Nuclear Winter Whiteout

by Bobby Akart

  Tucker asked Sheriff Mobley to hold off on the extreme makeover for Black & Blue until he spoke with his dad. He hoped that the amputation surgery would enable him to come out of his coma.

  As they were having this conversation, Owen did just that.

  A young male orderly had rushed into the sheriff’s office after running the mile from the medical center. He had been told by Dr. Brady to find Tucker and the sheriff. They piled into Sheriff Mobley’s Jeep and rushed back to the ER. Before coming to a stop, Tucker had flung the door open and raced through the entry doors toward the ICU. He was met in the hallway by Donna Ruiz, the ever-present nurse.

  With Tucker barreling down on her, Ruiz stood in the middle of the hallway with both hands raised like a third base coach giving a signal to a base runner to stop.

  “Tucker, Tucker, slow down. The doctors are still with your dad.”

  “Is he awake? Is he okay?” Tucker nervously looked past her toward his dad’s room. He then looked toward his mom’s. He wondered if she knew, or maybe she was with him already.

  “They’re still examining him,” Ruiz replied. “Both doctors said your father’s situation is a little more complicated than your mom’s. They need you to give them a little time, and then they’ll explain.”

  “Does Mom know?”

  She nodded. “Yes. In fact, I’d like you to join her so the doctors can speak with you both as soon as they come out.”

  Tucker nodded his head rapidly, and she gently took him by the arm. As she led him down the corridor, he craned his neck to look in the small glass window in the center of his father’s door. The doctors in their white coats and several nurses obstructed his view, resulting in a sigh of disappointment. It was all he could do to restrain himself from pulling away from the nurse and bursting in there.

  He entered his mom’s room and was amazed to see her sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in pajamas provided by the hospital staff. Clothing had been donated by several families who were aware of the McDowells’ predicament. Lacey was wearing red and white striped flannel pj’s from Victoria’s Secret.

  “Hi, honey,” she greeted him with a smile. She stretched her arm up to grasp Tucker’s hand. “Where’ve you been?”

  “I walked down to the sheriff’s office,” he replied and then briefly explained what he’d learned, especially the part about the town rallying to help them.

  “Have they told you anything about your dad?” she asked.

  “Nothing, except I saw both of his doctors and a few nurses in there just now. Nurse Ruiz said they’d come see us here, and reminded me that dad’s condition was more complicated.”

  Tucker looked down at his feet. He was unsure whether the term complicated was in reference to the amputation or his exposure to the bitter cold. He pulled a chair next to his mom and sat down; then he told her more about what Sheriff Mobley had done for them. They made small talk in an effort to pass the time until the doctors arrived.

  The door opened slightly, and Dr. Brady was giving instructions to Ruiz about another patient in the ICU before finally entering the room. Tucker immediately stood to greet him, and Lacey tried before plopping back into the wheelchair. She’d need more rest and some nutrition before she could stand on her own.

  Dr. Brady held the door open, and shortly thereafter, Dr. Forrest joined him. He allowed Dr. Brady, as Owen’s attending physician, to speak first. He addressed Lacey.

  “Okay, as you know, your husband is awake and somewhat alert. There are a couple of things you need to know, so I’m gonna get right to it so you can see him before he nods off.

  “We performed a series of tests on Owen just as we did for the both of you when you woke up. There are some positive signs. His eye response is fairly good. He responds to our verbal commands. When we asked him to perform certain physical functions on command, he was unable to do so. His inability to do this could be related to his drowsy state or general disjointedness. Time will tell. But the larger concern is related to his verbal responses.”

  “Are you saying he can’t talk?” asked Tucker.

  Dr. Brady scowled as he tried to find the words to explain Owen’s condition that could be understood by a layman.

  “The brain is a very complicated part of the body, Tucker. The Glasgow analysis is designed to assess brain function without conducting more invasive tests. The verbal response test is designed to determine his higher cortical function. In other words, how does his brain allow him to communicate coherently, react, remember, and even react to pain.

  “Unfortunately, Owen is having difficulty responding to us. He uttered incomprehensible sounds, and when he did manage to speak, the words were used inappropriately to the questions.”

  “My god,” said Lacey, who began to cry.

  “Now, let’s be clear,” said Dr. Forrest. “We are in the early stages of your husband’s recovery process. Traumatic brain injuries like his may take weeks or months to fully recover from. He’ll need to be seen by a neurosurgeon, probably at one of the hospitals in Colorado Springs, when he’s able to travel. After that, the normal course is physiotherapy and reoccurring psychological assessments.”

  Dr. Brady stepped in. “The good news is that he’s alive.”

  “Does he know about his legs?” asked Tucker.

  “There’s no indication that he does,” replied Dr. Forrest. “In fact, it’s not that unusual during a post-op recovery. Many amputees believe the limbs are still there until they observe the results of the surgery for themselves.”

  “Can we see him?” asked Lacey.

  Dr. Brady answered her. “Absolutely. In fact, we hope that your presence might help him become more alert and responsive to verbal stimuli. The key is to remain calm and speak words of encouragement. Owen needs to know he has your love and support.”

  Tucker quickly moved behind his mother and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. “Let’s go.”

  “All right, but remember, let’s not overload him with information. Keeping him relaxed will be the best medicine right now.”

  Dr. Brady led the way as Lacey and Tucker followed close behind. Tucker had already seen his dad after the surgery, so he wasn’t shocked by the sight of him without his lower legs. When Lacey saw him for the first time, she covered her mouth, and tears flowed down her cheeks. Her family’s life often revolved around outside activities. Owen would be crushed when he learned of the amputation.

  For now, however, she rejoiced in his being alive and awake. Tucker pushed her wheelchair until she was at Owen’s side. Then, like her son had done before her, she disregarded her doctor’s orders and pushed herself out of her chair to grasp the bed rails. She needed to be as close to Owen as possible. Tucker wrapped his arm around her waist and supported her so she could lean closer.

  She wiped away the first flood of tears and regained her composure after a few sniffles. She lovingly touched his face and said, “Honey, I’m here for you. I love you so much.”

  Owen’s eyelids fluttered and opened slightly, staring directly upward. Both Dr. Brady and Dr. Forrest stepped a little closer to the bed.

  “Recognition,” whispered Dr. Brady. “A great sign.”

  Lacey continued. “Tucker’s here with me. Our son is a very brave young man. You’ll be so proud of him.”

  Owen’s eyes shifted from left to right. Then up and down. Tucker picked up on his eye movements and presumed his dad was searching for him. He continued to hold his mother and leaned over the bed.

  “I’m right here, Dad. We’re all together again.”

  Then Owen did something that sent elation through the minds of everyone in the room. He blinked rapidly, and a slight smile came over his face. Lacey began to cry again.

  “That’s right, Owen. We’re all here. All three of us are together again, and we’re gonna make it through this. You’ll see. We love you so much. Just hang in and get—”

  Lacey stopped mid-sentence as Owen’s body convulsed, and then his chest heaved, lifting h
im off the bed. Alarms started going off, and lights flashed on the monitoring equipment on both sides of the bed.

  Nurse Ruiz rushed around the back of Lacey and Tucker. She shouted to the doctors, “He’s in V-fib!”

  Ventricular fibrillation was a dangerous level of arrhythmia, or irregular heartbeat. Owen’s heart rate elevated rapidly, and the cardiac monitor indicated rapid, erratic electrical impulses.

  “What’s happening?” asked Lacey in a loud voice.

  “What’s wrong with my dad?”

  Dr. Brady approached Owen from the other side of the bed. Just as he arrived, Owen went into cardiac arrest and flatlined. A solid, horizontal line appeared on the electrocardiogram monitor affixed to Owen. It meant all electrical activity had ceased in the brain.

  “Please move back,” ordered Dr. Forrest. Ruiz assisted Lacey back into her wheelchair and brusquely pulled her against the wall. Another nurse was forceful with Tucker as well. They needed to save Owen’s life, and now was not the time for politeness.

  “No pulse!” shouted Dr. Forrest, who pressed two fingers to Owen’s carotid artery.

  Dr. Brady was pumping on Owen’s chest in an effort to restart his heart. He shouted instructions as he did.

  “Bag him!” A reference to the use of a large, balloon-like manual resuscitator that forces air into a patient’s lungs.

  “Push epi!” he ordered next, looking directly at the monitor and Ruiz. She immediately injected epinephrine into Owen’s saline drip. Epinephrine increased the arterial blood pressure in an effort to reverse cardiac arrest.

  “It’s not working!” shouted Dr. Brady, who ferociously pumped his hands on Owen as he attempted CPR.

  “Charge the paddles!” shouted Dr. Forrest. Dr. Brady stopped pumping Owen’s chest and quickly peeled back his blankets to open up his hospital gown. His chest had been shaved, and strategically placed electrodes affixed to the electrocardiogram device were visible.

  Ruiz handed the paddles to Dr. Forrest and then yelled, “Charged, two hundred!”

  “Clear!” said Dr. Forrest, and the medical team immediately reacted by standing away from Owen. He placed the paddles and deployed the device.

  Owen’s body lurched upward as the strong electrical current passed through his heart’s muscle cells, momentarily stopping the abnormal electrical energy and encouraging the normal heart beat to resume.

  Everyone held their breath and studied the heart rate monitor. The horizontal line remained unchanged following the first attempt.

  Dr. Forrest was not giving up. “Charge again!”

  “Charged!”

  “Clear!”

  He tried again. Once again, the jolt of electric current forced Owen upwards, but as before, the monitor told the story. There was no response.

  Dr. Brady frantically resumed chest compressions while Ruiz continued to manually force air into Owen’s lungs. It had been almost six minutes. Generally, at least fifty to sixty percent of sudden cardiac arrest patients survive if defibrillation procedures take place within five minutes. On this day, the odds were not in Owen’s favor.

  Dr. Brady and Ruiz continued to fight for a miracle. He pushed on Owen’s chest, his eyes darting to Lacey, who was wailing in grief over her husband, his patient that he tried to do everything to save.

  “Push epi! Again!” His voice begged as he gave the directive. In his mind, he knew it was hopeless.

  “Frank,” said Dr. Forrest, who made eye contact with his colleague. All he had to do was slowly shake his head side to side. It was over.

  Dr. Brady stepped back from Owen’s bed and angrily ripped his gloves off and slammed them to the floor. “Time of death, 9:34.”

  The entire medical team looked down at Owen’s dead body, tears rolling down their cheeks. One by one, they stopped to offer their condolences to Lacey and Tucker, who held each other as they wailed in agony. Finally, Dr. Brady apologized for not saving Owen and left them alone. For nearly an hour, they sobbed at his bedside. Hugging him. Squeezing his hand. Imploring God to make this nightmare end. Begging Him to bring back a loving husband and father who didn’t deserve to die.

  Part IV

  Day seventeen, Sunday, November 3

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sunday, November 3

  Hickory, North Carolina

  The next day, Peter woke up to the smell of bacon sizzling in a cast-iron skillet. The warmth from the wood-burning stove heated the Spencers’ home while the top burners provided a cooktop to prepare warm meals. Peter said good morning to Anna and Charles before scampering outside to an outhouse that hadn’t been used by the family for nearly eighty years. It had been placed back into service when the power went out permanently.

  It was colder than the day before, and Peter shivered as he tried to urinate. He was anxious to get into town to learn more about these Uber trips, as Charles called them. He wasn’t sure what he could trade, but he would try to gain a seat on one of the trucks heading south.

  During their breakfast together, Peter was elated to learn that Charles was going to drive him into town and introduce him to a fellow truck driver he was loosely acquainted with. He thought an introduction would go a long way to gaining a ride.

  The two men went alone so Anna could keep an eye on the house. She and Peter shed a few tears as they said their goodbyes. He was in awe at the woman’s fortitude and ability to keep her spirits up. Her husband had serious lung issues that required medical attention that was no longer available. His eventual death would likely be slow and painful.

  They entered the Hickory Farmers Market, which was normally held at Union Square on Saturdays. Prior to the attacks, it had been so popular that the organizers had maintained a website complete with a calendar letting attendees know what vegetables they could expect to buy during what period of the year.

  The town square was filled with pop-up shops, built in the morning and removed at night. Before the bombs fell, this had been a bustling public market filled with playing children, colorful flags and balloons, and customers who drove up from Charlotte to enjoy the ambience.

  The mood was far different that morning. A single entrance forced people to file past the leery eyes of the market’s organizers. To enter, you had to show residency or be accompanied by a resident. Peter would’ve never been granted access without Charles alongside. There were no children present. In the early days after the market began operating again, hungry kids would steal a handful of produce from the farmers. Rather than punish them, the organizers forbade them from being there.

  Once inside, Peter began to study the faces of the attendees. They were lifeless. There was no laughter. No chatter. No greetings between old acquaintances. The shoppers wandered past the vendors’ booths, gripping their barter item as if it were a bar of gold from Fort Knox. Only it wasn’t nearly that valuable. Some held their wedding bands in their nervous, sweaty palms. Others carried a grocery tote bag of canned goods. And then there were those who offered themselves up in trade. Strong young men who offered to work the fields or act as security to the vendors. Women who offered up anything the vendors asked in exchange for food.

  It was desperate and depressing. Peter couldn’t believe America had been reduced to this. A nation that was once the greatest country on Earth was now something straight out of a dystopian movie. He took a deep breath and tried to put the despair out of his mind. He began to study the vendors as he searched for the truck drivers Charles had mentioned.

  In that part of North Carolina, for early November, apples, leafy greens and broccoli were most prevalent. Throughout the year, there were plenty of peanuts and sweet potatoes. Today, the vendors sold more than locally harvested crops. There were tables with guns, ammunition, knives, and even swords. One man was selling gallons of gasoline while another offered a variety of pharmaceuticals.

  Barter was the name of the game, and the most sought-after form of currency was precious metals like gold and silver. Many people toted drawstring bags ful
l of pre-1964 U.S.-minted coins because they consisted of ninety percent silver. A few of the larger booths included jewelers with their magnifying equipment and jewelry tools. Some jewelers charged a fee to issue a letter of authenticity for a bracelet or ring. The customer would take the piece with the letter to another booth and make their purchase.

  Credit cards were worthless, and most vendors considered U.S. paper currency to be a joke. Peter was fascinated by the dickering back and forth between the buyers and sellers. As he followed Charles through the crowd, he gripped his AR-15 a little tighter as many of the attendees eyed the powerful rifle. He wanted to loiter around the gun traders to determine what it was worth, but Charles, who was toting his oxygen tank on a wheeled cart, was on a mission to find a truck driver he recognized.

  “There they are,” said Charles as he turned his body slightly to address Peter. Peter was watching a transaction between an ammunition maker and a customer. It reminded him that bullets came at a premium as he heard the prices the ammo seller was demanding.

  Peter turned his attention to Charles and followed him as the old man picked up the pace through the crowd. Just ahead was a man in his late sixties standing behind a folding table full of a variety of guns. Hunting rifles, shotguns, and several types of pistols. He unconsciously slid his AR-15 behind his back in a weak attempt to hide it from the prying eyes of the man and his two husky sidekicks, who turned out to be his children. Each of the boys held a shotgun at low ready as they stood guard over the truck-driver-turned-arms-dealer-turned-Uber-driver.

  “Mornin’,” the man mumbled to Charles as he sized up his customers. He exchanged a glance with one of his sons, who provided him an imperceptible nod. From that point, the young man never took his eyes off Peter’s. “What can we do ya fer?” He had a heavy country accent that was all the more difficult to understand because he rolled a protruding toothpick around his mouth.