A slight flickering of his eyelids brought her attention to him. “Can you hear me, Ben? Ben, are you all right?”
He mumbled something unintelligible.
She bathed his body with wet towels once more. God, how she wanted to cry, to lean forward and bawl her heart out. Instead she kept bathing him. The aspirin she’d fed into him wasn’t doing an adequate job of holding his fever down. What had she read about constant high body temperatures and their results? She couldn’t recall.
“You did fine, honey,” he murmured weakly.
She was startled by the unexpected sound of his voice. “Ben, are you all right? Lord, I thought I’d killed you.”
He barely nodded in response.
“Listen, I’m going to fix you something to eat. Food will give you strength. Will you be okay while I’m gone?”
“Sara, we can’t use the water,” mumbled Ben.
She was certain he wasn’t lucid.
“The water is....polluted, now. We can’t use it,” he repeated.
“Ben, surely the water in those huge underground pipes is safe to drink.” It was water exposed to the atmosphere, the newscaster had said—that was the water that couldn’t be drunk.
He only shook his head at her comment. “No, it comes from surface reservoirs. It’ll be irradiated.”
Sara brushed at her forehead in disbelief. “Then for heaven’s sake, what are we going to do?? We have to have water,” she said in desperation.
“Only well water can be used,” he murmured.
“Well water?” Sara began to laugh hysterically. Coughing and spluttering she asked, “Where in the hell does anyone find a water well in southern California? It’s too bad we can’t drink oil.” Her uncontrolled, frenetic giggles ruptured the air.
He gazed helplessly from the bed, trying to reach her.
Shaking convulsively, her hysteria blending with racking sobs, she wailed, “I fought the vultures for a package of gauze this morning. I was pushed, stepped on, and vilified just to steal a handful of groceries. And now I find that we don’t even have water to drink. This isn’t fair, Ben! God provided us with water to drink, didn’t He? Or maybe He didn’t. He forgets about us for nine months every year in this stinking desert. What does He think? That we only need water during the winter months and we suck cactus juice the rest of the year? My God, has He forgotten us, too? Oh Ben, why doesn’t it rain?” she moaned. “Rain...rain....”
Ben struggled half off the bed and reached out for his wife. He pulled her shivering body, still racked with sobs, close to him. He massaged her back and coarsely crooned to her. “Shush, Sara. We aren’t forgotten. Someone will arrive to help us.”
“You don’t believe that,” she said as she shuddered against him.
“We have to believe it; otherwise, we can’t go on.”
“But the water—oh, if it’d only rain,” she cried.
“Rain wouldn’t do us any good, Sara. It would be irradiated like everything else,” he murmured.
“Oh, God,” she moaned. “I’m going crazy—out of my mind! Everything is contaminated! Hasn’t anything been spared?”
He shook his head. “But we can’t give up, Sara. We can’t just roll over and die.”
“Oh, why did we, ever come to California, anyway? Why did you ever want to work at White Water, Ben? Good God, what will ever happen to us??”
He slowly sank down on the bed. The worst was yet to come.
A great calm hung in the warm night air, not a peaceful, tranquil stillness, but more a quiet expectancy. In nights past she and Ben had stood together gazing out across the valley—a valley then that was like a nearby galaxy with a million stars. The lights below were gone now. The houses in the valley were empty....and the galaxy gone—nothing more than blackness.
Sara wasn’t secure in darkness. She wanted to see the things about her, to know where the next step led. But once the night closed around her, shielding her actions like a loose cloak, she knew she must go through with it.
She stealthily crept over the retaining wall, uncertain as to exactly why she should be so cautious, but cautious, regardless. She was not positive the neighbors had fled their home during the previous day, and she dreaded the thought of being caught in her deed. The narrow rubber hose was soft and flexible. It had given her a brief scare when it lapped up against her calf, causing her to jump, and now she held it away from her body.
Setting the plastic just on the ground so it would be lower than the gas tank, she squatted alongside her neighbor’s abandoned car. She grimaced as the cap of the gas tank squeaked as she tried to remove it. Getting the cap removed was the simple part, the difficulty would be in inducing the gasoline to come up the hose and into the jug. Somewhere in a crevice of her brain was the memory that the fluid would have to be sucked into and along the length of hose. Sara blew into the hose until she heard bubbles popping in the tank. Convinced the hose was immersed in the fuel, she pursed her lips and began sucking. Her eager pull on the interior of the hose brought nothing—but undaunted, she continued. Finally, with a surge, a large amount of the oily, astringent fluid came pouring into her mouth. Gagging and spluttering, she spit it out. It was a loathsome, vile tasting fluid, but discomforts she’d have to bear if she wished to get the gasoline—their passport to help. Tentatively, she resumed the sucking, pulling motion until the fuel was again flowing. This time, she dropped the end of the hose into the jug and had the satisfaction of hearing the liquid splash against the bottom as the container was filled.
Ben’s vomiting was unchecked. Lacking proper fluids, Sara had given him the juice from a can of fruit. He’d rapidly expelled that. Of the few remaining tins, the one that sounded the most liquid was a can of green beans. She drained off the fluid and presented it to Ben. The yellowish water went down, but was as quickly regurgitated, and in being expelled, it set off a series of heavings that threatened his very ability to breathe.
She began to panic at her inability to control his violent retching. “Ben, help all you can! We just have to make it to the car!” She would try the hospital again. Maybe, surely, by now, he would be admitted.
Her headlights shed an eerie glow over the hospital grounds. Not unexpectedly there were people still waiting in the outer compound; but oddly enough, they had arranged themselves into a tight knot near the door. On this hot, still night they acted as if their safety lay in huddling together.
A stale stench rose to her nostrils, confirming her fears that these persons also suffered the sickness of radiation. She felt the grasp on her arm, and wrenched away as the voice pleaded for water—for something to drink. From every direction eager hands were stretching to her, imploring her aid. Sobbing moans of agony rose to her ears.
“Miss....water. Help me, please.”
She had agitated them by her unblemished, mobile presence. They somehow expected her to assist them, to give them relief. Something she could not do.
Having heard the commotion from the inside, Dr. Parsons flung the door open and peered out. “My God,” he said aloud, “where did all these people come from?” His staff had pulled them inside as fast as they could, and yet, two seemed to replace every one that was carried in for treatment. Patients on the inside littered the floor to the door itself. He’d had to step carefully to avoid actually setting his feet on the victims.
Pushing the people aside, Sara ended up directly in front of the doctor.
“Yes?” he asked of the tall, blond woman.
“My husband...Doctor, he must have help,” she said beseechingly.
Sara presented an image of a tired, haggard woman. Her eyes were dull and red-rimmed—fatigue evident. It would have shocked Parsons to know that her transition from a beautiful woman to this wearied state occurred exclusively within the past two days.
“Lord, woman, we can’t take anyone else in here! We’re already spilling into the street.”
Parsons, himself, hardly conveyed the typical picture of medical health. He ga
ve an appearance of having stepped out of a slaughterhouse. Bone tired with blood-shot eyes, and a three-day stubble of beard, he was far from being sanitarily dressed in his stained clothing. And he emitted a strong, vile odor that was indistinguishable from that of his patients.
Anger and disappointment were evident in Sara’s voice. “You can’t take him in? Doctor, do you have even the vaguest idea of what it’s like, being thwarted in every solitary thing I try to do for this man? My husband was at White Water Tuesday, and dragged himself home in agony—but he hasn’t had a pain killer stronger than aspirin. He’s so weak that I can’t help him any longer. He’s going to die without your help! To die! For God’s sake, the very least you can do is give him something for the pain!” Her words rushed out in a torrent, flooding the nighttime air.
Parsons watched her brush searching hands aside, having no time for these other people. He imagined that later she would detest her hostility toward them, but for now her concern was purely for her husband.
“You must help him. Please,” she implored him. “Oh, please.”
“Where is he?” Parsons asked.
Ben’s gaunt, desiccated form was folded in the rear seat.
“There really isn’t any space inside, Mrs....”
“Harrington,” Sara said absent-mindedly as she looked at Ben.
“Well, Mrs. Harrington,” said Dr. Parsons apologetically, “I’m sorry, but I’ll do what I can. He’ll have to stay in the car, though.”
The examination was brief. Dr. Parsons had inspected some indescribable cases during the last day, but this surpassed them all. The sickness was obviously running a steadily intensifying course. Recent emergents were showing evidences of hemorrhaging through the skin. Ben Harrington was in the critical stage now. Having received flash burns to part of his face and hands, the skin was beginning to slough off. Skin grafts would be required, provided he lived, and there seemed small chance of that. Palpating gingerly, Parsons found that three ribs were broken. But there was no blood issuing from his mouth or nose—a good sign that lung damage wasn’t extensive. Superficially, the man’s tissues had taken the highest exposures of any of the patients Parsons had seen, with the exception of the eight bodies stacked at the edge of the courtyard.
“There’s not much I can do, I’m afraid, except administer antibiotics. We’re short of medicine....” He gave Ben an injection, then turned to Sara. “He’d be better off at home, Mrs. Harrington. I suggest you take him back. Meanwhile, I’ll give you some vitamins for him,” said the surgeon, aware that vitamins would at least keep the vital processes up.
“Vitamins? You must be crazy!” snapped Sara. “Vitamins won’t keep him alive! I want something for his pain. And more antibiotics—something to kill the infection!”
Dr. Parsons disliked dispensing the precious medicines to such an obviously lost case. Somehow, though, he felt a surge of admiration for the woman. She hadn’t quit hoping, hadn’t given up. Reluctantly he agreed. “Could you give him the injections if you had the syringe?”
She nodded eagerly. “Of course.”
“All right, I’ll give you this. Every six hours you fill this syringe up to 30cc and shoot it into his muscle. You won’t be able to sterilize the needle other than to soak it in some alcohol between shots. I wish I could give you something for pain, but I just don’t have anything, Mrs. Harrington. Here, take this, too. Maybe it’ll help stave off the vomiting.”
“He’s been running a high fever, Doctor. What can I do for that?” she asked in a tone suddenly lighter, less worried.
“What have you been doing?” asked the doctor.
“Giving him aspirin which he usually throws up, and bathing him in cool water.”
“Keep giving him the aspirin, but the baths, I don’t know. The water is radioactive. You’re just exposing him to more radiation.” But Parsons would not be able to abate her feeble efforts, or convince her to avoid the cooling towels—they were the only recourse she had to help Ben be comforted even slightly.
“Are you going to check his arm, Doctor? We were sure it was broken so I put a splint on it.” She grimaced at the memory.
He carelessly inspected the splints. “You did a pretty decent job, Mrs. Harrington.”
“But how about the bones? Can you tell if they’re set straight or not?” she asked hopefully.
“Mrs. Harrington, we don’t have access to x-ray machines, and quite frankly, the condition of the bones is his least concern, I’d say. There would be absolutely no point in causing him further pain by moving that arm around. Let’s leave it as it is, all right?” Dr. Parsons was anxious to be rid of the subject of Ben Harrington. It was a futile case. His attention was demanded with other, less terminal patients awaiting him. The surgeon’s nature did not include being niggardly with his skilled services or medications, but the situation was forcing him to make snap decisions on the survivors. Those who appeared at death’s door were treated with consideration; but precious drugs were to be used sparingly in their cases. Better to save the medication for others with wider margins between themselves and death.
Sara clutched at his sleeve as he began moving away from Ben. “There’s nothing more you can do, Doctor?”
Parsons paused, sensing the desperation in the woman. “No, Mrs. Harrington. I’m sorry.”
Sara slowly dropped her head in disappointment.
The doctor collected his instruments. “I’m really sorry. I don’t feel any the less helpless than you do—seeing this human suffering and knowing there’s so little I can do to relieve it. We’re running out of everything and still people are pouring in on us. No water, drug supplies practically exhausted, and personnel who are....well, we’re hardly fit to treat anybody now.”
Parsons turned and wearily began making his way toward the isolation unit.
“Doctor,” Sara yelled after him, “is there any other hospital treating radiation victims?”
He replied through the darkness, “I don’t know of one. But then we don’t have a communications system anymore.”
The doctor gently brushed grasping hands away as they clutched at his jacket, pleading to be allowed inside.
Getting Ben into his own bed sapped the last of Sara’s endurance. The fist-sized muscular pump pounded against the inside of her chest. Breathing in short, labored gasps, Sara stumbled through the rooms until she came to the can of food.
Without the liquid, the beans were dried and shriveled from the air. Carefully she bent the lid away and reached in with her fingers. They’d been her breakfast and the remainder were her dinner. She chewed down on the pulpy mass, thoroughly masticating them before plunging them down her esophagus. She was not surprised that with her parched throat, swallowing green beans was similar to peanut butter. The bolus kept attaching to the dry tube, clogging the route to the stomach. Her spine rested against a cabinet door as she sat in the dark, munching, swallowing, then coughing up the bolus, and swallowing again until it finally passed down.
Searching in the darkness, she finally located the bottle of wine. Tilting it, she drank greedily. The wine, why hadn’t she thought of it for Ben? She had given him that terrible juice from the beans thinking it would have nourishment in it. As soon as she got her breath back, she would try to get the burgundy down him.
She slid down again to rest on the floor as she consumed the last of the beans. Her thin legs were stretched out straight in front, still trembling from the exertion of moving Ben. Feeling out the one remaining length of vegetable, Sara slipped it into her mouth and mumbled, “God, how I wish the wind would blow.”
Chapter Eleven
Althea switched the knob, breaking the connection with the radio station. What was the meaning of those numbers? She knew there were different levels of radiation, but what was the real meaning of the numbers? A task force was at last monitoring the fringes of the disaster zone and findings were hourly reported over the radio. But what counted to Althea were the radiation levels here in Los Angele
s. What was happening to their bodies—their lives?
The residents didn’t need to be told of the stagnant front. They felt the compression, the heaviness in the clouds, the layer of warm air trapped beneath the inversion. How long would the poison hover above them like a toxic blanket? When would it scatter?
Filling the bookshelf were the thick, maroon-colored volumes that her father had bought prior to his retirement. Althea recalled the event clearly. Because Jess Carr had lacked any formal education, he’d planned to spend his evenings making up for lost time. He had extravagantly paid three hundred dollars, faithfully paying them off in installments, for a complete set of encyclopedias—his contention being that once he’d read every book, he’d have better than a college education. He never learned to use a computer. And the encyclopedias were no longer printed. But out of date or not they were a place to start. Internet service providers continued to be on and off in the LA area and her smart phone was directly affected.
She withdrew the correct volume, opened the imitation leather cover, and selected the right page where she began reading. At first she skimmed the printed matter, pausing at times to absorb some important point. The information was largely foreign to her, with her smattering of college science. Beta and gamma rays....alpha particles....penetration depths that sent the invisible dangers through the skin of man into underlying organs....it was almost too much to fathom. Slowly she went back through the pages, digesting what she could and committing other information to memory. In all, there was nothing in the book which eased her apprehension. There were no words as to how one could protect oneself against these hazards. It was useless at this point to read that certain high energy rays could pass through solid concrete blocks five feet thick. It was too late. There was no way that the defenseless population could avoid exposure to the radiation permeating the atmosphere—no way at all.
The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival) Page 16
