When Lauren turned the other way, she was surprised to see Christian approaching, and it didn’t take a second for her to discern that he intended to join the expedition. He was dressed in ‘full battle rattle’ and was wearing or otherwise carrying all his combat gear and weapons with him. He peeked at her briefly while sauntering past Norman’s truck.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Lauren asked him.
Christian pushed out his lower lip and gestured in the direction of the vehicles parked along the road. “I think I’m going on a road trip. I decided to go at the last minute—I hear that’s been going around lately.”
Lauren scoffed. “Like hell you are.”
Christian stopped and turned to her. “You know, Lauren, you do have one hell of a left hook, but it’s going to take a lot more ass than you got to keep me from going along.” He threw a hand up to Fred, who casually waved back to him, the sly grin coating Fred’s face indicating he was pleased. “That smile is better than the good housekeeping seal of approval. He seems to appreciate the fact I’m going. Maybe you should, too.”
Lauren’s chest expanded as far as it could within the confines of the plate carrier. She didn’t respond, but shot Christian a simmering glare that could burn buildings.
“Good talk,” he said, then simply shrugged and walked on.
Lauren stood, set her rifle down, and rotated her head to where Grace stood yards away near the cabin, and threw her hands into the air. Grace smiled to her coyly, waved, and spun around, heading back inside without a single word in reply.
“Hmm. Obviously, you and my sister are in cahoots now,” Lauren said. “Thick as thieves, you two. This trust thing is going to get a lot more complicated if she intends to play intermediary.” She turned to see if Christian had heard her, but he had already located himself inside the cab of Norman’s truck and was preparing for the journey ahead.
The trip from the valley into Wardensville, in transit to Dr. Vincent’s estate, was short and uneventful, but Lauren enjoyed every second of it. It was the farthest she had been away from home in a legion of days, the first time she had seen the town since before the collapse, and her first time departing the confines of the valley and the surrounding National Forest in a gasoline-powered vehicle—something which, for a great deal of time, seemed nothing less than an impossibility.
Dr. Vincent’s property was located on a plot of half-wooded, half-fielded land bordered by Baker Mountain to the west and the Cacapon River to the east and southeast. Norman followed Fred’s lead as he made the turn from US Route 55 onto the privately owned Vincentius Road, a sign at the intersection with the abbreviation ‘PVT’ providing the info. A wooden brown sign with white lettering bearing the words Primum non nocere, and another just below displaying Si vis pacem para bellum, were mounted underneath on the same post.
Both vehicles pulled off to the side of the drive and came to a stop before crossing a bridge spanning the river, in a location that would facilitate a trouble-free turnabout. Not far away on the other side of the traverse sat a partially corroded steel gate with notices that read KEEP OUT and NO TRESSPASSING mounted to it. Several coils of heavy chain secured it to its supports, preventing further entry by vehicle.
Bo Brady squinted at the signs behind them at the intersection. “Prime um non-nockery,” he said, doing his best to enunciate the words. “What in tarnation is that supposed to mean?”
Lauren giggled. “It’s Latin. It means ‘first, do no harm’. He’s a doctor…it’s a paraphrase taken from the Hippocratic Oath.” She smiled while examining the sign just beneath. “I’m not fluent in Latin, but I’m familiar with the other one, too.” She remembered seeing that very phrase numerous times on bumper stickers, T-shirts, and even skin tattoos during her many trips to Point Blank range.
“What’s it say? Something else doctor-like?” Bo asked while his son continued to gawk at Lauren like she had three heads revolving in different directions.
Using her rifle’s buttstock for support, Lauren rose. “Not at all, actually. It says ‘if you want peace, prepare for war’.”
Leaving the vehicles behind, the group climbed the gate and cautiously approached the house. Moments after, Lauren stood in a gravel parking spot just off the driveway with Norman at her side, and watched while Fred and Christian closed in on Dr. Vincent’s house from several yards away. Weapons at the ready, they remained vigilant, but moved casually, not wanting to appear threatening to anyone who might be watching from indoors.
With a hand to his mouth, Fred called out to the house and seconds later repeated the call, but no response was received from the home. He tried several more times with no reward.
“There’s no one in there,” Lauren said, using her binoculars to scan the windows for motion. “The place is locked up like Fort Knox, and there’s no cars parked anywhere.”
Norman nodded. “Think we’re wasting our time here?”
“Yeah. I think we are. He’s either long gone or…he never made it home.”
Fred turned and called to them. “Agents, we’re going to breach the house,” he said. “All teams spread out—surround and get eyes-on. DHS and I have the lead.”
Norman scratched his head. “Why did he say that?”
“He must think there’s people inside the house that shouldn’t be there,” Lauren theorized. “It’s hard to tell with Fred sometimes. But I think the mention of the DHS is enough to scare anyone these days.”
Norman shrugged. “I guess.” He gave her the thumbs-up and went to one knee, his AK-47 finding a ready position in his grip.
Lauren pulled her rifle to her shoulder and peered through the magnified optic at Christian, who was seconds away from kicking the door. Fred stood several feet behind, covering him with his trusty M1A. The doorjamb shattered as Christian’s boot impacted the door. He moved swiftly inside, Fred following not far behind. Several minutes passed by without a sound before Fred’s voice could be heard echoing an all clear, and while all the others remained outside, Lauren went in.
With the exception of the busted front entrance, nothing inside the home appeared out of place. Windows were intact. Walls were undamaged; even the hardwood floors looked as though they had recently been mopped free of dust and debris.
Lauren could hear Fred’s and Christian’s footsteps moving about on the floor above her while she made her way through the home, taking note of the multitude of photo frames hanging from the walls.
When Lauren entered the Vincents’ contemporary-themed kitchen, she scanned the room, and her eyes eventually went to the table, where a blood glucose monitor was sitting next to a half-empty box of syringes and two empty boxes of test strips. Not far away sat a brushed steel trashcan, its cover propped open, displaying a heap of discarded empty IV fluid bags.
A letter lay on the table just beside the glucose meter in plain view, as if it had been placed there specifically to be found. It was handwritten in delicate, legible cursive on textured stationery, addressed to no one in particular other than ‘to whom it may concern’.
“Dammit,” she whispered to herself. “Please, God. Don’t let me be the one who finds his suicide note.”
Lauren picked up the glucose meter and pressed the power button, but it didn’t come to life. She guessed the batteries were dead, but at the same time, didn’t rule out the EMP as being a likely cause for the device’s demise. Setting it down, Lauren moved her attention to the note, and she read it word for word.
To whom it may concern:
I’ve mulled these thoughts in my head to the point of nausea. Nothing that I have done right in my life—no matter how altruistic or remarkable—can absolve me of this one irresponsible mistake. Nothing can help me overcome the wrong I have done—of that, I am certain. So sure, in fact, that I would undoubtedly bet my life on it. There’s no reason not to at this point…I’ve already gambled everything else away, even the life of my spouse.
I realize that I am, first and foremost, a human
being. And as such, prone to make mistakes. Most blunders are therefore supposedly forgivable, easily swept under the proverbial rug, but I do not believe this one to be. I’m not just any human, you see. I am a medical doctor. A trained and tenured physician—one who is now guilty of the worst case of malpractice ever transgressed on another.
Had I ever given any thought to the fact that something so tragic, so ominous, so apocalyptic as this blackout could have ever come to pass, I would have undoubtedly made better plans. And had I done so, had I been diligent, had I done my job, I know my Patricia would still be here with me. I’d still have her beside me, keeping me warm and happy, and I, her. And I’d still have her sweet voice in the room with me, telling me how much she loved me. And I, her.
Despite my best efforts, the love of my life is dead, and I am to blame. I watched helplessly while she suffered and endured more pain than most terminally ill patients under my care ever did. Hyperglycemia had taken her over in a matter of days. From there, I watched her fall slowly into diabetic ketoacidosis, and after a closer examination of the symptoms—brought about by alteration in her state of consciousness—my official diagnosis was that Patricia had tumbled into an acute hyperosmolar hyperglycemic state (HHS), which, although more common in type 2 DM, is conceivable in type 1 DM, especially if the patient is elderly. I began a treatment regimen of intravenous fluids and electrolyte replacement to offset her notable potassium deficit, but without adequate insulin, her condition became untreatable. Even with all my training and knowledge, I was powerless to do any more for her, and I was thereby forced to let her slip away.
I regret I did not have the foresight to prepare for something as monumentally unprecedented as this. The lights went out last September, never to return. And now, a third of my life is gone, also never to return.
After Patricia succumbed, I spent a day with her, telling her goodbye before laying her to rest. I buried her near the daffodil gardens along the riverbed, not far from the bench where she did most of her reading. It was what she would have wanted, even though the two of us had burial plots already laid out in the community cemetery. I hope to someday return here, to our home of many years together, so that I can be interred beside her.
With Patricia no longer in my life, I no longer have a life of which to speak, and it is no longer essential for me to remain here in the home we built and inhabited together. The memories are far too harsh. I have, therefore, taken my leave of this place and of this catastrophic nightmare I have so unrighteously caused. My destination is Potomac Valley Hospital in Keyser, where I will hopefully join my son and his endeavors at the trauma center there. I can only hope he and the others can find a use for me. If not, or worse—if I’m unable to find him, I’m not convinced what I’ll do.
I am deeply repentant for what I have done, but even more so for what I have not done, or was unable to do. I’m a failure to Patricia and a failure to myself. I can only hope that God can find a way to forgive me and allow me into the pearly gates after this life is over, so that I can someday see her again, hold her hands, kiss her face, and tell her how sorry I am—for everything.
Respectfully, James W. Vincent, MD
January 24th, 2021
“Friendly on your six,” Fred bawled behind her, warning Lauren of his presence upon making a precipitous entrance into the kitchen. “You good down here?”
Lauren returned the note to its spot on the table and turned to him. “Yeah. Copasetic. What about you?”
Fred nodded, looking a little perplexed. He slung his M1A over his shoulder. “The house is clear of bodies, although not fully empty. Oddly enough, the closets are still full. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a long time.”
“You’re right about that,” Lauren said, pointing to the note. “Dr. Vincent left here ten months ago.”
“What do you got there? A dear john letter or something?”
Lauren handed the note to Fred as he came forward. “Hardly,” she said. “His wife was a diabetic—insulin dependent, from the looks of things. He took care of her here for a few months before she died. He left in January…right around the same time we moved into the valley.”
“That’s a shame. Did he leave any indication where he went?” Fred asked, putting very little effort into skimming the note.
“Keyser,” Lauren said, while recalling the last time she herself had visited. “The hospital there. But that was almost a year ago—the chances of finding him there are—”
“Slim. Yes, I know,” Fred interposed. “About the same as they were in finding him here.” He sighed. “It’s a long shot, but such is the case for everything else we’re dealing with.” He handed Lauren back the letter and went to exit the kitchen.
“So what’s next, then?”
Fred stopped and peered over his shoulder. “Keyser is a lot of clicks downrange, along a road I’m not looking forward to travelling on.” He paused. “Too many curves, too many dark unknowns, and an increasingly high pucker factor. I don’t like convoying into areas where I can’t see around me, even with security and overwatch—which we most definitely do not have. I’m much more comfortable heading into Moorefield from here. Utilizing Corridor H, we can get there fairly safely, I’d imagine.”
Lauren remembered her last trip along US Route 48, also known as Corridor H, a one-hundred-fifty-mile four-lane superhighway that wound its way through the Appalachian Mountains in West Virginia. While most highways ascended, descended, or otherwise cut through or tunneled under mountains, Corridor H was unique in that it was constructed to be elevated much higher above, where it nearly soared overtop the surrounding mountainous landscape. The stretch from Wardensville to Moorefield was just a small segment of its total length, but it made for a beautiful drive nonetheless, providing a cluster of breathtaking views along the way.
Fred continued. “Once we get there, we can check out this food situation that Bo’s been ranting about. After that, I’ll need a little while to examine the topo maps and plan the safest route north to Keyser. I think Kristen was right. I have a feeling we’re going to need that doctor. And that means putting the food search on hold until we find him, or someone like him.”
“I haven’t been on Corridor H in years,” said Lauren.
“It’s been a while for me, too. I wish we could take it all the way through and back. It sits up high, and we’ll be able to see everything around us from pretty far away. That means few or no surprises, and its design gives it another redeeming quality…it was built to span over everything, including every road it intersects with. And that means no overpasses.”
Lauren gave him a quizzical look. “What’s so redeeming about that?”
Fred hesitated. “I don’t like overpasses, Lauren Jane. Most men who’ve been in combat aren’t fond of them, either. Overpasses can get us ambushed. And ambushes have been known to get people killed.”
Chapter 22
FEMA Resettlement Camp Bravo
Woodstock, Virginia
Wednesday, December 1st. Present day
Faith frowned and prayed to herself with her head bowed.
Her fingertips combed through Pastor Hal Wigfield’s hair, glided down along his temples, and soon came into contact with the frigid skin on his cheeks.
Katherine inched closer from behind her and leaned in, a repulsed look on her face. “How long do you think he’s been…dead?”
“I don’t know,” Faith said, finishing her prayer. “His skin is icy, and his body feels stiff. I imagine he passed recently, maybe even today.”
“Any idea how he died?”
“Only the Lord knows the answer to that question, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I know he’s been sick for a while—for over a month now, seems like. I wonder if that’s what did it.”
Faith shook her head. “Kat, I don’t know—I don’t have a clue. Honestly, I’m only considering his destination, now. Not so much the journey he took to get there.”
“It’s just�
�so weird.” Katherine hesitated. “He was up and moving just the other day. I’ve never seen a dead body before.”
Faith shuddered at the mention of the words dead body. She had most definitely set eyes on one before, and for her, the experience had been one too many. Faith pushed the thought from her mind. It was the last thing she wanted to think about now.
Katherine put her hand on Faith’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “What should we do? Should we tell someone about it?”
Tell who? Faith thought. She didn’t even know who Pastor Wigfield reported to. Who could she trust? The last thing she wanted to do, especially now, was hunt for someone within the DHS for the purposes of reporting one of their own deceased. They would probably find her culpable in some way for the pastor’s death. “I’m sorry, Katherine…I have to admit, I’m racking my brain for a name, but I don’t know of anyone with whom I have the candor to report something of this magnitude.”
“You think they’ll try to blame you for it?” asked Katherine, her voice turning gruff. “Mrs. G, that’s crazy. Look at him. It’s pretty clear he died of something natural.”
Faith turned to look at her friend from where she knelt. “It just dawned on me…who found him like this, Katherine?”
“Tony Bartlett.”
“Where is Tony now?”
Kat shrugged. “Heck if I know. He seemed wigged out about it. His eyes were all buggy, like he just saw a ghost or something. He came and got me, I went and got you, and that was that. I never saw him after.” She cocked her head. “Why?”
We Won't Go Quietly: A Family's Struggle to Survive in a World Devolved (Book Three of the What's Left of My World Series) Page 27