Authors: William R. Forstchen
“But now?”
“People are hungry, scared. We were spoiled unlike any generation in history, and we forgot completely just how dependent we were on the juice flowing through the wires, the buttons doing something when we pushed them. If only we had some communication. If only we knew the government still worked, a voice that we trusted being heard, that would make all the difference.
“My grandfather used to tell me how back during the Depression the banks started to collapse; there was panic, even the scent of revolution in the air. And then FDR got on the radio, just one radio talk, reminding us
we were all neighbors, to cooperate and help each other, and though the Depression went on for seven more years, the panic ended.
“Same thing on nine-eleven. I think it's the silence that is driving people crazy now. No one knows what is going on, what is being done, if we are indeed at war, and if so, who we are fighting and whether we are winning or losing. We are as isolated now as someone in Europe seven hundred years ago and there is a rumor, just a rumor, that the Tartars are coming or there is plague in the next village.”
He sighed, motioning for another bowl. She refilled his and hers.
“In the past, any disaster, it was always local, or regional at worst. The hurricanes in 2004. It slammed us pretty hard here. Most of the news focused on Florida, but I tell you we got some of the worst of it right here, with two of those hurricanes literally crisscrossing over the top of us only days apart. But all along we knew help was out there. The guys who hooked my electric back up after four days were a crew from Birmingham, Alabama. The truck that brought in thousands of gallon jugs of water came from Charlotte actually, and always there were still battery-powered radios.
“If only we could get a link back up, I think that would calm a lot of nerves. Has there been any contact at all from the outside?”
She sipped a spoonful of soup, then shook her head.
“Not a word. A helicopter flew over two days ago. You should have seen people. It was like some god was passing by in a floating chariot, everyone with hands raised up, shouting. No, not a word other than rumors from those passing through. Global war, Chinese invading, help coming from Europe, plague in Washington, a military coup. A lot of talk now about some religious crazies forming into gangs, claiming it's the apocalypse and either join them or die. It's all crazy and they know about as much as you or me.”
“It's the cars as well,” John said. “They are such an ingrained part of our lives, right down to the fact that there are suburbs and people commute into cities. Hell, a hundred years ago this house never would have even been built, no matter how great the view. Too far from downtown, even if the town is just a small village. This isn't farmland; it's actually useless land other than for timber. But the auto made this valuable. Look at how people are migrating even now; by instinct they're following the interstate highways. Turn off all the cars, I think that is what scared us the most.
The damn things were not just about transportation; they were definers of social status, wealth, age, class. You for instance.”
“Me?”
“Beemer Three-thirty? Told me right off you didn't have kids; if you were married you and your husband were definitely upwardly mobile types, professionals.”
She laughed softly.
“Postdivorce crisis car.”
He nodded.
“I really know nothing about you, Makala.”
“Just that, postdivorce car. My husband and I met as undergrads at Duke. Both pre-med.”
John laughed.
“Mary and I were Duke as well, though I guess around ten, fifteen years ahead of you. I was history; she was biology; we both wanted to teach. I got into the army through ROTC when they offered me a darn good deal.”
“Saw that; your diploma's in your office. Rather impressive, John, master's from Purdue, Ph.D. from UVA in history. I thought you were army?”
“Hey, the army educates and they were crazy enough to pay for it and send me. For every hour I carried a gun I spent a hundred in a classroom or archive. Did have a few field commands. First with a recon company with the First Cav in Germany just before communism gave up the ghost. Actually enjoyed that posting, gave me a lot of time to explore history over there besides my duties. Then Desert Storm. My battalion mobilized over and I was looking forward to the challenge of command in a line company when I got promoted to major, then kicked up the ladder to battalion XO. It took me out of the front line and I always wondered since if I had somehow missed something as a result. But enough on me . . .”
She smiled.
“Well, we got married right after he graduated, two years ahead of me, and the classic old routine,” Makala said with a sigh. “I switched majors to nursing to start the money rolling; agreement was once he got into residency I'd go back for pre-med.”
“And let me guess,” John interjected. “He got his M.D. and you got the divorce as a thank-you.”
“Something like that. Just grew apart, I guess. Another woman wandered
in, actually several women, and I got fed up and left. Young doctors with big egos, starry-eyed nurses saying, âOh, Doctor,' it's two in the morning, happens all the time.”
He looked at her, the slight show of dimples when she smiled, clear blue eyes, tall, slender figure, and shook his head.
“He was an idiot.”
“John, you hardly know me,” she smiled, “so don't just judge by exteriors. I have my bad side, too.”
“Well, I've yet to see it. Volunteering to go up and help at the nursing home. That took guts.”
“Or it could have been calculation,” she replied, “get into the community that way.”
He looked straight at her, remembering what she said on the day he had shot Larry, and shook his head.
“No, you'd have done it regardless of the situation.”
He hesitated, looking back down at the soup bowl.
“And any guys for you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just trying to put the pieces together.”
“No one serious, if that's what you mean. Gun-shy.”
“And no kids?”
“Thank God no.”
“Why?”
“Now, with this? You think I'd want that worry on top of everything else? Suppose we did have children and I was up here the day it happened. I'd have been clawing through the tide of refugees to get back to Charlotte.”
He nodded. The way she said “clawing through” told him a lot. She liked kids, maybe wished she had some, and had the instinct to kill to protect them, no matter whose they were.
“Let's talk about Jennifer,” she said quietly.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, suddenly anxious.
“Of course there is, John. You got enough insulin for a little more than four months, though the water temperature where you are storing the vials is just over fifty degrees. I checked it. That will degrade the shelf life somewhat.”
“By how much?” he asked, feeling a sense of panic.
“I'm not sure, John. We'll start to know when the regular dose doesn't
control her blood sugar. Besides that, we have to start getting conservative with her testing kit. The new one, as you know, is junked, the old one, thank God, survived, but the test strips, no replacements now. So we're going to have to learn to just eyeball the situation more and only use the strips when we absolutely have to.”
He couldn't speak, just staring off across the valley. It was all so peaceful. No noise, some plumes from small fires rising up, drifting with the westerly breeze. He reached to his breast pocket. No pocket; he was still in a sweat-soaked T-shirt.
“Cigarette?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I'll get them.”
She came back out a minute later with two, struck a lighter and puffed one to life, hesitated for a second, then handed it to John, putting the second one on the table.
“Ex-smoker?” John asked.
“Yup. Surprising how many nurses smoke. But I looked at one too many cancerous lungs, though.”
“Don't need to hear it.”
She smiled.
“Well, you're going to run out in about two weeks anyhow. Stretch it and you might make it to four weeks or six, but sooner or later you will quit. Maybe one of the few blessings to come out of this. An entire nation going cold turkey on tobacco, alcohol, drugs. No cars, so we have to walk or ride bikes. Might do us some good.”
“Back to Jennifer,” he said, after taking several puffs. The meal was sitting well on his stomach, but the tobacco hit him after so many days away. He felt shaky and suddenly weak.
“Tyler's death, the funeral,” she said. “If I had been around and knew, I'd have kept Jennifer home during the burial. It really traumatized her.
“It's tough enough on any kid of that age to lose their grandpa. But we, all of us, have really isolated death away, kept it hidden. Tyler died in her bedroom. In fact, she is terrified to even go back in there. When she'd come to see you when you were sick, she'd just stand by the doorway. It's just that she saw it all, and it registered.
“John, she's a diabetic, and even at twelve that makes anyone very conscious of their mortality. They know their life is dependent on that needle
and the vial, but for seventy years now those vials just came across the pharmacy counter, no questions asked. She knows that's finished.”
“How?”
“Damn it, John, she isn't deaf or blind. Every day since this started people have been dying and she knows she's on the short list once the insulin in the basement runs out.”
He shook his head angrily.
“No, God, please no. That's four months off. By then we'll have something back in place. At least communications, some emergency medicines.”
“John, you've been the very person going around saying that this is bad, real bad, that it might take years, if ever, to come back from it.”
“I never said a word around her.”
“Oh, John, you're such a father, but you don't understand kids. I've worked in hospitals with kids like Jennifer. Kids that were terminal. They had it figured long before their parents would ever admit it to themselves.”
“She is not terminal,” he snarled, glaring at Makala angrily.
She said nothing.
“Damn you, no,” and he was humiliated by the tears that suddenly clouded his vision.
He struggled to choke back the sobs that now overwhelmed him.
She put her hand out, touching him, and he jerked back, looking at her, filled with impotent rage.
“My girl will live through this,” he gasped. “Jennifer will live through this.”
She leaned over, gently touching his face, paused, and then half stood up, kissing him on the forehead, and drew her chair closer to his side.
“John, with luck, if things straighten out, we'll get hooked back up to hospitals that work before the insulin runs out.”
He noticed how she said “we.”
“I've gotten close to her, John. Very close these last few days. She's a sweet child. Not a twelve-year-old dressing, talking, and sometimes acting like she's twenty-one. She still sleeps with Rabs in her arms, plays with Beanie Babies, reads a lot. The way perhaps twelve-year-olds were long ago. Rather nerdy actually.”
He struggled for control as Makala described his little girl. He let the burned-out cigarette fall and without comment she lit the second one and handed it over, taking a puff on it first before doing so.
She smiled, and he realized that tears were in her eyes as well.
“It's just the poor child has really been obsessive about dying since she saw her grandfather go and the way he was buried, the way we're burying people now by the hundreds.”
“I'll talk with her.”
“I already have,” Makala said quietly.
“About what?”
She hesitated.
“Go on; about what?”
“About death,” she whispered. “She asked me for the truth. About how long she had if the insulin ran out.”
“And what did you tell her?” he snapped, and she grimaced as he grasped her arm with his hand. “What did you tell her?”
“John, I told you, I've worked with kids like her. I know when to lie; I know when it is time to tell the truth. I reassured her that she'd be OK. That you and others were working to get things reestablished and soon medical supplies would start coming in.”
He released his grip.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
“But you've got to talk with her, too, John.”
He nodded, head lowered, again struggling for control. He felt so damn weak. Not just physically but emotionally. Tyler's time had played out and though John had come to love that old man as if he were John's own father, he took solace knowing Tyler had lived a good life. But Jennifer?
“You better keep reassuring her if you want her to be happy.” Makala paused.
“In the time she has left?” he asked, staring at her.
“Let's just pray for the best.”
He finished his cigarette and sat back.
“You said hundreds have been buried?”
She nodded and then looked away.
He heard barking and then laughter. From out of the field above the house his family was coming. The dogs, seeing him up and about again, made a beeline straight to him. He could not help but laugh, both dogs grinning at him and dancing around his chair. And then with noses raised they were sniffing at the soup pot, Ginger standing up on her hind legs to
peer in, nearly burning her feet as she lost balance and almost fell against the stove.
Jennifer came running down and jumped into his arms.
“You're better, Daddy!”
“Well, not exactly, but almost, pumpkin.”
She buried her head against his shoulder and he wondered for a moment if she was crying. And then she pulled back slightly.
“Daddy, you really stink.”
He laughed, tempted to play the old “armpit” game of grabbing her and forcing her up against his armpit. She loved it when she was eight, even as she shrieked in protest. But not now; he knew he really did stink.