Mom cocked her head. “So you want people to be armed?”
“The right people, yes,” he said.
Dad nodded imperceptibly, and eventually uncrossed his arms and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I have a conceal and carry permit. I’ve got a Glock and a hunting rifle. Also a bb gun, if that counts.”
“Of course it counts.” The woman was so serious. I couldn’t help myself.
“Yeah, Dad, you can shoot your eye out.”
Rylen gave a cough-snort and wiped his nose. Nobody else in the room laughed.
The man stared at Dad. “And where do you keep your guns, sir?”
“In my home,” Dad said. The smartass.
“Are they secured?”
“Of course.”
“And do you bring your Glock with you when you leave the house?”
“I do.” Dad’s face had gotten tighter and tighter with the questioning. Grandpa looked like a frozen statue of terror, and Mom and Abuela had also become awkwardly stiff.
“Any other firearms besides the three you listed?” the man asked.
I had to hand it to our family. We played that moment very cool and respected Grandpa’s demand to keep his secret. We all shook our heads casually, though my family’s minds were probably just as full of Grandpa’s insane gun collection as mine. And it was bizarre, because Dad was the most honest, upstanding citizen I’d ever known. He’d once brought me back into a store to pay for a fifty-cent piece of candy he didn’t realize I’d taken until we were in the car. And then he’d counseled me about right and wrong the entire ride home. If anyone followed the laws, it was Dad.
So why didn’t he, or any of us, tell about the other guns? Was it because Grandpa would most definitely lose his shit and be carted away? Or because we were embarrassed about the extremist supplies on our property? Or maybe because all of my family felt the same amount of strange discomfort around these DRI people and just wanted them to leave? I knew they were only doing their job, but some of it felt invasive. Whatever the reason, we didn’t tell. And they finally left.
Grandpa collapsed into a chair, gripping the arms and breathing hard. “It’s happening.”
“Nothing is happening, Pop,” Dad said, giving his shoulder a pat and squeeze. But even Dad’s eyes looked troubled.
I looked at Rylen, who also appeared uneasy as he looked back at me.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Mom said. “Government stuff is always tedious and detailed.”
I let out a breath. I wanted to get away from Rylen’s warm eyes, and go where I felt needed. “I’m going to the hospital, but they’ll probably send me out on runs. If you need me, tell someone at the hospital and they’ll get a message to me.”
I gave Mom a hug and she told me to be careful, then I was off.
I listened to the AM radio news on the way to work. The United States was in ruins. Los Angeles had, in fact, been leveled by a nuke, which caused high-magnitude earthquakes to snake violently up the California coast. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the kind of devastation they described. Whole cities flattened. Tsunami-type waves and flooding. Bridges, roads, airports, all in rubble.
In the northern states there weren’t many bombings, but the biological warfare wreaked evil havoc. States like the Dakotas were facing a toxin in the water that was causing boils on people’s skin, and in their mouths, throats, and stomachs. New Englanders seemed to be facing some sort of medieval bubonic plague. In southern states, like Louisiana and Alabama, the crops and livestock were dying from a mysterious virus, cutting off the local food supply to all those people. I was trembling by the time I got to work and terrified to turn on a faucet.
Our small hospital looked like a warzone, and we were in nowhere near as bad of a predicament as the other cities I’d been hearing about.
Medics from the closer cities surrounding Vegas took over the efforts there while smaller towns like ours sent a handful of helpers and used the rest of our personnel to try and pick up the messy pieces. Panic does crazy things to people. Overdosing, alcohol poisoning, attempted suicide, fighting . . . the hospital was packed. There weren’t enough rooms. EMT staff were going down the line of people on the sidewalk outside. Tents with cots were going up in the parking lot. Generators were being used for the most dire emergencies, but we were asked to save electricity because the generators weren’t meant for prolonged use.
I was a stickler for sterilization, so these were not optimal working conditions, but it’s crazy how quickly you adjust when you have to. I kept a box of sterile, antibacterial wipes by my side, and of course changed gloves between each person. If the glove supply ran out, I was screwed.
It was late in the day when the first fever/rash combo came in. A fever and rash was not uncommon, of course, but this rash wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen. The woman’s arms were spotted with dark red, raised welts that seemed to cover her whole body. It looked like Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, a tick-borne bacterial infection I’d only seen in textbooks.
“When did this rash begin, ma’am?” I asked.
Her voice was raspy. “The fever started last night, and the rash this morning. I put some cortisone cream on it and took a nap. When I woke it was worse, and it itches.” She let out a moan. “I’m sore all over.”
Julian, who was working on the man ahead of me, looked over at her. We met eyes, and I could see he was as nervous as me about what this could be.
“We’re going to run some bloodwork,” I told the woman. “Sit tight.”
I ran to get a blood tech. When I came back I saw another woman down the line with the same rash on her arms. She had a toddler boy with her. Fear clawed at my belly.
“There’s another one,” I whispered to Julian.
“Get Boss Lady,” he said.
While the technician was taking blood, I wove in and out of the people and into the building to find my supervisor. It was stifling inside the ER. I found her at the desk, looking frazzled as she spoke to another nurse.
“I’m afraid we’ve got bio warfare victims coming in,” I told her. She didn’t ask any questions, just followed me quickly to the line outside on the sidewalk. The moment she saw the women’s faces and arms she muttered, “Shit. We can run the bacterial tests here, but I’ll have to send off to check for viruses or toxins, and that could take days.”
“Maybe the DRI could get the tests done sooner?” I asked.
She nodded. “I’ll ask. In the meantime, I want everyone with these symptoms put in a separate tent.”
Julian stepped up, having finished with his patient. “I’m on it.”
Our boss took off to find one of the DRI who’d been nosing around the hospital all day, and Julian and I went to clear out a tent so we could bring the women in. The nurses and doctor working in there were not happy about having to move, but when I mentioned biological warfare, they packed up real quick.
We brought in the women, and my heart sank when a teen boy with the same spots came in, too. This was not good. Boss Lady rushed in with a suit-wearing DRI woman, and they began questioning the patients, all of whom had drank unfiltered, unboiled tap water in the past twenty-four hours.
Julian and I stood to the side, watching. I glanced at him and found his normally freckled skin to be a grayish palor, his cheeks sunken. I wondered if that’s how I looked too.
“Have you eaten anything today?” I asked. I hadn’t, and now that I stopped working for a second I noticed the dizziness in my head and gnawing in my gut.
“I tried to eat a protein bar,” he said. “But it tasted like Ebola.”
I looked at his unsmiling face and was horrified when something cracked inside me and I let out an uncontrollable burst of laughter. Julian pressed his lips together. I covered my mouth as the mirth continued to bubble out of me at its own accord. Everyone in the tent turned to glare at my insensitive outburst. I couldn’t hold it back—I was about to blow like a kid with the giggles in church. I rushed out of the tent with Julian o
n my heels, heading toward the parking lot, and collapsed between two cars where my inappropriate laughter could be hidden from the world. Julian fell to his knees next to me, and we laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe.
It tasted like Ebola . . . “You asshole,” I sputtered, whacking his arm.
He pulled a bent chocolate-peanut butter bar from his pocket. “Want one?”
No, I really didn’t after that disgusting comment, but my body needed it. I took it and opened the wrapper, forcing a tentative bite. He waggled his eyebrows as I chewed. It was too creamy.
“It’s like pustules,” I said, and we fell over laughing again. Eventually we relaxed, and he took out his last protein bar, eating it in two giant bites. He was thoughtful as he chewed, as if contemplating what it tasted like.
“Don’t say it,” I warned. “Whatever you’re thinking, just don’t.”
He grinned and got to his feet, helping me up. “If there’s really something in the water here, we’re in for hell, Tate.” All traces of humor were gone now.
I brushed off my bottom and sighed. We needed to get back to work, but I was so tired. A few rows over, the DRI woman was walking quickly with a DRI man to a white van. They were as golden and good-looking as the ones who’d come to our house. I don’t know why that was so weird to me. She carried a small kit, probably with the blood samples. Again, that nervous feeling thickened like mud inside of me.
I inclined my head toward them and Julian looked. “Ever notice how the DRI peeps are all so—”
BOOM.
I had no idea what had happened, but I’d been blown sideways onto the pavement. Julian’s warm body was braced over top of mine, my arm burning where I’d hit the ground and skidded several feet. An ear-splitting fizzle filled the air and then the loudest, longest crashing sound I’d ever heard.
“Go, go!” Julian yelled. We both jumped up and sprinted, partially squatting, deeper into the parking lot, as a giant cloud of dust rolled over top of us. I balled up behind a van, and Julian hunkered next to me.
A series of bangs sounded from the direction of the hospital, like rocks falling, and a sprinkling clatter of rubble hitting the ground and cars. I pulled up my legs and grasped them, hiding my face against the cloud of dust. It felt like forever before it quieted and warm air ceased rushing from under the cars.
“Oh, God.” I was afraid to look behind us. My arm stung and throbbed. “Julian . . .”
Julian didn’t move. He was panting beside me, then gave a giant cough. His body shuddered as he stood and slowly turned to look toward the hospital. “Holy shit, Tate.”
It had been awhile since the scene of an accident made me ill, but when I finally stood and peered through the dust and smoke to see the twisted, smoking remains of the hospital and flattened, scorched tents, I bent over and retched up that entire protein bar.
All those people—there couldn’t possibly be survivors. Even those outside would have been sent flying from the power of the blast. Down the road the white van with DRI sped away. I hoped they were getting help.
Julian and I took off at a sprint through the cars, many of which had been slammed together and dented from debris. One was on its side. We were so lucky we weren’t crushed. We made it to the outskirts of the blast and searched for bodies. Where the sidewalk used to be was now covered in rubble.
Julian ran with me to the edge of the scorched tent, and together we lifted the tarp, grunting as we yanked the stakes from the dirt. We got it high enough to see five bodies in a pile that had been thrown to the back of the tent in the blast, bloodied but whole.
“Check them!” Julian said, holding up the flap.
I bent and pushed my way under. The first body was the teen boy with the rash. I felt guilty for hesitating to touch him, but I didn’t have my gloves on. He didn’t appear to be breathing. I lay my head on his covered chest and listened. No heartbeat. No breathing. I crawled to the next. Both women were dead. And then I sucked in a breath. Underneath the second woman was her toddler, also dead. His face looked sweet and tender, like he was sleeping. My eyes burned as I moved to the last body . . . Boss Lady.
No . . . I pressed my fingers to her neck. No pulse. “Please,” I whispered.
“Any survivors?” Julian called. His voice was strained from the effort of holding up the heavy material.
I couldn’t answer. A giant lump had lodged in my throat. I crawled back to him and shook my head. He dropped the flap and put his hands on his knees, breathing hard.
I stood up and looked around. An eerie silence fell, and then the remains of the hospital seemed to become a live thing, hissing breaths of smoke, shifting, creaking. Julian grabbed my arm.
“We need to move.”
We backed away.
“Let’s see if any of the ambulances made it,” I said. Together we jogged a circle around the building until we came to the back. The five ambulances were all either crushed or overturned. A sense of despair bloomed around my heart and clutched it, threatening to squeeze the life from me. We walked as close as we could safely get to the building, listening for voices, though I had no idea how we’d get any trapped people out of there.
“Who would do this?” I whispered. I just couldn’t fathom the madness behind this. “What if they’re still here? Watching us?” Julian and I both swung our heads around. I was half-expecting to see evil eyes staring out at us from behind vehicles, but not a soul was in sight. Just a hospital filled with lifeless bodies, and manicured trees, now mangled and bent.
Inside that building had been nurses and doctors—my friends and coworkers—and innocent people, all with families at home, expecting them to return. What if Julian and I hadn’t had our stupid bout of laughter? We would have been killed in that tent. I should be dead! My parents, Tater, Rylen . . . how would they have felt to hear that news? My eyes burned, and I wiped them with the back of my shaking hand.
Sirens sounded from up the road. Police cars and firetrucks, followed by the black government sedans the DRI were now driving. Julian and I ran back around the building to head them off as they arrived.
We answered their questions as best as we could, and we told them that DRI had taken samples of possible biological warfare victims. At that point, I noticed a stream of new cars trickling their way down the roads and into the parking lot. When spots began to fill, they parked on the medians and in the grassy areas.
Julian muttered a curse as people began ambling toward us, covered in whelps, staring at the dead hospital in confusion and panic.
“They’re infected,” I told the nearest cop. The DRI man beside us heard me and ran to his car, popping the trunk.
“We’ve got to steer them in a unified direction.” He pulled out a white cardboard sign with stakes in the bottom, like election signs, which he wrote instructions on. Then he pointed to the elementary school next door. “Send all possible infected persons to the elementary school for treatment. I’ll notify the DRI that more hands are needed here since the hospital staff . . .” he gazed in the direction of the hospital, but didn’t finish. My gut clenched.
As he jogged off to put up the signs, I stared. “He had signs ready?”
The cop shrugged. “I guess they were anticipating the worst.”
The sun was setting. A pink hue hovered over the mountainous landscape, the beauty clashing with the ugliness of our circumstances. People were crying in the parking lot, upset by the sight of the hospital ruins, not knowing what to do. I felt like I should somehow let my family know I was okay, but I didn’t have the time to make the forty minute ride home and then back. I would be so tired. And I was one of the only medics on hand. Julian had already made himself useful, guiding people to the school.
I took a deep breath of smoky air and joined him.
It was almost midnight before I made my way to Mom’s car to drive home. I knew better than to drive when my eyes were heavy slits that I couldn’t keep open. So I lay back the seat, just for a quick nap, and then I’d go hom
e.
Seconds later, I was hard asleep with visions of rashes dancing in my head. And across my skin.
Loud, rapid rapping made me scream at the top of my lungs, echoing in the small space. I sat up in a panic, confused as hell about where I was in the pitch dark. When I saw the crazed face in the window, I screamed again, then covered my mouth as Dad’s features became clear. I yanked open my door and tumbled out into his arms.
“Jesus Christ almighty, Amber!” He squeezed me tightly, and I felt his chest heaving. “I thought you were dead!” Dad let out a sob that broke me. The wails that rose from deep in my soul were unlike any sound I’d ever made. It was like the laughter earlier that day—I couldn’t control it. I cried in my father’s arms as he kissed my head over and over, murmuring, “It’s okay, baby girl. I’ve got you.”
It wasn’t until I finally pulled myself together and pulled away that I saw Rylen beside us, leaning against the car, watching me with this look of combined relief and heartbreak. My heart galloped. I quickly wiped my face.
“Rylen’s gonna drive you home,” Dad said.
“I can drive—” I began.
“Ry will drive.” Dad turned toward his vehicle as if to say end of discussion.
Rylen walked me around to the passenger side and opened the door. I slid inside and he closed the door. When he got behind the wheel, he didn’t start the car right away. He stared over his shoulder at the hospital. Even in the dark, I could make out the moisture in his eyes.
“When we saw it, Pepper . . .”
The sharp bloom around my heart squeezed, pricking me with thorns. They’d really thought I was dead.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
He grabbed my hand and held tight, his eyes fierce on mine. “I’ve never been so happy as when I saw you laying in here.” He let out a dry laugh and his chin quivered. So help me, if Rylen cried I would break all over again. But he swallowed and cleared his throat, sniffing once and taking his hand from mine to face the steering wheel again. We were quiet a long time.
Unknown (Unknown Series Book 1) Page 11
