After the End: Survival (15 page)

Jay Flood, MD, was hung over and pissed off. Pete was in Jay's office, sitting in a chair, drinking a second glass of water. His activities the night before had left him dehydrated. He had a monster headache and was only half listening to Dr. Flood. He'd heard it all before.

It was almost noon. Normally, both men would be eating dinner about now, but neither was hungry. Pete had finished his clinic and had driven over to Amarillo Regional Hospital, formerly a Baptist Church just off 34th Avenue near Georgia Street. Its central location was convenient. It was efficient, too. A single large room used as a patient ward could be heated in the winter with a wood stove. Summer cooling was managed with an evaporative air cooler.

"I mean, hey, I'm not complaining," Jay continued, "I think chamomile and echinacea and garlic and all that organic stuff is just great. Great, great, great. But I got a guy here who's dying from an appendectomy. I mean, we did everything right, he's young, otherwise healthy, we used good sterile technique and you saw me tie off the fucking pardon-my-French appendix before I excised the thing. Am I right?"

"You're right."

"So? Do I open him back up? Try irrigating his belly with some danged herbal tea? Or how about this? We can tie a wreath of mistletoe around his head, say the pledge of allegiance three times and sprinkle him with orange Kool-Aid."

"Um."

"I mean, this is why penicillin was called a miracle drug. It works miracles, you hear what I'm saying?

"I hear ya."

"So why don't we have antibiotics? I know what you're going to say. Antibiotic production stopped because all the manufacturers used electricity in the production process and when the Change happened, the power went off. There was no way to make more. Or distribute it, for that matter. And you're also going to say, let me know if I'm boring you, you're going to say all local stocks of antibiotics were used up by desperate people trying to kill the virus that killed off most of the world's population. Am I right?"

"You're right."

"So c'mon, Pete. Penicillin is a mold that grows on bread, right? Why don't we just grow some ourselves? I mean, we grow herbs and vegetables for fun and profit. Why not take the plunge and get in the mold business?"

Pete's head was really pounding. He bent forward and put his head in his hands, trying to protect his eyes from the blinding light that somehow was making its way through the closed window shade.

"Penicillin was discovered in 1929." Pete's voice was a little muffled because his hands were also partially covering his mouth.

"I looked it up. It was discovered, accidentally, by Sir Alexander Fleming of London, England. He noticed colonies of streptococci bacteria that died when contaminated with a penicillin mold. But he couldn’t figure out how to extract the substance that killed the bacteria. That was accomplished in 1940 by two Englishmen, Chain and Florey. In 1945 all three men received the Nobel Prize."

"Bravo. You've done your research. So why aren't you handing me a little bottle with a label that reads ‘Antibiotics by Wilson’?"

"I don't know how. I've looked. Apparently it's not easy."

"OK, OK. Sorry. It just makes me crazy. Looks like you had a good time last night. You get laid?"

"How would I know?"

"Hmm," Jay said, looking at Pete a little closer. "Maybe you did."

Latesha Williams entered the room. Pete decided if there was ever such a thing as a hospital drill sergeant, she was it.

"Well look what the cat drug in. Doctor Flood, do you want me to start an IV on this man," she said, gesturing towards Pete. "He looks just pitiful.

"Doctor," she continued, without missing a beat, "Judy Gilliam just called on the radio. She's bringing in a boy with a concussion, hypothermia, and he may have inhaled some water. Says she'll be here in about an hour."

"OK. Thank you. Oh, Latesha? Could you get me some antibiotics?"

She looked at him for a few seconds before answering.

"Shiiit."

She turned and went back to the ward.

"Guess that means no," said Jay.

"I got a hypothetical question for you," said Pete, tiredly. "In the deepest, darkest days of the Change, when people were dying in droves and were taking any kind of drug that might help, where did people get their drugs?"

"From pharmacies, hospitals, and doctor's offices. I remember it got nasty. People were breaking into places, stealing drugs at gunpoint."

"Right. So here's the hypothetical part. Let's say somebody had a legitimate prescription for some antibiotics for some legitimate infection. They get infected with the Change virus, poof, they're dead. What happens to the drugs?"

"Be in their medicine cabinet."

"OK, here's another one. Let's say I've just robbed my local pharmacy of a thousand tablets of tetracycline. I run home, give a handful to my wife, my sick kid, and I take a handful for good measure. What happens?"

"You get a real bad stomach ache, and then die from the virus."

"So what happens to the nine hundred or so tablets left over?"

"They stay in your house, hidden, where they remain forever unless someone finds them."

"That's what I thought," said Pete, managing a smile. "Somewhere, somebody's got a mess of antibiotics. I mean, with all the people that scrounge, and pills being small, lightweight and easy to carry, they've got to be somewhere. It's been a while since I've done any serious scrounging, what with a steady job and all," Pete said wryly. "But I guarantee you won't find any medicine of any kind in a house, hospital or pharmacy. Where'd it all go?"

"Beats me. Hey, two years ago, when the mayor appointed me to my present august position of health director, the first thing I asked for was drugs. I wasn't proud, I would have accepted anything. He said he'd look into it. A couple weeks later, I end up with maybe eighteen, twenty garbage bags filled with various drugs. That's what makes up the bulk of our current stock of meds. Ain't nobody making meds anymore. Maybe somebody's hoarding the stuff, saving it for a rainy day. Hell, I don't know. Pete, I'm out of ideas. You find me some antibiotics," Jay paused thoughtfully, "and I'll award you the Jay Flood Peace Prize."

Pete's mind had wandered and he was only half listening.

"OK, I'll try and find some," he said. "See you later."

Pete stood and walked slowly through the hospital. He was remembering where he'd seen a teenager popping pills. He almost bumped into Latesha on the way out.

"You'd best watch where you're going," she said.

"Sorry," he said, sidestepping and moving through the door. She looked at his retreating figure and frowned, faintly disappointed.

Look in the dictionary under "Geek" and you see Chick Barrett's picture. Not that anybody cared, Pete thought, but it was almost like Chick decided the geek faction was under-represented in The New Society and had taken action. Crew cut, thinning hair and thick black frame glasses that were practically opaque from dirt, grease and paint spatters. A blue plaid short sleeve shirt, its front pocket jammed with the requisite plastic pocket protector, which in turn was filled with a half dozen pens, pencils and a calculator. His sagging khaki pants had little burns and silver speckles along both legs, testament that falling solder is always hot. His canvas shoes featured those oh-so-efficient Velcro tabs. Chick was the City Engineer and Pete had come to his office at the Ambassador Hotel directly from the hospital. Pete liked the guy but dreaded the visit. Chick generally had four or five possible solutions for any problem and even if he knew ahead of time which one would work best, he'd go into great detail about all the options first.

Chick was deep in conversation with one of his ham radio buddies when Pete entered his office. He smiled and waved at Pete.

"So there I am," Chick's visitor continued, "on forty meters. Using that five watt CW transmitter I built last year. The band was hot and I working DX on my little dipole antenna when some ol' boy out of Oklahoma City comes on the frequency and just about covers me up. So I cut over to my hundred watt linear and switched to the beam on my tower, cranked her over to the east and keyed out the laziest CQ you've ever listened to in your life. I like to've buried that Okie." Both men chuckled appreciatively at this apparent bit of skullduggery. Pete shook his head as though it were the damnedest thing he'd ever heard.

"Pull up a chair, Pete. Take a load off."

There were seven chairs in the room. Except for the two being used by Chick and his visitor, they were all stacked with electronic chassis and odd bits of machinery. Pete cleared off one of the chairs, laying the stuff from it on the floor. There wasn't much room on the floor, either.

"So, how's the world been treating you lately," Chick opened. "Saw you last night at the dinner. Where'd you learn how to dance?"

"I'm self taught."

"I kinda figured that. George, this boy positively lit up the dance floor." To demonstrate, Chick dramatically extended a chubby arm upward, index finger pointing towards the ceiling. In spite of himself, Pete had to smile.

"You're just jealous, Chick."

"Indeed I am, Pete. But it's not because of your dancing ability." Chick made an exaggerated wink. "You look all petered out," he said. "No pun intended."

Pete's brain was screaming, but he just shook his head like a tired old hound dog. Pete waited until the two men had finished chortling.

"Chick, I've got a problem. It involves modifying some electronic gear to twelve volt and I don't know if it can be done."

That got the engineer's attention. He leaned forward in his chair.

"So what have you got in mind?"

If it weren't for the rain, Deputy David Rodriguez reflected, this place would be a like a damn oven.

The six story concrete building on Fillmore Street in Amarillo that housed the adult probation office for Potter County had been built in the 1930s. Its original nine foot high ceilings had been dropped to accommodate air conditioning, added during remodeling in the 1960s. There was little here to attract scroungers so the place was left pretty much as it had been three years before. The deputy heard about Laura Benchly's murder on his police radio so after the rain quit, he drove up to Amarillo to follow up an idea he'd been mulling over the past few days.

This diablo ("Man," he corrected himself) was a successful pedophile and killer. He didn't get that way overnight. He had to have worked up to it and had likely been caught a few times on his way to the big time. The guy knows his way around this area. If he hadn't been in the Clements Prison Unit, maybe he'd been on probation after having served time for some sort of indecency charge.

David was getting a headache. For the past three hours, he'd been methodically pouring over probation records. There were hundreds of files involving sexual indecency with minors. He had two decent fingerprints he'd taken off the beer jar found near Susan Shupe's body. He was trying to match them with those in the files. It was exhausting work but he kept at it, watching the stack of files gradually get smaller.

Like an assembly line, he thought, reaching for another manila folder. Opening it, he held up the white piece of cardboard that was covered with a piece of clear tape. It held the latent fingerprints taken from the beer jar. Like he'd done more than a hundred times that morning, he placed his cardboard image next to fingerprints inside the folder. First the thumbprint of the right hand. Nope. Then the index finger. Nope. Then the middle finger. He stopped, dumbfounded.

They matched.

He stared for a moment, disbelieving. Turning his head to the side for a second, he turned back to the folder and his little piece of cardboard to examine them more carefully. There was no doubt. He turned to the front page of the folder, and studied the two photographs, full-face and profile. Something familiar about the face. Picking up a pencil, he scribbled a name and last known address on a pad. Returning to the folder, he began reading. He failed to hear the soft footsteps behind him. A voice startled him.

"You're a long way from Canyon, aren't you, Deputy?"

David swiveled in his chair. Staring down the barrel of a large caliber handgun and looking up to see the person behind it, he realized why the photograph looked familiar. Then he wondered who would take care of Yolanda and the baby.

It was his last thought.

Pete was feeling mildly optimistic. After explaining to engineer extraordinaire Chick Barrett what he wanted and why he wanted it, Chick said it was, “No problem, this is real do-able.”

It was a little after one and Pete was hungry, which he took to be a good sign thinking maybe there was life after hangover. Walking west two blocks, he entered a former Sushi restaurant turned greasy spoon and sat down to a bowl of ham and potato soup. It came with corn bread and a big glass of tea. The waitress flirted a little and he left an inordinately large tip, earning him a wink and a warm fuzzy feeling.

Decidedly frisky, he strutted back over to the Ambassador. He sauntered into the mayor's office, and gave Brenda Farley a big, sincere smile.

"Brenda, about last night . . . ," he began.

"Pete, I had a wonderful time, I really did." Brenda's smile was dazzling. "We'll have to get together again sometime. I'll give you a call."

She continued to smile, and so did he, although with less confidence. Something's wrong with this picture, he thought. Shouldn't I be the one who decides when to call her?

"The mayor's in a conference right now, but if you'd like to wait a few minutes, he'll be available," she added, still smiling.

"Oh, I guess I'll come back in a little bit. I have to go see Larry Maxwell. Over at the radio station. On the other side of the building."

"That'll be fine. I'll tell the mayor you were here." She wiggled her fingers in a tiny farewell, and returned to her typing. Pete returned the wave and walked uncertainly out the door.

I've been used, he thought miserably, walking to the radio station. She only wanted me for my body.