A series of harsh, gurgling wails escaped his throat, sending Sara into terrified alarm. Reacting violently, she clutched at him. “Oh mercy, Ben! Hold on, darling! I’ll give you another shot.” Another? She couldn’t remember when she had given the last one. Was it too soon for another? Time had no measurement over the past few days, and there was no way of knowing how much time had elapsed since the first morphine was given. If she gave him too much narcotic....but he was in tremendous agony. She must give him relief—it was all she had to give him now.
She quickly, methodically, loaded the instrument a second time. After the briefest hesitation, she shoved it into him. It was done.
Shortly he grew quiet, but his pulse beat in spasmodic jerks that seemed to grow stronger, as though the heart were labored.
It was a Friday night; a night that might ordinarily have found the Harringtons entertaining at a small dinner party or at the theater. Recalling the past, Sara slumped back in the chair and used a towel to wipe the mixture of sebum and grime from her face. She heard him breathing, more calmly now, and continued listening as long as she could.
Discontented with her toiletries, but too weary to do more, she laid her head on the padded arm of the chair and dropped into a light, restless sleep. How long she’d slept she didn’t know, but the strange unearthly call snapped her to consciousness.
“Sarrrraaaaa.”
Instantly awake, her eyes wide with fright, “Yes? Ben?”
There was no answer.
Hadn’t he called her name? Maybe she had dreamed it, but she didn’t remember a dream.
The night was deathly quiet, an uneasy, unnatural stillness.
God, if only the wind would blow.
Suddenly, the stillness pressed upon her. Sara lurched toward the bed, to Ben. He made no movement. But he was cooler. Ah good, the fever was going. He would feel better now. Without the fever....the fever? She flattened her palm over his brow, then his chest. She laid her cheek against him. Icy sensations coursed through her. He had no body heat. None. He was dead. She lifted her head and sat back. Ben was dead.
A crashing, shattering noise—like an aluminum sheet slapping against a wood frame—jarred her to her senses.
She looked wildly around, expecting unmentionable horrors to descend on her, to steal her life from her.
The clamor repeated itself. Then she knew. The ventilation ducts in the ceiling were being buffeted—buffeted by wind. The wind was blowing. At last.
Chapter Fourteen
News that the thermal inversion lifted spread like wildfire through the populace on Saturday. Late night radio and television stations across the nation had broken into their regular programs to make the announcement. The message was flashed to the command posts where rescue squads awaited.
Within the disaster area, change in the climatic condition was signaled by strong northerly winds that swooped cool air into the metropolis where they nudged under the heavy, stale blanket, and carried the pollutant southward. Prevailing air currents rolled high along the Pacific coast before veering oceanward in the vicinity of Baja.
Wind currents are predictable, but temperamental, forces in southern California. Usually cool moist air descends from frontal systems originating over the northwest Pacific. However, opposing flows occasionally develop from warmer latitudes and sneak in from the southern Pacific region. And often periodic drafts blow in from the northeast Nevada area. Rarely, a current dashes straight across the lower half of the state from the ocean and makes a bee-line for the east until it hits first higher elevations, then drops to lower altitudes. The latter course would have meant devastation to one of the two richest agricultural valleys in the state, and the fallout would have settled over a moderately densely populated area.
As it happened, however, the direction the wind ultimately carried the radiation was coastally, allowing minimal amounts of the fallout to deposit along the route to San Clemente, Oceanside, San Diego, and into northwestern Mexico before steering oceanward. Fallout would be dropped into the waters of the blue Pacific, where it would eventually become a factor in the food chain of the marine organisms. That the radiation in all probability would end up in the albacore, bonito, and other tuna—a major source of canned fish—and eventually in the gastrointestinal tract of man was a certainty, but it was the least of the present worries. That it was being brushed onto the ocean and not deeper into the nation was sufficient cause for restrained elation among the people.
Anticipation of the lifting of the thermal inversion had resulted in a massive mobilization of special rescue forces under federal jurisdiction. In collaboration with these forces were smaller units organized at local levels around the perimeter of the disaster zone. The coordination of the forces had begun on Thursday. Ground crews had begun a movement to the outer fringes of the radiation field, and once arrived, they threw out their tents and set up bivouac, awaiting further advancement until a wind shift came to disperse the bulk of the radiation.
On a given signal, air units would be quickly dispatched from far-off bases. As a reconnaissance squadron, the planes had been equipped with special recording instruments with which rapid calculations on the radiation levels could be made. Instructions to the pilots of the crafts had been to fly within recording range, and carry out a series of readings. Under no conditions were the fliers to take their craft into pockets of densely radioactive fields, phenomena that were generally expected by scientists because of the natural, basin-like geography of the area.
Once the advance squad gave the go-ahead, ground forces would begin their entry into the zone. Municipal water tank trucks from surrounding cities had been loaded with their life-saving fluids and pulled into position. Medic squads from across the nation, with vast supplies of medicines and drugs, formed a waiting vanguard. Batteries of scientists—chemists, physicists, biophysicists, biologists, and environmentalists—mingled at the forefront. Troopers, whose single command was to restore order, stood ready in their khaki uniforms with their oiled and shiny rifles nearby. In all, it was a formidable force that stood patiently waiting the singular order—the order to move.
To the southeast, in the tiny hamlet nestled at the foot of the low mountain range, the helicopter set down. The craft had been dispatched from San Diego with material for the group organized at the armory. The last of the packages was being lifted from the craft when the crackling of the radiophone drew the pilot’s immediate attention. “The word has come!” he shouted excitedly to the men standing beside the plane. “The wind is up! It’s time to go in!”
In fact, instructions had been specific to the young pilot—he was to proceed directly to the disaster zone and begin his report on the radiation levels. Unfortunately, the remainder of his crew was back in San Diego. Anxious to be one of the first in, he determined to take off northward as soon as he could get someone aboard to do the readings. Leaning out of the plane, he shouted to the men below, “Hey, I’ve got orders to move, but my crew is at the base. Is there anyone here who can read this Geiger counter and wants to go in with me?”
The prospect of arriving at the scene before the radiation was widely dispersed appealed to no one. Quickly the knot of men began to break up, with each one moving out of earshot of the pilot.
“Listen,” he shouted at them, “I don’t know anything about this box and it won’t do a bit of good for me to go into L.A. without getting the readings. Come on! Don’t any of you know anything about a counter?”
Cecil had already been assigned to go in on a troop truck—the destination for encampment had already been designated—and he was interested in keeping tabs on the skulking form of Carter. Yet, from deep inside came the urge to stay apart from the departing backs of the same men he had encountered in the lobby—the ones who were now hastily withdrawing to the security of the olive-green trucks. It was time to forget his childish fear of planes. Stepping forward, he hoisted himself into the craft and said, “I’m Cecil Yeager.”
The young pilo
t smiled and shook hands. Without hesitation, he pulled out the outline of the route he had been scheduled to take over the big city. “I guess we’re ready to go then, Cecil. By the way, I’m Arnie.”
It was with calm deliberation that Cecil had hauled himself aboard the plane to return to the very area that he had so futilely tried to avoid. He was composed as Arnie deftly maneuvered the copter into the zone. Even with the best estimates from men who should know, still nobody knew exactly what to expect. As one of the first aerial units into the area, Cecil imagined that he felt much less trepidation than others to come. After all, he had lived with the fear of radiation since Tuesday morning, and by now, he’d been numbed into acceptance. The others were just beginning to worry.
Suddenly ground features began to take on a familiar cast as Arnie angled the chopper to do an aerial scan of upper Orange County before continuing on to Los Angeles International Airport where the first radiation reading would be taken. They were flying low, and from their elevation could clearly see there was no normal movement of people or traffic below.
Cecil viewed the desolate interlocking freeway system. Ordinarily, morning and evening rush hour traffic would be hooked bumper to bumper as the vehicles crept along to off-ramps, or, getting a free stretch, darted ahead to make up for lost time. Often when an automobile was pulled out on the shoulder, it was an occurrence that for some unexplained reason, intrigued passing motorists. Invariably, the passers-by would reduce their speed, backing up traffic while they craned their necks until their curiosity was satisfied. Today, nothing moved on the giant highway system.
Arnie nodded at the scene below, “What do you think of it, Cecil? Do you reckon everybody is too sick to get out? Or do you suppose they are all...” and he left the word unsaid. A young man in his prime didn’t like to consider death.
Cecil stared down at the scene, “They’re probably sick, all right. And too scared to care about trying to leave now.”
The helicopter circled once over the Angels Stadium then crossed the multi-laned Santa Ana Freeway. Arnie dipped the craft toward the rising peak of the Matterhorn. He glanced below. “Look, Cecil,” he said, pointing at the towering make-believe summit, “the last time I was in Disneyland, it was so crowded there must have been twenty thousand people there. I took the kids on the monorail and we toured the whole thing. It was a madhouse that day,” he said sadly. “Man, it’s sure dead now.”
Not one sign of life existed in the huge amusement park. The place that was famous world-wide for its attractions and its rides, in four days had become a graveyard.
Arnie shook his head as they hovered over the park. “I can’t believe it. I never thought anything could shut off life like that explosion has done, Cecil. You just never expect a thing like that to happen, I guess.”
Softly, his voice inaudible among the roar of the rotors, Cecil answered, “Yes, no one ever thought this would happen.”
“What?” yelled Arnie, aware that Cecil had spoken.
“I said....nothing, Arnie. Forget it.”
L. A. International Airport lay to the northwest and Arnie guided the plane in that direction. The major airport serving metropolitan Los Angeles was bounded on the east, north, and south by tracts of housing. Residents had long complained of the noise of the big jets as they took off and landed, polluting the air with the howl of their engines and leaving their trails of noxious fumes as they raced across the sky. To the west of the airport, though, was clear, blue Pacific water. Cecil saw the glimmer of the waves long before the chopper approached the landing strips.
The airport was laid out in the shape of a horseshoe with the open portion of the shoe lying eastward. It was into this region that they flew, directly in toward the tower and between the runways flanking the north and south sides. In the center were the terminals, and to the inside, a street through which traffic normally coursed. Parking lots filled the extra space in the middle of the horseshoe, and it was onto one of these that Arnie intended to lower the plane. Vehicles still dotted the lots, evidence that owners had failed to return to them.
The chopper made one slow loop around the terminals and returned to a bare space that Arnie had selected for setting it down. With a whir of blades, the craft was lowered to the ground. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, there was a man frantically waving his arms at them.
Carefully, they settled into the lot nearest the man. As soon as the whirl of the propellers ceased, the man ran up to the side of the craft. Arnie piled out of the cab, and Cecil, with a firm grasp on the Geiger counter, followed.
The man had reached Arnie first, and was enthusiastically pumping the pilot’s hand in welcome. Cecil placed the counter on the pavement and was preparing to make a reading when he sensed a mass of humanity moving toward them. In a fraction of time they had come pouring out of the terminal and were streaming across the lot. At that moment Cecil thought they were to be deluged by the rush of bodies, but it quickly became apparent that the crowding, pushing mob was bent on reaching the helicopter, and Cecil and the counter were simply small obstacles standing in their paths. Finding himself rudely shoved aside, he reached out blindly and latched onto the handle of the counter. With it in tow, he pushed his way through the pack until he was beside a very startled Arnie, and several yards from the plane. The man who had greeted them began frantically yelling at the top of his lungs, asking the mob of people to calm down, to control themselves.
His request for reason went unnoticed by the mob as more and more jammed themselves against the chopper, shoving to get inside it.
When Arnie saw the tiny cab packed with some eight or nine flailing bodies—a space that normally held three—he rushed forward, joining in the melee. The lower half of the last person to try to get aboard was protruding from the door, and this, Arnie grabbed. Tugging mightily, he managed to yank the man free. Immediately he fastened onto another and began pulling at him. In the meantime the lone man of the welcoming committee continued to yell, finally raising his voice above the din.
Eventually the realization that the helicopter wasn’t going to transport any of them out of the area without a pilot, and the continuing plea to come to their senses, caused the rioters to gradually wind themselves down. Then, with abashed and slightly embarrassed looks on their faces, they began to depart the packed craft, and regroup nearby.
At last the chopper was empty. A hush fell over the tamed mob. The portly fellow who had waved at them before they landed, stepped out away from them. By his demeanor, and his self- assurance, this dominating man became a spokesman for the assemblage. “We got carried away for awhile there,” he said in half-apology. “But you can see how anxious we’ve been. You see, we had about decided that there wasn’t going to be any rescue.”
Cecil was impressed by the man’s composure. “How many of you are there?” he asked.
Turning toward Cecil, the other replied, “Last Tuesday when the flights were canceled, we were over eighteen hundred in this terminal—by my estimation. The majority beat it out of here on foot and whatever, so that by now there are around six hundred left. Most of them are inside there,” he said, pointing.
“And you all gathered here in this terminal?” Arnie asked.
“Of course. There was no other place to go. We were in transit to various places—I was on my way to Tokyo when this happened—so we were stranded.”
Trying to be encouraging, Arnie said, “You will all be picked up, but we were just sent here to take some measurements on the radiation levels. We have no way of getting you out in that craft. It’s too small.”
“Yes. We understand that,” answered the man. “Can you tell us how extensive this is—how bad?”
“We’re not sure, yet,” answered Arnie. “I guess we won’t know until the advance squads get in here and establish some order to things.”
“Are many people....dead?” inquired a woman from the group.
“We have no way of determining that at this time,” he answered. “It�
��ll very likely take weeks before we can say. But once the radiation level is sufficiently low, rescue squads will be pouring in for you.”
It was then that Cecil noticed the physical appearances of the victims. Rigors of their ordeal plainly showed on their countenances. Physiological deterioration was prominent in a few, but most visibly suffered from lack of food, water, and rest. Beyond that, they showed fewer of the signs of radiation sickness than he had expected to see. But then, these people were probably the healthiest of the survivors.
“Some of our people are suffering awfully,” said the spokesman. “Why don’t you come over to the terminal and see for yourselves?” he asked, motioning them toward the building.
Carrying the counter, Cecil fell into step with Arnie and the speaker. They crossed to the terminal entrance, quickly forming a file. Automatic doors no longer swung open from the pressure of a foot on the rubber mat. Instead, the group trailed through a huge hole in the glass and quietly walked a long hall to a concourse at the base of the escalators. There, lying about on red plastic seats from the waiting lounges, were the remainder of the travelers. An awful stench pervaded the stale air. Huge blister-like lesions were common on many, but the odor didn’t seem to originate with the festering skin disorders, or intestinal upsets that many had suffered.
Arnie seemed to think the stench excessively strong as a weak but audible gag escaped his mouth. Quickly he threw his hand up as though to stifle another such reflex, and turned his head away.
Motioning them to follow, the spokesman led Archie and Cecil to a narrow room at the side of the concourse. Privy to the means for opening the door, he unlocked it, but held on to the knob. “We didn’t know what else to do with them,” he said, “so we decided to just store them for awhile.” With that he pushed the door wide and the most malodorous air wafted out to them.
The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival) Page 21
