed white sugar, which would act much as it does when it is used as a preservative on meat, blending with the blood and juices to create a thick “syrup” that then caused osmotic shock to the cells in the wound.
Peter explained this all to Natasha as he performed the treatment.
Elsie also sat and listened, taking notes in case she ever needed to remember how to do this. Taking notes also helped Elsie keep her mind off of the pain that Lang was evidently suffering.
Peter spoke on. “Osmotic shock means that the cells will give up their moisture and basically become dehydrated. This will rob the infection and bacteria of oxy
gen and water needed to spread and grow.” He raised his hands, as if making a choking motion.
“Sugar has been used to treat serious battle wounds for centuries, and, even in the 21st century, some doctors and experts had come to believe that it should be the primary means of treating bullet wounds and subsequent infections.”
Peter and his lectures, Natasha thought for a split second. She looked at Lang but he did not meet her gaze. He seemed to be too weak to show her any interest.
****
Hours later, Lang rested comfortably, and the women were off talking in one of the other rooms of the cabin.
Peter ruminated on one of those odd little coincidences in life. Really, and truly, they have no real reason to exist. And yet they do, those moments of perfect harmony and beauty.
At that very moment, Peter was standing guard over his flock like a mother goose, or a father goose. He was thinking about the usefulness of the sugar. And he was thinking how that such knowledge—so much of it—is lost on the new generations. Then again, he also realized that he did not know as much as his Uncle Lev. So many people, Peter thought, do not know or value what they have right there in front of them. If only they had eyes to see.
Now, he was packing and repacking the backpack, while mentally sorting through the small little disturbances in his system. He needed to maintain a tightly catalogued system to know what they had and what they lacked.
And he came across a small blue box.
The box was in the backpack that had belonged to the man named Clay.
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