"We better just take all of the vehicles today. You can’t count on tomorrow," Kyle said. “Maybe once I get my horses home, you can drive me back over here and we’ll shuttle all these vehicles to my house.”
The men went outside with the keys, and in less time than Kyle expected, they had four of the seven trucks running.
“Good job for an old man,” Kyle said, patting his friend on the back.
"I had a little experience with propane vehicles before," Orfield said. "The power company went through this phase fifteen or twenty years ago where they thought about implementing this with their entire fleet. They changed their minds. They rolled us out on a disaster recovery with some of those propane trucks and we couldn’t get them refueled. It was a little embarrassing to them."
"I wish there was some way to haul those horses back to my house with the truck. It would save us a lot of time. I’m afraid to just tie them up around here. If people don’t steal them to ride they’ll steal them to eat.”
Orfield frowned at that idea. “Why don’t you lock them inside the warehouse? There's plenty of room.”
"I ain’t so sure my horses would like that.”
“What if we gave them a big pile of grass to eat?" Orfield asked. “It will at least distract them.”
“I guess we can try it. If they’re still jittery when we come back for the second truck I’ll come up with another plan."
The two men pulled out their pocket knives and spent the next fifteen minutes gathering clumps of the tall grass that jutted above the snow, sawing the clumps loose at the base, then piled them into boxes they found inside the warehouse. When they were done they had two big boxes of dried grass. It may not have been ideal but hopefully it would keep the horses from getting too spooked.
Kyle unfastened his backpack from the horse and hoisted it over his shoulders. He led the two horses through the door into the warehouse, then went back to the key box and found keys that would allow him to get back into the building when he returned. With the building secured, he met Orfield back at the vehicles.
Orfield kicked at the melting snow. "This stuff is slicker than cat shit on a hot plate. I wish we had some chains."
"We have chains at our shop,” Kyle said, referring to the power company shop he and Orfield worked from.
"Maybe we should swing by there and put a couple of sets on. It will take a little time but it sure beats the hell out of getting stuck. Especially when there’s no one to call for help."
The snow was melting a little bit each day but it wasn't gone yet. Depending on where you stood there were still six or eight inches of the wet, nasty mess everywhere. The falling snow had been pretty for all of about one day before people realized how much harder it was going to make their lives. Now everyone was praying for it to disappear as soon as possible and for spring to come.
They started the pair of vehicles and pulled out of the lot. After months of foot and horse travel, driving a vehicle again seemed alien. Kyle could imagine this was probably what people felt like back in the early twentieth century when they gave up their horses and rode in a car for the first time. Sure trains had been fast, but it wasn’t like you had control over them. They went where the tracks were. To be in a vehicle where you could push the accelerator and turn in any direction you wanted, that was freedom.
It took several stressful hours for Kyle and Orfield to complete their task. When they were done, they had four propane trucks parked at Kyle's farm, though Orfield would be driving one home. Although the trucks were heavy-duty, they were not four-wheel-drive like the power company trucks. Kyle could only hope the tire chains they’d installed would help with traction.
While they were picking up the chains at their shop, Kyle hooked up to a trailer that held an enormous spool of wire just the size they needed. He raided the shop and found most of the tools and safety gear he thought the men would need. Even if he missed something, it would be a lot easier to get it now that they had some working vehicles. Any trip, even just across town, took a long time on a horse.
20
Jim and Deputy Ford armed themselves to the teeth and headed into town. Jim still had the MP5 that Ford lent him. In addition, he carried his own M4 and his Beretta 92. Ford was armed with his Glock and one of the Colt select-fire carbines that were designated for Law Enforcement Only. Both men were wearing Level IV body armor and carrying Go Bags with the essentials.
Randi was glad to lend them her horses as long as she didn't have to go with them. She continued to swear off town after her experience with Buddy getting killed. Jim and Ford decided to travel together despite having different goals for the day. Their plan was to make each stop as a team. Jim would check on Mrs. Fairlane. Ford would check on the woman and daughter, Paige and Nicole, he found at the emergency operations center. After those stops, the plan was to hit Kyle’s house and see if he made a decision about assisting with getting the power restored to the area.
It was a beautiful day, sunny, with temperatures in the mid-40s. It felt warm and spring-like after the period of cold and snow. Everywhere there was the sound of trickling water, a welcome indication the snow was finally melting. The pair wanted to make good time but experience told them to keep a low profile and place caution over speed. The town was so small it couldn’t be fully traversed using back streets. There were some sections of town where Main Street was the only route through town, but when back streets were available they utilized them.
With the warmer day, there were more people out moving around than usual. An atmosphere of caution prevailed and both sides were hyper-vigilant. The residents skulked toward cover as they appeared, never certain about the intentions of strangers. At other times, they heard the sound of scavengers breaking glass and prying loose lumber, presumably for firewood. They heard voices from vacant houses and smelled the lingering odor of wood smoke.
There were dead bodies. The deceased were dragged from their homes to yards or porches. Perhaps with thawing ground they would soon receive proper burials, if for no other reason than to reduce the risk of spreading disease. At a neat white house that sat close to the road, what Jim took to be a man sleeping in a lawn chair underneath a blanket actually turned out to be a corpse on second glance. The blanket had slipped from his head and was tucked beneath his chin, making it appear as if he were simply taking a nap. The open and discolored eyes, the rictus of the mouth, bespoke death and decay.
Once at the Fairlane house, they paused at the foot of the driveway and Jim pointed out the men that Mrs. Fairlane had shot. The melting snow of the last few days exposed more of the bodies and the dead looked like hunched zombies rising from a white swamp.
"I always wondered who lived here," Ford said.
"Everybody in this county used to know the Fairlanes. Old Mrs. Fairlane may have already been a shut-in by the time you graduated high school. It never occurred to me how many elderly there were out there like this until she pointed it out to me. There’s an entire population whose only contact is with family, their church, home health, or their physician. Those with good health see even fewer people.”
“That makes me think of all the elderly we used to do welfare checks on,” Ford said. “I wonder how those folks are holding up.”
“Probably dead.”
“If this lady isn’t dead, maybe they’re not dead either.”
“Maybe.”
The pair plodded up the driveway. The horses spooked at the dead bodies now more visible than on their previous visit. Ford stared at each one of them.
"Pretty sure I recognize each one of these assholes. Dope heads and petty thieves. Just the kind of people you would expect to break-in on the elderly."
“No shortage of assholes,” Jim agreed.
Jim was relieved there appeared to be no new tracks in the driveway or yard. Hopefully that meant no new dead bodies in the yard. They tied their horses to the porch railing and climbed the front steps, each man making an effort to stomp the wet snow off his bo
ots. After the reception he received last time Jim had no intention of taking his shoes off, but he would at least make an effort not to track snow into the lady's house.
He raised a fist and tapped on the door. He listened for a moment and there was no response. Jim frowned and tried again. "Last time she came to us. We didn't even have to bang on the door. She was out here with a shotgun before we were even at the house."
Ford shook his head in frustration. "Get out of the way. You'd make a lousy fucking cop. Let me show you know to knock on a door."
Ford stepped forward and banged a half-dozen hammer fists against the door. "Police!"
"Dammit, Ford, you probably scared the shit out of her."
"You are the one who told me how tough she is. If she’s that tough, banging on the door ain’t going to scare her."
When there was no response to Ford's insistent knocking Jim became more worried. "Let's check the back door.”
Ford shrugged. "Whatever. It’s your show."
Jim led the way around back, to the French doors off the kitchen. There were no tracks, nor signs of forced entry anywhere. He crossed the patio, approached the door, and drew his hand back to knock. What he saw through the glass doors stopped him in his tracks. Mrs. Fairlane was sprawled on the floor by the pantry, her arm extended toward him in pleading anguish. Her eyes were puffy and swollen, electric from pain and desperation.
"Oh my God."
Ford reached the door after Jim and took in the scene in front of him. He drew his Glock and shattered a single panel in the antique French door. He racked the remaining shards of glass out of the way and stuck a hand through the opening to unlock the lock.
With the pane of glass missing, Mrs. Fairlane's cries were more audible. She was breathing rapidly, nearly to the point of hyperventilating. "Oh God. Oh God," she kept repeating, over and over.
Ford yanked open the door and lunged through the opening. He dropped to his knees beside the elderly woman and put a hand on her face. Jim had never seen the man so compassionate.
"What happened?" Ford asked, holding her hand. “Jim, bring a cup of water.”
"I was getting a can from the pantry," she sobbed. "I dropped it, and when I backed up to look for it, I stepped on it and fell. I can’t get up. I think my hip is broken." The words poured from her in an emotional surge.
Jim heard those words from the sink where he was filling a glass of water. They shot a bolt of terror and panic through him. A broken hip? What the hell were they going to do with a broken hip?
Jim was back at Ford's side in a moment, dropping to the floor to assist Ms. Fairlane with getting a drink. He carefully raised her head and helped her hold the glass.
"When did this happen?" Ford asked.
"Three days ago."
Jim tried to put the numbers together in his head. Had she fallen not long after he and Randi left? Had she laid here all this time? It was heartbreaking.
"I'll get you a pillow," Jim said, starting to get up.
"Negative on that," Ford said. "Let’s try to get her up on the couch or something. She's wet herself and the fire has gone out. It must be forty degrees in here. I'm surprised she's not hypothermic."
"She might've been if she didn’t keep most of the house shut off and the temperature around ninety-five degrees.”
"It probably saved her life," Ford said.
"How do you want to do this?" Jim asked. “I’ve never tried to move anyone in this condition.”
"You get on the other side of her body. When I give you the go ahead, put one hand beneath her back and the other on her bicep. The first step is to see if we can get her to sit up.”
"No! No!" Mrs. Fairlane wailed.
"Now!" Ford commanded.
Both men tried as gently as possible to raise the elderly woman to a sitting position. They had barely raised her shoulders a few inches off the floor when she bellowed out in the most tortured, pain-stricken cry that Jim had ever heard. She latched onto the two men with her claws, screaming for them to stop. Jim looked down and saw Mrs. Fairlane's left hip had rolled away from the body at an unnatural angle. The joint appeared to have broken off entirely with only the muscle keeping the leg hanging in place.
She began to fight violently as they tried to finish raising her upright. Jim tried to reason with her, tried to assure her that it would be okay, but would it? She screamed that they were killing her.
Jim met Ford's eyes and the deputy gave a quick shake of his head. He was throwing in the towel.
"It's not working. Let her down. Let her back," he said urgently.
Jim complied. They'd reached a damned if you do, damned if you don't predicament. There was no making her comfortable. There was no assisting her. And realistically, there was no fixing this. With the state of the world being such as it was, surgical hip repairs could be several years off.
Back flat on the ground, Rosa sobbed hysterically and clutched each man's arm. Ford tried desperately to comfort her. Jim was practically in a state of shock, uncertain as to what course of action to take. Then he realized the only thing he could do.
He asked her, "What do you want me to do? What do you want us to do for you?"
Ford was still in cop mode, used to solving problems and resolving situations. "We can get her some pain meds," he said. "That’ll make her feel better.”
Jim studied the deputy and saw the panic beginning to tear at the edges of him. The calm, cool, and collected persona of a few moments ago, the man who’d made entry and took control of the situation, was disintegrating. Ford realized there was nothing in his training to help him here. Everything he’d been taught was focused on keeping the victim comfortable while waiting for EMS. This time there would be no EMS.
"What the hell do we do?" Ford hissed.
Jim shook his head. He had no idea either. Meanwhile, beneath them, the moaning and whimpering continued.
"Just shoot me!” Rosa Fairlane begged. “Shoot me.”
Ford's eyes filled with horror. He shook his head as if unable to accept a concept so revolting and so contrary to everything he stood for. His reaction only served to increase her level of desperation.
"Just shoot me!"
Ford patted her shoulder gently. "What’s your first name?"
When she didn’t respond, he looked at Jim. "What's her first name?"
"Rosa."
Ford looked back down at the injured woman. "Rosa, it's going to be okay. We can find a way to get you out of here and we’ll take you somewhere where they can make you feel better."
Rosa sobbed harder.
"Rosa, just calm down now." He was using his cop voice now. It was the voice of a man used to taking control and having people listen to what he said. Rosa wasn't listening. "Honey, if you don't settle down there's nothing we can do for you."
"There's nothing you can do anyway!" she wailed.
Ford plastered a fake smile across his face. "Why, of course there is. There are people that can help you.”
His statement was so ludicrous that no one in the room believed it—not Rosa, not Jim, and not even Ford himself. His fake smile simply drilled that point home.
Seeing that she was getting nowhere with Ford, Rosa turned her eyes to Jim. "Can you shoot me?" she asked, choking out the words between bouts of sobbing. “You owe me that much. For history. For Charlie.”
Jim's eyes got wide and he shook his head in a rapid, involuntary movement, as if he were trying to shake the idea from his head. He was instantly transported backwards in time to when he was in high school and his grandfather had practically asked the same thing. His grandfather, half-paralyzed by a stroke and facing a future of requiring personal care, would not accept that as his fate.
He had asked Jim to help him take his own life. Jim loved his grandfather and could also empathize with his plight. It was not about the law or about morality. It was about Jim and his grandfather. It was about Jim doing something important for a man who would have done anything for him. Jim retr
ieved the gun his grandfather asked for and smuggled it into the hospital. At some point later, his grandfather used that gun to take his own life. It was something Jim lived with his entire adult life, something he had learned to deal with on a daily basis. While there had been struggles with coping he never regretted his decision. Jim always hoped that if he found himself in that situation he would have someone close to him he could trust to provide that kind of assistance.
So, as revolting as the idea of shooting Rosa Fairlane was, Jim completely understood her motivation. Not taking his eyes off Ford, he said, "Rosa, tell Deputy Ford what happened to people who broke a hip when you were young."
Rosa struggled to speak, fighting the pain and her own desperate sobbing. "If they were my age, they laid in bed and waited to die. The bones never knitted together. They never walked again. They rotted as invalids, sometimes for decades, until death took them."
Deputy Ford looked at Jim as if Jim were undergoing some physical transformation that he could not make sense of. “Surely you're not considering what she's talking about? We can't do that. I can't do that! Breaking a hip is not a fatal injury."
"Maybe under these circumstances it is a fatal injury,” Jim said.
Ford was livid. "I cannot sit here and watch you murder this woman."
“If you’re thinking of arresting me, don’t bother. I wasn’t going to do it myself. I couldn’t. But I could leave a gun and let her do it. And then I could give her a decent burial."
Ford pushed himself away from Jim and from Rosa. He reeled back, pushing himself with his feet until his back was resting against the wall. He shook his head wildly, muttering. The man was losing it.
"What would you have us do, Ford? You going to leave her here because you can't deal with it? Are you going to throw her over the back your horse and torture her with a ride back to the valley, listening to her scream hysterically the entire way? Are you going to put her on a sled and drag her home? If so, what are you going to do then?"
Switched On: Book Six in The Borrowed World Series Page 19