Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Time of the Fourth Horseman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Bless Tony,” Lisa said with real feeling. The ambulance driver had been the one link they had not lost with the hospitals. Tony Michaelson was perennially on the side of the underdog, and was willing to take a great many risks.

  “He said he was thinking of coming over here permanently to be an emergency paramedic for us. He’s had the training, and we could use him.”

  “We could use a couple of dozen Tonys,” Lisa said. She folded her handkerchief. “Will you mind running a test on Thornton?” she added after a swift glance at her notes. “She said she’s afraid she might have picked up one of the bugs running around. We can’t let our nurses get sick. We haven’t enough of them to spare.”

  “Thornton’s sick?” Natalie asked. “What with, do you know?”

  “No. And all she says is that it’s like flu. Loose bowels, sore joints, low fever and slight sore throat. I ordered her off the floor until you could see her. She’s out in the nurses’ quarters.”

  “I’ll do it now,” Natalie said with a nod. “And I’ll see if Andrews will bring you an aspirin.” She picked up a handful of files from the desk. “I’ll bring these back to you after rounds.”

  Lisa nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

  Natalie waved a dismissal, then walked through the house, her face now showing deep concern. She knew that once the nurses were ill, the load would be too much for the doctors. They had to find help somewhere, but she didn’t know where. She went through the kitchen and noticed that Alexes had not yet started dinner. That would mean late meals again. She assured herself that late meals were better than none and went out the back door.

  Away to the southwest stretched the city, dull in the late afternoon. Almost no traffic moved on the freeways, and the residential towers were not bright with life as they had been a month before. Natalie opened the first folder and studied it as she walked, glancing up once more as she turned toward the old stables.

  The files slid from her hands as she heard the distant explosion and saw the dark oily cloud roll skyward. She knew that tall white building, its double-H profile making it distinctive even at eleven miles. She turned and ran back toward the house, shouting as she did, “Come quick! Get the cars! Everyone! Inner City is on fire!”

  * * *

  CHAPTER 9

  BY THE TIME THEY PULLED UP, the fire had spread for almost two blocks. The buildings smoldered as people poured from them in a terrified rout. Only two fire trucks were on the north side of the hospital, and the water they pumped came in an inadequate stream.

  Harry pulled the van alongside the nearest fire truck and rushed out, his emergency kit under his arm. “Who’s in charge here?” he shouted at the first fireman he saw.

  The fireman gestured with his thumb. “Captain Gottschalk. He’s over there.” The fireman frowned at Harry. “Who are you?”

  Harry flashed the badge on his emergency kit. “Doctors,” he said, and set off at a run for the car the fireman had indicated.

  The man in the car was too old for this kind of job. His lined face and bristly white hair put his age over sixty. He was talking on the radio to another unit. “Then bring $rsquo;em around toward the river. There’s got to be a way to get a firebreak.”

  Knocking perfunctorily on the window, Harry held his kit where the captain could see the medical badge, then he waited while the captain finished his conversation.

  The air stank with smoke, and the noise from the fire, from frightened people, and from the equipment of the firemen was deafening. At this distance heat rolled out in waves from the buildings, and Harry felt sweat start to roll down his back. He knocked on the window once more.

  “Yes,” Captain Gottschalk said as he put his radio aside. “I’ll talk with you now, Doctor.” He pulled himself heavily to his feet. “I’m Theodore Gottschalk. And you?”

  “Harry Smith. I’ve got four more doctors with me, and we have four vehicles to help evacuate burn and smoke patients. Or anyone else who might need help.”

  “What hospital are you from?” the captain said, not really interested.

  “We’ve got emergency headquarters at the Van Dreyter house, sir,” Harry said, hoping the “sir” would do the trick.

  “Oh, you’re that lot. Good.” Bemused, the old man turned back to the car. “We’ve been trying to get a helicopter assist from the Air Force base in Fairfield, but no one can raise them. It’s the damn phones. I guess the exchange had another computer breakdown.”

  Harry was about to tell Captain Gottschalk that the I.I.A. was not allowing any calls out of the area, and that he would not get any help from the Air Force. But instead he asked, “Has any of the hospital staff got out? Can we get space for emergency treatment nearby?”

  Captain Gottschalk looked confused. “The hospital staff? Oh, that hospital staff,” he said with a meaningful nod at the fire. “Some of them got out. They’re on the river side, to the east. Clinton tells me they have a kind of center going over there. That’s Captain Clinton. You might want to talk to him.”

  Harry studied the old man and wondered what was wrong. He seemed to be making no sense, as if this emergency had no effect on him. “Are you all right, Captain Gottschalk?” he asked, and motioned Kirsten to his side.

  “Me? Oh, I’m fine, fine. But fires take a lot out of you, you know.” He sat down again and picked up his radio. “Damned inconsiderate of them to ignore an emergency call. I’ll file a complaint, you can be sure.” He tapped the radio again. “Well, Doctor, you do as you think best.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Kirsten whispered to Harry as he walked back toward the waiting vans.

  “I don’t know,” Harry said, troubled. “He says that some of the hospital staff got out and have set up an emergency station to the east of the hospital, near the river. After we get set up here, I’m taking Ted Lincoln and we’ll check it out. You and Roger and Jim can start a station over here, and let Dom and Alexes do the driving back and forth. I don’t know what else we can do until we find out how much damage there is, and how many victims.”

  Kirsten agreed, saying, “I’ll keep you posted. I wish we had more equipment.”

  “So do I. Maybe we can get some from the doctors on the other side.” He looked at the burning hospital. “I wonder how it started.”

  “Natalie said she heard an explosion.”

  Three men ran by, heedless of trucks and people alike. One fell and cursed as he tried to get to his feet on the wet pavement.

  “I know,” Harry said, once the men were gone. “We’ll have to be careful about that,” he added.

  “What?” Kirsten was at her van now, and about to open the door.

  “Men like that. They had probably stolen what they had in their arms.” He lifted his arm to shield his face as a portion of Inner City Hospital’s outer wall collapsed. The heat was intense. His skin felt baked. “Kirsten, better move back a block or two, just in case they can’t bring this under control inside this radius.”

  She nodded.

  Behind them there was a squeal of brakes, and another ambulance pulled up. Harry turned, startled, and beginning to be frightened. If other hospitals sent help, he and his group might be in trouble.

  The door to the ambulance opened and Tony Michaelson stepped out, his brown beard bristling, ready for the fight. “Harry!” he shouted to be heard, “I swiped some supplies from County General for you. Natalie told me to bring ’em along to you here.”

  Kirsten laughed. “I knew it couldn’t be all bad.” She nodded once to Harry, then went over to Tony, and they began to make plans.

  Ted Lincoln drove with professional skill between the dark buildings. Three blocks away the fire raged, and the streets were filled with milling people and the strange refuse of their panicked flight.

  “Almost there,” Ted said with forced cheerfulness. “I figure we’ll take a right at the next corner, and that will bring us to Riverside Park. If they’ve got a station anywhere on this side, it’ll be there.”

 
“We hope,” Harry said, feeling withdrawn now, and fighting a growing anxiety as he watched the fire from the corner of his eye.

  A young woman ran out of an empty building, shouting words that were lost in the other sounds. She reached the van and pulled at the handle, pounding on the side as she ran beside it.

  “We’d better stop,” Harry said as he saw the young woman’s face, her wide eyes and distended mouth. “I think she’s got trouble.”

  Ted obediently slowed, and had almost stopped when Harry saw eight or nine teen-agers waiting in the shadow of the next building, armed with long sticks. As the van slowed, they began to move from the shelter of the darkness.

  “Get out of here!” Harry ordered Ted. “Fast!”

  The tires screamed as the van lurched suddenly. There was a bounding noise as various missiles struck the sides, and then they were out of range and around the corner.

  Ted held the van steadily, one arm over the horn so that the noise scattered the people who streamed away from the path of the fire.

  “Tristam?” Ted asked when he thought it safe to slow the van.

  “Could be. I didn’t want to wait around and find out, not after what Natalie said.” He let out his breath. “Is that Riverside Park?”

  “On the left? Yep, that’s it. And that looks like an emergency station, there, by the old merry-go-round.”

  Ted pulled the van up beside several other emergency vehicles, and waited while Harry got out. “I’ll keep her on idle,” he said. “If there’s any emergency that should go immediately, I’m ready.”

  “Good.” Harry slammed the door, then picked his way over the debris to the shelter by the merry-go-round. He walked into the shelter and was immediately assailed by the noise and smells contained within its corrugated walls. Long rows of inflatable cots lined each wall, each one bearing its human offering, like an altar to destruction. It was far worse than anything Harry had seen at the Van Dreyter house, and he hesitated.

  “Yes?” said a haggard paramedic at his elbows “Who’re you?”

  “Dr. Harry Smith,” he said when he had recovered himself. “We’re setting up an emergency shelter on the other side of the fire. We’ve got a van to evacuate any cases that might need more help than you can give them here.” Though there was not that much more to offer at the Van Dreyter house, except quiet and more care.

  “We’ve been trying to get help for the last hour, and it isn’t doing any good.” The paramedic nodded and introduced herself. “I’m Sheilah Braccia. And the doctor in charge is Katherine Ng.”

  Harry knew Dr. Ng slightly and had a very high opinion of her work. “If you tell me where I can find her, I’ll tell her what we’re doing.”

  Sheilah Braccia pointed toward the center of the shelter. “She’s over there somewhere. There are some very bad burn cases. Mostly from those on the top floors who survived. Excuse me, Doctor. I can’t stay.” She pushed past him toward one of the cots where a young man moaned as the air touched the ruin of his skin.

  Carefully Harry picked his way to the knot at the center of the shelter, stopping once to reset an IV which the patient had pulled out of her arm. He could see three figures in hospital whites bending over one of the inflated cots. The slight one in the center turned, and Harry called, “Kit! Kit!”

  The doctor turned at her name, and then a confused expression entered her dark eyes. “Harry Smith,” she said. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d been warned off...”

  “I’m at the Van Dreyter house. Look, we’ve got some vans we’ve been using as ambulances, and we can take your most serious cases out of here, if you like. We can’t supply intensive care units, but we’re a lot better than this.” He saw her consider this. “We’re setting up another emergency station on the other side of the fire. Kirsten Grant’s in charge over there.”

  She cut him off impatiently. “Good. We need more help. All right. I have one or two cases that have to get out of here immediately. Bring your van around and I’ll let you take them.” She looked at Harry, suddenly desolate. “Harry, we saved less than a quarter of them. Less than a quarter. Most of them were trapped in the building. They never had a chance. They burned. They burned.” Her eyes were dry and her voice was flat, but Harry felt the horror of what she said to the core of him.

  “Do you want me to stay? I can help.”

  She looked at him once more. “Would you?

  When the fire began I’d been on the floor over fifteen hours. I’m worn out. I can use your help.”

  She made a helpless gesture with her hands. “You see what we have here. I’ve got one other doctor and three paramedics and a nurse.” Her voice wavered toward the end, but she controlled it.

  “Thank you. You’d better get that van over here.

  The worst of the burns and one or two of the diseased patients must go.”

  Harry nodded. “We’ll bring it up at the far end.”

  “Yes.” Katherine Ng put her hand to her eyes. “Do you have stimulants? I need something to keep me going.”

  “I haven’t on me, but I can get them.”

  “Thank you.” She looked down at the patient on the cot. “You’ll be taking him with you the first trip.” Her short laughter was mirthless.

  Harry looked at the tangle of charred clothes and the hideously melted features. “Christ. Who is it, do you know?”

  “Oh, yes, I know. It’s Miles Wexford.”

  Within twenty minutes Ted Lincoln had rushed off in the van, driving at the very edge of control, well past the speed of caution. Harry watched him go, then turned back into the shelter. Near him two children shared a cot, and their feeble hacking and mucus-covered lips were testaments to the smoke they had inhaled. Harry also noticed the rash on their bodies and wondered if it were measles or the early stages of smallpox.

  “Not those,” Katherine Ng said. “They’re going to be okay now. But I need you for the borderline cases. That man there, the one with the lacerated thigh. Take care of him, and then the woman on number five cot.”

  “Okay,” Harry said, and began work on the man with the lacerated thigh.

  The kitchen had been pressed into use for surgery, and Alexes Castor had moved the meal-preparation equipment into the garage where there was a small workshop.

  Carol Mendosa worked feverishly over a young woman whose legs were crusted, bleeding stumps. Ernest Dagstern was her assistant and nurse, and Carol was secretly surprised at his calm good sense.

  Natalie, on the other side of the table, monitored the anesthesia. “Carol, you’ve got to make it fast. She’s not doing well.”

  “I’m trying,” Carol snapped. “I haven’t done a lot of surgery, and never a double amputation. And never on a kitchen table.” She stood still while Ernest patted the sweat from her face. “We should have nurses, we should have the laser equipment. This is close enough to butchery to make my stomach turn.”

  “Just get those things off her,” Natalie said, with more feeling than she knew.

  “Those things are feet,” Carol snapped.

  “Not any more,” said Natalie.

  Dave Lillijanthal lay in his makeshift traction, the elegance and beauty of his body now quite gone. He was half conscious, lost in that strange twilight where there was neither pain nor thought.

  Beside him Celeste Larsen sat, her nurse’s uniform crumpled and gray. Her hands were busy making bandage pads, moving almost independently from the stack of gauze, through the motions, and then to the completed pile. She looked up as Natalie came in. “You’re through?” she asked, somewhat unnecessarily.

  “We’re through. For whatever good it did.” She studied Dave, but her thoughts were obviously elsewhere.

  “You lost her?”

  “Yes. We’d almost got the left foot off. Without real equipment...” Her voice trailed off. “How’s Dave?”

  Larsen stopped making the bandages. “I don’t like the feel of him. Radick was in earlier, and he was concerned.”

  N
atalie gathered her hands into knots of frustration. “We don’t have the time or the staff for this. He can’t be this way. Dave, Dave, damn it, why did you have to let yourself get caught?”

  Dave’s eyes opened a little wider and he tried to turn toward her. The slight movement, the helplessness of the man, were so pathetic that it struck her to the heart. “Oh, Dave,” she whispered.

  “Natalie?” Larsen said, putting one hand on her arm. “Can’t you get some rest?”

  “With two more vanloads coming in? I don’t even know where we’re going to put them. I don’t know how we’re going to take care of them. There isn’t room enough for the patients we have now.” She brought her rising voice back under control. “I’m sorry, Larsen. It’s just that I’m tired and I’m scared.”

  Celeste Larsen regarded her with a thoughtful frown. “We were talking, over in the nurses’ quarters, about this. Thornton is sick, but Tim Walsh and I are fine. We can take some of the less badly hurt patients over there. Or, if you want to keep the patients all in one place, we can make room there for a couple of you doctors. That can free some of the attic rooms for patients.”

  “Larsen, I don’t want to do that.”

  “I’ve already asked Lisa, and she thinks it’s a good idea. You can change your mind if you want, but I think it will work.”

  “Harry’s bringing back a couple more nurses and three paramedics. I don’t even know where they’ll sleep.” Sternly Natalie told herself to stop doing this. She had to make decisions, and they had to be made now. She glanced at the pile of bandages. “Are those ready for the sterilizer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take them in.” Then she looked again at Larsen. “Larsen, do whatever you think is best.” She picked up the bandages. “You’ve all done so well. We couldn’t have done any of this without you.” She stopped again. “Do you know who’s looking after Stan?”