by Julia Shupe
“To cool his blood,” she explained softly. Jeremy arched his brow at that and she pointed to his throat. “His carotid artery is there right?”
“That it is,” he returned with a smile. “Where do you learn this stuff?” He paused a moment then pointed to Seth’s curled hands. “I think we should do the same thing to the pulse points at both his wrists, don’t you? To cool the blood?”
Soberly she nodded, and wrapped his wrists in her last pair of socks. “He’s really sick isn’t he? It’s his leg, right?” Her voice shook and she seemed to brace herself for his answer.
“Yes. He’s quite ill, Sam. And yes—I’m pretty sure it’s the leg. It’s infected.” For a moment he sat back on his heels, surveyed their work then leaned forward with a frown. “I think we should try to coax a bit of water into his mouth. Somehow we need to get aspirin in him to break the fever.”
Sam scooted to Jeremy’s pack and produced one of the bottles of drinking water and a wooden bowl. She tipped the aspirin and dropped three pills into her palm. These she crushed beneath the bottom of the water bottle, and with an unspoken question in her eyes peered at Jeremy.
“All of it,” he encouraged as his gaze strayed to the bottle. “We’ll just consider that his bottle from now on and continue to dose him for the next few days.”
She sprinkled the crushed powder into the bottle, capped it, and shook it till it swirled a cloudy white. They tried their best to sit him up, to coax a few drops onto his lips and get him to swallow, though Jeremy wasn’t sure their efforts were productive. More of the water seemed to dribble down his chin than down his throat. He suppressed a sigh. Some is better than none, he reflected darkly.
“Now what?” Sam’s eyes were less frenzied as they swept his small body.
Jeremy peered at her sidelong. Though she had calmed down a little, was she really ready for this? This part wouldn’t be pretty.
He took a breath. “Now we need to tend to the wound. You stay near his head and keep refreshing the towels. Keep ‘em cool. They’ll warm quicker than you think.”
He slid to Seth’s feet and removed his shoes. As he rolled the cuffed pant leg up around Seth’s knee, a sense of profound dread threatened to paralyze him. Frightened to lay eyes on the wound, he suddenly realized he was playing at courage for Sam’s sake. Perhaps he could treat the wound somewhat, but if he couldn’t cleanse it completely, there would be no chance for recovery at all.
The smell hit him first and again he cursed himself. Several days before, he’d noticed a faint odor, had he not? But what more could he try now than what had already been done before? Surely he’d done all he could with the limited supplies at hand. He grit his teeth. It hadn’t been enough and now he had to pull off a miracle. From the edge of the laceration he pulled free the bandage, peeling slowly and carefully and with delicate fingers so he wouldn’t re-open healthy parts of the scab. He stifled a gasp. Beneath the covering it was bad. The flesh around the wound was inflamed and warm. Puss leaked from the lower end. But it was the fine webbing of red streaks that spidered from its edges that stilled his breath.
Septicemia.
Indeed the infection was beginning to contaminate his blood.
“Sam, I need the first aid kit please.”
She retrieved it and returned, caught sight of the wound, and gasped. Dropping to her knees she watched Jeremy work. As he had done the day prior, he squeezed the tapered end of the wound to excrete the puss. Though a small bit came out, he worried for how much might be trapped beneath the scab. What if he were to reopen the laceration? Just a bit. Bleeding was good right? Cleansing. He wasn’t a doctor, but the notion sounded right. Sam winced beside him as he splashed alcohol over the tip of his pocketknife and touched the blade to the swollen skin.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a fervent whisper.
He shook his head as if attempting to cast aside his own doubts. Absently, and through pursed lips, he answered, “I just think we should let it bleed freely. Proud flesh, right?”
“Proud flesh? What the hell does that mean?”
Jeremy’s mind whirred as he slipped the blade beneath the firmer part of the black scab and pried up the corner.
“It’s something I said to Meghan about Peter’s leg.” As if he were suffering a mild hysteria of his own, he almost let out an insane burst of laughter. “She was so offended. She hated the term. I can’t even remember what made me think of it. She scolded me for comparing him to a horse,” he laughed mirthlessly. “But I was right then and I think I’m right now. We have to cut away the infected parts. Or at least squeeze them out.”
Sam didn’t speak and he felt her eyes upon him as he bled the corner of the wound. The blood came fast, thick, and dark. Thank God Seth was unconscious for this. The pain would have been unbearable. Sam winced as Jeremy pushed deep at the skin, pinching it, and working out the last of the foulness within. He bathed the area in alcohol—the last of the alcohol, he noted with pursed lips. And when the blood ran a brighter red, he moved to apply a fresh bandage. Sam caught his sleeve.
“Maybe we should let it breath for a bit. Let the air get to it.”
Jeremy sighed and rocked back on his heels. “Your guess is as good as mine, Sam.” He inspected the wound, bent close enough to note that most of the foul smell had dissipated. He nodded. It was a good sign.
“All right. I agree. We’ll let the air in, but we can’t allow it to dry out. Let’s give it an hour to breath and then we’ll bind it in light wrappings. I think we should keep it covered. Prevent dust or debris from drifting in.”
She seemed mollified by that and moved back to Seth’s slackened face. Jeremy elevated his leg atop a pile of old blankets and rolled from his ankles onto his rear. On his hands he crab-walked backward till he came to rest against the cold metal of a shelf. Sam pushed herself to her feet and joined him, slid to the floor, and set her hands to her knees. Together they watched the rise and fall of Seth’s chest.
“What happened to you back there?” she whispered. “I thought you’d cracked up or something.”
“Cracked up?”
“Unhinged. Gone crazy.”
He rolled his head toward her. “Thanks for reminding me about the trigger.”
She shrugged. “It just came to me. It was Grandpa Liam’s thing. Remember?”
He smiled. “I remember now. Thanks to you.” Enjoying a moment of silence, he let his eyes drift closed, then opened them, and with curiosity faced her again. “Do you have a trigger?”
“Not really.”
“What do you mean, not really? You either have one or you don’t.”
Picking at mud that had dried on the fabric of her pants, she answered. “I’ve never given it much thought I guess. Never needed one. Always had you for that. But I guess if I did have one it would be Mom.” She returned her eyes to Seth. “So now what?”
Jeremy lifted his hands to his temples and responded with sudden weariness. “Did you just say ‘now what’?”
“Yeah. What do we do now? What’s our plan? What are our three?”
Jeremy smiled. ‘The three’—more Liam-speak. She wanted to know the possible courses of action, wanted to be certain Jeremy was making a decision that was the best option out of three. The worst decision a person could make was no decision at all. She wanted to be sure that at the very least he’d made one. Or maybe she was frightened of the one he would make.
“Forget three. I can only think of one possible solution right now.” He slapped his hands against his trousers. Blood rushed to his feet with a tingling sensation as he stretched out his legs. “What do we do now?” he repeated as he cupped his hands to his eyes. He sighed. “I suppose the only thing we can do is wait.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, if we’re going to wait, then let’s at least make the best of it.” Gesturing over her shoulder she added, “We may as well see what supplies we can find around here.”
He nodded and joined her to stand
over Seth.
“Will he be all right?” she whispered.
“I don’t know Sam. We’ve got to get him to drink fluids laced with antibiotics if we can. We’ll figure it out somehow. He’s strong. Sleep and medicine is the best thing for him now. Let his body fight the infection in peace. We’ll give him the best tools we can, but the rest is up to him.”
She turned to him. “So what did you think of? What was your trigger?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Mom. Same as you. Who else? As a boy she was one of the first triggers I ever had and I have a strong feeling she’ll be the last.” He set his arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “It feels right that I’ve come full circle. It’s only fitting. She was the one who set me in motion so many years ago. It was a night I’ll never forget.”
Human progress is neither automatic nor inevitable... Every step toward the goal of justice requires sacrifice, suffering, and struggle; the tireless exertions and passionate concern of dedicated individuals.
—Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Chapter 16
January 12th, 2124
Knoxville, TN
The helicopter had landed at McGhee Tyson Airport some forty-five minutes ago and Liam and his family were now stuck in a long line of traffic. Anxious, restless, and eager to once again set foot in their cabin, he peered at the entrance to Henley Street Bridge. They’d been forced to take a circuitous route back home, one that had taken them nearly forty miles off course. The Tennessee landscape was bright with the orange light of a multitude of roaring fires and staccato bursts of gunfire rang out in the distance in a way that set his teeth on edge. This was it. Liam was done. God willing—if they could just make it back to the cabin, he’d never venture far from it again. Life as he’d known it was over. The country was in shambles. Those who had prepared were already tucked away in their shelters. Those who hadn’t the means were left to suffer the elements. And those, of course, who were predatory in nature, were busy inducing chaos and violence.
The Nomad had docked at a San Francisco pier just yesterday, and Liam had demanded that the military immediately fly them to Arnold Air Force Base, and from there, to McGhee Tyson by helicopter where his jeep waited. He and Olivia had said their goodbyes to the ocean, and with hearts heavy, had turned from her glistening surface and flown inland. Though the departure was tearful and gut wrenching at first, they both now longed for the comforts of home.
She flinched beside him as a burst of gunfire crackled from the distance.
“Nobody’s moving, Liam. This bridge is completely gridlocked.”
He strained to see and gave up, switched off the car, and peered through the darkness at his sleeping son. Jeremy was curled under a blanket in the backseat, knees drawn to his chest, face cloaked in shadow. Liam sighed and turned to his wife.
“You’re right. Might as well conserve a little gas.”
He opened his door, stood on the ledge of the SUV, and strained on the tips of his toes. It wasn’t a normal gridlock, wasn’t just that cars were lined bumper-to-bumper across the bridge. It was utter bedlam. The bridge was packed solid. Cars had strayed from the painted lines that marked lanes, defiantly broken free of polite constraints, and encroached into the personal space of others. They’d crawled across the expanse of the bridge in haphazard stops and starts until there was nowhere left for any of them to go. The frames of some of the cars were lifted and balanced precariously against the lip of the bridge while others were wedged and half-turned around by those who’d maniacally floored the gas in an effort to push through. Above some of the vehicles, steam rose in billowing clouds. Black smoke hissed and curled from the tailpipes of a multitude of others. Liam heard a sudden scream and gasped as a military-grade Hummer rolled over the tops of several compact cars. He ducked his head back into the car.
“We’ll never get through here, Liv. We have to turn around.”
She twisted in her seat, peered back the way they’d come. “Turn around and go where? We’re as trapped as they are.”
She was right. He regarded the rows of cars that stretched behind them and tried to think of a way to get them out of this. His wife’s voice pulled his attention back to the dark car.
“Who cares, Liam?” he heard her call out. “What does it matter how long we have to sit here? We’re fine where we are for now. We have food, water, all the time in the world. Let’s just wait it out. At some point people have to move. Right?”
He stood on his tiptoes again and tried to scrutinize vague shapes in the distance. Something was going on up there. The vehicles had been moving before. Slow—yes—but at least they’d been moving. Unlike now. Things had been ground to a complete halt. Dark shapes clustered at the mouth of the opposite end of the bridge, but it was too far for him to make anything out clearly.
“I don’t know,” he whispered more to himself. “I’m not so sure we’ll ever get through.” He slipped back into the jeep, shut the door as quietly as he could, and dropped his gaze to his hands. All this planning. All this preparation. What if it was all for nothing? What if he couldn’t get them back to where they’d started?
“Stop worrying,” Olivia offered as she easily read his thoughts. “We’ll get there. Have a little bit of faith.”
“Faith?” he scoffed. “We just left an ocean that’s become a landfill and you want me to have faith?”
“Yeah, a little,” she admonished and motioned over her shoulder. “Maybe a little for him?”
Turning from her in silence, he peered out the window into the darkness. The Garbage Patch had been rough on him and he still wasn’t sure how to reassemble the pieces of himself that had scattered—or where he might find them for that matter. Since they’d left, a melancholic feeling had taken root in his belly, bloomed, and now threatened to overtake him. Truthfully, he was having a difficult time shaking it off. Olivia seemed less affected or perhaps she was just hiding her feelings better. But not him. He’d always trended a bit toward depression, always hovered at the darker edges of life. He was the one at the party who always wished he were somewhere else. He was the one who’d always faked the smile, forced the laugh, and checked his watch. Maybe that was why he’d so easily prepared for this eventuality in the first place—his lack of faith. Swinging his gaze to the line of cars in front of him, he startled as a bent shape materialized and detached from the darkness. Olivia sat up and leaned forward, body rigid, hands clenched tight to the armrests.
“Did you see that?”
Liam stared, didn’t answer, and tried to make sense of the tangle of shapes. Again the shadow moved, and he saw a lone figure scamper around the back wheel of the Ford Raptor in front of them.
“Don’t move,” he whispered to Olivia and they watched as another man emerged from the shadows. He crept toward the driver’s-side door handle and hovered in silence. In unison and quite suddenly, the two men converged on the vehicle. Liam moved for his gun. Olivia stiffened.
“Don’t get involved,” she hissed. “You don’t know what they intend to do.“
“I know exactly what they intent to do. They intend to take that man’s truck.”
Liam watched and tensed as the man at the driver’s-side attempted to wrench open the door. He failed, lifted the butt of his gun, and slammed it into the window. Glass shattered and the gunman stepped up on the ledge of the truck, reached in, and fumbled at the lock on the interior. Liam felt frozen as the scene played out before him. God, how he was so damn sick of all of this shit—sick of the desperation, sick of the people. Sick of watching them take from others instead of finding ways to provide for themselves. Sick of the violence, sick of the savagery, sick of the profound disrespect. So sick of it all that he feared he might burst. His fingers clenched the steering wheel and he watched the men’s arms struggling through the window. Clearly the driver wasn’t giving in easily, but he was going to need help if the second man engaged.
Don’t just sit here, Liam thought suddenly. Pull the trigger!
“We’re taking the truck.”
The owner tumbled from the vehicle and advanced on the gunman. “I’ll be damned if I let you do that, you son of a bitch.”
“Liam!” Olivia repeated with a hiss as he slid off his seat and braced his hands against the door. “No! Don’t get involved!”
Funny she should say that, he thought with a smirk. Had she chosen not to get involved in that incident three years ago, they wouldn’t have Jeremy now. Pushing her protests to the back of his mind, he renewed his focus on the scene before him. Eyes trained on the dueling two men, Liam realized he’d forgotten the third till a scream pierced the air. From nowhere, the man materialized, rounded the front bumper and stomped toward his partner dragging a small girl in tow. Liam’s heart pinched when he saw her sobbing mother following close at his heels.
This wasn’t going to end well.
The gunman smiled and returned his gaze to the driver. “See? Like I said, we’re taking the truck.”
As if in answer, the gunman’s partner lifted the little girl and held her aloft. Her legs pumped furiously, as if she pedaled an invisible bicycle, her tiny fists clenched and beating at empty air. Liam stepped from the safety of the alcove of the door and lifted his gun.
