by Ray Wench
“That's all on you, Doc. It's your team and your training.”
“True. But it goes to show what people can do when they band together for a common goal. However, that brings to mind a problem. A lot of the supplies we gathered a few months back have been depleted. If these situations continue to arise, we'll have to hunt up some more, and the sooner the better. I'd rather be prepared than have something come up I can't handle because of lack of basic supplies. We'll probably have to do a blood drive too, although storing it could be a problem.”
“I'll leave that to you. I'm sure you'll get plenty of volunteers. Let me know what you need and maybe some of us can build it or find it. We'll figure something out.”
They stood in silence for a moment until Doc said, “Your son told me they discovered a medical facility out along route two. He said it was under guard like a military installation, but was on the grounds of a Cleveland Clinic compound. They saw an ambulance pull up to the gate and pass through, like maybe it was carrying a patient.”
Mark waited for her to finish, knowing she brought it up for a reason.
“It might be good to send a delegation out there to see what they're about. If they have doctors or more complete and operational facilities, it could be a beneficial alliance.”
Mark thought that over for a moment, wondering about what Lynn would say about another excursion. “Okay, we'll talk it over.”
Bobby stood up and leaned over his sister. He said a few words, looked up, excitement flashing through his eyes. Doc and Mark moved at the same time. They reached the bed and Doc handed her mug to Mark. Becca turned her head toward them.
“How do you feel, Becca?”
She croaked, cleared her throat and tried again. “Hurt.”
“Where's the pain?”
“Everywhere.”
Doc examined her.
“What happened?”
Mark said, “You fell. Do you remember that?”
Her eyes looked up to the right as she tried to recall the memory. “Yes. They tried to hang you.”
“That's right. And you saved my life.”
Becca winced as Doc probed her side with her finger.
“Did that hurt?” Doc asked
“Yeah!” she replied, with an unspoken, “Duh!”
Doc moved down her body poking at her.
Becca looked to the side and saw Lynn. “Is Lynn all right?”
“She's gonna be fine. She's just sleeping.”
“Becca,” Doc said, “did you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
Doc shot Mark a worried look.
“This. Anything?”
Becca shook her head.
“Can you feel me touching your feet?”
Again Becca shook her head.
“Give me your knife,” Doc demanded of Mark. Worry left him immobile. “Mark!”
He snapped from his concern and reached for his knife, confused at not finding it. A hand stretched in front of him holding his knife. He glanced up. Darlene shrugged and handed it to the doctor. “Concentrate now.” She poked the tip of the knife in the sole of Becca's foot. Seeing no reaction, she repeated the poke on the other foot. Becca felt neither.
Doc straightened up, patted Becca's legs and smiled. “Okay, honey, we'll try again tomorrow after you've had some time to rest and recover.
“Wait!” she cried out, on the verge of panic. “Wh-what does that mean?”
Doc sighed. “It's nothing to be concerned about right now.”
“Tell me!”
Doc glanced at her other recovering patients as both Bobby and Mark shushed her.
“It may be nothing and it may only be temporary, but for the moment, it appears you're paralyzed from the waist down.”
The shock of the statement hung like a mushroom cloud over the room.
“Bobby gasped, “Oh, sis. Oh no!”
Mark felt the earth shift under him and for the moment thought he might fall.
Doc looked from face to face as she spoke. “No one should be too concerned yet. It could just be from the trauma. It could resolve itself at any time. The important thing is not to panic and allow the healing process to take its course. We'll know more in a few days.”
Becca turned her head from the others and cried silently. Doc walked away and when she returned had a syringe. In a quick, fluid motion, she jabbed the needle into Becca's arm.
“What they hell was that?” Becca shouted, rubbing her arm.
“Just a sedative, to help you sleep.”
“You stupid bitch, you had no right.”
“Becca,” Mark chided. “That's no way to talk—”
“Shut up! Just shut up all of you. You're not the ones who'll never be able to walk again. Get out. All of you get out and leave me alone.” She covered her face and cried.
Doc motioned for them to leave. “Let's leave and let her rest. I don't want her to get too emotional and wake the others.”
The group left and Doc drew a sheet across their view. “The sedative will take effect quickly. Hopefully, she'll sleep till morning. Don't worry, one of us will be here all night. We'll keep checking on her.”
Bobby and Darlene left the barn, but Mark lingered. “Doc?”
He didn't have to finish his question. “I can't say for sure, Mark. I didn't see any obvious signs of trauma to her spine, but I also don't have the equipment to see something like that. It very well might be temporary, maybe something pinching off the nerves.”
She shrugged. “I really don't know at this point. I'll do some reading and find out what I can, but for now, all we can do is wait and see. I know I say that a lot, but it's the reality of our situation. I wish I could tell you something more reassuring, but ...”
He nodded. There was nothing more to say. He would have to wait, and pray to a God he was no longer sure he believed in. He found a chair and sat, his weight feeling heavier all of a sudden.
“You should rest, Mark. From the bits I've heard, you've had a trying few days.”
“It's my daughter. I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.”
She nodded and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I understand. You'll forgive me though, if I try to get a few hours of sleep. I have a feeling I'm going to need it tomorrow.”
“Of course, and Doc, thanks.”
Fifty-Seven
Lynn woke and glanced around wide-eyed until she remembered where she was. Becca lay to her left. She wondered about the young woman; she’d been unconscious on the helicopter, but Lynn knew little of her condition. Soft snoring made her look to the other side of her cot. To her surprise, Mark sat asleep in a folding chair set up next to her, his long frame barely supported by the metal chair.
She smiled at seeing him, a warm sensation flowed through her making her feel better. Lynn wanted to wake him and tell him she was sorry; tell him that she had been wrong about his desire to find trouble. Well, to a certain degree, anyway. If they were ever going to find peace and get any semblance of civilization back on track, they had to start living their lives as they had done before the apocalyptic event that destroyed so many lives.
She knew a complete return to normal was unrealistic, if not impossible, but how could she fault Mark for trying to recapture those times, even if they did lead them into danger. Well, that was a problem they would have to talk about, but moving out on him was a mistake. She loved him, and whatever came their way, they would face together.
He stirred and Lynn could no longer help herself. She reached out and touched his arm. He woke with a start, ready to take on more trouble. As their eyes met, the hard edges disappeared from his face. Relief, morphed into joy and the watery eyes showed the love he seldom talked about.
He stood and leaned over her. “Hi,” he said.
Lynn touched his cheek and wiped a fallen tear. The fact that he cried choked her up. Her words refused to come. She reached up with both arms and took him into an embrace. Lynn felt him holding back, but she wrapped her a
rms around further and pulled tight. For a few glorious moments they held that position, melding into each other. “I'm sorry, Lynn.”
“No, I'm sorry.”
“No, you were right. I was only thinking about myself. I just wanted to do one thing that made me feel normal again.”
“Don't you see Mark? This is our normal. We can't go back, we can only make the best of what we have now. Who knows how long it will be before now changes. For us, the best source of normal is to have our family, friends and community around us.”
“You're right. I'm sorry. I ...”
“Shut up and just hold me.”
“I will, forever.”
“Mark—”
“I love you, Lynn.”
His words made her forget her own. She sobbed into his shoulder, confident that no matter what came their way, they would get through it ... together.
Acknowledgements
I enjoy writing post-apocalyptic stories because there is an ‘anything is possible’ feel to them. There are no rules, no authority, just common sense and the struggle to hold onto to humanity. If you've been reading this series, you know that's been a central theme throughout. How we treat each other when faced with adversity is in direct relationship to how we treat each other during more normal times. Will we help each other in times of need or will we turn on each other in an everyone-for-themselves way?
I'd like to think civilization will continue, that we will all work together to rebuild a new, more accepting world. There will be those who chose a more communal approach to survival, but there will also be those who fend for themselves. We see that in today's world. The hatred we have, the lack of control over urges to attack and kill. The loss of caring and compassion for our fellow man. Perhaps that is why the popularity of the genre continues to grow. We can see the possibility of an apocalyptic event and fear we are heading in that direction.
I do a lot of shows and have met thousands of people this year. I appreciate the positive comments and continued support. I love talking to fans of the genre and listening to their ideas of how they see the world in apocalyptic times. Keep reading, I'll write more.
I'd like to thank all those who have supported the first three volumes. Thank you to my family and friends who leave me alone when I'm in a meeting with the voices in my head, and who try not to let their eyes glaze over when I start talking about weird stuff.
The sites I used in this story do exist although I may have altered a few to fit the story. Camp Perry is real and is part of the Ohio National Guard and run by the Adjutant General's office. The camp houses the Civilian Marksmanship Program Office, which hosts shooting competitions and National matches.
The Davis-Besse Nuclear power plant is also real and off Lake Erie. The marina is real too, but I took liberties with its grounds.
Thanks to my daughter, April, for the press kits, the marketing and the great work on the website.
Thank you to Jodi McDermmit for the help with the newsletter, your support and help making the stories better.
Thanks to John Kallas, PhD. for his book Edible Wild Plants. Check it out. It's very educational, especially for you survivalists.
Thanks again, to Rebel E Publishers especially EJ and Jayne, for your continued interest and support.
Check my website raywenck.com for current news, a list of appearances, my blog and what's coming next.
About the Author
Ohio native Ray Wenck took up writing upon retiring from teaching. He also owned DeSimone's Italian Restaurant in Toledo for twenty-five years. In recent years, he has proven to be a prolific novelist with a range of action-adventure novels to his credit. After retiring, he became a lead cook for Hollywood Casinos and the kitchen manager for the Toledo Mud Hens AAA baseball team. Now he spends most of his time writing, doing book tours and meeting old and new fans and friends around the country.
Ray is the author of eleven novels including the post-apocalyptic, Random Survival series and the mystery/suspense Danny Roth series and a YA novel, The Warriors. Ray hikes, cooks and plays harmonica with whatever band will let him sit in – or watches baseball – when not writing.
Facebook: Author Ray Wenck
Twitter: @RayWenck
Website: www.raywenck.com/
Also by this author …
The Danny Roth series: Teammates, Teamwork, Home Team, Stealing Home, Group Therapy
The Random Survival series: Random Survival, The Long Search For Home, The Endless Struggle
Warriors of the Court
And for more from this author …
Please turn the page for a preview of the first book in the Random Survival series, Random Survival.
Random Survival
Prologue
They would come for him soon. It was just a matter of time. They would come. And if they found him they would kill him. He didn’t doubt that for an instant. He could only hope that he would have enough warning to hide before they discovered his existence.
KCHUK. “Unh.” Thunk. KCHUK. “Unh.” Thunk. The sound repeated endlessly. His back ached from the constant strain. How many times had he sunk the shovel into the hard mixed earth of dirt and clay? How many times had he placed the sheet-wrapped bodies into the shallow graves? KCHUK. The sound droned on as he tried to lose himself in thought. If he kept his already dulled mind occupied, he wouldn’t concentrate on just how exhausted he was. He sunk the blade. “Unh.” The sound escaped his lips as he struggled to lift yet another shovelful and toss it aside. Thunk. The heavy, moist clod struck the pile and scattered down the slopes on all sides.
“Almost there,” he said to no one; no one alive. Another one laid to rest. Truly, how many had it been? How many days straight? He would have to figure it out when he was all done – if he ever did get done. The task seemed endless, but had to be done. The alternative was unthinkable.
Mark lifted two more shovelfuls, his eyes burning from the sweat running down his face. Wiping his eyes, he forced his muscles to an erect position and leaned on the shovel. He squinted into the sun enjoying its heat, then glanced back at the hole he’d dug. Judging his work sufficient, he stuck the shovel into the ground. His shirtless body glistened with sweat; his once snug jeans now sagged from his tightened and smaller stomach. Not what they called washer board, but at his age, and in this short time, it was close.
Grabbing the sheet by the feet, Mark pulled the expired shell of one of his neighbors, into the pit. The body dropped the four feet with a solid thud. Leaning on the shovel, he once again said a silent prayer. With sudden guilt Mark realized, he did not know his neighbor’s name. He’d said “Hi” to him three or four times a week in passing, for over five years, but never knew his name. It made the unpleasantness of burial even more so. He sighed and finished his prayer with an apology to God. If there truly were a God, which lately he had his doubts, He would know the name.
Plucking the shovel from its berth, Mark set about filling the hole. When it was done, he patted the mound down, then stomped on the pile. It was important to pack the dirt down as tight as possible. He didn’t want any animals digging up the bodies. He stood back and looked at the four graves, all in a row. Two dug two days ago, the mother and the little boy. The little girl was planted yesterday and now the father. He had watched them die knowing there was nothing he could do for them. An entire family lost in three short, painful days. He was beyond sadness. All emotion had faded at least a week ago. He could bring no more feelings to the surface. Whatever emotion he’d possessed lay buried in the graves he had dug for his wife and youngest boy. He couldn’t afford to feel. And yet, unbidden, the memory returned.
As the last shovelful of dirt hit the grave, Mark dropped to his knees, devastated. What could I have done differently? How could I have saved them?
One week earlier, people all over the country – he wasn’t sure if it was the world – had begun getting sick. The symptoms were flu-like: fever, then cramping, and then chills. Within two days, the bodies
had piled up. Hospitals and medical facilities were overwhelmed. In the first few days, there was still media coverage showing the crisis. News helicopters captured video of out-of-control mobs. What made it worse was not knowing what the illness was. The government didn’t even seem to know what the population faced. Their only words were to remain calm and they were working on whatever it was.
They hadn’t worked fast enough. Not for Sandra. Not for Ben.
He’d tried to get to the hospital with Sandra and Ben moaning in the car. But no matter which route he took, he couldn’t get through. Crowds and police barricades blocked the roads. After an hour of slamming the steering wheel, honking the horn, and swearing at anyone in the way, Sandra touched his arm.
“Just take us home, Mark. It’s where we belong.” She must have known then that the end was close.
Mark could only comfort them as their life ebbed from their bodies. Unable to ease Ben’s pain, Mark crushed two sleeping pills into a glass of water. Even in sleep, his son’s face contorted in pain.
Sandra went first. Mark held her until the end and thought his heart would explode as he felt her exhale her last breath. Ben never woke and followed his mother hours later. He had been so strong, had fought so hard. Whatever the devastating illness was, it had taken them in less than three days, but their suffering made it seem like an eternity.
Mark didn’t bother calling the authorities. They had too much death and chaos to deal with for them to even care. In the end, he went out behind their beautiful suburban home and dug two graves. Becca and Bobby, his other two children, were both away at college. All his efforts to contact them had failed.
What is left to hope for?
He rubbed his hands together to clear off the dirt and strode toward the house. When he returned, he carried a pistol. Mark dropped the gun between the two graves and picked up the shovel. He pushed his foot down on the blade. With the hole half dug, a warm and comforting breeze caressed him, as though someone had touched his cheek. In an instant his actions ceased and a soothing calm enveloped him. The breeze transferred its warmth through his body as though he had taken a drink of warm tea. A scent, carried on the wind, sparked a memory. A picture of Sandra danced before his eyes.