A Single Light

by Tosca Lee

  The hospital rooms are filled with people sitting on mats and sleeping bags. Women holding children, older adults gathered around small end tables or stretched out on the floor side by side next to kids and teenagers like multigeneration families crammed into a one-room apartment.

  Static. “Everything okay?” Chase.

  “Lot of people here,” I say. “Are they waiting for vaccines?” They can’t all be patients; they look relatively healthy, all things considered.

  “There are no vaccines,” the doctor says, sounding weary as he stops at the nurses’ station and pulls out a rolling chair. “Won’t be for a while. It takes too long to produce antigens for a new disease that we don’t even know where it came from, let alone to mass-produce it.”

  I hesitate. How can that be? It’s been six months since the National Guard delivered Ashley and the samples to Omaha. “I heard they were working on it at the University of Nebraska Medical Center.”

  “You heard wrong,” he says simply, reaching for a prescription pad.

  But I know for a fact I’m right.

  I just can’t say so.

  His certainty, though, is disconcerting. “Are you sure?” I ask.

  He nods. “Guy in town is a ham radio operator. They’re the only people who know anything. Some of them post written updates on telephone poles, but so far no news on a dementia flu vaccine or the aid Germany and Korea and a bunch of other countries pledged in food and supplies—which is probably rotting in our own ports while we wait for fuel to distribute it.

  “Last time I saw anything come this way was when a train of Humvees passed through on the way to Cheyenne last February and dropped off a batch of flu vaccines from last year. We administered them anyway, thinking they’d offer some protection. The problem is, they told anyone who asked that the hospitals had vaccines. We ran out in a day.

  “But people continued to show up for weeks, some of them having walked for days to get here. And then they had nowhere to go and no energy or food to get there. So they camped out on the sidewalks and in the parking lot, waiting for the next batch to come. Finally, things got so bad they rioted, took over the north wing, looted everything. Fire broke out, forty patients died.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, still wondering what’s happening with the vaccine. “What about the police? The National Guard?”

  “Do you see any police around here?” Dr. Banerjee says with a mirthless laugh. “They’re all gone. The National Guard pulled out of most major cities when martial law failed.”

  “Pulled out to where?”

  “To protect the ports,” he says, and then studies me. “Which is also why the first vaccines won’t be coming here, but going to the military, government, and whatever first responders we’ve got left. Where’d you come from?”

  “Uh, Wyoming,” I say. “Near Green River. Have been holed up for months.”

  “What kind of shape is Cheyenne in?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t know. We steered clear. We did come through a small town with no one in it. I just assumed everyone had gone to bigger cities for food and vaccines.”

  “A lot of people did. And never came back. You don’t want to be in a city. If the street gangs don’t get you, starvation will. If you’re lucky, you’ll die of dysentery. Most people these days are fleeing to Canada. Especially now that Mexico’s got their wall up.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, yeah, they built a wall—to keep us out. Have started shooting anyone who gets through. Coyotes are making a killing smuggling people out of the country. But I guess Mexico City’s really bad now, a lot of people dying. Colombia’s shut its borders, so the ones who can afford it are fleeing at night by boat to Venezuela. But anyone who’s smart and has the skills to do it will stay rural and live off the land. Worst things anyone has to worry about out here are sick people, starvation, and the witch hunts.”

  “Witch hunts?”

  “Anyone acting a little off. Or just not completely normal.”

  I think back to the note Otto’s father penned before shooting himself. Wonder how many people might, with a cursory glance, mistake his difference for sickness. Miss the purity of his humor and empathic eye.

  “What do they do to them?” I ask.

  “Shoot them. Or lock them up. Take them to a crazy colony.”

  “Crazy colony?”

  “I guess it makes people feel better, since they’re not killing them directly.” He shakes his head. “Okay, show me what you’re looking for again.”

  I unfurl the paper I’ve been clutching all this time, spread it out on the desk in front of him. He glances at it, then lifts his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “So explain to me why you want these. Because maybe you don’t need IV antibiotics but something else. What’s it for?”

  “A friend. She cut herself. And it, uh, got bad, and she took some antibiotics that she had, but they didn’t help. And now she’s sick, and feverish, and . . .” And she only has hours to live.

  He holds up the paper. “Who wrote these down for you?”

  I can’t tell him we have our own doctor. “Her husband was an MD before he died. I looked her symptoms up in one of his books. I think it’s cellulitis. This was what it said.”

  Hiss of static. “You know, you’re scaring me,” Chase says. “You used to be a horrible liar.”

  “Is there green pus from the wound site?” the doctor says, setting his glasses back.

  I nod.

  “How long has it been?”

  I shake my head faintly, the days running together. Hardly able to think from lack of sleep, my arms leaden, legs heavy as cement blocks.

  “Five days. Maybe six?”

  He rolls back from the desk. “My advice: go back to Green River. If you had a place with vegetation and water in Wyoming, you never should have left. There’s a good chance your friend is already dead, and even if she’s not, she will be by the time you get back. It’s not worth risking your life to get these,” he says, tapping the page.

  “My sister’s holding down the place,” I say quickly. “My boyfriend and I brought my friend in, she’s nearby. We just need to know where to find what she needs.”

  He blows out a sigh. Slowly shakes his head.

  “You need a city big enough to have a hospital. But the bigger the city, the more dangerous it is and the more likely that everything’s gone. That rules out Denver.”

  Denver? Even if the medicine was there, Julie doesn’t have that kind of time!

  I look around, trying to think. Through the break in the counter I see an older man crawl out of a crate the size of a large doghouse.

  “What about a veterinarian?” I say suddenly. “There’s farms everywhere out here. Would animal antibiotics work?”

  The doctor throws up his hands. “Don’t you think we tried that ourselves? There’s nothing left. The veterinarians have all traded what they had for food or been outright robbed. I know of at least one animal doctor who was killed for the medicine in his vehicle.” He pauses. “I assume you have a car?”

  “A car? No.” I shake my head.

  Static. “I’m working on it,” Chase says.

  “How did you get here?” Dr. Banerjee asks, looking at me strangely.

  “We biked. Pulling our friend on a trailer.”

  His brows draw together and he shakes his head. “It’s impossible.”

  “What is?” I say.

  “You cannot get anywhere that will have what you need in time. I’m sorry.”

  Something within me sinks. But another part of me refuses to accept what he’s saying.

  I lean over the desk until I’m inches from his face. He jerks back.

  “I didn’t ask if it was possible,” I say evenly. “I asked where to get the medicine I need. I’ve given you the food. Now tell me where to go.” I straighten. “Please.”

  He gives a curt nod. “All right. Then you need to get to North Platte.”

  “How far is that?”
>
  “About a hundred and twenty miles.”

  My heart stops.

  “It’s the closest city with a hospital.”

  “North Platte hospital.”

  “No. Stay away from the hospital; if it’s functioning at all it’ll be overrun with sick, the pharmacy under guard if it isn’t depleted.”

  “Then why do I need a city with a hospital?” I say, impatience—or desperation—lacing my words.

  “Because it means there should be a VNA office.”

  “VNA . . . ?”

  “Visiting Nurse Association. An organization of nurses who treat patients at home—including IV therapy. Because it’s a business office and not a clinic or pharmacy, most people wouldn’t think to loot it except other medical professionals. It’s where I’d go if I were desperate.”

  He slides to the desk. Pulls a pen from his pocket and writes:

  Trimethoprim

  Sulfamethoxazole

  He points to the pad. “If you can’t get the ones on your list, look for these two, which are basically the ingredients of Bactrim. Or, if all else fails . . .” He writes:

  Dicloxacillin

  “It won’t work on drug-resistant staph, so if that’s what your friend has, it won’t help. But if it’s all you can find, you’ll have a fifty-fifty chance.”

  It’s more than Julie has now.

  “Thank you,” I say, as he tears off the page. He sets it beside the rumpled one Rima gave me and then frowns.

  I follow his gaze, searching for the thing that’s snagged his attention.

  And then notice the line printed across the bottom of Rima’s note.

  BOONE STEEL WORKS, ROAD 38, GURLEY, NE

  He turns, seems to take me in as though really looking at me for the first time—from my cheeks to my sunburned arms, which are far too pink for someone who’s biked all the way from Wyoming, where she’s been living off the land the last six months.

  His eyes narrow.

  “He said they’d all be dead by now.”

  It sounds like the non sequitur of a lunatic, except that he’s been lucid this entire time.

  “Who?” I ask, my pulse ratcheting a notch.

  “The people in the silo.”

  Otto’s scribbled words flash before my mind’s eye:

  Every 1 know Noah.

  The doctor rises. I take a step back.

  “Do they still have food? More MREs like these? Medicine! What medicines do they have?” he demands, his eyes suddenly alive and glinting like shards of onyx.

  Static. “Wynter, what’s going on in there?” Chase.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I grab the pages on the desk.

  Chase, in my ear: “Wynter, get out.”

  “What’s your name?” he says, moving toward me, as though unable to help himself.

  I skim around the counter as the doctor shouts: “Vin! Gabe! Stop her. Don’t let her leave!”

  I’m running full tilt for the door when they both step out of the waiting area before it.

  I wheel around. Bolt back the other way. Veer left this time—

  And then realize that the corridors form a square, and this one rejoins the main hallway.

  “Chase, I need another way out!” I say, doubling back as Vin and Gabe come around the nurses’ station.

  “Wynter? What’s going on?” Delaney.

  I grab the counter, cut past the long desk to where Dr. Banerjee is waiting to intercept me.

  I run right at him. Knock his arm aside. He grabs me by the shirt with the other hand. Threads pop, the collar choking. I swing toward him, wrap my arm around his as my free hand flies toward his neck. Hook his leg and send him falling backward.

  And then Vin and Gabe are on us, Vin leaping over the doctor as I sprint down the hall.

  5 P.M.

  * * *

  “He knows,” I pant.

  “Knows what?” Delaney says.

  “That we came from the silo.”

  “What? How?”

  “There’s an exit to the garage on the north side,” Chase says.

  North. I glance at the window as I run past a room. See the set of doors at the end of the hall. Seize the edge of a rolling tray serving as part of a tarp shelter and knock it to the floor behind me. Same thing with a metal chair. One of the guys goes down. Someone screams. I don’t know who, am too busy tearing off a tarp, throwing a crate of knickknacks—anything I can reach—down in my wake.

  I get to the doors, fumble with the lock as one of the guys grabs my hair.

  My head snaps back.

  “You ain’t leavin’ yet,” Vin says.

  I step back to keep from falling. Pivot round, nearly going to a knee.

  Ram my fist into his groin.

  Vin drops.

  A second later, I’m running past an elevator.

  A metallic thud sounds down the corridor like someone banging an aluminum bat against a wall.

  “Is that you?” I say, breathing hard.

  “Yes. Keep coming,” Chase says, striking faster.

  I reach a set of double doors. See Chase through one of the small windows, Otto behind him, sketchbook under his arm. I unlatch the door to the right and shove it open.

  Chase slams it closed behind me and rams a lug wrench through the handles.

  “Where’d you get that?” I say. He nods toward a nearby car—an old silver Honda with a broken driver’s side window. It’s one of at least twenty cars on this level. Our packs and the gas can sit beside it.

  Movement through the window. Vin and the doctor running toward the doors.

  “Come on,” Chase says.

  He goes to the Honda, loads the gas can in the trunk. The doors of the medical center rattle behind us.

  Otto points to himself and then the front seat.

  “Sure,” I say, grabbing our packs and climbing in back. The upholstery smells like mold and fast food. And sure enough, there’s a shriveled french fry on the floor.

  Only then do I notice there’s a screwdriver protruding from the ignition. Chase turns the handle. The car starts.

  “North Platte?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  We head to the garage exits, one of which is blocked by a truck with its hood up. As we pass through the second, I notice a figure bent over the engine. A man.

  He lifts his head as we drive past. Blood running down his chin, a hose in his mouth.

  “Was he—” I stop.

  “Eating car parts?” Chase says weirdly.

  “So, guys,” Delaney says. “Preston’s calling a meeting to decide what to do.”

  “What to do?” I say.

  “We can’t stay here. Not if people think we have supplies. Better to take them with us than get killed for them.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, pulling off my gloves and rubbing my eyes. “This is my fault.”

  “No, it’s not,” she says, sounding tired. “No one wants to see Julie die. But you’re going to have to figure out what to do when you get back. How you’re going to move her, where you’ll go.”

  “We can’t,” I say. “Not till she’s better.”

  But even as I say it I realize she won’t be better for days. Maybe longer.

  “I don’t think you’ll have a choice,” she says. “A few of them are talking about heading out tonight.”

  “Tonight? Where are they going to go? There’s no cars in Gurley, at least that we saw.”

  “Karam’s organizing a search party to some nearby farms. To look for vehicles since we still have fuel. A few others are planning to walk to Dalton.”

  But if Karam goes . . . “Rima isn’t leaving, though—is she? She can’t!”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Tell them not to do anything till we get back,” I say. “The doctor at the med center only now figured it out. There’s no way any of them are going to get there until—” I try to calculate, but my brain isn’t working right. “At least five hours—six
. Assuming they know where the Peterson place is. You’ve got enough people to patrol it and weapons to defend it. Even without electricity there’s no reason to leave yet.”

  “There’s something else,” she says.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Ezra’s sick.”

  I look blankly around me in the backseat. “Sick . . . ”

  “He has it. Sha’Neal’s beside herself.”

  “How’s that even possible?” Chase says.

  But then I know. The crash site. The pilot’s blood was all over it at one point.

  My hands go cold.

  Ezra was in the infirmary.

  “Where is he now?” I ask. “Where are the girls? You have to move them. You have to tell them not to touch—”

  “Rima quarantined his bay and moved Julie to the women’s dorm. The girls are with her upstairs. They’re moving all the medical supplies upstairs.” Delaney hesitates a moment and says, “They’re talking about leaving him.”

  “How? Locked in the infirmary?” Chase says.

  “With a gun.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Tell them not to do anything until—actually, let me talk to Preston.”

  “Hold on.”

  A hundred and twenty miles. Nearly two hours to get to North Platte. That’s four hours total, assuming we find the VNA quickly. A half hour to find and get to the VNA, then. Four and a half hours—and that’s with a car.

  “What kind of gas mileage does a car like this get?” I ask.

  “Thirty, thirty-five miles per gallon, maybe?” Chase says.

  I run through the math, head spinning. It’s a five-gallon can. It looked full when we left. A hundred and twenty miles at thirty-five miles per gallon is 3.4 gallons—call it 3.5, margin of error.

  “That leaves us a gallon and a half for the trip back.” Which won’t get us even halfway back to Sidney—not to mention the fourteen miles from there to the silo.

  I fight down a wave of panic. Where are we going to find two more gallons of gas? It was hard enough to find fuel six months ago. Anything with gas in it will have been scavenged by now.

  “Hey,” Preston says.