Fallout

by Wil Mara

  Sarah nodded, mentally running through a catalog of people who, she was quite certain, would not respond well to the concept of presenting their naked bodies for scrubbing and polishing to a pack of strangers in radiation suits.

  “They’ll then be taken to one of four hospitals for evaluation and any necessary treatment,” Conover said. “Once they’re cleared medically, they are free to go wherever they wish. As I said before, the state will cover the cost of temporary housing up to a certain point. If residents have relatives who live beyond the zone of exclusion, we ask them to consider that option, to free up resources for those who aren’t so fortunate.”

  There it is, Sarah thought, the first use of “zone of exclusion.” The operation felt so formal now, so coldly official. But then why wouldn’t it? Conover had no personal attachment to this place.

  There were only two zones of exclusion resulting from nuclear accidents in the world—one in the Ukraine around the Chernobyl plant, the other in Japan around the Fukushima plant. Is that what Silver Lake will become? The third exclusion zone? Will that be our identity from now on?

  “Some of them won’t have any place to go,” she said with a sigh.

  “Well, they sure as hell can’t stay here,” Conover replied sharply.

  “No, of course not.”

  “And neither can you, for that matter. Once the evacuation begins, you have to go to the—”

  “I’m absolutely not leaving here until everyone is out, General,” Sarah said in her firmest tone, looking him directly in the eyes. “Even after the evacuation begins, I’ll still be needed here. People will be calling with questions. There will still be matters to be coordinated, questions to be answered, and decisions to be made.”

  “And you’ll be able to perform all those duties without any trouble from a remote location,” Conover’s voice was as calm as an autumn pond. “We have a truck waiting outside for you right now. Calls can be forwarded from here and your computer can remain connected to this network.”

  “I am not going to be the rat deserting the sinking ship. That’s not the message I want to send to the good people of this town. They need to know that I’m here and on the job. They need that comfort.”

  Conover’s jaw tightened and several veins in his neck came into view.

  “You should be aware that I have the authority to forcibly remove you.”

  “And you should be aware that anyone who tries that is going to get a kick in the balls.”

  Their staring match seemed to stretch on forever. No one moved, spoke, or seemed to breathe. There was only the sound of the rain against the windows and the hum of the computers.

  Conover’s unexpected grin was loaded with crooked teeth. “Well, you’ve got quite a set of balls yourself, I have to say.”

  “Not bad for a surrogate, huh?” she said.

  He met her gaze squarely and evenly, his smile never slackening. “No, not bad. I gotta admire that kind of loyalty. Shit, without loyalty, where would the military be? Okay, you can stay—but only until it becomes medically risky.” Conover turned to his aide. “Bill, how much longer will the air in here be safe to breathe?”

  “About seventy minutes, sir.”

  The general nodded and looked back. “Got that? Just over an hour. That means in one hour—” he pointed at her “—you go. I don’t care if we have to tranquilize you with a blow dart. You’re not going to do anyone any good if you’re lying on a stretcher gasping for breath. All right?”

  “All right.”

  She turned to Magnus and Harris.

  “You two should go now.”

  Magnus looked fairly terrified, but Harris appeared surprisingly composed, as if she’d been through a few dozen radiation emergencies in her long life.

  “If we’ve got another hour,” Harris said, “then we’ll stay another hour.” Magnus nodded in agreement despite her trembling.

  The general shrugged and threw up his hands. “Who am I to countermand the women’s liberation movement?”

  “Thank you, General,” Harris said diplomatically, and the two secretaries withdrew quietly.

  Conover scanned the map one more time, then checked his watch, a stainless-steel chronograph large enough to be sold for scrap.

  “Madame Mayor, we’ve only got about another two hours of sunlight left, so it’s time to get this thing moving. Is there anything else you’d like to add before we begin?”

  She shook her head. Two hours of sunlight left … She remembered that morning’s sunrise. In the bedroom that she shared with the man she loved, the sun gave the blinds a cordial glow that seemed to come straight down from heaven. She awoke just in time to witness this phenomenon at its climax, and instead of throwing the sheets back and springing up like she usually did, she lay there to absorb the beauty of it. That seems so long ago now, she thought. Ages.

  “No, I don’t have anything else to add,” she said. “Thank you, General, for letting me contribute to your plans.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said ceremoniously, then strode swiftly out of the room with his aide trailing behind. Sarah heard him begin issuing orders over his walkie-talkie even before he reached the staircase.

  * * *

  Remembering her moment of sunlit meditation led Sarah to the realization that she hadn’t heard from Emilio in a while. This was understandable under the circumstances, but still—he never allowed too much time to pass without making contact. No matter the duties at hand, he always found a way.

  Picking up her cellphone, she checked her messages. Six new texts had arrived since her meeting with the general had begun, but none were from her husband.

  “Odd,” she said softly to herself. She was just about to take the initiative and text him first when the phone started vibrating. It was Harlan Phillips; probably calling to see how things went with General Charming, she thought.

  Sarah made a mental note to text Emilio as soon they were finished.

  23

  “Dad … can you help me?”

  Mark’s voice was weak, like that of someone infirm or geriatric. “Mark, where are you?”

  “Dad, I’m sick. I’m … I’m really.…” The boy’s voice broke off with a terrible, gagging sound. It took Pete two beats of horrified analysis to realize his son had vomited.

  “Wow, there’s so much blood,” Mark said wearily.

  “Oh, God. Where are you?”

  “I can’t … I just don’t know if … who I went with to…”

  “Mark, just tell me where you are.” Tears rolled down Pete’s face, his natural instinct to suppress his grief disconnecting. “Please, Mark, where—”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry about this morning. We … we…”

  “I’m sorry, too, Mark. I love you so much.” Pete was out of the apartment and pounding down the stairs. “But forget about what happened this morning. We’ll fix it, I swear. Just tell me where you are. I’m going to come get you.”

  “I’m, uh … I don’t know where…”

  “Okay, okay … look around you. Can you do that? Can you look around?”

  “I’m … we went walking.”

  “You and Sharon?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mark gagged again; this time Pete could hear the ejecta slapping on some hard surface. A sidewalk? Is he on a sidewalk, in plain view? Are some sonsofbitches watching from their windows but not helping him? If so, I’m going to find out who they are later and pound them flat. I swear to holy heaven I will.

  All Pete could hear through the phone was the hiss of the rain, and for an unbearable moment of undiluted terror he thought the boy had lost consciousness. Then came the moans, low and rhythmic.

  “Mark!” he yelled, trying to spur a response from his son as he pulled the slicker over himself and snatched up the paint mask.

  “Dad, help me. Please, help me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Prince Field,” Mark said finally, and in that instant his father detected a g
limmer of cognizance. Good, son, keep it up. “We went for … for a walk in the rain,” Mark went on. “Sharon likes it.… She likes the rain.”

  Pete froze with his hand around the doorknob. Wait … he’s been out in the rain this whole time?! No, please, God, no.… He looked at his watch and ran the calculation quickly. Over four hours?

  Without bothering to put the mask back on, Pete bolted out of the house and jumped into the car.

  “You’re at Prince Field now?” he said, fumbling the key into the ignition.

  “I … yeah. I tried to get Sharon back to … to…”

  “To what, Mark? Stay with me, buddy.” He set the phone down on the passenger seat, shifted into reverse, and flattened the gas pedal to the floor. “You tried to get Sharon back to what?”

  The sizzle of the rain filled the headset again, with no piggish grunts this time.

  “Mark? Mark!” Pete knew he sounded desperate and didn’t care a whit.

  No response.

  “Maaaaaaaaark!” He was practically howling now.

  There were two beeps—the Verizon warning for a lost signal—followed by dead air.

  “Oh, shit, oh, shit…” Pete’s voice climbed to a mouselike pitch. “Shit shit shit.”

  Bouncing out of the driveway and back to the road without so much as a glance for oncoming traffic, he made a sharp right and scooped up the phone again.

  “Come on, pal, hang with me here.” He hit redial with his thumb. The phone rang six times before going to voice mail.

  Then the message—“Hey, it’s Mark. If you’ve got something interesting to say, say it after the beep. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.”

  Pete didn’t know whether to laugh or scream his lungs out. Vintage Mark, that message. All attitude, but all bluster. I know it, his friends know it. Everyone does. But damned if he isn’t hilarious sometimes.

  Rolling through the toxic puddles that swelled out of the overwhelmed gutters, he tried redialing one more time. When it went to voice mail again, he ended the call and tried Kate instead.

  She picked up immediately. “What’s happening?”

  “He’s somewhere in Prince Park.”

  “Prince Park?! What’s he—”

  “He said Sharon wanted to go for a walk in the rain. Jesus, Kate, they’ve been out there for hours.” He broke into sobs, grief and misery coming out in a cresting tide. “He was throwing up blood, and he … he was confused.”

  “No,” she said softly. “God, no…”

  “I’m going to get him now. I’m gonna get him and bring him straight to County General. Him and Sharon both.”

  “Do you know exactly where he is?”

  “No, but I’m going to find him. Nothing’s gonna stop me.”

  Taking the turn off Benton Boulevard too fast onto Juniper, which dipped sharply, the car began to hydroplane. Pete gunned the engine in a fury and spun the wheel until he was straight again. The little Prius fishtailed several times before steadying.

  Sorry, Fate, not today, you heartless S.O.B.

  In the next instant he slammed on the brakes. Juniper was the fastest route to Orchid Place and the park—and it was submerged in a long pool of irradiated rainfall.

  “Oh, boy,” he said dully.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The road’s flooded.”

  “How bad?”

  Bad enough, he wanted to say; transparent code for Too deep to drive through. The water would be up to the windows, he guessed. At least.

  Fate.

  Fate laughing.

  Doing its best to see that I fail … and that my boy dies.

  No.

  Not today, pal. Not today …

  “If I go slow … come on, I know the rule.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kate asked.

  Pete was already rolling the car forward, tapping the brakes as he eased into the toxic solution.

  “If you drive slowly and steadily without coming to a complete stop, a car can make it through a flooded area. If you stop, some kind of vacuum is created where water gets sucked back into the tailpipe and makes the engine stall. Something like that.”

  His heart was pounding like a lunatic trying to get out of his padded cell. Please let me be right about this. Oh, please … He’d had a friend back in college who knew all about cars—Freddie Carter, an Alabama redneck who had an eidetic memory and a gift for figures. Most of Pete’s other Columbia school chums resented the hell out of him because their parents’ money couldn’t get them what Freddie had been born with. But Pete liked the kid and his peculiar yet charming combination of natural genius and easy, down-home simplicity. He told me something like, “If you just keep moving, you won’t stall out.” Pete prayed his memory wasn’t faulty.

  “Pete … you need to be careful,” Kate said.

  “I’m being careful, I promise. Super careful.”

  He tried to guess how deep the water would be at the lowest part of the road. It was already at the bottom of the doors—he could hear it sloshing against the panels. Trying to get in, he thought. Wanting to. Like a thousand hands, reaching for me. He knew the car was sealed underneath; or, at least, he was pretty sure. If I feel so much as a drop, I’m gunning the engine. I don’t care what Freddie said.

  The water reached a point about halfway up the door, and between that and the unremitting rainfall, it felt like driving through a giant, half-filled bathtub with the shower running.

  A burbling noise came from under the hood. Pete didn’t need Freddie Carter sitting in the passenger seat to get a general idea of what was happening. Water’s in there now. Engines aren’t supposed to be immersed this long. An odor rose, sharp, steely, bitter. It reminded him of something in his home office. The toner on the laser printer. Oh, no …

  “Pete?” his wife called out in his ear.

  “What?” he replied, trying to sound calm.

  “How are you doing?”

  He forced himself to look, glancing from the very corner of his periphery, and had to summon all remaining strength to suppress a scream when he saw the water rippling just inches from the base of the windows. Jesus, I’m right in the middle of it. It’s all around me.

  “I’m, uh…” His throat had gone as dry as an old chimney liner. “I’m getting there. Just a little more. A little more and I’ll—”

  The motor puttered out.

  The car stopped dead.

  * * *

  “Oh, no. No-no-no.”

  “What’s wrong?” Kate asked. Her panic had been under the surface before; evident but still a shadow, like the shape of a fish swimming under the frozen surface of a lake. Now it burst forth. “Tell me!”

  “The damned car died!”

  “Pete!”

  He let out a fiery string of profanities that would’ve melted a stone effigy and hammered the gas pedal repeatedly while twisting the key back and forth.

  “Start, you pile of shit! Start!”

  At first, the engine sounded like it wanted to turn over but couldn’t. Then it gave up and issued nothing but muted, achromatic clicks in response to each turn of the key.

  Pete was about to curse Freddie Carter to hell when he remembered reading something in the owner’s manual, something about hybrid or wholly electric vehicles being less tolerant of flood conditions than cars with standard engines.

  Fate … Fate laughing.

  “Pete, what’s happening?!”

  The sound of trickling water drew his attention to the driver’s side door; he looked and saw the first pernicious streams worm their way through the window seal and race down the glass. For a moment his mind was paralyzed by the unreality of his circumstances. He seemed to be floating around his body rather than settled squarely within it, as if the spiritual had become unmoored from the physical but had not drifted too far off. In spite of the sizzling rain spatter and the lapping of the tiny waves against the metal shell around him, he felt a distinct sense of quiet that was almost peaceful.
r />   Kate’s voice cut through him like an air horn. “Pete, answer me!”

  The tortured emotions that had been rising steadily throughout the day came together in a flash-point burst. “I’ll tell you what’s happening, dammit!” Pete said forcefully. “I’m going to save my son’s life—right now!”

  Yanking at the handle, he threw his bulk against the door. For a long moment, it resisted his pressure, then cracked open, admitting a deluge of liquid radiation.

  “Uh, oh—what’s that noise I’m hearing?” Kate’s voice was steady again.

  Snatching the phone and the paint mask from the passenger seat, he held them high as he wiggled his way out of the car. For just a moment, he considered how absurd it was to wear the mask when everything else would become steeped with irradiated water. This bit of understandable logic, however, didn’t prevent him from bringing it along anyway.

  Once outside, his jeans instantly turned about ten shades darker, and the chill that spread through his crotch gave him a wicked case of the tremors.

  “That’s water, darling. Very nasty water.”

  “Pete, are you crazy?!”

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to be all right.”

  He slipped the mask on. The water in the “puddle” was about even with his hips; he began gliding through it like a runner in slow motion.

  “I’m going to get him, Kate!” he said through the mask, hearing how it muffled his voice. He was grinning broadly; the smile of a madman who has reached a level of comfort with his neuroses.

  “I know I can count on you, honey. But don’t be dumb! Get out of the rain!”

  “What am I supposed to do, just sit there? The bleeding car stopped working!”

  “Then how are you going to bring Mark and Sharon to the hospital?”

  The road beneath his submerged feet was beginning to rise again, and Prince Field would come into view when he reached the peak. I’ll be able to wash all of this off, he told himself. I’ll be fine.

  “I have a plan for that, too,” he said, nodding. “There are lots of houses around, and I’m sure that some of them are occupied. One of our fellow citizens is going to give us a ride whether they like it or not. At the very least, they’ll be loaning me their vehicle for a little while.”