Deep Shadows (18 page)

“Dr. Bhatti—”

“You may call me Farhan.”

“Farhan, I'm here because we need your help. We have a small hospital and a nursing home.”

“No doubt you also have doctors.”

“Yes, we do—several, actually. Two were in town when the flare
hit—Dr. Mason and Dr. Jones. They are swapping twelve-hour shifts at the hospital.”

“So your hospital is very small and only equipped to do the most basic type of care.”

“Twenty-five beds, which are never filled. Any major cases are transferred to Killeen.”

“But not now.”

“No.”

Bhatti paused for a moment, as if considering what Max had said, and then he asked, “Why only two doctors?”

“There are at least half a dozen others. Most live in neighboring towns and commute. The three who live here in town were at a convention when the flare hit.”

“So they are stranded elsewhere. As I am stranded here.”

“Probably. They will come back. Their families are here, and I know they will find a way to return to them.”

“But you are now in the lurch.”

“We are. In particular, our nursing home needs—”

“I am not here as a physician. I came here to rest, and because… well, I needed some distance from a situation in Austin.”

“But you are a doctor.”

“Yes. I am an ENT specialist. My office is in Westlake.”

“Our situation at our nursing home, Green Acres, is drastic. Some of the patients are deceased, and we need death certificates signed. At the moment, you're the only available doctor.”

Bhatti didn't respond. He certainly didn't seem particularly moved by their situation. Max supposed that doctors grew used to death and sickness, just as the miracle of birth no doubt became everyday to them.

“We need you to sign the death certificates, check on the other patients at Green Acres, and help out at the hospital.”

“Is that all?”

“It'll keep you busy, I admit. But you're going to be done with that pack of cigarettes soon. What do you plan to do then?”

“I had thought of perhaps walking back to Austin.”

“You're going to walk seventy miles?”

“In Pakistan, many people walk farther distances than that.” Bhatti
shrugged. “Pakistan is the sixth most populous country in the world, and yet most people do not own vehicles.”

“Is that where you're from?”

“No.
Abba
and
Ammi
were, but they moved to the States before I was born.”

“I wouldn't recommend walking to Austin. I don't think that would be safe.”

“And staying here would be? How long will I stay? What will I eat when there's no food on the store shelves and my wallet is empty? Will I live here in a hotel room? How will I continue to pay for that room?”

“I understand your concerns—”

“But you have no answers.” Dr. Farhan Bhatti stood, crushed out the second cigarette, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “I can't help you.”

He started to leave the courtyard, but Max said, “This isn't just about you.”

Bhatti paused, but he didn't turn around.

“You took an oath, as I did. My oath was a legal one, to support the Constitution of the United States and of the State of Texas.”

“Many doctors no longer take the Hippocratic oath—at least, not the original one.”

“Did you?”

“A modified version.” Bhatti turned toward him. “I swore to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, a covenant. That doesn't include treating people outside my specialty amid conditions that are… less than ideal.”

“If you're worried about being sued, I think we're way past that.”

“Easy enough for a lawyer to say.”

“Dr. Bhatti, I hope and pray that our legal system can withstand this unprecedented collapse of our infrastructure.” Max stood, energy surging through him as his anger spiked. “I can assure you that no judge is going to be listening to medical malpractice suits anytime in the near future.”

Instead of answering, Bhatti shook his head and again turned away.

“You don't know the people of Abney like I do. They will appreciate any help you can give.”

“People seldom appreciate, though they are quick to second-guess and place blame.”

Something in the man's tone hinted of past battles, but Max didn't have time to delve into his history.

“What if I can provide you a place to live, as well as food?”

Food supplies the mayor had offered in lieu of payment. A place to live, well—that idea had popped into Max's mind out of desperation.

Bhatti turned and faced him, and for the first time the man didn't seem defeated. “You're offering me a room?”

“Yes. In my home. I have an extra bedroom. The house is small, modest even. Not what you're accustomed to in Westlake, but no one is using it right now. I'll even come over tomorrow with my truck and take you there.”

“If I agree to treat the patients in your nursing home and your hospital?”

“If the hospital needs you, yes. And don't forget the death certificates.”

“Yes, those need attention.”

“We realize it's a lot for one man. Hopefully more of our doctors will find their way back to Abney.”

“And you can guarantee that I will have food to eat?”

“As long as there is food to be had, the mayor gives you her word that you will receive supplies. We're not stupid, Dr. Bhatti. We realize that without additional medical personnel, this situation could quickly slide into a crisis.”

“You are already in a crisis, and you don't even know it yet.”

“Is that a yes? You'll help us?”

Instead of answering, Bhatti stepped forward and offered that age-old form of agreement—a handshake.

T
WENTY
-S
IX

S
helby struggled to stay awake until Max got home. She pulled her reading chair and ottoman to the front window and sat there, watching out toward the street. Not that she could see much. Without the streetlamps, only the aurora offered any light, and it came and went.

The night was warm, but she'd insisted on keeping the windows closed. How could she protect Carter if their windows were unlocked? It would be open season for anyone to sneak in, steal what little supplies they had, or even kill them in their sleep.

What would they do for food?

How would they care for the sick and the elderly?

After arriving home from church, she'd dug out an old backpack that she'd used while taking college classes—mostly at night or when her parents could babysit Carter. She'd managed to spread out a four-year degree over more than eight years, but she'd eventually finished. Now she planned to use the backpack for something even more important than learning. Pulling the medical supplies out of her shoulder bag, she'd placed them into the backpack, zipped it up, and set it beside her chair. She vowed to keep it within her sight at all times, and she found herself looking for it, confirming that it was there and that Carter's medicine was safe.

Six weeks' worth of insulin. What would they do when it was gone?

The questions bumped into one another, filling her with anxiety and a horrible feeling of helplessness. She would do anything for her child, but she couldn't manufacture insulin. She couldn't give him hers. She couldn't go out and dig some up from a field. They were dependent on
others—corporations, businesses, strangers. She hadn't encountered anyone offering to sell medical supplies, and as far as she knew, all of the corporations and businesses were now out of business.

But hope lingered. What had the president's letter said?
There are pockets of areas less affected than others
. Perhaps some places still had electricity, and all she had to do was find out where. Once there, she would be able to purchase what they needed. She'd find the money, one way or another.

Someone had money.

Someone always did.

Life as a single mom hadn't been easy for Shelby. As a plan began to formulate in her mind, she found herself thanking God that she had grown tough and resilient over the years. She was no longer that young woman who had first faced life as a single mom—terrified and alone and unsure if she could provide and care for a child.

She had and she would.

Her Bible rested on her lap. She'd picked it up when she first pulled the chair over to the window. Now she opened it to the book of Job, flipping through the chapters until she found the verses Pastor Tony had mentioned. When the aurora brightened she could read the words.

Do you know when the mountain goats give birth?

Each time the aurora dimmed, she found herself drifting toward sleep. Her head would bow toward her chest until the aurora brightened. Then she would sit up straighter, look around, and refocus her attention on the page.

Do you give the horse its strength or clothe its neck with a flowing mane?

Slowly, hope filled her heart and a stubborn certainty filled her mind.

Does the hawk take flight by your wisdom?

She stopped staring at the street, searching for Max, and allowed her eyes to drift shut. It would be okay for her to rest for a moment until he returned.

Suddenly Carter was standing in front of her, smiling, dressed in jeans and a new shirt, reminding her they would be late.

The smell of pizza caused her stomach to growl. Plates were stacked on the end of a long table beside a pitcher of soda and another of tea. Glasses filled with ice glittered in the bright light of the restaurant.

She worried about the choice of food—what it would do to Carter's insulin level—but why not allow him this single night of celebration? One
piece of pizza wouldn't make that big of a difference, and if his numbers were off—well, that's what the medicine was for.

Suddenly the noise of a band filled the room. Actually, just a drummer. She remembered how Carter had tried the drums during middle school, and how relieved she was when his interest waned and he suggested they sell the set. But this drummer was pretty good, though his rhythm was punctuated by beats of silence.

Bam, bam, bam.
Pause.
Bam, bam, bam.
Pause.

She glanced toward the front of the pizza parlor, wondering if perhaps the drummer was distracted. Or was she hearing music too?

Max whispered, “If it's too loud, you're too old,” and then he smiled when she turned to swat him.

Bam, bam, bam.
Pause.
Bam, bam, bam.
Pause.

The room shifted, and they were home. The beat continued, and she realized someone was trying to break in. She grabbed her phone and dialed 9-1-1, but nobody answered. The call rang and rang until it was picked up by an answering machine instructing her to leave her name and number. Jumping from her bed, she hurried down the hall, but Carter was gone—his window open, the blind tapping in the breeze.

Bam, bam, bam.
Pause.
Bam, bam, bam.
Pause.

She turned to run. She had to find Carter, had to make sure he was safe—but as she slipped one leg over the windowsill, an explosion rocked the room, sending her sprawling back inside and onto the floor. Everything went black, quiet, but she could still smell the burning.
Stay low
, she told herself. The first aid class she'd taken had cautioned them to stay close to the floor if ever caught in a fire. Heat rises, so smoke will go up. Crawl out slowly, covering your mouth with something, with anything.

Except now she couldn't breathe. She coughed, choking not on the smoke but on her own tears. Sobbing, she fought to crawl across the room, but she couldn't move. Her arms weighed more than a thousand books, and her legs were pinned to the ground by her desk. When had it collapsed? Why couldn't she wiggle free? Where was Carter? Desperation clawed at her throat as she realized something else was holding her down.

“Stop fighting, Shelby. It's okay. Calm down.”

She woke to find Max crouched beside her chair, his arms around her, his voice low and steady in her ear.

“What—” She struggled against him, but he held her securely in his arms.

“It's okay, Shelby. Calm down. You were just having a nightmare. Take a few breaths.”

Only it wasn't a dream because she could still smell something burning.

“Where's Carter—”

“The front door was locked. I'm sure he's asleep.”

When she continued to struggle, Max said, “I'll go and check on him. Promise me you'll wait here.”

She nodded, pulling in a deep breath and exhaling, forcing her mind to quiet.