Escape the Fall (Nuclear Survival: Southern Grit Book 2)

by Harley Tate

  Grant closed his eyes. It was as bad as he feared. Maybe worse. “What about DC?”

  “I never saw confirmation it was hit.”

  “So it could be all right?”

  “Or it could be razed to the ground. DC is only ten miles wide. The whole thing could be irradiated rubble.”

  “What are we going to do? Who’s going to help us? We need the power back on!” The same woman in the front row almost sobbed.

  Grant spoke up. “We need to be prepared for the worst-case scenario. With so much destruction and radiation over the hub of Atlanta, the power may be impossible to restore.”

  Another man nodded. “The grid was hit before the nuclear bombs detonated on the ground. I saw that on my phone Friday night. The mini cell tower by my office had a generator. I was able to get online for a few minutes before the network was overloaded.”

  “Why would someone do that?” Another woman squeezed between two men on the couch stared at him in disbelief.

  “It’s an act of war; do you really need an explanation?”

  Another neighbor across the room voiced her concerns. “Are we under attack? Where’s the military? Why isn’t anyone saying anything?”

  “How exactly would they do that? Our entire state government was vaporized. If DC was hit too, then there is no government.” Oliver shook his head. “This isn’t like us storming the beaches at Normandy. This is country-ending.”

  “The military wasn’t hit. Can’t they mobilize? Aren’t they on the way?”

  Dan chimed in. “If what these men are saying is true, then no, they won’t be on the way. The army doesn’t have standing orders on what to do when the US goes to hell in a nanosecond.”

  Grant waded into the rising terror. “We need to band together as a community. If anyone else is experiencing symptoms like Stan, we can offer aid.”

  “Isn’t radiation poisoning fatal? If anyone’s sick, won’t they die?”

  “It depends on the dose. If you weren’t exposed for very long, you may just suffer burns or gastrointestinal distress. You can recover.”

  “Is it contagious?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure that’s what killed Stan?” Jennifer from across the street spoke up for the first time. “What if there were chemical attacks, too?”

  “It was classic radiation sickness. It had all the signs.”

  “How do you know? Are you a doctor?”

  Grant shook his head. “No, but my wife’s a nurse and I read all about it after the detonations.” He wasn’t about to tell anyone that Leah wasn’t home or that he learned about it from a trucker on the state line. “We’re not at risk of contagion.”

  “I still think we should be careful.” Jennifer wrapped a sweater tighter around her shoulders and glanced up at her husband. So far, he hadn’t offered his opinion. She turned back to Grant. “Do you really think the power’s out for good?”

  “I don’t know. But without any operational city infrastructure, I wouldn’t expect it back anytime soon.”

  Dan agreed. “Last time we had that ice storm it took, what? A week for the power to come back? With a nuclear bomb, we’re as good as in the Stone Age.” He snorted. “Better get used to candlelight.”

  “What are we going to do without power?” The woman on the floor almost swooned. “Everything in our house is electric.”

  Grant rubbed his cheek. “There’re a few things everyone can do now to prepare. The water’s still running, so you should go home and fill all your bathtubs and any containers you can find. When the pumps fail, we might never have running water again.”

  Jennifer closed her eyes and leaned against her husband. “What about food? Without power will any stores even open?”

  “Clean out your fridges and freezers if you haven’t already and inventory your supplies. If you don’t have a sizable pantry, you’ll need to ration.”

  A chorus of shouts broke out from all over the room.

  “We’re almost out of everything!”

  “All my food was in the fridge and it’s ruined!”

  “My daughter’s allergic to so much, we shop a couple times a week. How are we going to get what she needs?”

  “What about pharmacies? I’m diabetic and I need insulin.”

  Grant held up a hand. “I’m afraid I can’t answer any of your questions, but that’s why we’re all here. We can rally together and help everyone in the neighborhood.”

  Kimberly from the corner house on Grant’s street emerged from the crowd. “We should share our food. Everyone should bring what they have here and we can split it up.”

  “Are you crazy? What if someone has a ton? They just have to give it away? They paid for that food.”

  She turned around to try and identify the voice. “Would you rather your neighbors starve?”

  Harriet from two houses away leaned into her husband and whispered a little too loud. “She probably doesn’t have any food left. Look at how skinny she is.”

  Grant tried to step into the melee. “I don’t think we need to start confiscating food just yet. But we could assemble some teams. One to check on all the neighbors who didn’t come tonight. One to scout nearby stores for food and supplies. A neighborhood watch would be good, too.”

  “Why do we need that?”

  Dan crossed his arms. “Who else is gonna take care of us? The police? You really think city police are gonna go to work when they ain’t gettin’ paid?”

  Jennifer tapped her husband on the arm and the pair of them squeezed through the crowd for the door. A few other couples and singles followed. The neighborhood was not coming together like Grant hoped. Maybe it was the shock of the news or the cacophony of thoughts pinging in people’s heads, but the silent departures rattled Grant.

  They couldn’t survive as a community if they weren’t willing to hear everyone out.

  He raised his hand for attention. The conversations simmered, but didn’t completely quiet. “How about we regroup tomorrow after everyone has had a chance to digest the news?”

  At his quasi-conclusion, the clubhouse erupted into conversations. The woman on the floor stood up on shaky legs and almost collapsed until Barry from the first house in the neighborhood grabbed her under the arm. Other people fled as quickly as they could without starting a stampede.

  Dan and a single woman Grant knew in passing made their way to the front of the room. They greeted Oliver and Grant with nods.

  “It’s Susie, right?”

  The woman nodded. “I’m at 2260, all the way down the street from you.” She shook Grant’s hand. “Thank you for setting this up. I know people like to shoot the messenger, so it was brave to stand up here and take it.”

  Grant shifted on his feet and felt the familiar heft of his Shield in his appendix holster. “It was the least I could do.”

  Dan glanced at the retreating crowd. “So what the hell do we do now?”

  Grant smiled. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

  Chapter Nine

  LEAH

  57 Parrot Lane

  North of Atlanta, Georgia

  Thursday, 9:47 p.m.

  Leah squinted as she stepped into the squat brick bungalow.

  “Lord have mercy. Did Howie do that to you?”

  “Do what?”

  The woman waved a frail hand in Leah’s general direction. “Cover you in all that blood.”

  “Car crash.” Leah reached up to her head, but stopped midway. “I was headed to the hospital when that guy’s cat wouldn’t leave me alone.”

  “Figures. That cat’s always over here trying to poop in my azaleas. Won’t leave unless I sic a broom on him.”

  Leah smiled and the cuts on her face lanced with pain. “Is there a place I can clean up?”

  “Bathroom is the second door on the left down the hall. There are towels in the cabinet and a lantern on the back of the toilet. You’re welcome to run a bath.”

  “Thank you.” Leah stepped out of the kitchen and f
ound the bathroom down a wallpapered hallway covered with dated photographs of years gone by. She stepped into the little pink and yellow tiled room, turned on the lantern, and shut the door. Her back hit the wood and she sucked in a breath.

  I’m safe. Howie can’t get me here.

  She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. In and out, slower and slower, until the last bit of adrenaline spurring her on faded. She would be no good as a nurse to herself if she couldn’t stay calm and focused.

  After another deep breath, Leah pushed off the door and confronted her face in the mirror. What she saw would terrify anyone. Dried blood cracked across her cheeks and matted her blonde hair into sticky clumps. A set of four gashes spread from above her left eyebrow to her chin, already puckering with fresh scabs.

  Between the blood and the dirt and the snags from running through bushes, her top was ruined. At some point, she would have to go home for more clothes. But she needed to make it to Hampton first. It’s what her husband begged her to do.

  Leah stripped out of the ruined shirt and the rest of her clothes and turned on the water in the tub. The bathroom looked original to the house with a rose-pink porcelain sink and matching tub. Pink and yellow tiles alternated along the wall. Classic 1950s, full of hope and promise.

  As soon as the tub filled, she eased down into the icy water and dunked her head. Pain shot through the wound, but the freezing temperature kept the worst at bay.

  She couldn’t risk a shower. The fragility of her scalp foreclosed any chance of a nice shower spray. If she damaged the skin, she may not be able to suture it closed once she finally reached the hospital.

  With gentle exploration, Leah cleaned the blood from her body and face and finally her scalp. The water turned from clear to gray to rust as she cleaned the worst of her wounds. As she stepped from the water, a surge of emotions wobbled her knees. Leah gripped the edge of the sink and watched droplets of water run down her legs.

  I could have died.

  The memory of the crash hit like the impact all over again and she sagged onto the toilet seat. She survived an EMP and a nuclear explosion only to almost die through her own stupidity. If she hadn’t escaped from Howie, would he have killed her? Would she have died on some street she didn’t know without ever seeing her family again?

  Leah choked on her own spit and hubris, coughing into the sink until her ribs ached from the effort.

  “You okay in there, honey?” The old woman’s voice carried through the door.

  She stammered a response. “Y-Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Good, because these biscuits won’t eat themselves.”

  Biscuits? Leah reached for her bag with a frown. Did she really say biscuits? If the woman were senile, she didn’t know what she would do. Smile and leave as soon as possible, she supposed.

  After dragging on her clothes with care, Leah rinsed the tub and hung the used towel. So much kindness from a stranger. She would need to repay the woman somehow. Maybe she could gather some supplies at the hospital and bring them back. A first aid kit and some medicine or even some food would be helpful.

  Leah opened the door and the smell of hot bread popped her eyes wide open. She trundled into the kitchen with her duffel and mouth wide open. “You really made biscuits?”

  The old woman turned around with a smile. “Of course. No one comes to Tilly Orion’s house without eating.” She pointed at the small wood table. “Put your things down and sit. You’ll need to eat before we tend to that head wound.”

  Leah did as she was told, tucking her duffel beneath the table before easing into an empty chair. A collection of items sat in front of her: a sewing kit, a package of rolled gauze, and a bottle of gin. She smiled at the gesture, but she wouldn’t be patching herself up in a non-sterile kitchen. She tucked her hands in her lap. “Tilly is it?”

  The woman nodded as she slid a tray of steaming biscuits into a bowl and held them out.

  “I’m Leah Walton.” She took the biscuits and set them on the table. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, dear. Butter with your biscuits? I’ve still got a bit left.”

  “Sure.”

  Tilly reached for a covered butter dish and brought it to the table. “Tea will be ready soon, too. Just waiting for the whistle.”

  Leah nodded. “Do you mind if I ask how you managed to cook?”

  “Stove’s gas and it’s still running same as the water. Don’t know how long it’ll hold out, but I figure as long as I’ve got flour and water I can cook up some quick bread. After that, it’ll be cold cans of green beans and marmalade I suppose.”

  Tilly held up the bowl and Leah plucked a single biscuit from the steaming pile. She buttered it and took a bite, relishing in the hot, flaky goodness. “This is amazing. Thank you.”

  “No trouble.”

  The tea kettle piped up and Tilly pushed herself up to stand. She leaned on her cane as she walked the handful of steps back to the stove to shut off the burner. “Hope you don’t mind Lipton. It’s all I’ve got.”

  “I’ll drink week-old sludge as long as it’s hot.”

  Tilly chuckled. “My old Roger used to like his coffee so thick you could eat it with a spoon.” She grimaced as she wobbled the kettle back over. “I never could drink the stuff.”

  Leah held out an empty mug and Tilly filled it. “Is it just you here?”

  “Roger died a few years ago. Now it’s me and Snowball. You two already met out in the garage.”

  Leah nodded. How long would a woman like Tilly make it without resources? Leah took a moment to really examine the woman. Gray hair piled up on her head. Velour track suit with worn elbows. Giant eyeglasses that magnified a pair of deep-set brown eyes. She could have been anywhere between a rough sixty-five and a spry ninety.

  Whatever her age, Tilly seemed to handle the lack of power like it was no big deal. It could have been any other day forty years ago on a farm with a local girl stopping in to gossip the day away.

  The oil lamp on the table lit the entire kitchen, and with the hot buttered biscuits, Leah almost forgot the horror of the past few days. Only the throbbing in her head kept the past in focus.

  “Do you know how far away the hospital is from here? I need to get there as soon as possible.”

  Tilly blew on her tea before taking a sip. “It’s about two miles, give or take, but no sense in going there.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s closed.”

  Leah sloshed her mug and winced as a drop of tea singed her hand. “What do you mean it’s closed? Even if it’s at capacity, the emergency room should be triaging patients.”

  “They can’t. There’s no power.”

  “What about the backup generators?”

  Tilly shook her head. “Either it doesn’t have any or they aren’t working. My neighbor Jill walked there the day before yesterday to ask about asthma medication for her daughter. She said it was hopeless. There were signs all over saying they were closed due to the power loss.”

  Leah focused on her tea. Part of her wanted to rise up and blame the hospital for turning people away, but she’d made the same decision. When she thought her life was at risk and her husband needed her, she left. She walked out of Georgia Memorial and left everyone behind to die in a nuclear explosion.

  She couldn’t cast stones at a hospital administration that decided to close when she made the choice to leave. But without a working hospital, what would she do? How would she treat her injuries?

  The bottle of gin still sat on the table and Leah glanced up at Tilly. Now it all made sense. Like it or not, an old woman’s kitchen would have to do. “You don’t by any chance have fishing line in that sewing kit, do you?”

  Tilly smiled and the wrinkles around her eyes deepened until she looked like an owl. “I’ve got invisible polyester thread. It’s as good as fishing line and a bit more resilient, too.”

  Leah exhaled. “How about shot glass
es?”

  “They’re just above the sink in the glass cabinet.”

  “Good. I’m going to need a drink.”

  Chapter Ten

  LEAH

  57 Parrot Lane

  North of Atlanta, Georgia

  Friday, 12:30 a.m.

  “I can do this by myself if you need to sleep. It’s the middle of the night.”

  “No, dear. The older I get, the less sleep I need. Some days I wonder if I’m a vampire, then I remember I don’t even like rare steak.”

  Leah picked up the shot glass brimming with clear gin and braced herself. “Here goes.” She tipped her head back and swallowed the burn of alcohol. It filled her nose like a hit of turpentine and she gagged. “How do you drink that stuff?”

  “Usually with a glass full of ice, but the ice maker’s on the fritz.”

  Leah laughed out loud and the tension in her muscles eased. She squared her shoulders. “I can do this.”

  “Yes, you can.” Tilly picked up a handheld mirror and wedged it between a makeshift stand of books. “Is this good?”

  Leah peered at her reflection and the gaping wound. “It’ll do.”

  After eating as many biscuits as she could stand, she had small-talked with Tilly until the older woman reminded her the gash on her scalp wasn’t closing itself. Now it was time to work.

  She inhaled and opened the sewing kit. A pair of scissors rested on top of rows of thread and Leah pulled them out. After a wipe of gin across the blades, she hacked at her hair, cutting as close as she could to the wound without risking more injury. Once the wound was free of stray hairs and she could get a closeup look in the mirror, Leah assessed the damage.

  Three and a half inches long, mostly straight without too many jagged chunks. Although she learned stitching in nursing school, Georgia Memorial required doctors to perform any sutures. Leah hadn’t stitched a real person in years. But inspecting the wound gave her courage. I can sew this. It’s not that different from hemming a pair of jeans.