by A. G. Riddle
Outside my room, I can hear them, out in the wide open ward with rows of beds. Men scream — most from pain, some from bad dreams; others cry, talk, and play cards in the moonlight and laugh as if half a dozen men won’t die before sunrise.
They gave me a private room, put me here. I didn’t ask for it. But the door closes and blocks out the cries and the laughs, and I’m glad. I don’t like hearing either.
I reach for the bottle of laudanum, drink till it runs down my chin, then drift into the night.
The slap brings me back to life, and I see a jagged set of rotten teeth inside a wicked grin on an unshaven dirty face. “Ee’s awake!”
The putrid smell of alcohol and disease turns my head and stomach.
Two other men drag me out of bed, and I scream in pain when the leg hits the ground. I writhe on the floor, fighting not to pass out as they laugh. I want to be awake when they kill me.
The door opens and it’s the nurse’s voice. “What’s going on—”
They grab her and slam the door. “Jus having a bit of fun wit da Senata’s Boy, Ma’am, but you’s a might bit prettia den ‘e is.” The man wraps his arm around her and slides behind her. “Mights be we start with you, missy.” He rips her dress and undergarments from the left sleeve all the way to her waist. Her breasts fall out, and she raises an arm to cover herself. She fights back desperately with the other arm, but the man catches it and quickly pins it behind her.
The site of her naked body seems to energize the drunken men.
I struggle to stand, and as soon as I reach my feet, the closest man is on me. He has a knife out and it’s at my throat. He stares me straight in the eyes while he blathers on drunkenly. “Big baddy Senata Daddy done sent him off ta war, done sent us all, but he can’t save you no mooor.”
The knife bites at my neck as the crazed man leers at me. The other man holds the nurse from behind, craning his head around, trying to kiss her as she turns away. The last man undresses.
Standing on the leg sends waves of pain up through my body — pain so bad it makes me nauseous, lightheaded. I will pass out soon. It’s unbearable, even through the laudanum. The laudanum — worth more than gold in a place like this.
I motion to the table, trying to break the man’s stare. “There’s laudanum, a full bottle on the table.”
His concentration breaks for an instant, and I have the knife. I draw it across his neck as I spin him around, then I push him away and lunge knife-out for the naked man, burying the knife to the hilt in his stomach. I land on top of him, jerk the knife out and plant it in his chest. His arms flail and blood gurgles from his mouth.
The pain from the lunge is overtaking me. I’ve got nothing left for the last man, the nurse’s captor, but his eyes go wide and he turns the nurse loose and runs from the room just as I pass out.
- 2 days later -
I wake up in a different place, like a cottage in the country — that’s how it smells and how the sun feels shining in through the open window. It’s a bright bedroom, decorated like a woman would, with knick-knacks and small things women like and men never notice except for times like this.
And there she is, reading in the corner, rocking silently, waiting. Through some sixth sense, she seems to instantly know that I’m awake. She sets the book down gently, like it’s a piece of fine China and walks to the bedside. “Hello, Major.” She glances down at my left leg, nervous. “They had to operate on your leg again.”
I notice the leg now, it’s bandaged, thick, almost double the width of my leg. When they brought me in, and for two weeks after, they threatened to take it off. ‘You’ll thank us later. Have to trust us ol’ boy. Seems horrid, but it’s for the best. You won’t be alone at home, I’ll guarantee you that, be tons o youngsters back from war scootin this way and that on tin legs, just as common as a drink o water I tell ya.’
I try to lean forward to get a peak, but the pain meets me as I rise, grabbing me and throwing me flat on my back again.
“It’s still there. I insisted they respect your wishes. But they removed a lot of the tissue. They said it was infected and would never heal. The hospital is a bad place for germs and after…” She swallows. “They said you’ll be in bed for two months.”
“The men?”
“Deserters, they think. There’s to be an inquiry, but… a formality, I presume.”
I see it now, the white bottle on the table, just like it was in the hospital. I linger on it. I know she sees me. “You can take that out of here.” If I start again, I’ll never stop. I know where that road goes.
She steps forward and grabs it quickly, as if it were about to fall off the table.
What’s her name? God, the last month is a blur, an opium and alcohol-ridden dream, a nightmare. Barnes? Barret? Barnett?
“Are you hungry?” She stands there, clutching the bottle to her chest with one hand, holding her dress with the other. Maybe it’s the drugs or having gone so long without food, but I have no desire whatsoever to eat.
“Starving.” I say.
“It’ll just be a minute.” She’s half-way out the door.
“Nurse…is it…”
She stops and glances back, maybe a little disappointed. “Barton. Helena Barton.”
Twenty minutes later I smell cornbread, pinto beans, and country ham. The smell of it is better than anything I’ve ever tasted. To my own amazement, I ate three plates that night. I was hungry after all.
CHAPTER 72
Main Conference Room
Clocktower HQ
New Delhi, India
Dorian read through the list of living and dead from the two trains. “I want to send more bodies to the US. Europe looks ok, I think.” He scratched his head. “I think the allotment to Japan should suffice as well. The population density will help.” He wished he could consult Chang or one of the scientists, but he needed to limit access to the information.
Dmitry studied the list. “We can still reallocate, but where should we pull them from?”
“Africa and China. I think they will move slower than we think. China tends to ignore or suppress public health crises, and Africa simply has no infrastructure to deal with an outbreak.”
“Or spread it, that’s one of the reasons we assigned—”
“Developed nations, they’re the real threat. Don’t underestimate the CDC. They will move fast when it hits. And we can always work on Africa after it starts.”
CHAPTER 73
Kate held David’s head up as he swallowed the antibiotics with water from the ceramic cup. The last of the water ran from his mouth, and she wiped it away with her shirt. He had drifted in and out of consciousness the entire morning.
She eyed the wound in his chest. She would have to do something soon. But not yet. She would wait until he was stronger. Or was she procrastinating? Delaying the inevitable — pulling the bullet from his chest and watching the blood squirt onto her clothes and his life slip away. How many days did she have left with him?
She opened the journal again. She wouldn’t look at the wound or think about it again, not today. She read aloud.
I lead my men through the tunnel, holding the candle in front of me. We’re almost there, but I stop, holding my hands up as the men stumble into the back of me. Did I hear something? I plant my tuning fork in the ground and watch it, waiting for the verdict. If it vibrates, the Germans are tunneling near us. We’ve already abandoned two passages for fear of connecting with them. The second we blew up under them, hopefully stopping their progress.
The fork doesn’t move. I stuff it back into my tool belt, and we trudge deeper into the darkness, the candle casting faint shadows on the walls of dirt and stone. Dust and pebbles fall on our heads as we walk.
Then the constant rain of grime stops. I look up and hold my candle closer, trying to discern what’s happened.
I turn and shout, “Get back!” as the ceiling collapses and hell pours through. The faint light of the candles wink out as I’m thrown to
the ground. The falling rubble crushes my leg, and I almost pass out.
The Germans land on their feet, practically on top of me, and begin firing, killing two of my men instantly. The muzzle flashes of their machine guns and the screams of the dying men are my only guide to the carnage.
I pull my side arm and fire at them at pointblank range, killing the first two men who must have either thought I was dead or couldn’t see me in the darkness. More men are pouring through, and I shoot them too. Five, six, seven of them dead, but there’s an endless line of them, never stopping, a whole regiment, ready to pour through the tunnel and behind the allied lines. It will be a massacre. I’m out of rounds. I toss the empty pistol aside and take out a grenade. I pull the pin with my teeth and hurl it with all my might into the German tunnel above, at the feet of the newest wave of soldiers. Two long seconds tick by as the men jump down, firing at me as they come and then the explosion racks them, collapses their tunnel, and brings both tunnels down around me. I’m pinned. I can’t get up and won’t ever get out, the debris is suffocating me, but there are hands on me too—
The nurse is there, wiping the sweat from my brow and holding my head.
“They were waiting on us… connected to our tunnel in the night… didn’t have a chance…” I say, trying to explain.
“It’s all over. It’s only a bad dream.”
I reach down to the leg, as if touching it will stop the throbbing pain. The nightmare isn’t over. Won’t ever be over.
The sweating and the pain has gotten worse each night, she must see it. And she does. The white bottle is in her hand and I say, “Just a little bit. I’ve got to get free of it.”
I take a swig and the beast backs away and I get some real sleep.
She’s there when I wake, knitting in the corner. On the table beside me, three small shot glasses hold the dark brown liquid — the day’s ration of the opium-infused concoction that delivers the morphine and codeine I desperately need. Thank God. The sweats are back and the pain has come with it.
“I’ll be home before sundown.”
I nod and take the first shot.
Two shot glasses each day.
She reads to me every night, after work and dinner.
I lie there, adding clever comments and witty remarks from time to time. She laughs, and when I’ve been a little too crude, chastises me playfully.
The pain is almost bearable.
One shot per day. Freedom.
Almost. But the pain persists.
I still can’t walk.
I’ve spent my life in mines, in dark confined spaces. But I can’t take it. Maybe it’s the light, or the fresh air, or lying in bed, day after day, night after night. A month gone by.
Every day, as three o’clock draws near, I count down the minutes until she gets home. A man, waiting for a woman to get home. It calls into question the premise of the sentence.
I’ve insisted she stop working in the hospital. Germs. Bombs. Chauvinists. I’ve tried it all. She won’t hear it. I can’t win. I don’t have a leg to stand on. I simply can’t put my foot down. And on top of that, I’m losing it, making lame jokes about myself, to myself.
Out the window, I see her coming down the path. What time is it? 2:30. She’s early. And— there’s a man with her. In the month I’ve been here, she’s never brought a suitor home. The thought’s never occurred to me, and now, it strikes me in all the wrong ways. I strain to get a better look out the window, but I can’t see them. They’re already in the house.
I frantically straighten my bed and push myself up, through the dull pain, so I can sit up in bed and appear stronger than I am. I pick up a book and begin reading it, upside down. I glance up, then flip the book right-side-up just before Helena enters. The mustached, monocle-wearing poser in a three-piece suit is close on her heels like a greedy dog at the hunt.
“Ah, you’ve gotten into some of the books. What did you choose?” she tips it toward me slightly, reads the title, and cocks her head slightly. “Hmm, Pride and Prejudice. One of my favorites.”
I close the book and toss it on the table as though she’d just told me it was infected with plague. “Yes, well, a man’s got to stay up on such things. And, appreciate the… Classics.”
The monocled man looks over at her impatiently. Ready to get on with the visiting — away from the cripple in the spare bedroom?
“Patrick, this is Damien Webster. He’s come from America to see you. He won’t tell me what about.” She raises her eyebrows conspiratorially.
“Pleasure, Mr. Pierce. I knew your father.”
He’s not courting her. Wait, knew my father.
Webster seems to realize my confusion. “We sent a telegraph to the hospital. Have you not received it?”
My father is dead, but he didn’t come here about that. What then?
Helena speaks before I can. “Major Pierce has been here for a month. The hospital receives a great many cables each day. What’s your business, Mr. Webster?” Her tone has grown serious.
Webster glares at her. He’s probably not used to a woman talking to him in such a tone. He could probably do with more of it. “Several matters. The first being your father’s estate—”
Outside the window, a bird lands on the fountain. It fidgets, dunks it’s head, rises and shakes the water off.
“How did he die?” I say, still focused on the bird.
Webster speaks quickly, like it’s something to get out of the way, an annoyance. “Automobile accident. He and your mother both perished instantly. Dangerous machines, I say. It was quick. They didn’t suffer, I assure you. Now…”
I feel hurt of a different kind, a crushing feeling of loneliness, emptiness, like there’s a pit inside me that I can’t fill. Like I’ll never be happy again. My mother, gone. Buried by now. I’ll never see her again.
“Will that be acceptable, Mr. Pierce?”
“What?”
“The account at First National Bank in Charleston. Your father was a very frugal man. There’s almost 200,000 dollars in the account.”
Frugal to a fault.
Webster is clearly frustrated and plows on hoping for a response. “The account’s in your name. There was no will, but as you’ve no siblings, there’s no problem.” He waits another moment. “We can transfer the money to a bank here on the continent.” He glances at Helena. “Or England if you prefer—”
“The West Virginia Children’s Home. It’s in Elkins. See that they get the balance of the account. And that they know that it came from my father.”
“Uh, yes, that’s… possible. May I ask why?”
A truthful response would be “because he wouldn’t want me to have it” or more exactly, “because he didn’t like the man I’ve become.” But I don’t say either, maybe because Helena is in the room or maybe because I don’t think this shyster deserves an honest response. Instead, I mumble something approximating, “It’s what he would have wanted.”
He looks at my leg, searching for the right words. “That’s all well and good, but the army pensions are… rather sparse, even for a Major. I would think you’d be keen to keep a bit of the money, say 100,000 dollars?”
I stare at him full on now. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re here about. I doubt it’s my father’s 200,000 estate.”
He’s taken aback. “Of course, Mr. Pierce. I was only trying to advise… for your best interests. Indeed, that’s what I’m here about. I bring a message from Henry Drury Hatfield, Governor of the Great State of West Virginia. His Excellency wishes you to, well first off, he sends his deepest condolences for your loss, indeed the State’s and our Great Nation’s. Additionally, he would like for you to know that he is prepared to appoint you to your father’s seat in the US Senate, as this authority has just been vested in him by the state legislature.”
I’m beginning to realize how the McCoys could hate these snakes so much. Henry Hatfield is the nephew of Devil Hatfield, the leader of the infamous Hatfield Clan. The go
vernor can’t run for a second term. He had himself set up for that US Senate seat two years ago, but the states ratified the Seventeenth Amendment the year before, allowing for direct election of US Senators, yanking the power away from the corrupt state legislatures and manipulators like Hatfield. My father was in the first class of US Senators elected by the people. His death, and the talk of the money now make more sense. But not the appointment.
Webster doesn’t let the mystery linger long. He leans against the foot of the bed, speaking like we’re old pals now. “Of course your status as a war hero will make you a popular choice. There will be a special election. As you know, Senators are now elected by the people,” he nods, “as they should be. The governor is ready to appoint you to serve in your father’s seat on the condition that you will endorse him in the special election and campaign for him. In return, he is willing to further support your career. Perhaps as a congressional candidate. Congressman Patrick Pierce has a nice ring to it, I think.” He pushes off the bed and smiles at me. “So, can I give the governor the good news then?”
I glower at him. I’ve never wanted to stand so much in my whole life, to be able to walk this demon to the front door and toss him out.
“I know the circumstances aren’t ideal, but we must all rise to the occasion.” Webster nods toward the leg. “And with your… limitations, it could be a good fit. You’re not likely to find better work—”
“Get out.”
“Now, Mr. Pierce, I know—”
“You heard me. And don’t come back. You’ve got the only answer you’re ever going to get. Tell that thug Hatfield to do his own dirty work, or maybe one of his cousins. I hear they’re good at it.”
He steps toward me, but Helena catches him by the arm. “This way, Mr. Webster.”
When he’s gone, she returns. “I’m very sorry about your parents.”
“As am I. My mother was very kind, and very loving.” I know she can see how sad I am now, but I can’t hold it any more.
“Can I bring you anything?” I can tell she didn’t mean to, but her eyes dart to where the bottle would sit beside the bed.
“Yes. A doctor. For my leg.”
CHAPTER 74
Situation Room
Clocktower HQ
New Delhi, India
Dorian lingered by the door, surveying the situation room. It looked almost like mission control for a NASA launch. Several rows of analysts were speaking into headsets and working computers that controlled the drones. On the long wall, a patchwork of screens showed telemetry from the drones: scenes of mountains and forests.
Dmitry had been coordinating the search. The burly Russian looked as though he hadn’t slept since the explosions in China. He pushed his way through the throngs of analysts and joined Dorian at the back of the room. “We’ve got nothing so far. There’s just too much area to search.”
“What about satellite surveillance?”
“Still waiting on it.”
