One Second After

by William R. Fortschen

  John looked down at his hand. It was swollen, red streaked, the exposed wound red, the edge of the flesh where it had been stitched puckered.

  He was suddenly worried. God damn. An infected hand, now? He had images of Civil War era surgery.

  "What the hell is it, Doc?" Kate asked, coming closer.

  "Maybe staph, but I don't have the lab to test for it.

  "Crops up in hospitals, nursing homes. Resistant stuff. Go home, go to bed, I'll be by later today or this evening."

  "I said I was going up to the college to get some volunteers for the ele­mentary school."

  "Last thing I want is you walking around at the college or in the ele­mentary school with that hand. If you got a staph infection, you're a spreader now. So just go home."

  John nodded and stood up, feeling weak.

  He headed to the door, Kellor walking alongside him. Starting the car up, John headed for home ... and as he pulled into the driveway ... he knew.

  Jen was outside, sitting on the stone wall of the walkway leading to the door. Elizabeth was on one side of her, Jennifer on the other. As he got out of the car the dogs came up, but a sharp command warned them to back off.

  "It's Tyler, isn't it," John said.

  Jen forced a smile and nodded.

  Jennifer started to sob and he put his good arm around her, his little girl burying her head in his chest.

  "Pop-pop," was all she could get out.

  Jen put a hand on her granddaughter's shoulder.

  "Pop-pop is in heaven now, dear. But it's OK to cry."

  Elizabeth leaned against John's shoulder, forcing back a sob, but then looked up at him.

  "Dad, you're burning up."

  "I'm ok," he said.

  He looked at Jen.

  "Let's go in," she said.

  He followed her into the house, which was all so silent, and into what had been Jennifer's room.

  Tyler's features were already going to a grayish yellow.

  John remembered the first time they had met, Tyler coldly looking at this Yankee, worse yet from New Jersey, who obviously had but one intent only, and that was to seduce his only daughter and take her away.

  John smiled. Oh, I understand that now, Pop, he thought.

  And then so many other memories, of the gradual thaw. The first time they'd gone out shooting together while the "girls" went to the mall to go shopping, Tyler fascinated by the old Colt Dragoon pistol John had brought along, roaring with laughter over the encounter with the local rednecks that had happened but weeks before. That had been an icebreaker, father and potential son-in-law shooting, talking guns, then sitting on the patio and having a cold beer.

  And then the grudging acceptance that had turned to friendship and at last had turned to the love a father would have for a son, a son who then gave him two beautiful granddaughters, granddaughters who allowed him once again to relive the joy of raising a child.

  He was gone now. War or not, he would have died, but he had indeed died far sooner as a result of the war. In the cold figures of triage, he was an old man, someone whom villages, town, and cities all across America, this day, but ten days after an attack, were being forced to "write off."

  For an old man in the advanced stages of cancer, there would be no medicine. That had to be rationed now to someone who "stood a chance" or who, in a colder sense, could be of use. If the old man were not dying at home his would be a body whose departure would free a bed in a hospital flooded with the sick and injured. In a starving community his would be one less mouth to feed, even though his last meals were from a can poured into a feeding tube . . . but even that can of Ensure was now a meal, per­haps for an entire day, for someone else.

  Tyler was dead, and there was a war, though it did not in any sense seem like a war that any had even conceptualized this way ... and he was dead as surely as millions of others were now dead or dying after but ten days ... as dead as someone lying in the surf of Omaha Beach, the death camp of Auschwitz, as dead as any casualty of war.

  Frightened for a moment, John looked back at Jennifer, who stood in the doorway, clutching her grandmother's side. The last of the ice had given out two days ago, the bottles of insulin now immersed in the tank of the basement toilet to keep them cool. And there was a flood of panic in John. He knew, almost to the day, how much insulin was left.

  He caught Jen's gaze; the way he was staring at her granddaughter, she pulled Jennifer in tighter to her side.

  He turned back to look at Tyler.

  "I think we should pray," John said.

  He went down on his knees and made the sign of the cross. "Hail Mary, full of grace ..."

  * * * *

  It was close to sunset. To the north the hills, so affectionately known to all locals as "the Seven Sisters," were bathed in the slating golden light of eve­ning. Beyond them was the massive bulk of Mount Mitchell, its slopes green as spring moved steadily upwards towards the summit. "I think that's deep enough, Ben," John said.

  Ben looked up from the grave he had been digging for the last three hours, helped by John's students Phil and Jeremiah.

  Charlie had been right. The golf course was the ideal spot for the new cemetery, the earth easy to dig. Over twenty other graves had been dug this day or were being dug now. The seven who had died in the elementary school during the night, five others who had died during the day... and three suicides, though one minister had tried to protest that decision that they be buried in what was now consecrated ground. That protest was greeted with icy rejection from Charlie, who was now a former member of that congregation. There had also been two more heart attacks, four more elderly from the nursing home and perhaps most tragic of all, the Morrison family burying their seven-year-old boy, who had had an asthma attack.

  John tried to block out the screams of the mother as the dirt was shov­eled into her boy's grave.

  Reverend Black drew away from the Morrison's and came over.

  "Ready, John?"

  John nodded.

  Richard Black looked exhausted, eyes bloodshot. The Morrison boy had been part of his congregation, a playmate of his son's.

  John looked over at Jeremiah and Phil and nodded.

  The two boys went to the car, opened the backseat, and struggled to pull Tyler's body out, wrapped in a quilt. He was already stiff with rigor mor­tis. They carried him over and stopped by the side of the grave, looking down, and John realized no one had thought about how to put the body into the grave.

  Always bodies had been in coffins, concealed mechanical winches low­ering them in a dignified manner. Jennifer broke away from her grand­mother's side, hysterical, and ran away. John looked at Elizabeth and she turned to chase after her sister.

  "I'll help," Rich said. He eased himself down into the grave, Ben join­ing him. They took the body from Phil and Jeremiah and maneuvered it down, then pulled themselves out.

  John found himself suddenly wondering why the old tradition of a grave supposedly having to be six foot deep existed. Fortunately, this one was maybe three and a half, four feet down and easier for the reverend to get out of.

  Tyler rested in the bottom, face covered but bare feet exposed, and it struck John as obscene for him to be exposed thus, but there was nothing to be done for it now.

  John looked at Jen, who stood at the head of the grave, almost serenely detached.

  "I don't know the Catholic rite," Rich said. "I'm sorry."

  "I don't think God or Tyler minds," Jen said. "You've been a friend and neighbor for years. I think he'd want you to do this for him, for us."

  Rich opened his prayer book and started the traditional Presbyterian service for the dead.

  Finished at last, he went to Jen, hugged her and kissed her on the fore­head, then did something John had seen only once before, at a Jewish fu­neral years before. Rich picked up the shovel from the pile of earth, scooped up some dirt, and then let it fall into the grave.

  The time John had seen that, it had shocked him,
the funeral of the wife of a beloved grad school professor. The rabbi had thrown a shovelful in, then the husband, then family and friends, had done so also, filling the grave in while John's beloved professor stood silent, watching the coffin disappear and the earth finally being mounded over. It was such a sharp, hard lesson about mortality, the returning of dust to dust, when compared to the "American way," of concealing death in euphemisms, with green Astroturf to hide the raw earth, and the backhoe carefully hidden until the last of the mourners had left.

  That set Jen off and at last she collapsed into tears.

  Rich looked at John and handed him the shovel. Though it was agony, both physical and emotional, he knew he had to do it. He filled the shovel, turned, hesitated, then let the dirt fall, covering Tyler's face.

  Light-headed, John stepped back.

  "We'll take care of it, sir."

  It was Jeremiah.

  John nodded and handed the shovel over.

  He walked away, heading towards the park. Jennifer and her sister were in the playground, Jennifer sitting on a swing, her big sister sitting on the ground by her side.

  Jennifer looked up at his approach. Elizabeth stood up, tears streaming down her face, and came up to his side. Is it over?"

  "Yes."

  "I thought I should stay with her, Dad."

  "You did the right thing."

  "You've got to talk with her," and Elizabeth's voice broke. "She's think­ing about..." Her voice trailed off. "Go take care of your grandmother."

  "Sure, Dad."

  He went up to the swing and looked down at Jennifer. "You ok, sweetie?"

  She didn't speak, head lowered. She had brought Rabs along and was clutching him tight.

  John fumbled, fighting the fever, not sure what to say, afraid of what might be said.

  "Remember when I used to push you on this swing?" he said, filled now with nostalgia for that time when Mary was still alive and they'd bring the girls down here to play, to feed the ducks, and, while Mary still had the strength, to walk around the lake.

  He got behind Jennifer, reached down with one hand to pull the swing back.

  "How about we do it again? I'll push to get you started." And with that she was off the swing, crushing herself against his side, sobbing.

  "Daddy, when will I be buried here?" He knelt down and she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Daddy, don't bury me here. I'd be afraid during the night. I always want to stay close to you. Please don't bury me here." He dissolved into tears, hugging her tight.

  "I promise, sweetheart. You have years and years ahead. Daddy will always protect you."

  She drew back slightly and looked at him with solemn eyes, eyes filled with the wisdom of a child. "I don't think so, Daddy." That was all she said.

  Later he would remember that they remained like that for what seemed an eternity and then gentle hands separated them, Jen's hands. And strong hands. Ben, John's two students, helped him back to the car and then the fever drowned out all else.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DAY 18

  He awoke feeling so weak he could barely lift his head. "So the good professor is back from the dead." He turned his head, focused; it was Makala.

  She put the back of her hand to his forehead, a finger to his throat, and held it there for several seconds.

  "Fever's broke. Figured that during the night. Good pulse, too." She smiled. "Well, John Matherson, I think you're going to pull through just fine now."

  "What happened?"

  "Oh, you had it bad, real bad. Doc Kellor was right, staph infection. I thought there was a chance that was your problem but hoped it was something simpler and the Cipro would knock it out.

  "Thought we'd lose you there for a couple of days. Or at the very least your hand."

  Panicked, he looked down. His hand was still there. Shriveled, sore, but still there.

  "Twice its normal size three days back. Started to look like septicemia and gangrene. But we kept hand and soul attached. Charlie Fuller approved some rather rare antibiotics for you, just a few doses left now in our re­serves, and Doc Fuller was up here pumping them into you."

  "All that from a cut."

  "I told you to wash it out thoroughly and keep it bandaged," she said chastisingly. "I regret now not coming up here that first night and doing it personally, but you might of seen that as too forward of me."

  "Wish you had, forward or not."

  She smiled and with a damp cloth wiped his brow.

  "I'm hungry."

  "I'll get you some soup."

  "Bathroom?"

  "I'll get a bedpan."

  "Like hell," he whispered.

  "Don't be embarrassed, for God's sake. I've been your nurse for the last week."

  "Help me up."

  "OK then, but if you feel light-headed, get back down."

  She helped him to his feet. He did feel light-headed but said nothing; in fact, he felt like shit, mouth pasty, an atrocious taste. He brushed his good hand against his face, rough stubble actually turning into a beard, and just had a general feeling of being gritty and disgusting.

  He pushed her aside at the bathroom door and went in. Used the toilet—fortunately someone had filled up the tank—and looked longingly at the bathtub. He so wanted a bath, to wash off.

  Later, we'll have to boil up some water, I'll be damned if I take a cold bath. He brushed his teeth. The tube of toothpaste was nearly empty and beside it was a glass filled with ground-up wood charcoal. He used the toothpaste anyhow—that alone made a world of difference—and came back out.

  There was a smell, food, and he felt ravenous and slowly walked back into the living room. Makala was out on the porch stirring a pot. The old grill was pushed to one side; it must have finally run out of propane. Some­one, most likely Ben or a couple of John's students, had rigged up some­thing of an outdoor stove out of an old woodstove, its legs jacked up with cinder blocks underneath so the cook didn't have to bend over.

  Makala looked at him and smiled.

  "Hot dog soup with some potatoes mixed in. I'd suggest a merlot, but the wine steward has the day off."

  John smiled and sat down at the patio table. "Where are the girls?"

  "Jen took them out for a walk with the dogs."

  Makala set the bowl down. Sure enough, it was hot dogs, cut up into bite-size pieces, mixed in with potatoes. He dug in, the first few spoonfuls scalding hot.

  "Take it slow." She laughed, sitting down across from him, pushing the meat around with her spoon before taking a taste. She grimaced slightly. "I'm definitely not a cook."

  "It's great."

  "It's just because you're hungry. What I wouldn't give for shrimp, chilled jumbo shrimp, a salad, a nice glass of chardonnay." He looked up at her.

  "If you hadn't saved my life, I think I'd tell you to shut up," he said with a bit of a grin.

  She smiled back and he could not help but notice how her T-shirt, sweat soaked, clung to her body. His gaze lingered on her for several seconds un­til she made eye contact with him again.

  "My, you are getting healthy again," she said softly, still smiling, and he lowered his eyes.

  The potatoes were good, though still a bit undercooked. He scraped down to the bottom of the bowl, picked it up to sip the last of the greasy fluid, and set it back down.

  "More?" she asked.

  He nodded.

  "Just take it slow. You had a rough siege of it there. Staph infections like that, well, you are one tough guy to be up on your feet." She stood and refilled his bowl. "The girls, how are they?"

  "Jen, she's a remarkable woman. Tough as nails. Of course she misses Tyler terribly, I could hear her crying at night, but at the same time is able to accept it and then focus on those she loves that she feels responsible for. Actually, I think she was a bit upset that I moved in here for several days to see after you. Said she could handle it herself."

  "You moved in?"

  "Only temporary, John," she replied with a smile as
she put the bowl down in front of him and sat to resume her meal. "Doctor's orders actu­ally. Kellor and Charlie were damn worried about you. Said they wanted you alive and back on your feet, so I sort of got volunteered."

  "Reluctantly?" John asked. She smiled. "Not exactly."

  "I really don't remember that much."

  "Well, you damn near had your brain fried. Temp up at one-oh-five, hand swollen like a balloon. Three weeks back and you'd of been in isola­tion in an ICU, ice packed, IVs. It got a bit rough there. Kellor thought he'd have to go to amputation to save you if the antibiotics didn't get the infection under control."

  "Just from a cut in a stupid fight."

  "I warned you," she said, half-waving her spoon at him. "Staph in a hospital is a twenty-four-seven fight. That nursing home, three days with­out cleaning, sanitation, you had a hundred different microbes floating around there and you just so happened to pick one of the worst."

  "How?"

  "How? You had an open wound damn near to the bone. Touching a counter, a patient, remember, John, the old days are gone; hospitals are more dangerous now than just staying at home."

  "How is it up there?"

  "Twelve left of the original patients."

  "What? There used to be over sixty."

  "Thirty-one dead. Six just disappeared."

  "What do you mean, disappeared?”

  "Alzheimer's that were still mobile. Remember, no security alarms. They just wandered outside, into the woods. Poor souls, most likely died within a day or two from exposure. We decided yesterday to abandon the place, move those who are left up to a dorm in the conference center. With­out all the electronics you can't keep an eye on the Alzheimer's. I never thought I'd see such a thing again, but we have them restrained, tied to their beds."

  She sighed.

  "Sounds horrible, John, but it will be best when they're gone. We need at least four people staffing them around the clock. At least at the dorm there's only two doors in and out, and frankly, it's cleaner."

  "What else?"

  She sighed.

  "It's been bad."

  "How so?"

  "A fight at the gap two nights ago."

  "How bad?"