by Angela White
Chapter Twelve
The Doctor
February 11th
Rawlins, Wyoming
1
“You don’t know who to call, even if you fix it.”
Johnathan Harmon, MD, flinched at the sound of his wife’s voice echoing loudly across the dim, carpetless living room.
He put a hand to his chest, trying to get his breath.
“Sorry,” she added.
John smiled at her, thinking she had finally gained a little weight in the month they’d spent hiding in their home. Anne was probably half of his two hundred forty pounds, with hair still mostly brown instead of his salt and pepper. She was beautiful for fifty-eight. He hadn’t been as lucky.
“You did that a’purpose,” he accused with a grin in his voice.
Anne’s brown eyes flashing concern above fine age lines and she set the large afghan she was knitting on the recliner’s matching end table. “I had to. You’re so sad.”
John stared through the only window in the large two-story farmhouse that they hadn’t covered in layers of thick plastic. Stalling, he took off his glasses and laid them on the device that he didn’t know how to repair.
John frowned at the Discovery Channel special going on in their muddy yard. Their neighbor’s dog had collapsed and died near the barn yesterday. The collie’s beautiful coat was bloody from a gunshot, and the carcass was now a carpet of swarming, mutated ants. Their bloated bodies twitched in effort and obvious communication as they struggled to relocate the food.
Backdropped by a view of the Rocky Mountains that was hazy from the layer of grit in the darkening sky, the foraging ants were each the size of a quarter. They were the biggest John had seen around here yet, bodies constantly changing from all the contaminated carrion they were ingesting. All the nests were getting regular doses of contaminated Miracle-Gro from the chemicals, and John hated to think about what it was doing to the snakes and spiders. Once Nature finished cleaning up, leaving only bones, these predators would change to other food sources, like people, and though only time would tell, John was sure their bites would be poisonous. The death toll from this manmade hell wouldn’t end for a century or more. Everything had changed. It had been thirty-eight years since he and Anne were in the army, medics at the same MASH unit, but he had to remember what had kept him alive then, so they could use it now.
“We have to pack up and go. The weather’s not as bad now that almost two months have passed. We’ve cleaned out the reserves we had.”
John was sure he had caught her off guard with his words. He didn’t know yet where they would end up, or if they would even be able to make the trip. It definitely wouldn’t be a blow off. He only knew that their hometown of Rawlins–the place they had both been born–was no longer safe, and even if it were, the temperatures were still falling. They couldn’t stay here much longer or they’d stay forever.
The lonely echo of his wife’s shoes on the bare floor made John wonder what the footsteps sounded like as they floated down to the dark, flooded tunnels of their barricaded basement. Was it a dinner bell to those open dark ways and everything that might now be calling that nasty area home? They heard noises sometimes, and were never sure if it was the moment that they would have to defend themselves. They never went down there. They also didn’t take down the boards he had sealed the door with, only hammered the nails in regularly, but they did occasionally tense and glance that way. John was glad Anne knew how to use both the shotgun and the rifle he kept by her chair. Not that a firearm would be very effective against sewer rats.
“But why should we go, Johnnie? We get along here.”
“We’ve seen no signs of anyone coming to save us… And, because of the basement.”
Scratch...sniff…sniff.
As if to prove his point, they heard the curious, hungry rodents clearly. The sewer grates at the other end of the treeless land kept out the bigger problems, but the rat populations had come in by the hundreds after the war and he and his wife had had to seal off the unused parts of their home. The rodents were big, much too wide to get under the floors, but their pups would be small enough.
John expected to witness them in great numbers soon, considering they could have a litter each month.
“Where would we go? Other than those men with the guns, we ain’t seen a healthy person in nigh on two weeks.”
John forced his hand away from his aching stomach, gaze still on the yard. He wished that ugly green twilight sun would finish setting and hide the view, so Anne wouldn’t get upset.
“Johnnie?”
The thought of leaving their home obviously hadn’t occurred to her, was terrifying, and though he felt it too, the fear wasn’t strong enough to get John to change his mind. She had to do things his way now. Her life depended on it.
“To NORAD, for starters. We’ll surrender to the draft,” the graying sawbones said firmly, although he was almost sure they would find little at the Colorado complex.
“What if it’s all like here, or worse?”
She was referring to the dead pets, dead police, dead crops, and of course, dead friends and neighbors they had known all their lives. He knew the horrors were still fresh for her; especially the memory of passing the neighbor’s wrecked truck on the two-lane dirt road to their farm. Both doors were open, and they’d seen the bullet holes in the windshield as they returned from their burning office to avoid the panic gripping their town, their country. Anne had wanted to stop, but there hadn’t been a real reason to. The elderly couple was dead, brains blown all over the road.
“We’ll have to do some searching. Other healthy survivors are out there. I know it doesn’t feel that way when you look out the window, but there are. We have to find them.” He winced at his reference to the window.
“But we’re old, they won’t want us. Shouldn’t we stay here?”
“That, my dear Anne, is exactly what most people will do, and they will die. What the weather and disease don’t take, the gangs and starvation will. All these threats are lessened when humanity comes together. Despite the flaws, we are not better off without society.”
When she leaned toward him, tan slacks rustling, John gently surrounded her with his strong arms, hoping she wouldn’t notice his racing pulse. “You’re a nurse, I’m a doctor. It’s wrong of us to hide and deny them our help. They need us now more than ever.”
He kissed her wrinkled cheek. “Our age will make us more valuable because of all our experience.”
John now played his trump card without guilt, knowing her inability to get pregnant (which he believed to be his fault) would keep her from arguing more. Suddenly sorry he had never talked to her about adopting, John ignored the pain in his gut to say, “There are a lot of kids out there too, Anna, kids who are alone and hurting. They need us. Trust me, my sweet, I do this for you.”
“I do, Johnnie. You know that. I always have.”
John grit his teeth against a burning wave of pain that settled deep into his guts. “Good. We’ll leave this week.”
Anne turned her head, and John tensed, expecting a bad reaction as her eyes landed on the gruesome scene outside.
She shuddered, and he opened his mouth to comfort her, but she spoke first.
“I never did like that damned dog. It barked too much.”
Anne returned to her knitting, leaving him with a shocked look on his lightly bearded face. Even after all these years, she was still capable of surprising him, and he was happier than he could say that they had survived the actual war together. There was no one he would rather be with.
2
A while later, John was still at the window, big ants (and their dinner) gone, the freezing rain falling in yet another round. His mind was still on his wife, on the half-truths he’d told her. He never lied, but he often left things out and this time it was something huge. He would tell her soon, though. She had a right to know that this next year together would probably be their last.
John sig
hed. He had to get her to some kind of safety, and he had to do it now. He knew she would refuse to budge if he told her why they were really going.
Movement in the dimness caught John’s attention, mostly because there was so little of it now, and he watched a shadow limp across their driveway, keeping to the line of dying bushes around the edge of the long porch. He and Anne had seen a lot of radiation victims right after the war, most in the early stages where travel was still possible, and John tensed, expecting one of the walking dead.
Tall and thin with dirty curls under goggles, the young woman wore a muddy coat that came to the tops of her boots. Should he call to her? She looked healthy other than the slight limp–normal.
Before John could decide, she turned toward the window.
Her mouth opened in fear, panicked feet slipping on muddy debris, and then she was gone, disappearing into the hazy darkness.
John started to go to the door anyway and had to sit back down, grimacing at another sharp lance of burning pain. He rubbed his swollen stomach, wishing the pills would hurry. He needed a lab that still had power so he could run some basic tests. It would be easier to plan his wife’s future if he knew how long he had to live before the cancer killed him.
John sighed again. He would insist, something he didn’t usually do, and they would leave in the next few days. He wouldn’t stop until he found someone to protect his sweet, gentle mate. Anne would never last in this hard, new world alone.
Glancing away from a missed ornament, a gaudy, grinning reindeer lying under the couch, Anne tied the last knot of string on the blanket and then began to put away her supplies.
She didn’t scan her husband again–didn’t need to see him to know he was in pain and gunny sacking to keep her from finding out. He could try to distract her with talk of kids all he wanted–she did feel a bit of regret that she had never been able to bear him a son and hadn’t wanted to take one in that wasn’t theirs–but it didn’t keep her from noticing things. Something was wrong.
His eating and sleeping habits had changed drastically, and she had seen the empty pill bottles in the trash. He was protecting her, like he always did with the bad things, and while she would do what he wanted and pretend that she didn’t have a clue, Anne knew. He was sick and hunting for a place to leave her.
John wanted to be alone when he died, had said it many times. He claimed it would hurt too much to say goodbye, and while she would do anything for him, she simply couldn’t allow that. Leaving him alone to die would be a betrayal of their life together, and now, after all that had happened, any betrayal of life was wrong. When they went, it would be together.
3
Nearly a week later
“Go faster, John! Faster!”
“Hold on!”
The horrified doctor swung the wagon into the dark woods that lined the road and killed the engine a few yards in, glad for the heavy fog and cover of night.
“Get down! Low as you can!”
The elderly couple shoved themselves into the floorboard as best they could. The hurting man stifled a groan at the cramped position, glasses sliding from his face as the engines grew closer.
Pop-Pop!
Sscreeechhh!
Headlights flashed their way, and they tried to get lower, the gunshots and engines upon them as the storm rolled overhead.
“I love you, Johnnie. Have since we was kids.”
A cold hand locked onto his hairy wrist through the sleeve of his plaid shirt, and John covered it with his own shaking fingers, afraid he might wet himself despite all his efforts not to.
“And I adore you, my sweet.”
The large group of cars began to fly by, and the couple froze, listening to the shots and wincing at each whine and ricochet.
Drunken shouts echoed, along with thuds of metal hitting, scraping. Rain thumped on the roof, a tire squealed, and a bullet pinged off their bumper, making them both jump. As their grip on each other tightened, the couple knew the fog was all that was keeping them from certain, painful death.
Long minutes later, the gang was out of sight, their noises fading to silence. Terrified it was a trick, that they’d been spotted, John kept them still for another fifteen minutes, only moving when the bands of pain around his gut caused tears to slip from beneath his eyes against his will.
Driving without lights, John took them west on 40, away from the gang. They would still go to Cheyenne Mountain. They would just take a different path.
They had been on the road for five days now, and John had been careful to use ways that didn’t require much physical labor. They weren’t spring chickens, and he wasn’t taking any more chances than he had to. So far, they were a bit stiff and a little sore, but had agreed they both felt more alert than they had in years.
“How long will this add?”
John slid his glasses into place. “Couple hours. We have to get off these frontage roads, but we’ll still make Routt Ridge by dawn.”
Anne nodded, wrinkled fingers turning on the heat and defroster before digging into the bag behind his seat. “Here, take these.”
She dropped two white pills into his wrinkled hand and held out an open mason jar of clear liquid. John took them gratefully. His gut was on fire, blood in his veins pounding in time with his pain.
Anne flipped on the CB and went back to checking channels. He was her man, her love, and she wouldn’t let him suffer. She had a good idea now what was wrong, had been a nurse long enough to read the signs that he couldn’t hide on this journey, and it was a secret between them no more.
John scanned the foggy landscape, able to see faint outlines of dude ranches and hunting lodges. Other than those, and the occasional farm or dead vehicle in the road, there was almost nothing around here. It had been isolated before. Now, it was desolate.
Wind howling through the shadowy darkness, they traveled steadily through the foggy drizzle for the next four hours.
4
John made good time, but when he saw the next set of bodies and cars that were still smoking, he worried over it. This had been a group of travelers, or maybe a large family and the gang had killed them all. The trail was indeed leading straight to NORAD. Had the gang been there too?
The old man lurking inside winced as another bump jarred him against the sharp spring sticking out of the seat, and John shifted, trying to avoid it as the wagon chugged along the smoldering streets of Granby, Colorado.
He hoped Anne would stay asleep despite the rough ride, and he tried to take it easy. The gentle snoring coming from the blanket-filled passenger seat gave him hope she might sleep through this particular stretch of road. One glance out the foggy window and she would know they were in danger again.
Signs of a battle littered the area, and the winners had marked their victory with devastation. Homes were in flames–even the pine trees on front lawns were burning, their cheery Christmas lights melting onto their branches–cars were rammed through buildings, and lifeless bodies, even horses, lay where they’d been shot. The blood hadn’t dried yet, and the doctor was horrified to detect their tires leaving bloody tracks, but he could do nothing about it. The puddles were unavoidable.
Even with the windows up, the smell was revolting: blood, shit, and charred skin. When he lowered the glass, stopping to listen for survivors, he heard only wind and crackling flames, nothing else. The equality state was no longer that. Now, only the strongest would survive.
And those with them, John thought, scanning his wife before sending his attention back to the dangerous road in front of them. He and Anne had been that type in their youth, but now he could only hope to find someone who would protect her.
Pushing away the worry, John tried to concentrate on the debris-laden road but found his eyes flicking off the horror to peer at the sky. He hated it that there was no moon and no stars, just grit and thick, nasty smelling smoke.
Like a damned episode of the Twilight Zone, he complained silently, grateful that the pills were now easi
ng the agony.
John continued to survey for signs of survivors, but the gang had been thorough, and after a long minute, he drove on. Granby was a cemetery without a marker.
5
Dawn was starting to break as they cleared the city limits, the dusty sky barely hinting at light, and while John knew he couldn’t go another full day without sleep, they weren’t stopping near here, not even for a stretch. Those men might–
“Want me to drive?” Anne asked, making him jump. “I’ve got my glasses.”
He smiled tightly as he loosened the belt over his swollen abdomen. “Yes, but not yet. We’ll switch after brunch, and I’ll snooze in your warm spot.”
She smiled back as she adjusted her silk shawl tighter over her sweater, then shut her eyes and lay on the pillow against the locked door. Instead of giving him hell about not telling her he was sick, she hadn’t even mentioned it, just adjusted to care for him as they traveled. She was handling the trip well. Had she too been a little bored, a little restless?
Hell of a way to have an adventure, he thought. A bite to the wind said they would be running the heater all day. John was glad to have the cans of gas on the luggage rack. Three hours at a station with a foot pump had given him a nasty backache, but they were good for two weeks of driving, and he hoped to discover a safe place long before it ran out.
Along with the gang they had hidden from, there had also been other dangers on this trip, like the radiation victim that had snuck up on them in the fog three days ago and almost got the door open before John could get the wagon into drive.
Talk about taking some years off my life, John thought with a touch of bitterness. The weather was also hard to drive in, but at least the acid rain would force the walking dead to hole up somewhere and start dying. With the open sores and lack of reasoning skills, the zombies would go to ground and not come up.
The doctor inched along without lights toward the government compound, casting his eyes over the tarp in the rear of the wagon that hid their belongings–the last remnants of their life together. He desperately wanted to find a group of people like themselves…different. John knew they were out there, gathering somewhere; he could feel the pull of their calls but saw no one, and the old Ford kept on chugging.
