Once again, I thought of the implications. Every image from every post-apocalyptic novel or film I'd ever read or watched that took place during and after a nuclear holocaust came to mind. Radiation sickness. Nuclear winter.
Was this going to be worth it?
I voiced this concern to Wesley.
"It's a new era now," Wesley said after a pause. "A new world. For the future of civilization, we must take extreme measures to ensure the safety of those who have survived to pave the way for future generations. I'm hoping this first wave of strikes will be enough to wipe out enough primitives that it will sufficiently weaken or eliminate Hanbi's hold."
"And if not?" Tracy asked.
Wesley didn't have an answer for that.
* * *
We camped out that night at a rest stop off Interstate 25 in Wyoming. Martin kept watch, being pretty much officially on graveyard shift for watch duty. Wesley gave him a debriefing when he awoke that afternoon, and he spent the afternoon in silence as Wesley slept.
The few primitives we saw on our way to that first stop for the night were quickly dealt with. We didn't even bother shooting at those who were far away—it was best to save the ammunition for those we knew were sure kills.
Meals consisted of canned goods heated over a fire Martin got going at the deserted campsite. It was then that Tracy got a better look at the bite mark on my arm. It had bled off and on throughout the day and throbbed with pain consistently, and she concurred with Wesley's statement from last night. "This has to be stitched up." Then, with the help of some Vicodin that was pilfered from the medicine cabinet in the cabin before we left, and a sterilized needle and thread, Tracy patched me up. The pain was ferocious the first time needle penetrated skin, but lessened as my endorphins kicked in, providing a natural pain blocker as the impromptu surgery continued. By the time she was halfway through, that and the combination of the Vicodin had me good and stoned.
As we sat around the campfire that evening, Wesley retreated to the Hummer and talked with somebody on the radio. I had the sense that what he was saying was secret, and again I felt resentful. My paranoid mind kept wondering what he was keeping from us.
The following morning I felt hot and feverish. Tracy redressed my wound. "You need some penicillin." She said. She dipped into the first aid kit, rummaged around and pulled a bottle out. "Here." I gulped two capsules down, ignoring the frightened look on her face. I didn't want to think about infection now. I had to get through this, had to get my family to safety.
After siphoning gas from an abandoned vehicle an hour into our drive (something we'd learned from Heather, obviously), we crossed into Colorado and continued south. Deciding to bypass Fort Collins and take secondary roads heading east, we left the main highway and headed down into the plains. We passed little evidence of primitives on the way. There were some abandoned vehicles along the side of the road—some stalled or crashed in the middle of the highway, or on the grassy center divide—but we navigated around those occasional roadblocks easily. By the end of the day we were in Kansas. We'd reach the outskirts of Lawrence that night if we continued at the pace we were going.
By this time Wesley was driving and Tracy was riding shotgun with him, tending guard duty. I was lying in the backseat, feeling woozy and sick. The few times I touched my arm it felt swollen and hot. When Tracy changed my dressing that afternoon the infection had spread, swelling my upper arm, the wound itself oozing yellow and green pus. I took more penicillin, trying to keep a stiff upper lip.
Martin assisted with navigating, and between him and Tracy they guided Wesley to the missile silo. I drifted to sleep, and when I woke up it was night and we were parked outside a chain-linked fence. Beyond the fence lay a nondescript building.
Wesley was speaking into a microphone that was set up near a gate. There was a camera pointed at us. I only caught a snatch of what was being said as I wavered in and out of consciousness. "...been with them since the Havoc Virus struck...infection...needs medical attention...a child of four years of age..." I heard Wesley identify us by name. Heard somebody on the other end say that they were told not to allow civilians into the premises. Heard a female voice in the background—not Tracy's—say she would assume responsibility. There was a brief argument and then the unseen female won. The gate opened and Wesley drove through.
The last thing I remembered was being carried out of the back seat of the Hummer, with Tracy supporting my right side, Martin supporting my left. I remember seeing Wesley talk to two soldiers, both young, a male and female. I remember him gesturing at us, remember him clearly saying, "...these people have put their asses on the line. They're fucking heroes, so as your commanding officer I am ordering you to give them sanctuary in this facility!"
And as I passed them I clearly heard the female soldier say, "Don't worry Colonel Smitts, they'll be safe."
And then, I blacked out again.
This time, I didn't come out of it for another week.
Twenty Five
That part of our story is over. And if you're reading these pages, you'll know it's not really over. We're still facing the uncertainty, just as you are.
Suffice it to say, this is the new dawn, a new era. Civilization was not wiped out in a cataclysmic nuclear attack, or a meteor, or the shifting of the earth's alignment with the sun, causing massive natural strife. Civilization ended three years before the Mayans predicted it would, too.
Sometimes I wonder if the Mayans knew of Hanbi.
I wonder if they knew this would eventually happen.
* * *
The first thing I saw when I came awake the first time was Emily.
She was sitting beside me on a narrow cot. The room was dark, but there was a nightlight plugged into an electrical outlet. Emily was sitting calmly by my side, looking down at me, as if expecting me to wake up any minute.
I smiled when I saw her. "Emily..."
She smiled back. "Daddy!"
"Where's your mother?"
"In the bunker," she said. I didn't know what she meant by that term. I was confused. For the first time I noticed something taped to my left arm and looked at it. An IV. I also noticed that I was wearing a white hospital gown.
"Where are we?"
"We're beneath the earth, Daddy!" Emily said.
"Get...your mother..." I said, my mind swimming with hazy images.
Emily nodded and scampered off the bed. She hesitated and for a minute she looked sad, like she was about to burst out crying at any minute. As quickly as it came, a sudden strength seemed to come over her and she took my hand in both her little ones. "I love you, Daddy."
"I love you too, pumpkin."
"I'll always be proud of you."
"I'll always be proud of you, too."
"I'm gonna go get Mommy."
"Okay."
She exited the room and unconsciousness claimed me again.
* * *
When I came back to consciousness, Tracy was with me. Something about her features bothered me. I recognized that look immediately. She was hiding something. Something bad had happened and she was trying to hide her emotions.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Tracy shook her head. Her lips quivered ever so slightly. The first sign of cracking under the strain.
"How long have I been out?"
"A week."
I let this sink in. I no longer felt sick, no longer felt hot and feverish. I felt pretty good. Tired, but pretty good.
So what was wrong?
"What happened?"
Tracy ignored my question. "How do you feel?" She felt my forehead.
"I'm fine."
She examined me, looked at my bandaged arm, and I could tell there was something she wasn't telling me. She spilled the beans midway through her examination. "The missiles were launched yesterday," she said, her voice deadpan. "We're safe. Wesley and...some of the others we've been in communication with say that the weather patterns for the next few days should keep the
fallout away from us." A heavy sigh. "Home is going to be...uninhabitable for awhile." She started crying silently.
I immediately knew what she was getting at. Home. Pasadena, California. Los Angeles itself had probably been a target, with its heavy population. It made sense when you considered a majority of the population in Southern California had been reduced to their most primitive state. If Tracy was holding on to any hope of ever returning to home, even if those hopes were mere wish fulfillment, they were now shattered. Southern California was probably going to remain uninhabitable for the remainder of our lifetime.
"What about Hanbi?" I asked.
Tracy sighed, wiped tears from her cheeks. "It's still...too early to tell if the launch has had an effect. Emily doesn't have a read yet."
"What do you mean?"
Tracy looked at me. "Emily says Hanbi is still out there and he's angry. He's...flying around, crashing into things. She says he's furious. Says...he's trying to get into anybody he can and..."
"How many primitives were killed?" I persisted. "Is there any idea? Even an estimate?"
"Millions." Tracy sat down at the right side of my bed. She took my hand. "New York, Philadelphia, DC, Atlanta, Chicago, Kansas City, Los Angeles...millions...probably plenty of people like us, too. People who were unable to escape the cities in time..."
I felt my heart lurch at the mention of Chicago. "Tim?"
"Got out a day after we arrived. He's actually here with a couple other people. One of them's a doctor. I should get her now. She'll want to know you're awake." Tracy stood up and looked down at me, once again that look coming over her face, that look that told me she was worried about something and was afraid to tell me.
Another spike drove through my heart. "Is something wrong with Emily?"
Tracy shook her head and mustered a smile. "No. Emily's fine. She's...an insightful little girl. You know that, don't you?"
I did. And now the knowledge of Emily's uncanny gift for precognition swept over me, creating a sense of dread. What was Emily telling them? What did she see?
Did I even want to know?
"Lie down and rest," Tracy said, smoothing my hair back from my brow. "I'll go get Dr. Bush."
I nodded and Tracy left the room.
* * *
Dr. Kathryn Bush was about my age and had once been a Family Practitioner in the greater Chicago area. As she examined me she told me she'd performed minor surgery on my arm the afternoon she arrived. "I'm not going to lie to you, Mr. Spires," she said, putting her stethoscope down after concluding her exam. "You have a serious blood infection. We almost lost you. You're not out of the woods yet, but the fact that you regained consciousness is a very good sign."
"Am I going to lose my arm?" I asked.
"I hope not." She checked the dressing, which I noticed for the first time was more complete and enveloped my entire upper arm. A smaller dressing also covered the wound on my right shoulder. "You've suffered considerable tissue damage and muscle loss to your arm. Thanks to Tracy's quick action, gangrene never set in. But human bites are nasty, as I'm sure you've heard. And the fact that a primitive bit you...well, who knows what kind of bacteria they carry."
As the days progressed and I lay in bed recuperating, I got updates from everybody. Wesley. Martin. Tracy and Emily were at my side constantly. I met Tim, finally, and liked him. I took him to be ten years younger than I, slight of build and scholarly in appearance, like he could have been a research geek at some university in a past life. It was Tim who told me that it appeared the nuclear strikes were having an effect. "Hanbi's ability to possess his followers and reanimate the dead seems to be gone," he said. "One of our resources reported that a cult they've been monitoring survived the blast due to their far proximity to the nearest strike. They've been performing rituals almost non-stop and Hanbi had visited them constantly before, but he's been absent since the blasts. Apparently they appear quite upset at this. He said they've been very agitated."
Martin told me the military was being reassembled from a wide range of volunteers from all over the country. Rag-tag teams of militias were already on their own frontal assaults against the primitives around the country, both in large cities and in outlying rural areas. And Wesley told me that the remaining vestiges of the US government had called an emergency session to order, the first since the vast outbreak of the Havoc Virus. "We still have martial law," Wesley told me three days after I regained consciousness. Once again I had a fever, and Dr. Bush had wanted to give me a sedative but I'd insisted on talking to Wesley before I succumbed to Morpheus. "And things are still pretty goddamn crazy out there. But the more primitives we kill, the weaker Hanbi is becoming. The primitives aren't as strong or organized. It's almost like in the beginning stages of the virus when they were running around like those goddamned monkeys. It's like they're lost and confused."
"They no longer have Hanbi to guide them," I said.
"Exactly." He nodded. Smiled. "You're gonna get better, my friend. You've got a hell of a woman who loves you, and your little girl, Emily..." His voice broke off for a moment and he looked reflective. Was he thinking of his own lost family? His son, who was probably dead? He had to be. "...she's a remarkable little girl. She's going to be a very important person in the future. You should be proud of her."
"I am," I said.
"Hang in there," Wesley said. "Get some rest. Get better."
"I will."
Wesley looked at me for a moment, his features reflective, a tinge of sadness in them, and then he left the room.
I thought about that sadness and wondered if he knew something. I wondered if I wasn't being told everything. What was wrong?
I didn't worry about it that much. Sleep overcame me quickly.
* * *
The next few times I was awake I only remember snatches of consciousness. It was the infection.
It had spread.
I remember coming awake the first time to see Tracy and Emily standing by me. Tracy was crying. Emily wasn't crying, but she looked sad. She noticed the change in my eyes as I regained clarity briefly and told me she loved me. Then I went under again.
Over the next few days, whenever I came out of it briefly, I saw similar scenes. Dr. Bush was present at times, along with Martin and Wesley, sometimes Tim. After awhile their voices swirled together, creating a kaleidoscope of blurred images and voices.
"...getting worse..."
"...has to be something you can..."
"...settled in him..."
"...needs proper medical attention..."
"...Daddy..."
My eyes focused on Emily, who was hovering over me, her little face worried and sad. "Daddy, I'll always be with you."
I tried to say something and went under again.
* * *
Dr. Bush told me a day after I came back from that last scare that my blood infection had spread into my lymph nodes. She'd sent Sgt. Lynn Ryder and Scott Owen into Lawrence to raid a hospital for more equipment and drugs. "I've instructed them to bring me everything in the pharmacy," she said. Tracy and Emily were at my bedside. For the first time, Dr. Bush looked worried, but she hid it well. "Once they get back I'll find the right antibiotics we need and we can start administering them so you can begin fighting this thing."
For the first time I was afraid to ask her if I would be all right. I didn't want to hear what she'd have to say.
Especially in front of Emily and Tracy.
Besides, I had a feeling they already knew.
Then again...perhaps the constant worried expressions...their looks of sadness, of grief, was simply a sign of the stress and the pain of living through everything we've been through.
Besides, I felt better.
Emily certainly warmed up to me as I talked to my family. Even Tracy seemed to come out of her funk. They sat on the side of my bed and told me the latest news: that a small army of militias and surviving members of the 18th Brigade near Forth Worth had gone into Dallas and exterminated
thousands of primitives using conventional weaponry: high powered rifles, machine guns, tanks, flame throwers. Leaflets and public access messages had been broadcast over loudspeakers warning those that were not affected by the Havoc Virus to evacuate immediately. Those who were left had done so. The army rescued a handful of people as they moved in.
The caravan of psychos we'd heard about from Stuart, who had been raping and pillaging their way west finally met their match courtesy of the National Guard near Jonesboro, Arkansas. The ensuing firefight left most of them dead, with only three Guardsmen suffering fatalities. The surviving psychos were rounded up and formally arrested.
It felt good to hear that. Arrested. It meant our own guys were following the rule of the land. The line of legal and social code that had been laid down by those who originally formed our system of government. I could only hope that people in other countries were doing the same, that elsewhere things hadn't slipped into even deeper anarchy.
It was at this time when I ffinally decided to resume the work I had begun so long ago, in that abandoned Mexican restaurant in Grass Valley, California: the documentation of our ordeal.
I brought this up to Tracy a few nights later, during dinner. Lynn and Scott had returned from Lawrence and Dr. Bush had administered the first of several antibiotics to me via IV drip shortly after. The drugs made me woozy occasionally, but so far so good. My appetite was coming back, and Dr. Bush said that was a good sign. Tracy helped me walk across the room to use the bathroom for the first time—another good sign. There was still that underlying sense of tension everybody had, as if they felt I wasn't entirely out of the woods yet, but I could live with that. I won't feel one hundred percent better until I'm running around and playing with my daughter, but for now I'm okay. Which is why I felt, as I explained to Tracy, I should continue this memoir now.
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