Panacea

by Brad Murray

  “Mmmhmm,” agreed Willie, placing a hand on the woman’s forehead. “We need to get her out of this heat, she’s burning up.”

  “You got it all wrong, fellers!”

  The emphatic voice came from somewhere behind the semi-circle. A small man pushed his way demonstrably through the crowd and forward to the front. Suspenders held up his oversized worn out blue jeans. He looked to be in his early 50’s with a long, wispy, reddish colored beard and mustache. His grimy face was worn with a myriad of deep cracks and crevices. He sported a dusty cowboy hat that had once been white, but had turned a dull gray from years of wear and tear. He was barely five feet tall, but the cowboy hat added six inches to get him there. It crossed La’Roi’s mind that if the man were to add a giant belt buckle and a revolver in each hand, he’d have been a dead ringer for Yosemite Sam. Appearing pleased to have everyone’s attention, he took a long pull on the cigarette dangling from his lips and announced, “She didn’t hit her head, didn’t hit her head a’tall.”

  “You know this woman, sir?” asked La’Roi impatiently.

  “Not real good,” said Yosemite Sam, a puff of smoke escaping his lips. He took his time, savoring the attention. “But I know her name is Dolores. Met her not but a few minutes ago, before you fellers showed up. Yup, she clung to me like a wet blanket when all them critters come up through here. Yes indeed.”

  “You mean she wasn’t injured in the accident?” asked Willie.

  “Nah,” he said, swatting a fly away from his face. “She was fine-and-dandy after the crash. We was standin’ here talkin’ and she was carryin’ on about not havin’ no insurance when all the sudden, critters of every sort was jumpin’ out them trees over yonder.”

  He took another long drag from the cigarette, pulled down the tip of his cowboy hat, and pointed with his chin to a spot a few feet away. “We ducked down right about there and took cover. Then, after they had passed us by, we talked for a spell.”

  After another puff on the cigarette, a puzzled expression drew on his face. “Only, she started speakin’ a bunch o’ nonsense and then she done passed out right here on the spot. Dropped like a load of cinder blocks. Yes indeed.”

  Willie wiped the sweat from his brow and shot a concerned look at La’Roi. “Stroke you think?”

  “Yeah maybe. Let’s get her on oxygen and get an IV going. We need to get her mobilized quickly.”

  “It’s the end of days,” Yosemite Sam continued, speaking to the crowd. “It’s biblical, I’m tellin’ ya. Whatever it is that got ahold of them critters, made ‘em act all funny. Ain’t natural, ain’t natural a’tall. Next it’ll be us. It’ll get the old and the weak first,” he said, nodding towards the old woman.

  Willie shot a concerned look at La’Roi, but just then the sounds of sirens could be heard in the distance. Within a few minutes, paramedics from Waynesboro and no less than a dozen State Troopers and area law enforcement vehicles had arrived on the scene. Willie and La’Roi briefed the new arrivals and helped load the woman into their ambulance. They watched as Waynesboro’s ambulance tore out on its way to the hospital.

  Now that the most serious patient was taken care of, La’Roi and Willie turned their attention to the other relatively superficial injuries remaining. A dislocated elbow, several cuts and bruises, and a couple of minor sprains. One dead and one in serious condition. All things considered, very fortunate given the extent of the metal carnage strewn about the scene. A few of the Troopers were working to cover the cyclist’s scattered body parts under tarps, while others worked to relieve the snarled traffic on the opposite side of the interstate by shooing the gawkers on their way.

  With the flurry of activity, La’Roi’s trepidation about the animals had taken a back seat in his mind. He finished bandaging a head laceration on a ten year old girl and moved on to a man in a white t-shirt and cargo shorts sitting in the shade next to a red Explorer. The man sat lost in thought, his icicle-clear blue eyes staring blankly at the horizon. As La’Roi moved closer he noticed the neckline of the man’s shirt was soaked blood red. Blood trickled from a small cut on his brow.

  “How ya feelin’, Chief?” asked La’Roi.

  The man jumped slightly, startled at the sound of La’Roi’s voice. He tilted his head back and looked up, partially blinded by the sun. He started to raise his hand to shield his eyes but La’Roi kneeled, putting the men at eye level with one another. La’Roi pulled a penlight from his shirt pocket.

  “Follow the pen with your eyes.” La’Roi moved the penlight to the left and right and the man’s eyes tracked smoothly, showing no signs of a concussion. “Anything broken? You hurting anywhere?”

  “Nah. I got scraped up a little,” he said vacantly, holding up a bloody palm. “And twisted my ankle. I’m good.”

  “Mmmhmm.” La’Roi took a close look at a small gash on his brow. “Might need a couple stitches in this though. Nothing major but facial cuts can be stubborn little suckers. I’ll put a butterfly bandage on it and see if it’ll hold. We’ll take a look at that hand and ankle too.” La’Roi rifled through his medical kit and sighed. “Ah man, I’m out of gauze. Think your ankle can handle a short walk over to the ambulance?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. Let’s go get you fixed up.”

  The man exhaled, the corners of his lips turned downward. “Not much of a fan of ambulances.”

  La’Roi smiled a toothy grin, put his hand on the man’s shoulder and said, “Who is?”

  The man stood up gingerly and winced when he put pressure on his ankle.

  “What’s your name, Bud?” asked La’Roi.

  “Jimmy. Jimmy Porter.”

  “Well, nice to meet you Jimmy Porter.” The two ambled slowly towards the ambulance.

  “Which vehicle were you in?” asked La’Roi.

  “That one.” Jimmy nodded towards the upside-down pickup.

  La’Roi shook his head at the sight of the battered truck. “That’s a cryin’ shame. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore. How long you had ‘er?”

  “Only vehicle I’ve ever had. My dad bought it when I was young as a fixer-upper; a sort of father-son project. But I had to finish the job myself,” said Jimmy.

  La’Roi looked at the young man beside him, and perceived there was more pain in Jimmy than what resided in his ankle.

  “Somethin’ happen to your Pops, huh?”

  “Yeah. Left my family behind years ago. Haven’t seen him since.”

  La’Roi stopped and turned to Jimmy. “Sorry to hear that. Mine too. Only I never even met the sonofabitch. Ran out on me before I was even born.”

  Jimmy’s eyes perked up. “Do you ever think about him? Wonder who he is or what he’s doing?”

  La’Roi thought for a moment. “Nah. He’s not worth it. I mean, what kinda man runs away like that? Never even gave me a damn chance. No, I gotta believe a person like that ain’t worth gettin’ in a twist over.”

  Jimmy took in a deep breath and nodded his head. “Yeah. Damn straight.”

  The men locked eyes for a moment, turned, and resumed their walk. “Least you got a truck out of the deal.”

  Jimmy chuckled, and his limp seemed to improve the further he walked.

  “Tough ol’ bird,” La’Roi continued. “You flip over in one of those plastic crappers they make today, you wouldn’t be walking right now, I’ll tell ya that. Trust me, I see it all the time.”

  Jimmy laughed. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But none of us would be stuck out here if that idiot on the motorcycle hadn’t smashed into a deer. Crazy bastard.”

  “Deer huh?” said La’Roi inquisitively. “Was there just one?”

  “Yeah, at first,” said Jimmy, looking over at the tarps, “that idiot on the bike hit it. Which caused me to hit him, which caused…the rest of this mess. But a couple minutes later, I swear every damn living animal within three square miles came screaming through here. Had to take cover, we all about got trampled.”

  “No shit,” repli
ed La’Roi. “My partner and I saw them on the way out here. Weird, wasn’t it? They had gathered in a field a mile or so east of here. I figure they must have some sort of disease, a virus or something.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because of few of them - especially a lot of the smaller ones - appeared to be havin’ seizures. Some were lyin’ dead on the road. And we saw a couple with blood comin’ out of the eyes.”

  “You think a virus would do that?”

  La’Roi shrugged his shoulders.

  “There were so many of them,” said Jimmy. “And, man, the sound. The sound they made was awful. It was like….like nails on a chalkboard multiplied by a thousand. I thought my head was going to explode so I covered my ears. Never heard anything like it before. Hope I never do again.”

  “Yeah, we heard it too,” La’Roi said, nodding his head.

  The men circled around to the back of the ambulance and La’Roi directed Jimmy to take a seat on the back bumper. La’Roi stepped inside and popped back out with a package of gauze and a couple of bottles of water. Jimmy immediately took one and cracked the lid, guzzling it like a man who’d been choking on sand in the desert for three straight days.

  La’Roi began cleaning the wound over Jimmy’s eye. “We’ll have you fixed up and on your way in no time. Anyone comin’ to come get ya?”

  “No, my mom is out of town. Not sure what I’m gonna do.”

  “Got anyone else?”

  Jimmy looked away quickly. “No,” he paused. “No one else.”

  Jimmy’s eyes hardened as he turned his head to La’Roi. “Listen, are you about done?”

  The grin on La’Roi’s face vanished. “Alright, we don’t need to talk.”

  Jimmy sighed. “Look man, I’m just not in the mood for chit-chat.”

  “Uh huh,” huffed La’Roi, continuing his work.

  Jimmy softened, looking down at the pavement. He exhaled deeply, realizing he was being a prick to a guy who was only trying to help.

  “Sorry man. It’s been a rough day and it’s so damn hot out here. I was supposed to be in St. Louis at noon to meet an important guy – a doctor. Now I’m stuck out here in the sticks with a bunch of rednecks and no way to get there.”

  La’Roi’s expression eased as he applied the butterfly bandage.

  “Don’t worry about it. Piece of advice though? If you got stuff that’s eatin’ on ya, don’t let that shit stay inside. Let it out where it belongs. It’ll turn your soul black if you let it anchor there. Talk to someone. And if you don’t have anybody, then find someone.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Jimmy dismissively. “Talk to a shrink, get your feelings out on the table, yada yada.”

  “Hey, I hear ya,” smiled La’Roi. “Easier said than done. I got my own troubles to deal with. We all do. But I’m not talking about doctors, man. I’m talking about family. I’m talking about friends. You gotta have someone to lean on. Someone who’ll listen to you, help you spit up all that darkness.”

  As he completed his work on the bandage and began on the small piece of glass protruding from Jimmy’s palm, he felt hypocritical for giving guidance he’d never follow himself.

  “Good advice I guess,” muttered Jimmy.

  “Course it’s good advice. But I’m better at giving it than taking it. I’ve seen some messed up shit. Have nightmares all the time. I just try my best to get past it, put it all behind me.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Willie chimed in as he rounded the side of the ambulance. He smiled at Jimmy and said, “La’Roi’s full of shit. He’s the last person you need advice from. He keeps all his shit inside of himself, doesn’t lean on nobody.”

  “Don’t you got somethin’ to do?” snapped La’Roi. “I’m sure you got a date with a Twinkie or somethin’, don’t ya?”

  Willie laughed, grabbed a bottle of water from the back of the ambulance and walked away.

  Jimmy gazed off in the distance blankly. He was mulling over La’Roi’s advice – wondering whether he should confide in someone - wondering whether he could confide in someone. The quick answer was no – he knew he’d never be able to speak about his problems. Maybe, he thought, it was because he was simply a private person, and didn’t believe in sharing his personal business with anyone. Or, quite possibly, it was because he didn’t want to bother people with his troubles; they had their own to worry about. Or maybe it was that by entrusting someone with his most private thoughts and the intimate details of his life, he’d leave himself exposed and vulnerable; and he feared that vulnerability. No, those reasons, though all true, didn’t get to the root of the problem. The crux of the matter was this - he didn’t deserve to let go of the guilt that was consuming him.

  La’Roi continued. “It’s a real sonofabitch some days though, I’ll tell ya that. I just have to remind myself that this is my purpose; this is what I am meant to do.”

  “You ever think about quitting? Doing some other job that’s not so…” Jimmy searched for the right word.

  “You bet I do. Especially on the bad days. But it would be pretty cowardly of me to walk away just ‘cuz of a few nightmares every now and then, wouldn’t it?” La’Roi grinned, taking off his latex gloves. “There are plenty of good days though. Trust me, there’s not a better feelin’ - no better rush, than to bring someone back from the brink of death.”

  “Some people might call that a God Complex, you know,” said Jimmy.

  “Call it what you want my friend,” La’Roi shrugged his shoulders, smiling.

  Just then Jimmy felt the buzz of his cell phone from his cargo shorts. He pulled the phone out of the front pocket, reading the number on the caller ID.

  Finally. It was him.

  “Sorry, gotta take this,” said Jimmy. He hurriedly flipped open the phone.

  “Hello? No sir, I’m stuck on I-44. There was a serious accident ---Yes, I-44 --- No, my truck is destroyed and I’m still 100 to 150 miles out from St. Louis. Sorry, say again?”

  Jimmy covered his right ear with his hand so he could hear. “Oh, no need to do that. I can find a way there, but I’ll be late.” Jimmy’s forehead furled, his eyes narrowed. “Danger? Why would I be in danger? --- Sorry, you’re breaking up. I said, you’re breaking up.” Jimmy pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the screen. “Damn, lost the signal.”

  “Some of these hollers out here don’t get great reception, even on the interstate,” said La’Roi, pulling out his own cell. “Shit, I got no bars either.”

  La’Roi, having completed his work on Jimmy, was refilling his medical box with gauze and tape.

  “Hey, did I hear you say you were in danger?” asked La’Roi.

  “Yeah, I thought he said I was in danger, but I couldn’t hear him very well. He’s got a thick accent, so between that and the poor reception maybe something got lost in the translation,” remarked Jimmy.

  “Accent huh?”

  “Yeah, Russian I think. Duh-MEEE-tree Min-KOW-skeee,” said Jimmy, stretching out the enunciation of the name for effect.

  “Sounds Russian to me,” smiled La’Roi.

  4

  February 7, 1999

  “Pull!” shouted Andy Porter, his breath clouded in the frost-filled air. Roger Ramstein, Andy’s best friend and shooting buddy, pulled the string on the homemade clay pigeon thrower. The disc hissed as it knifed through the heavy winter air. Andy tracked the pigeon with his twelve-gauge shotgun and gently squeezed the trigger. The disc exploded into a thousand pieces and fell in scattered bits onto the ground about twenty-five yards out. The target’s destruction was welcomed by the cheering of Andy’s two boys who were sitting on a stump behind their father. Jimmy, soon to be nine years old, couldn’t contain his pride. He reckoned his old man was easily the greatest shot in America, a dead-eye gunslinger if ever there was one. Jimmy’s seven year old brother, Cooper, wasn’t quite as chipper, though he shouted his support and clapped through his thick winter gloves. He was just going through the motions really, imitati
ng his older brother as he often did. Cooper, occasionally rubbing his numb red nose, was bored and uncomfortable sitting in the cold. If his dad were shooting live birds that would be one thing, but to Cooper, shooting inanimate clay pigeons was about as dull as it could get.

  Winter was in full effect in southwestern Missouri. A light dusting of snow from the night before sprinkled over the ground and sparkled brilliantly in the orange light of the setting sun. The air was crisp and clean, the smell of pine trees and gunpowder lingered vaguely. The field in which they were standing was adjacent to the Porters’ enormous backyard. Andy and Emma had moved their growing family into the country home east of Springfield five years earlier, and when the realtor showed them the property it was love at first sight. The old two-story farm house was the epitome of a fixer-upper and required a significant amount of blood, sweat, and cash they didn’t have just to make it livable. But it was the land that came with the run-down house that drew their passion for the place. Ten acres of prime real estate, with a thick growth of trees lining the entire perimeter provided their own little sanctuary away from the hustle and bustle of the world. A small pond stocked with perch and bluegill was nestled in the back, and they joked with friends that the winding dirt driveway made them feel “well-to-do”. The couple loved the outdoors and especially embraced the freedom of being able to do things like shoot clay pigeons whenever they wanted. Andy and the boys spent their summers fishing in the pond, and in the winter Andy pulled them on their sled behind the three-wheeler with Abby the golden retriever giving chase. Memories far too numerous to count had been made in the few short years they’d lived there. Memories of friends and family enjoying barbeques and picnics and a canoe ride on the pond; of the boys, hysterical with laughter bouncing wildly on that sled; and of the young couple sharing a beer and their dreams while sitting on the front porch swing. It was everything they could have dreamed of and more. It was home.

  They couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Andy’s job as an oilfield supply salesman had provided a decent income for a man his age. But despite that, the house and land were a larger purchase than any financial advisor would have recommended and had continually placed a burden on the couple’s budget.