****
Before long, Peter returned from his patrol, and, seeing that the fire was prepared and ready, he used a piece of scrap corrugated tin from the refuse pile to scoop hot coals into two shallow holes dug just outside the building. Each of the holes was about five inches deep and just big enough around to receive the stainless steel pans from the mess kit in his pack.
He built up the fire in the building by adding more of the old two-by-fours and scraps of wood from the refuse pile, and then he closed the dilapidated door to obscure the fire, as much as possible, from anyone who might be lurking in the shadows of the woods. They would let the inside fire burn for an hour, and then they would sweep it out and douse it with the snow. The old stones of the building would then emit their warmth throughout the night as the three friends slept like buns in an old stone oven. At least, that was the theory.
Lang and Natasha watched as Peter filled one of the pots with snow to melt for boiling, and in the other, he placed some food from the backpacks to warm. He watched diligently over both pots and continued to add snow to the water pan as it melted down. Lang noticed that it took a lot of snow to create an appreciable amount of water. Once that pan was full and boiling, he placed two ripped cloths from his pack into the water and let them boil for several minutes, and while they boiled, he examined Lang’s wound.
“It looks like you were hit with a .22 or a .38. Something small. There is no bullet in the wound, and it’s still bleeding, but not too profusely. As the bullet passed through, it ripped the skin and flesh, but it doesn’t look like it pierced the muscle too deeply.” He was silent for a moment as he worked, then he turned to Natasha, who seemed to be terribly worried and afraid. “No arteries were hit, and the bleeding is steady, but not heavy. More of a seepage than a flow.” She nodded her head but kept her hand covering her mouth, as if she might need it there to stifle a cry or sob. “Natasha, dear, could you bring me that bottle of vodka from my pack?”
“Sure,” she replied and hustled off to get it, happy again to be of some use. She made a point as she went through the pack to catalog in her mind all of the things she was seeing. She wanted to be able to do this if ever the situation, God forbid, were to arise again.
Returning with the clear bottle of alcohol, she asked, “Are you going to sterilize the wound with it, or give it to him as an anesthetic?”
“Neither, Natasha,” he said as he twisted open the bottle and chugged a significant amount. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, smiled, and then took another long swig before twisting the top back onto the bottle. “I’d give him some as an anesthetic if I were doing major surgery or amputating the limb, just to get him to lie as still as possible, but we’re trying to get the bleeding stopped, and alcohol can thin the blood, making it harder to accomplish that. The vodka was for me, to steady my hands and give me strength, because Lang,” he said, now looking Lang straight in the eye but with an encouraging smile on his face, “this is going to hurt youway more than it’s going to hurt me.”
Peter extracted one of the cloths from the water with the knife from Lang’s pack, and, when it had cooled only a little, he balled up the cloth and applied heavy and direct pressure with the sterilized rag on the wound for five full minutes. This was a bigger chore than one might think, and Lang grimaced from the pain but found the pressure to be soothing in a way that seemed contradictory to him.
After the five minutes was up, Peter released the pressure and gave the wound another five minutes to seep a little so that he didn’t rob the whole arm of necessary blood and oxygen. He then reapplied the pressure with the second rag and returned the first one to the boiling water. The five minutes of pressure seemed like a short time to Natasha, but on the spot and under stress, it seemed like a lifetime to Peter and Lang. She was surprised when Peter removed the pressure this time, and the bleeding had slowed to just a faint trickle.
Natasha viewed the whole scene with amazement, and she was impressed with both Peter’s skill, and Lang’s bravery and calm during the procedure. She watched as the older man went through his pack, pulled out the first aid kit, and withdrew some tweezers and a scalpel and scissors. He sterilized the medical tools from the first aid kit in the boiling water, and when he was ready, he turned to Natasha and said, “Lang did well with the last step, daughter, but we’ll see howmanly he is now!”
Lang grimaced at that, turned the wince into a weak smile, then closed his eyes, and rolled his head back until the back of it pressed against the stone building.
Peter had Natasha hold the flashlight from Lang’s bag, and then he carefully and cautiously removed the dead skin and dying flesh with the scalpel and scissors until he was reasonably certain that the wound was clean and ready to bind up. He then packed the wound with sterile gauze bandages, wrapped it loosely with more gauze from a roll, and then secured it all with medical tape. “You want to keep it fairly loose,” he said. “We definitely don’t want to cut off the blood supply. A wound needs oxygen, blood flow, and as sterile an environment as possible without infection in order to heal.”
“Shouldn’t we sew it closed or cauterize it?” Natasha asked.
“No. That’s almost never a good idea when in the field, at least in my limited and unprofessional opinion. I would only cauterize it if we were on the run and either Lang, or the limb, was probably not going to make it otherwise. That process is really only for sealing veins or arteries when you don’t have time to actually work carefully on the wound. And when you sew it closed, you sew in infection and any dead tissue that we probably missed. Since it doesn’t have a way to exit, the wound can then get infected. Better to leave it open and let the body heal itself. There’ll probably be fluid and pus discharge, and we want that. That’s the body’s way of cleansing and healing the wound. We’ll just keep an eye on it and change the dressing when we can. And listen, Natasha,” Peter saw her trying to catalogue all the steps in her mind, and wanted to help her understand, “there are as many opinions about ditch medical care as there are people who have to do it. Always keep your eyes and ears open. Learn and listen. I’m not a doctor or even a paramedic. I’ve had a few lessons through the years, and I’m just doing what I know. You can always learn to do things better.”
Natasha nodded her head. “What about antibiotics?” she asked.
“Uncle Lev had some Cephalexin and Doxycycline in that first aid kit. Grab the Cephalexin and bring me the equivalent of 500 milligrams. If they are 250 milligram pills, then bring me two.”
“They are 500 milligram capsules, Peter,” Natasha said, bringing the whole bottle to him.
“Just give me one then. We’ll give him two a day for a week and hopefully that will knock out any infection.”
Peter gave the pill to Lang with some water from a water bottle to wash it down. “That’s one of the good things about Warwick—” he paused, not really wanting to say anything good about the town. “Anyway, that was one good thing. We didn’t have to have prescriptions from a doctor to get first aid medications that are non-addictive. In America, they have to outlaw anyone treating themselves because the medical system and pharmaceutical businesses were a lynchpin in the whole economic system. That little bit of corruption was just another finger in the dike of western civilization. The socialists looked at the system and said, ‘See! We’re keeping the economy afloat!’ but look around now and see what their logic has given us. You can float a house on a balloon, but it will pop, and when it does… ahhh, such is the ruin of that house!”
Peter looked at them, to see if they were following his argument. Both of his younger companions seemed more concerned about Lang’s pain and discomfort than his argument. They were unaware that he was trying, precisely, to draw their minds away from the injury by diverting their attention elsewhere. “Ahh, children,” he smiled. “I didn’t tell you I was also a Doctor of Philosophy, did I?” He looked at them and pulled a long face, clowning like a parent does with a child who has scraped a knee, until the two youth
s finally gave in to his merrymaking.
Lang, who had been stoic and brave throughout his treatment, was the first to smile, even though the process of removing the dead and damaged flesh was to the very limit of what he thought he could handle. He thought about what it would be like to be in one of the gulags during a Siberian winter. It’s strange what the mind locks onto in such moments. He looked at Peter and told him with his eyes that this experience had not been bad at all.
When Peter was done, Lang thanked him for the work. Peter looked at him and said, “Tonight is probably going to be tough for you, little son. You probably won’t sleep because the wound will swell a lot and throb. The shock of the run and the adrenaline from your close escape will wear off, and then the pain will set in. Tomorrow it will hurt a lot, but less so than tonight. If, by tomorrow night, the bleeding has stopped and it looks like healing has begun,” he paused, and winked, “I’ll get you loaded on the vodka so you can have some relief from the pain and get some sleep.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll need that!” Lang said, laughing.
“That’s what you say now. But tomorrow will be a different story. And if not, then… more for me.” With that, Peter took another swig from the bottle before stowing it away in his bag.
CHAPTER 22
When she awoke in the morning, Veronica D’Arcy sat bolt upright from her sleeping bag on the hard, flat floor and felt around in the dark for her son.
“Stephen!”
Her voice echoed through the smallish chamber and disappeared into a darkened door leading down a narrow concrete corridor. She peered into the darkness, feeling her son’s empty sleeping bag beside her, and called out again, this time with rising emphasis.
“Boy?!”
“Mom?”
The answer came back, a little muffled, from deep in the dark. As Veronica’s eyes came into focus, she saw the faint light of a candle playing in shadows at the end of the small, cramped passageway, and that light suddenly turned the corner, throwing a dull orange glow on the walls of either side of the hallway as her son stepped out into the corridor. She saw the glow of the candle illuminate her son’s face, his hands leaning the candle forward slightly so the wax would drip on the floor. The flame wicked up in sharp little whiskers, and she could see his wide smile in its effulgence. She watched as he proceeded toward her down the hall and into the chamber. She let her breath out in one long sigh, then remembered where they were and how they’d arrived there.
“Mom? Did you know that there are boxes of stored food back there, and water? There’s even a box of contamination gear. And some bikes! There are probably ten or so. I thought you told me this place was abandoned.”
“It is. This was a nuclear bunker once upon a time, boy. It was discovered years ago, but that stuff should have been taken out. It’s got to be fifty years old by now.”
“No. That’s what I’m telling you… It’s dated 2011. Those boxes are new.”
Veronica looked at him, to see if he was pulling her leg. He was a sweet boy, but he had his father’s penchant for practical jokes. She looked into his eyes to see if this was one of them. They were the eyes of her John—strong and sparkling—always with a little mirth, but now they just looked hurt, disappointed that she would doubt him. In this moment of all moments, he wanted her to know that he understood the gravity of their situation and why they had dropped everything when the lights went out; why they had fled through the city to this bunker and slipped in under the cover of darkness. He did not, of course, fully understand. But he wanted her to know that he was trying.
“Mom, I’m telling you, this place has been prepared for something now. There are supplies back there that someone just brought in. It looks like someone means to use this place.”
Veronica reached in her bag and felt for her flashlight. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her son, but she was interested to see for herself. If someone had prepared the place, that meant that they might be on the way, and that fact could change her plan, even as she’d made that plan up on the fly. As she searched her bag, she gently checked her pistol, running her finger over the safety to make sure that she had firmly locked it in place.
“Well, let’s have a look then, Stephen,” she said, getting up creakily from the floor, her joints aching slightly from sleeping on the cold, hard concrete through the night. She switched on the flashlight and Stephen led her down the hall, the mix of candlelight and flashbulb throwing varying shadows on the walls as they bent over and crept down the hallway to the end of the corridor.
They entered a small stone storeroom and Veronica was amazed to find it exactly as Stephen had described it. There were boxes of recently stored food and water, ammunition, nuclear fallout gear, bicycles, and some medical kits, along with a couple of lead-lined containers with batteries and walkie-talkies. The find both thrilled and alarmed Veronica, as it presented a tempting cache of items they could use for their survival, but also suggested that they might not be alone for very long. She would have to make a decision. Should they hunker down and hope for the best, or should they grab what they could and make a run for it? Where would they go? What would happen if they left too soon, or too late? These were the questions that swirled through her mind and mixed with the need to tell Stephen, who was smiling and eager beside her, something—anything—to let him know what she suspected might be coming.
“Okay, boy, now we have to think about what we will do.” She looked at the beautiful face that, for the last several years, had slowly been approaching the height of her own, perched upon an awkward teenaged body filling out with sinewy muscularity. She took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead. “We have to decide in the face of uncertainty what we are going to do so we can face this world down… wash our feet before we get in de dance.” Stephen’s face looked back, not comprehending, but ready to follow where she led. Then he smiled.
“Cool, mom. But first, can we have a little breakfast?”
Veronica laughed at her son’s bright humor. There’s that playfulness, even in the face of this calamity, she thought. She pulled a small box marked “Energy Bars” off the top of the pile, and pulled out a small penknife from her pocket and opened the tape. They’d just begun to sift through the box and catalogue its contents when they heard a scuffling down the hall.
At first, it sounded like the sound of their hands in the box, crinkling and sifting, echoing across the concrete. Veronica even thought that it was their hands for a moment, so she grabbed Stephen’s in hers and forced them to be still for a moment so she could listen closely. There. It was distinct now. There was a shuffling of boots across concrete, the noise muffled by the thick steel doors. There was the sound of an argument, bodies pushing and pulling against each other, and then, as certainly the sound began, it ended.
They stood in silence. Veronica wished she’d taken her gun from her bag and placed it in her waistband. She turned to go back to the front of the bunker and retrieve it when she heard a barbaric yawp, a bloodcurdling cry from outside the entryway, and what sounded like several bodies came crashing against the outside of the door.
Someone was trying to get in.
****
Saturday
Despite what Peter told him, Lang fell asleep easily, passing out from sheer mental and physical exhaustion. He slept through the night, even though the ground made his sleep restless and unsatisfying. The building was warmer than he had supposed it would be, and, for most of the night, the warmth from the earlier fire radiated from the stone floor and walls, and he appreciated that warmth. He even dreamed… in a fit of restless half-waking as the morning neared.
When he was fully awake, he realized that Peter had not come to bed, but had stood watch all through the night. Lang noted that the older man was doing everything he could possibly do to keep him and Natasha safe. He wondered whether, in Peter’s mind, because he’d been denied the presence and care of a real family of his own for most of his adult life, he’d adopted th
e two Warwickian youth as his children. He had now called Natasha “daughter” once and Lang “son” twice. He’d called them his “children.” This had happened naturally, but with a hint of reserve, as though Peter hadn’t thought about it when he’d done it, but didn’t want it to be commented upon now that it was done. This didn’t bother Lang at all.
It was evident that Peter had embraced their situation, and Lang noticed how the older man now seemed comfortable in his skin, as though his natural skills and human feelings at last had an outlet. After the initial blunt and angry outburst while they were looking out at the wreckage of Warwick from that hill in the distance, Peter had settled into this newfound father figure role admirably. He’d treated both Lang and Natasha tenderly, and he seemed to relish the responsibility he felt for both of them. This gave Lang a twinge of emotion he had not expected to feel toward the man, as he came to feel something that echoed his own long lost sorrow at never having had a father.
When Peter came by to check on the two that morning, he didn’t seem to be tired at all. He claimed to have fallen asleep for several hours leaning against a tree in the darkness, but both Natasha and Lang knew that this was not true. Peter had taken the gun and watched over them all night like a parent watches over his children when he feels they are in harm’s way. Somehow, Lang thought, looking at Natasha and seeing that she shared the sentiment without having to speak it, they had to find a way to get Peter some sleep.
Together they built another fire in the building, and again Peter filled the two holes with hot coals. This time he boiled water in both pans and then he went through the process of checking and re-dressing Lang’s wound. When he pulled the gauze out of the wound, Lang yelled out, and Peter calmed him and told him that the pain was a good sign. He gave Lang a small piece of leather, the sheath of the knife that Clay had once gotten from Veronica, to bite down on.
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