One Second After

by William R. Fortschen

  As he walked in he could see the latest, a report that Asheville suppos­edly had a reliable two-way radio link with Charleston. Four emergency supply trucks had arrived in Greenville, South Carolina, and one was promised to Asheville by the end of the week. She had not posted the news, though, when she had called into him just after dawn, that a helicopter had landed yesterday evening at Memorial Hospital, reportedly carrying a load of medicines.

  That knowledge would trigger an attempt by those still capable of mov­ing to get into Asheville, and he knew that Asheville would not let any of them through the barrier near Exit 53 that was now a permanently forti­fied position, definitely payback for their defiance regarding the refugees back in the spring. The few refugees from outside trying to get farther west were allowed through, but anyone from Swannanoa or Black Moun­tain seeking to cross the line to barter was blocked.

  He walked into the office, Judy looking up from her switchboard.

  "Hi, boss."

  "Judy, connect me to Memorial Hospital. Put it through to my line and the line in the conference room."

  "I'll get on it."

  John went into his office, the office that had been Charlie's. John had not changed it all that much, the only addition a framed Polaroid picture of the survivors of what was now called the First Battalion, Black Mountain Rangers. Eighty-one soldiers, standing in front of Gaither Hall, the picture taken a week after the battle. They looked twenty years older than the kids in another picture beside it, the annual graduation photo of all the seniors, taken just two days before "The Day." Some were in both photos. The kids in the graduation photo looked fresh, ready to go out and take on the world with enthusiasm and joy. The rangers, they looked as if they could take on the world, by killing. The picture always made him think of a painting by Tom Lea, a combat artist of the Second World War, of a shell-shocked ma­rine at Peleliu called The Two Thousand Yard Stare. "Boss, I got a line open. Pick up."

  John lifted the rotary phone off the cradle and there was a crackling hum.

  "Memorial Hospital." The voice sounded faint, distant.

  "This is Black Mountain calling," Judy said. "Can you connect a call to the hospital director, Dr. Vance, from Dr. Matherson, director of public safety in Black Mountain?"

  Makala had advised Judy to use John's old title. Doctors of the M.D. kind looked down on doctors of the Ph.D. kind, but still, it would help to get through.

  "Please hold," came the voice from the other end.

  John looked across at Makala, who was standing at the crank phone in the conference room.

  Five minutes passed, then ten. He sat on his desk, waiting nervously, heart racing, the only sound static and then a distant voice.

  "Vance here."

  "Dr. Vance. This is," he hesitated, "Matherson, director of public safety for Black Mountain."

  "What do you want?"

  He could hear the exhaustion in Vance's voice. John looked over at Makala and nodded. He was afraid if he continued, emotion would take over, and the man on the other end had no time for emotional appeals.

  John had sat in the same spot now since Charlie's death. Decisions about who got rations and who did not. The condemning to death by execution of twenty-two people for looting of food, in one night fifteen of them had killed off two head of cattle, and, horrifyingly, one for cannibalism. Fortu­nately, he was now able to delegate that terrible deed to someone else, three people, one from Swannanoa, one from Black Mountain, and a professor from the college.

  John had listened to so many appeals, and always he had to judge based upon what was fair, and fairness was who might be able to make it through to next spring and who was now triaged off.

  "Dr. Vance, this is Makala Turner. I was head RN with the cardiac sur­gical unit at Overlook in Charlotte. I worked directly with Dr. Billings. I'm now head of all emergency treatment here in Black Mountain."

  That line was carefully prepared by her, to create a sense of equality and draw from the tradition of mutual professional respect.

  "Billings, how is he?" And then a pause, a realization most likely of the absurdity of the question.

  "Doctor, on the day things went down, I was coming up to Memorial to attend your briefing on the new cauterization method for control of P.A.T. arrhythmia."

  A pause.

  "Seems like a million years ago," and John could hear the voice on the other side soften.

  Makala had thought this out well. He looked over to her, but her back was turned to him, avoiding eye contact. "Nurse Makala ..."

  "Turner," she said. "Dr. Vance, we have a situation here I think you can address."

  "Go on," and John could hear the tension come back into Vance's voice. "We got word that a helicopter load of medical supplies was airlifted to your hospital last night."

  A long pause ... "Yes, that is correct."

  "Dr. Vance. We have a girl, twelve years old, type one diabetic."

  "And she's still alive?" There was an incredulous note in his voice.

  "She's been carefully monitored and is a tough kid. Her father was able to obtain enough insulin to last five months, but the stock has degraded and all potency is gone."

  "Amazing she lasted this long."

  John stiffened, again looking at Makala, the way she was now so clini­cally talking about Jennifer.

  "Dr. Vance. Was any insulin included in that shipment?" There was a pause.

  "Was there any insulin?" John asked, cutting back in, his voice tense. "Yes."

  A pause on the other end.

  "How long has she been without insulin?" Vance asked.

  Makala quickly turned, looked at John, and shook her head.

  "Last injection four days ago."

  It was a lie; it had been over two weeks.

  Silence on the other end.

  "Blood count?"

  "Three hundred and ten," again a lie; it was over twice that now and still climbing.

  "Dr. Vance?" Makala asked. "Yes."

  "We can send a vehicle to pick up a vial, just a thousand units. It will save her life."

  He sighed and with that sigh John knew. How many had heard him sigh in the same way before rejecting their tearful appeal for but one more bowl of soup or the release of but two or three pills of Cipro or the few precious Z-pac antibiotics locked away in a safe?

  "Save her life for how long?" Vance finally replied. "A month? The in­sulin received might be all we'll get for several months. It's already been designated for those who can survive on far lower doses than type one dia­betics need."

  "Dr. Vance, we can have her at the hospital in an hour. Just one injection to stabilize her. We've heard the road might be open down to Columbia and from there to Charleston; we'll risk driving her down there if you can help us stabilize her."

  "You and I both know the road is not open. A dozen people from here tried to get through just to Greenville yesterday and were wiped out by raiders in Saluda Gap," Vance replied, "and even if you did get through, there's no chance she'll be given more. The authorities in Charleston have listed insulin, along with a couple hundred other drugs, as A priority, meaning to be distributed in extreme need only to those under the age of forty-five and over eighteen with high probability of survival and the abil­ity to work in some manner. They sent me exactly five vials."

  Frustrated, John thought of Don Barber's plane.

  "Is there a means to fly her out?" John interjected forcefully. "Surely you must have planes down at Asheville Airport that are still flying."

  "We did, but we don't now. We lost the last two a week ago. The pilots just took off with their families and disappeared. And even if we did have that means, I'd prioritize a hundred other cases first for airlift, even if we had it."

  Makala waved for John to shut up and there was a long pause. A long pause that drifted into nearly a minute of silence. "I'm sorry, but the answer is no. Now, if you will excuse me ..." John stood up.

  "We are talking about my daughter!" he shouted. "I
suspected that," Vance replied. "And suspect as well that it's been far longer than four days since her last injection."

  "Please, Dr. Vance. Please, it's my daughter. Just one injection."

  "John, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "John. Like I said, they sent up five vials. I've got two kids in this hospi­tal now who have standard childhood diabetes and are barely hanging on, but God forgive me I'm withholding the medicine even from them because I've got nearly thirty adults with varying degrees of diabetes that can sur­vive a lot longer with just a low dose. I might need this stock for the rest of the year to try and save some that can be saved."

  "Please for God's sake."

  "John. Please listen. One injection for your daughter will not change the final diagnosis; it will simply postpone the inevitable. My God," he said wearily, "do you think I want to tell you this? John, I have enough anes­thesia for maybe twenty operations and we need hundreds. Painkillers, even just some damn aspirin ..."

  His voice trailed off.

  Makala was waving John off, signaling him to be quiet.

  "Dr. Vance. Makala here. I've been treating this girl since all this started. She's a tough kid, a survivor. We can save her life."

  "For how long?" Vance replied, and now his voice was getting cold. "Type one diabetics. A hundred years ago they died within weeks after pancreatic shutdown. That's the world we are back in now, maybe for years to come."

  Again a pause.

  "Nurse Turner. You understand triage as well as I do."

  "Triage?" John shouted. "You are talking about my daughter, god damn it. You will not triage her off."

  "Sir, I am sorry for you. I truly am."

  "Damn you, listen to me! I can mobilize a hundred well-trained infantry and by God we will be there in an hour and by God you will give me that insulin. And if need be I'll blow up the water main to your damn town."

  A long silence.

  "Are you listening to yourself?" Vance said. "Would you really do that?"

  "Yes!"

  "I don't think so, John. I've heard a lot about you, John; you are not the type to get innocent people killed if you try that stunt. And if you do, the Asheville militia will meet you at Exit 53, and this hospital is cordoned with troops as well. If you blow the main thousands of innocent people will suffer.

  "I'm sorry for you, sir. God save us, I'm sorry for all of us, sorry for those who could have prevented this and now must carry that on their souls...."

  His voice trailed off, breaking into a muffled sob.

  "Good-bye."

  The line clicked off.

  "No!"

  John swung the phone around, tearing the wire connection out. Filled with impotent rage, he held the phone, and then flung it against the wall. "John, please."

  Makala was in the room, tears streaming down her face.

  "Damn all of this. Damn this country. Damn all of this," and he col­lapsed into his chair, sobbing.

  "Come on, John; let's go home. She needs us there."

  He finally stood up. In the hallway Judy was standing by the switch­board. She had heard every word and was silently weeping. Tom, gaunt, face pale, was silent, standing in the hallway beside Judy, looking at him.

  "John, I'm willing to go up there and try and get it for you," Tom said softly.

  Makala shook her head.

  "No, Tom, we're going home. Can you see to things the next few days?"

  "Sure."

  "Judy, hold any calls to the house."

  Makala drove John home. As they passed through the guard post, manned as always by two students, John said nothing, acknowledging nothing, the students watching him, eyes wide, as he and Makala drove through, for they could see he was crying.

  Jen was outside the house as they pulled up, Makala helping John to get out. She didn't need to be told.

  "How is she?" Makala asked.

  "Drifting in and out. Breath is fruity smelling like you said it would be. She's no longer urinating; I can't get water into her."

  "John."

  It was Makala, hands grasping him tight.

  "You have to do this now. I want you to go in there as if everything is fine. She is not to know you are afraid. If she asks about medicine, tell her it's coming shortly. She cannot know you are afraid."

  He nodded.

  "You ready?"

  "Yes."

  He walked up the front steps and opened the door, then paused.

  "Hail Mary full of grace he started to whisper, the prayer going silent as he stepped into the house.

  The alcove that faced towards the creek had been converted into the sickroom, a bed set up, raised up higher with books underneath so Jen­nifer could see out the window, watch the creek and the bird feeder. Elizabeth had finally stirred out of her shock as this crisis came and had spent several hours cracking pinecones, gathering handfuls of the pre­cious seeds to fill the feeder, and keeping by Jennifer's bedside, reading to her.

  Ginger, now nothing but skin and bones, barely able to walk, had crawled up onto the foot of the bed.

  Jennifer turned and looked towards him. "Daddy?"

  "Here, my pumpkin."

  He came over and sat by the bed. She was clutching Rabs tight, and ar­rayed on the far side of the bed were the three Beanie Babies she had snatched as they evacuated the now-lost home ... one of them Patriot Bear, the gift for her twelfth birthday.

  "Will I get well?"

  "Sure, sweetheart, you'll be up and running in no time. Makala and I ordered some medicine and it will be here soon."

  He was afraid to look up at Makala, who he knew was standing in the doorway. If they made eye contact he feared he'd break. Jennifer turned away, features pale. "You're lying, Daddy. You never could lie to me."

  "No, honey. It's the truth. You'll soon feel well." She said nothing, just looking at him. "Sweetie, would you like me to read to you?" Head turned away, she nodded.

  He stood up, scanning the bookshelf, and saw two books and his heart filled. Both had obviously belonged to Mary, one from early childhood. He opened them. Inside one was inscribed. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart... 1976." The second had in a childish scrawl, in pink crayon, "My book, Mary."

  He set the second book to one side, returned to Jennifer's bed, opened the first, and started to read. " 'When Mr. Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End And then he stopped.

  No, not this one. She had seen the movies when they had first come out and was young enough then that it had frightened her.

  He put The Lord of the Rings aside and picked up the second book. It had been Mary's favorite as a child and it was why Rabs, now nestled in Jen­nifer's arms was named Rabs. On the day Jennifer was born he had placed Rabs in her crib and Mary had cried at the sight of the snowy white rabbit from a story she had loved in her own childhood days. Rabs, now so dingy gray from years of being held, kissed, and loved, was nestled in Jennifer's arms.

  "The Adventures of Rabs the Rabbit..." he began, swallowing hard as he turned the first page, remembering so many nights when Mary would read Jennifer to sleep with this wonderful old classic that mother and daugh­ter had so loved and cherished together.

  "One day, when Jennifer, and her best friend Rabs had nothing else to do.. ."

  The real name in the book was Kathy but Mary had always used Jen­nifer's name, the same way when she was a child, her mother had used hers. He looked up at Jen, who stood silent by the foot of the bed, who unable to speak, could merely nod her head. He felt such love and pity for her at this moment for all that she had lost as well.

  And he began to read.

  The house was silent throughout the day, except for John softly reading, pausing when Jennifer was obviously asleep.

  The shadows lengthened, the windows still open, the cool air drifting in, but he did not close them, the soft rushing of the brook outside the window soothing with its gentle murmur.

  Jennifer stirred, Makala trying to get her to drink. She wouldn't, so Makala just sat by the oth
er side of the bed, moistening Jennifer's lips with a damp towel.

  "Daddy?"

  She looked up at him, eyes open. "Sweetie?"

  "Remember your promise?"

  "Which one was that angel?"

  "Let me stay close to you ... and keep Rabs warm and with you; he loves you too ..."

  "Of course, of course," and control did finally break. Crying, John leaned over and hugged her, kissing her forehead. She tried to put her arms around him but couldn't, and as he took her hands he could feel how cold they were.

  He tucked Rabs back under her arms, floppy head of the much loved stuffed rabbit resting on her chest.

  Makala sat on the other side of the bed, gently brushing Jennifer's brow. Elizabeth had led Jen away, the two in the next room, sobbing. Jennifer was no longer sweat soaked and he knew what that meant. Makala slowly let her hand drift to Jennifer's throat, felt the pulse, and looked over at John.

  He picked the book back up, it was nearly finished, and he continued to read, turning the page with one hand, holding Jennifer's hand with the other.

  He could feel her hand getting colder and he read now, almost in a fast monotone, turning the pages, and then reached the last one.

  "And so Rabs, nestled in Jennifer's arms watched as she went to sleep. 'Some day you will be all grown up,' Rabs whispered to her, 'but I will love you forever. And far, far away, we will play again some day. Sleep tight Jen­nifer, and I will see you in the morning.'"

  "John," Makala whispered.

  He couldn't speak.

  "John, she's gone."

  He knew. He had felt her slip away before he had turned the last page.

  * * * *

  She was buried in the garden, her grave near the bay window, very close by to him as promised. At nighttime Rabs rested on the windowsill inside the house, keeping vigilant watch. He had spent a fair part of the day outside, just sitting by her grave, holding Rabs, talking to Jennifer as if she were sit­ting before him, again his little girl of five, the fur on Rabs still not completely worn off as it now was, Ginger, barely able to move, lying by his side.