One Year After: A Novel Page 19

  They started up again, John back in the lead truck alongside Forrest, heading down the road, past the entryway to a long-abandoned vacation development. He saw the Edsel ahead in the middle of the road. What a difference a week makes, John though grimly. Last time, he had come limping back, head nearly busted open, and now he was leading this pathetic caravan of wounded from the very group he had just tangled with, and had tangled with before throughout the last year.

  John leaned out of the window, waving frantically as a signal to Makala standing in the middle of the road. The four trucks carrying the backup reaction squads, which someone had apparently thought to mobilize out when he had gone off on a walk into the woods with two armed men, were behind her. He told the driver to stop fifty yards short, and he got out. Gasping for air, he walked this time rather than run, which might just set off one of his troops who might get trigger-happy, his running misinterpreted as a signal that he was trying to escape.

  “Makala, I need you here now!” he cried.

  She came running up to him. “Jesus, what is it, John?”

  He pointed to the first truck and now emotion took hold. “They’re casualties from the air strike this morning. I’ve called ahead; the hospital is getting ready now to take them in. Just go look, look at what was done to them!” There was a bit of a hysterical edge to his voice. After so much death the last two years, he had wanted to believe that they were coming out of it. But now there was more and yet more, and the shocked boy holding the dead girl was just too much.

  Makala went past him, up to the side of the truck, and looked in. Her hand went to her mouth. She stood in numbed silence for several seconds and then looked back to John. “Any of you with the reaction force who I trained as medics, up here now. Move it! Move it!” She climbed into the back of the flatbed.

  John went up to the side and looked in at Forrest, who was obviously struggling to hang on to consciousness. “Thank God you came to us, Forrest. Hang in there, trooper. We’re getting your people into a hospital now. Just hang in there.”

  Forrest looked up at him with a slight nod and reached out with his one hand, which was covered in blood. John squeezed it and turned to run to his car, shouting for the drivers of the trucks to clear the road and fall in at the rear of the convoy.

  John swung the cumbersome old Edsel around and hit the gas, flooring it down the winding road straight onto Route 70, a good four-lane road that made the last few miles relatively pain-free for the sufferers who had somehow survived a grueling, torturous ride of over thirty miles on gravel- and rock-strewn fire lanes to swing around the Asheville troops deployed at Craggy Gap.

  Hitting the main road, he slowed long enough for the six trucks that belonged to the reivers to gain the main road behind him, and then he floored it again, black exhaust bellowing out of his cracked muffler. Racing into Black Mountain, where the road began to narrow down as he passed the abandoned pharmacy, he laid on his horn. He could hear the old-fashioned siren that had been installed at the town hall wailing. People residing in the center of town were pouring out, running toward their mobilization points, which meant all doctors and nurses, either those licensed before the Day or trained as such afterward, were dashing to their assigned positions. Few knew yet what was actually going on, and at the sight of the old familiar Edsel, many turned and looked, shouting questions to John as he roared past them, narrowly avoiding T-boning an old pickup that came racing up out of Cherry Street, heading for the fire station. John cursed madly at the fool, actually thinking for a few seconds as the truck swerved to get out of his way that he would find the driver later and personally kick his butt, and then caught a glimpse of the driver—it was Reverend Black. John continued to honk and pointed for him to follow.

  The hospital—which, a year and a half earlier, had handled over a thousand casualties after the battle with the Posse—was in the once-thriving furniture store across the street from the town square. After the last of the casualties of that battle had been moved out, Makala took charge of scrubbing the building down, stockpiling some supplies and then sealing it up if ever there were another mass disaster, epidemic, or battle. John skidded to a stop in front of the hospital, pointing for the truck behind him to stop in the street.

  Makala leaped out of the back bed of the truck before it even came to a stop, and John could see she was crying. She was normally so professional as a nurse—now acting as a doctor—and trained to deal with such things, but the months of relative calm had taken the hard edge off her, as well.

  “Merciful God, John, most of them are just kids.”

  He could not reply, and then in another second, as if a switch had been thrown within her heart, she became the professional again.

  “Triage right here!” Makala shouted. “Someone get the triage bag inside. Bring it to me, and get a table out here. Move it!”

  Several of the recently trained combat medics with the reaction teams were out of the vehicles, racing to follow her orders. She looked back at the line of trucks, her voice carrying as noisy engines were shut off.

  “Everyone listen to me!” she shouted. “No one move for a moment, please! Those of you who drove your wounded in, we’re going to offload your people as quick as possible, but wait for my personnel to do so. We don’t want to make any injuries worse than they already are.”

  John felt as if he was slipping into shock, even as his wife took charge. Injuries worse than they already are? These people had endured a hellish exodus of thirty miles or more. It wasn’t like each had been carefully strapped to a backboard seconds after getting shot and airlifted to a rear-line hospital.

  Doc Wagner pulled up on his motorcycle and jumped off, running to his assigned position in the main clearing room inside the hospital. At the same time, he saw his dentist come running up the street from his office, carrying a precious jar of ether in one hand and a medical bag in the other, sprinting into the hospital to join Wagner.

  Makala looked at the crowd of onlookers who were gathering in the park across the street but—as had been drilled again and again—were keeping clear. In the parking lot outside the town hall and fire station, troops were falling into place, having responded to the siren but not sure yet if this was a call for military action or not.

  John caught the eye of Grace Freeman, the second in command of the campus company, as she came running down the slope from the town hall, seeking orders. He shouted for her to order all medics down to the hospital and for half the troops to deploy along the road and form a cordon to hold onlookers back, with Ed helping to take charge of that detail.

  Makala was already calling for volunteers as stretcher teams, and several dozen citizens responded to her cry, being directed into the hospital and coming out a moment later carrying litters.

  “Listen, people!” Makala shouted. “I want a medic to check each casualty before you try to get them on the stretcher. Any suspected back injuries, I want fully trained medical assistants to handle moving them onto a backboard rather than a stretcher. Now move it!”

  John went up to the first vehicle and leaned in. “Come on, Forrest, let’s get you inside.”

  Forrest smiled weakly. “Hey, Colonel, or whatever the hell you are now. Good officers go last, remember?”

  John swallowed hard and took his hand again, noticing how the bandage was soaking wet with blood that was obviously still leaking out of his wound. He debated for a few seconds whether to just override Burnett and call that they had a priority two and move him now. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Makala and her assistant were at work, the first stretcher case coming up. As she had done at the battle with the Posse and had not done since, she was back into the most dreadful of roles—deciding who would receive immediate treatment, who would have to wait because their wounds were not life threatening, and who would be set aside to die because the time spent to try to save them could save half a dozen others instead or because they were simply too far gone for any help in this world other than a pra
yer from Reverend Black.

  The triage bag held several old-fashioned tubes of lipstick. Makala pulled one out and opened it up. The first stretcher case was a girl of eight or so, stoically silent but clutching a blood-soaked bandage just below the knee, right leg leaning out at a drunken angle with a shard of bone visible.

  She wrote the number two on the child’s forehead, immediate priority to ensure no arterial bleeding. With what they had available for orthopedic reconstruction, chances were the child would have to endure an amputation later on.

  Next one up was a girl in her twenties, broken arm dangling but with very little blood. Makala offered a few words of solace. The young woman grimaced and nodded, and Makala wrote the number one on her forehead. She would have to wait perhaps hours before someone would actually treat her, but she was in no danger of bleeding out or dying of shock.

  On another stretcher was a young boy, naked, curled up nearly fetal and crying like an injured kitten as Makala gently tried to pry his hands free from his wound, calling on a couple of the nurses who had just come running in to help her. She gazed silently for a few seconds and then kissed the boy on the forehead, telling him that they would soon make him well, and then John saw her write the number three on his forehead. He was beyond help. What meager supply of painkillers and anesthesia they had on hand would have to go for the number twos facing surgery. She stood back up, wiping tears from her face and motioning for the next case, again a number one.

  Then came the boy that John had seen in the back of the pickup truck, the toddler hanging limp in his arms. All those around them and those gathered across the street fell silent at the sight of him as he stoically walked up to Makala, and all could hear his appeal.

  “Lady, it’s my little sister. She’s all I got. Rest of my kin are dead. Please make her better.”

  Makala knelt down by his side and made a gesture of looking at the toddler, taking off the scarf she had been wearing, opening it up and starting to cover the terrifying, gaping wound in the little girl’s side. She had bled out long ago and had died, her features a ghastly gray.

  “Can I hold her for a second and check her?” Makala whispered.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Makala took the body, cradled it, and then went through the motions of acting like she was checking her as she wrapped her scarf around the child’s torso to cover the wound. “I think she’s a real special case. What’s your name, son?”

  “Vincent McNeill, ma’am.”

  “Vincent, let me take your sister to the doctor as a special case so he can help her now. Is that okay?”

  He looked at her wide eyed. “Really? Will she be okay? She got real still as we were driving over the mountains.”

  “We’ll treat her special, and you are a very brave young man. Now follow my friend inside, and the doctor will help you with your arm.” Makala looked at her assistant. “Two, and S for shock. Put him to the front of the line. We still have a few valiums. Get one in him.”

  The young woman, another of John’s old students, fought back tears as she tried to lead the boy inside, but he suddenly turned to look back. Makala was drawing her scarf up to cover the little girl’s pain-distorted features in a desperate attempt to conceal the ravages inflicted on the little body of his sister.

  “No!” Vincent screamed, and then he collapsed, sobbing.

  “Get him inside now!” Makala cried.

  Several from the crowd broke through the barrier line to rush over and help pick him up. Makala stood silent, clutching the child, breaking down sobbing and then looking at all who were staring at her.

  “Is this child our enemy?” she screamed. “God forgive us. Dear God!” She sobbed as hugged the dead child.

  John let go of Burnett’s hand and ran over to her. Reverend Black was by her side, and after a brief struggle, the minister relieved Makala of the burden she was holding, John kneeling down to embrace her as she sobbed uncontrollably, pulling her in tightly into a soothing embrace.

  Black, holding the child, looked about at the gathering. “I beg each of you to pray. Pray for these people, and pray that this type of madness ends.” He slowly walked into the hospital carrying the dead child. John held Makala tightly.

  “Oh, God, John, I thought of our Jennifer. That boy had the same look in his eyes that you did when she died. Why did they do this to these people?”

  He looked up. The stretcher cases were lining up, waiting, wounded crying, while across the street, many were openly crying, as well, many on their knees in prayer. It was as if a vast wave of empathy had enveloped the town, and the pain of those viewed just hours earlier as foes had become their pain and source of anguish, as well.

  “Makala, you have to get back to it,” he whispered soothingly, rocking her back and forth as if comforting a child. “You are trained for this. I’m not.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “Help me get back to my feet, John,” she whispered. She stood up, took a deep, shuddering breath, nodded, and then pushed him away. The assistant who had helped the boy into the hospital was back out, sobbing.

  “Focus, Gina. You got to focus on the moment,” Makala implored her. “Now help me.”

  John stepped back as Makala picked up the lipstick tube she had dropped and walked up to the next stretcher, leaning over. “Two. Try to get blood type.” The next one was walking wounded, an elderly man, his skull cracked so wide open that John could actually see his brains. Makala wrote a three on his forehead and motioned for someone to guide him inside. The next case was a near-skeletal man in his twenties, gut shot and unconscious, obviously a three. The next case was another two; someone had roughly stitched up the carotid artery, but it was leaking blood and appeared ready to burst. The next one … then the next one … and the next one.

  John stood by the truck, Burnett’s hand in his. Burnett’s voice was weak, telling him what had happened, denying they had anything to do with the raid on the convey. A couple of his people coming back from a trading mission with the cultlike reivers over in Madison County had witnessed it from afar and then ran for their base.

  “Why didn’t you move as you told me you would?” John asked.

  Burnett laughed weakly. “You know how much gas it takes to move half a hundred vehicles and four hundred people fifty miles? Looks like a scene from one of those damn disaster movies. I was bluffing you, John, to see what you’d do. Then we heard those helicopters coming in, and I knew the shit was in the fan.”

  John could only nod.

  “Thought you were in on it at first when I saw that plane. Yeah, we seen you fly it for the first time last weekend. Craggy Gap used to be a damn good perch to spy on you folks. So, yeah, I thought you were in on it. Your plane take a shot or two?”

  “A couple. One damn near blew my head off, hit just behind me.”

  Burnett chuckled weakly. “One-armed but still good with a carbine.”

  “That was you?”

  “Damn straight. But glad now I missed. Glad you dropped that note. Took a chance on believing you. Saw the way those Apaches bird-dogged you, as well.”

  He slipped off for a moment, John squeezing Burnett’s hand with his right and reaching out with his left to check his pulse. It was weak and fluttery; he was definitely slipping deeper into shock. Throughout all this, the driver was silent, and John suddenly realized that he was wounded as well and had just quietly passed out.

  Christ, these people are tough, John thought. Ragged and malnourished, they had struggled to survive. Black Mountain had managed to pull together in fair part because tactically it was a superb location, with only one pass in and one out, surrounded by mountains. But these people had somehow managed to survive while actually living in the mountains, narrow valleys, and hollows in the same way their ancestors had etched out a living 150 years earlier.

  “Medic over here!” John shouted.

  Burnett stirred. “Officers last, Matherson.”

  “To hell with that!”

  A str
etcher crew came up to John, and he pulled the door open and went around to the other side and opened the driver door and then recoiled. The driver’s left side under his armpit was drenched red, blood actually trickling out from the open door and splashing on to John’s boots. The young man had silently bled to death while waiting his turn in the old tradition of women and children first, and John wanted to scream with frustrated rage. How he managed to drive with that kind of injury was beyond comprehension. A stretcher team came up, and John shook his head.

  “This one’s dead.” He sighed.

  He went around to where Burnett was being eased out of the pickup truck and onto the stretcher, protesting weakly for the rest of the kids and women to be tended to ahead of him.

  Makala came over to his side, looked down at him, drew a pair of scissors out of her pocket, and cut the bandage off, revealing a jagged hole in his left side just below his ribs. She sighed and raised the lipstick tube.

  “He’s a two,” John snapped, and she hesitated. “It’s Forrest Burnett, and he’s a two.”

  Forrest, eyes going out of focus, looked up at him. “Officers last,” he whispered.

  “Yeah, Forrest, you’re the last case, now relax.” He turned his gaze back to Makala. “A two, and do it now.”

  She nodded. “You ex-military?” she asked, leaning down and shouting the question.

  He stirred and smiled.

  “What’s your blood type?”

  He looked confused.

  “Trooper, what’s your blood type?” John shouted.

  “A positive.” Then he slipped out of consciousness.

  “Get him into surgery now!” Makala shouted. “Prep him. I’ll go into him if need be if no one is working on him once I’m done out here.”

  John looked at her and nodded his thanks.

  “Spleen’s most likely blown apart,” she whispered. “He’s lost a lot of blood, John. We should just let him go.”