by Kyle Pratt
Exhausted and barely able to stand, Peter leaned on a soldier as they walked to the medical tent. There Peter collapsed upon a cot.
Only as his eyes blinked open did he realize he had slept. A line of lightbulbs along the apex of the long tent cast a dim glow over the two rows of patients. An IV bag hung beside him and a tube ran to his left arm. Someone had hung a plastic bag to one corner of the cot. Inside were all his personal items, except his pistol. A look under the blankets revealed he wore only a thin hospital gown.
Moving just his head he looked about. Peter’s cot stood at one end of the tent near the entrance on his right. A cool breeze flowed in through an open tent flap. On the left lay another patient. Blood stained bandages wrapped most of his head. Patches covered his eyes. His mouth hung open.
Is he asleep or dead?
Nearby another wore even bloodier bandages over his head, chest, and arms. He muttered and moaned.
Suffering only weakness, a headache and vomiting, Peter felt strangely fortunate. Could he, should he, pray for God’s help in his personal quest in the midst of such suffering?
God if you can’t help me, keep Sue and our son safe.
He dozed, but when he awoke two doctors stood just outside the tent. The older man wore the uniform of an army colonel, the younger wore civilian clothes.
“All the patients inside left the contaminated zone in the last twenty-four hours.” The colonel gestured toward Peter’s tent. “They all have significant radiation poisoning.”
Peter held still with his eyes barely open, pretending to sleep.
The younger doctor glanced in Peter’s direction. “What are we doing for them?”
“Treating symptoms and waiting for a hospital bed to open up.” The colonel shook his head. “The prognosis for all of them is grim.”
The young doctor shook his head. “So many have died.”
The colonel nodded, and then turned and walked away.
The younger man entered and stepped to the patient across the way from Peter. None of the patients stirred as he moved from one to the next reading charts.
Peter needed to hear the full extent of his condition. When the young doctor reached for his chart, Peter said, “I guess you’ve been a very busy man these last few days, Dr. Harper.”
The man stepped back, eyes wide. “Ah well, yes.” His smile looked forced. “The first day there were hundreds of people, maybe thousands. I lost count.” He shook his head. “But the last couple of days there haven’t been many.”
“Hopefully they got out.”
“Search teams are finding a lot of bodies.”
Peter sighed. “I walked out of the contaminated area to find help for a group of survivors. Will I live?”
The doctor looked at his chart. “Oh, you’re the one they were talking about earlier, the police officer who reported the location of sixteen others when he arrived.” He pulled a chair near Peter’s cot and sat.
“There were nineteen … well eighteen after I left. Were they okay?”
“From what I heard sixteen will be. That’s a great accomplishment to get that many safely out of the contaminated zone.”
Peter thought of Leslie and the baby she carried, of Anthony and Debra from the bank. He nodded and hoped they were all okay. “How about me? Will I be okay?”
“Ah.” The doctor looked at the chart.
“Give it to me straight, doc. I need to know.”
“It’s clear you’re experiencing radiation sickness, and that you breathed in some fallout, ingested it or both. That complicates your recovery.”
“Will I recover?”
For a moment the doctor remained silent. “Is there a loved one we should contact?”
“With a little help from you, I’ll take care of that.”
When Dr. Harper returned the next morning, rays of sunshine provided only scant light. In his right hand he carried a white plastic garbage bag.
Seeing him, Peter pulled the blankets back, sat up, and dropped his feet to the tarpaulin floor beneath his cot.
“Slow down.” The young doctor made a stop motion with one hand. “I want to examine you first.”
Peter sat on the edge of the cot, anxious to start his journey.
After an examination, the doctor shook his head. “Your heart rate and pulse remain strong. Your breathing is normal, but your symptoms, fatigue, nausea, diarrhea, and hair loss, they tell me you’ve had significant radiation exposure.”
Peter slumped. “I’m sure that’s so.”
Dr. Harper reached for the nearby chart and made notes “The best professional advice I can give is to remain here and receive treatment.”
“Treatment?”
“Well … ah.” Harper looked at the chart and then his feet.
“Can you cure me?” Will I live?”
“There is no cure. We could only treat the symptoms and your ultimate prognosis is not good.”
Peter nodded and took a deep breath. “Are you married?” Peter gripped the IV pole and stood.
“Engaged. Why?”
“In my situation what would you do? Stay here and probably die, or find your loved ones and ….” Peter shrugged. “I want to find my wife. The rest is in God’s hands.”
Dr. Harper nodded. “That’s what I expected.” He handed the bag to Peter. “These are used clothes from the Salvation Army. Also inside are a couple of water bottles and MREs and this.” The doctor held up a container of pills. “For the nausea.” He put everything except the clothes back in the bag. “Get dressed. I hope everything fits. I’ll go make transportation arrangements.”
“Can I get my gun back, or get another one?”
“Sorry, I don’t have access to weapons.” Harper turned and hurried off.
Standing, pulling on pants and socks, all took more effort, and time than he expected, but the thought of going home invigorated him. He clutched the plastic bag with his personal things and continued getting ready. He had barely finished when Dr. Harper returned.
“Good.” He waved for Peter to follow. “I want you on your way before anyone discovers you’re gone.”
Grabbing the trash bag containing the water bottles, food and pills, Peter followed.
Outside the doctor pointed to a line of vehicles along the shoulder of the highway. “They’re headed south for supplies. They’ll take you to the exit you mentioned last night. From there you’re on your own.”
Peter grasped the doctor’s hand. “Thanks.”
“I’ll go along, and introduce you to the convoy commander.”
Together they walked toward the vehicles, two-hundred yards away. About halfway there Peter stumbled over a stone.
Harper grabbed him with both hands.
Peter steadied himself and stepped forward.
“Doctor Harper, what’s going on here?”
Peter and the doctor turned at the sound of the colonel’s voice.
“This man should be in the hospital tent.”
“Yes sir, well … ah,” Dr. Harper grimaced.
Peter stood tall. “I’m going home to my wife. I’d like to ride south with the convoy, but with or without it, I’m headed south.”
The colonel stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. “You’re the police officer, aren’t you? The one that saved the sixteen others.”
“Yes, sir.”
For a moment the two faced each other. Then the colonel nodded. “The convoy will take you as far as they can. I hope you find her.” He turned and walked away.
Dr. Harper led Peter to the Lieutenant in charge of the convoy.
“Sure, Harper mentioned you need a ride. We can take you to that exit,” the officer said. “But from what I’ve been told, the Hillcrest area has been evacuated.”
“I need to try and find her.”
“Okay, get in the last truck.” The officer pointed. “I’ll tell the driver what to do.”
With the doctor’s help, Peter climbed in. As the trucks started south, he waved
goodbye and thanked the young man who helped him.
For the next thirty minutes Peter exchanged stories with the driver and gazed at the highway, streets, and nearby buildings. Even this far south, fire had blackened entire neighborhoods and smoke still drifted in the air. Yet, most remained familiar, but now so vacant, lifeless and empty. Peter prayed his home had not been burned. “There’s my exit.”
The driver nodded, and steered to the off ramp that sloped up to the cross street. He stopped at the intersection and held out his hand. “Good luck. I hope you find her.”
Peter shook his hand, thanked him, and stepped from the truck. He took a deep breath and trudged east on a slow hike into Hillcrest. It had always been a quick drive from the freeway to his house, but he had never walked it—or measured the distance. Still, he decided to follow the same route he would have driven.
For several blocks he kept a good pace through the uninhabited world. Only looted stores and the smoke that irritated his throat, hinted at the true nature of the disaster.
His pace slowed as he noticed the gradual incline of the road and his own faster breathing. He had never thought about it before, but Hillcrest had been aptly named. He rested for several minutes, drank water, took a deep breath, and forced his feet forward.
Later, he reached the large church building that dominated the surrounding area and blocked his view of the homes beyond. On warm Sunday mornings he and Sue had walked to the church for services. Now that hike seemed endless.
Peter left the road and cut across the church parking lot. As he rounded the building, he stopped and slid to his knees. A neighborhood of charred rubble stood before him. Only concrete, chimneys and burnt wood remained.
Had Sue seen all this? Had she survived? Peter drank more water and pushed along, up the hill toward home.
A few minutes later he reached the road where the fire stopped. He crossed the pavement to unburnt homes. Some had been looted, windows and doors were broken, furniture and clothes scattered on lawns.
Sick with fear for his wife and son, he pushed onward to the main thoroughfare at the top of the ridge. His destination, the end of his journey, lay less than a mile away. Breathing hard he tried to jog, but after a half dozen paces returned to a slower pace. He weaved around abandoned cars leaning on each as he did. Several blocks passed as strength drained from his legs.
Then, on the left, he saw the familiar cul-de-sac. With waning will, he jogged around the corner, and spotted their two-story peach home. Someone had broken the living room window and trash littered the lawn, but it was home.
“Sue! Sue!” Using all his strength, he hurried onward, shouting her name.
His heart pounding, he climbed the steps to the front door on legs that wobbled like those of an old man. A boot print marred the paint near the deadbolt. He reached for his gun that wasn’t there. Silently he placed his hand on the door and pushed it open with a squeak.
Sue had asked him to oil the hinges.
Stepping into the living room, he noticed the couch near the door. The television, a recliner, and end table, were gone. In the kitchen many cabinets stood open. Flatware lay scattered on the floor. Clothes hung from the dryer. All of that didn’t matter.
“Sue?” He said her name tentatively. Then he changed his plan. “This is Sergeant Peter Westmore with the Renton Police Department. I’m looking for survivors. Are there any in this house?” He prayed to hear Sue’s voice, but no sound came back to him. He repeated the message as he moved through the first floor.
Sue had not answered him. Either she had gone or she couldn’t ….” No he would not go down that line of thought. Heart pounding, he trudged up the stairs.
The hallway stood clear of debris. He opened the first upstairs door, a small bedroom they used for storage. It appeared undisturbed, but he conducted a quick search, and then moved down the hall.
He didn’t want to open the next door. For nearly a minute he leaned against the wall listening to his heavy breathing. When he did enter the room only blue walls, dinosaurs, sea creatures and infant furniture greeted him. A quick search of what would have been the nursery revealed nothing. His heart ached.
Why had the looters not gone upstairs? “Sue, where are you? He inched toward the master bedroom. “Are you alive? Did you go to Mom and Dad’s place?”
He opened the door to the master bedroom. A king-size bed, neatly made, with a pastel blue bedspread stood opposite him. On his side of the room, stood the antique roll-top desk where he paid the bills. It had been in the spare bedroom, but that was now the nursery. Across the room from the desk stood the dresser. Everything looked as if he had just come home from work on a normal day.
Then he noticed the bullet holes in the wall. The two holes were in a close pattern about three feet up the wall from the floor. Peter bent over and touched them. No blood stained the wall or the floor. What had happened here? Fear pounded in his chest.
He had pushed so hard to get there, but he had lost the fight to find his family. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor. Sue and his unborn child were gone. “Help me, God. Tell me where they are, please. Did they go with Dad? Please, I need to know.” Peter wept.
Later, when tears had passed, he stood, stumbled and fell across the bed. Exhausted, he slept. When he awoke, twilight filled the room. A check of his watch showed that dawn would soon arrive. He dozed in the waning darkness waiting for light. When enough flowed through the window he stood on wobbly legs. Looking down, he noticed mottled bruises on his lower arms. The two around the IV needle spots did not surprise him, but the dozen others confirmed what he already knew. The radiation sickness would soon take him. Fatigued, he collapsed into a chair.
“Is Sue alive?” he asked in a quavering voice. “Our son? Please God, I’ve got to know. Did Dad come and take them to Hansen? Let Sue and our son live. Give them a chance.”
Peter slumped deep into the cushioned chair. From the plastic bag, he retrieved a water bottle and drank without regard for the future. He took a couple of the pills and set them on the nightstand. Then he ate the last of his food.
The nourishment gave him no vigor. He felt certain this day would be his last. He considered that awareness a gift. Not many people knew the day of their death, but what would he do with that knowledge?
Drowsiness gripped him, but he fought it, fearful he would not awaken. As he contemplated his final hours a fly buzzed across the room and landed on the desk beside him. There, two antique glass paperweights, and a pen, held down a scribbled note. He looked closer. The swirls and flourishes were the quick handwriting of Sue. Eyes filling with tears, he leaned close to read it.
My Dearest Peter
I am well and pray that you are too. Your father came for me. I’ll be waiting for you at the farm. Come quickly.
All my love,
Sue
She lived! He laughed with all his remaining strength. Then he reread the note and read it once again. He thought about finding a working car and driving to the farm, but he knew that he lacked the strength. Gradually a plan formed.
Peter staggered to the closet and found his dress uniform still shrouded in plastic from the cleaners. He was a police officer and would rather die in uniform than clothes from charity. Thirty minutes later he stood in front of the mirror properly dressed and feeling his life draining from him like sweat from pores.
He sat at the desk with a thud and pushed bills and paperweights out of the way. He retrieved paper, envelopes, and clutched the pen Sue had left behind. As he wrote, tears welled in his eyes and fell on the page.
To whoever finds this;
My name is Peter Westmore. I am a sergeant with the Renton Police Department assisting the Seattle P.D. with the evacuation before the blast. We didn’t know where or when the bomb would go off, but when it did I knew immediately that I was too close. The roads were clogged before the blast. The growing mushroom cloud, storm of dust and snow-like fallout only made it worse.
The doc
tor at the medical station told me what I already knew; the dose of radiation I received is lethal. They wanted to keep me at the medical facility, but I didn’t want to die there. I needed to find my wife and make sure she was safe.
By the time I reached the house it was deserted and I am too weak to go on. Please, whoever finds this, get the enclosed letter to my family in Hansen. The address is on the envelope.
Peter Westmore
Weak from writing, he struggled to keep his hand steady, and the words of his final note, neat.
Dearest Sue,
I found your note. It fills me with happiness to know that Dad reached you. I prayed that he would.
Please don’t cry that I couldn’t follow you to the farm. Raise our son, and enjoy every day of the life you have. I’ll be waiting in heaven when you arrive.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to love and protect you, but if possible I’ll watch over you and our boy. If I can, I’ll be near you, at least on those important days, Christmas, birthdays, and our anniversary. But if that cannot be, when you get to heaven we’ll have forever together and you can tell me what I missed.
Until that glorious day when we’re together again,
Love, Peter.
The pen dropped from his shaking hand. As exhaustion swept over him he enclosed the letter for Sue in an envelope and wrote her name on it. Then he folded the note for “whoever finds this,” around another and placed both in the small plastic food bag. Slowly he laid on the bed he had shared with Sue as images of her and their unborn son filled his mind. A final tear rolled down his cheek as he thought of all they might have shared, all that might have been. With a slight shake of his head he rejected sadness. He had known her, loved her, and she would live, along with their son. That was enough.
Still clutching the bag with the letters, a smile came to his face as he closed his eyes forever.
* * *
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Also by the Author
Through Many Fires (Strengthen What Remains, Book 1) Terrorists smuggle a nuclear bomb into Washington D.C. and detonate it during the State of the Union Address. Army veteran and congressional staffer Caden Westmore is in nearby Bethesda and watches as a mushroom cloud grows over the capital. The next day, as he drives away from the still burning city, he learns that another city has been destroyed and then another. America is under siege. Panic ensues and society starts to unravel.