(Wrath-06)-Smoke & Dust (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  “No,” he heard the whisper.

  So he turned north again and ran.

  FOURTEEN

  Interstate 65, Fourteen Miles Southeast of Chicago

  Sara screamed and held her son, cradling his head in her arms. The mud, slippery and wet, was cold against her legs. Luke’s eyes were closed and he lay motionless, his body heavy and lifeless to her touch. His mouth opened and he gasped and closed it again.

  It was nearly impossible to see in the dim light, so Sara searched carefully along his chest and abdomen with her fingers. She felt it before she saw it and lifted her hands, holding them against the firelight. Seeing the stains of blood, she sobbed in ripples, unable to control herself.

  Ammon watched the fleeing man disappear into the night, then turned away, his face tight with anguish. “Watch him!” he cried to Mary, pointing to the man who had slumped unconscious at her feet. “Smash him if you have to, but DO NOT let him stand again.”

  Mary nodded, her trembling hands holding the tire iron in a powerful grip. Ammon rushed to his brother and dropped to his knees. “Luke . . . Luke,” he repeated, whispering his name. “Hang in there, brother, hang in there. You’re going to be OK.”

  He shot a look toward his mother, who was staring into her son’s empty eyes. His face was ashen now and lifeless. Ammon gently lifted his mother’s arm, which was draped across Luke’s chest. The bullet wound, a dime-size hole, dark and red, had penetrated his abdomen right beneath the ribs. “Oh Luke, oh Luke,” Ammon repeated in agony, completely unaware that he was saying anything.

  Sara continued to cry, overcome with shock. She rocked her wounded son like a baby, cradling his head in her arms. His eyelids fluttered and he murmured, and she pressed her ear against his lips.

  “Mom, can you hear me?” he whispered softly.

  “Yes, Luke, I’m here.”

  He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Don’t worry about me, Mom. It doesn’t hurt that much.”

  He forced a painful smile, then gurgled on his blood.

  East Side, Chicago, Illinois

  Azadeh walked into the living room, felt her way past the small table to the counter, and looked out the kitchen window. The city had turned black now. Not a streetlight. Not a candle. Not a ray of light anywhere. Although she couldn’t see them, she knew the mob was there. The streets were filled with people and had been all day.

  She hadn’t been outside of the apartment since the power had gone off. Throughout the day she had listened to hurried footsteps and calling voices and, more than once, angry fists beating on her door. Huddling in the corner, afraid to even move, she had waited without speaking until the people had gone away.

  Afternoon melted into evening and she started pacing, sometimes glancing out the kitchen window to the busy street below. Lots of people. Thousands of people. Where had they all come from? The rain that had been pelting the apartment window finally broke. The night returned, leaving her in the dark once more.

  Standing at the window, she looked outside and shivered in the cold air.

  With every passing voice and footstep, she turned, hoping desperately that Mary and Kelly would walk through the door. The hours passed. The mob grew louder. She paced the vinyl floor.

  She was dreadfully thirsty now, her mouth thick and dry. But there was no water from the tap and nothing else to drink.

  The night grew darker. She paced again. A deep feeling of dread began to haunt her, a feeling she’d felt too many times before: the day they had killed her father; the night she had left the village, heading off on her own; the last days at the refugee camp.

  Experience and instinct were her teachers, and both were screaming now.

  She looked around the dark apartment in desperation, not knowing what to do.

  Suddenly, she thought of Pari al-Faruqi, the small Christian woman she had known in the Khorramshahr refugee camp. Why she thought of her at this moment, Azadeh didn’t know, but the memories came back, flooding her mind with incredible detail.

  Most of the six hundred refugees in Camp Khorramshahr lived in small, semipermanent plywood structures—bland, one-room huts, barely warm, ugly and inhospitable. But Pari had decorated her small home with a delicate touch: colorful murals on the walls created from pieces of broken chalk and paste, tin cans filled with wild chrysanthemums and croton plants she had gathered along the fence, scraps of abandoned material she collected to sew dresses and colorful quilts for the younger girls in the camp, one of which lay on top of her own cot. The image of Pari’s small home filled Azadeh’s mind and she pictured every detail: the mural, the plants, a half-finished dress, Pari’s bed, the patchwork quilt, the silver cross on the wall at the head of her cot.

  The silver cross . . . the silver cross . . . .

  A warm shiver ran through Azadeh as Pari’s words filled her mind. “God loves you, Azadeh. He knows you are here. You can talk to Him anytime that you need to. You can pray to Him and He will listen. I swear to you, that is true.”

  Azadeh thought of her friend, tears welling in her eyes, then did the only thing she could think of to do. Unsure, but having faith, she knelt on the kitchen floor and began to pray.

  * * *

  Satan watched her pray and trembled, rage and fury racing through his mind. This was the one great weapon for which he had no response, the greatest tool of the Enemy, which he could simply not destroy.

  A humble prayer. Oh, how he loathed it! It gave them such comfort. It gave them such light.

  And it was the Light that brought him fury.

  So he cursed and raged again.

  Interstate 65, Fourteen Miles Southeast of Chicago

  Sam was completely exhausted. His lungs burned, his legs were liquid, his calf and thigh muscles were cramped and tight. He slowed to a jog, his arms hanging at his side, then to a walking pace as he gasped.

  He couldn’t run another step. It was as far as he could go.

  The moon had risen higher and the clouds had parted, providing moonlight and starlight to illuminate the road. He continued north along the freeway, walking between the lines of stalled cars. Passing one, he glanced through the back window, then stopped and slowly turned. Hesitating, he walked back, peered closely at the window, then looked around again. “Hey!” he called out, his voice tight with thirst. “HEY! IS SOMEONE OUT THERE?”

  A head bobbed up from the backseat of the car.

  Sam sensed the movement and swiftly turned. The stranger reached for the door, pushed it open, and climbed out, his eyes wide in uncertainty and fear. Sam moved toward him quickly. The man was young, maybe thirty, with a bald head and baby-smooth skin. The man eyed Sam’s uniform. “Are you a U.S. soldier?” he asked.

  Sam nodded quickly. “I am.”

  The man sheepishly eyed the vehicle that was clearly his own. “I mean any harm,” he started to explain. “I was trying to get to my old campus when it got dark and I decided to sleep here for the night.”

  “What school are you talking about?”

  “Northwestern. I just graduated from their medical school.”

  Sam took a step toward him. “You’re a doctor?” he demanded.

  “Almost. I still have to finish my internship.”

  A tremble ran up and down Sam’s spine, warm and flowing and full of heat. A feeling of certainty and calm. He was on the right track. And he was getting very close.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The bald man looked around, still uncertain, then answered slowly, “Jerry Woodson.”

  “Come with me, Jerry!” Sam shot back, taking a step toward him.

  “Come with you? Why? Where’re you going?”

  Sam ran forward and grabbed his arm. “Have you got a black bag? Any doctor stuff or gear?”

  Jerry didn’t answer. Sam pushed him toward the car. “Come on, we’ve got to hurry.”

  “Where are we going?” Jerry asked again.

  “I don’t know,” Sam answered quickly as he dragged the man
along.

  * * *

  Sara held onto Luke, cradling his head against her chest. Rocking back and forth, she whispered in his ear. Ammon crawled away, his eyes blank. His hands grew cold and lifeless and he dropped the stranger’s gun into the mud. Looking around in desperation, he fell against a tree. For a moment, he was transported back in time. He was a little boy, small and hopeless. He needed someone’s help. But there was no one to help him. He was completely on his own. No one was going to save him. He felt a crushing weight.

  No transportation.

  No telephone.

  No police or ambulance or rescue.

  Miles of walking to the nearest hospital.

  Who knew if anyone could help them even if they made it there?

  There was nothing he could do now. His brother was going to die. He shivered, thinking of the bleeding hole in Luke’s abdomen. He pictured Luke’s gasping face and pale lips, then dropped his head between his knees.

  He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to shake his fist toward the heavens and demand an answer why!

  We did everything that You commanded! We did everything You ever asked us! We did our very best, we tried to follow, and this is what we get?!

  He raged and cried inside, overwhelmed with grief, helplessness and pain.

  Then he turned cold and clammy, beads of icy sweat forming on his brow. His heart was racing and he was panting and his face was growing pale.

  He felt a soft touch against his shoulder. It took a moment before he gathered the strength to look up. Through bleary eyes he saw Mary standing there. “Do you have a first aid kit?” she asked him.

  Ammon didn’t seem to hear.

  “Do you have any medical supplies?” she pressed again, her voice more firm.

  He shook the mud from his hands but didn’t answer as he spread his legs across the ground. “Yeah, sure, we’ve got some stuff. It’s there—I don’t know—it’s somewhere in the back of the car.”

  “You need to get it,” Mary told him.

  “Don’t know where,” he mumbled again.

  Mary knelt down and looked him directly in the eye, the fire casting shadows across one side of her face. “Listen to me, baby, I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to stay together, at least for a little while. You need to stand up, find your first aid kit, and help me. You’ve got to help your brother. I’ve got to help your mom. We’ve got to do everything we can to save him until we can get some help.”

  Ammon shook his head in rage. “Are you kidding me?!” he shouted. “Do you think it’s going to matter?! Your little girl, my brother, both of them are going to die. Both of them are going to die here! And there is nothing we can do!”

  Mary leaned even closer to him and took his face in both of her hands. “Can you hear me, Ammon?” she demanded. Her voice was hard but calm. “Can you hear me, son?”

  He nodded but didn’t look at her.

  Mary squeezed his face again. “Listen to me, Ammon, this is important. You don’t know what’s going to happen here! It’s not up to you to decide who will live or who will die. It’s not up to you to decide who’s going to suffer or what God has in His plan. It’s not up to you to complain about the situation or feel sorry for yourself.

  “Your job is to do everything you can to help your brother! Do you understand what I am saying? I don’t care, it doesn’t matter, if you don’t think it’s going to help. Your brother needs you and so does your mom. You’re going to stand up now and do everything to help them. You understand me, son.”

  Ammon stared into her face, his eyes coming into focus once again. “I understand you,” he whispered sadly, his face clouding with embarrassment and shame.

  “Good boy. I knew you would. Now, come on, we’ve got to find that first aid kit.”

  Mary stood, reached down, took Ammon by the hand, and pulled him to his feet. Turning, Ammon walked toward the cars hidden in the trees. He uncovered the back of the Honda, opened the trunk, and searched through their supplies.

  A shadow fell behind him.

  Mary gasped, “Who goes there?”

  Ammon turned, dropped to his knees, and reached out for the gun.

  The sound of heavy breathing. Footsteps running through the trees. Shadows flashing in the darkness.

  Ammon turned toward the stranger, lifted the gun, and took a breath.

  Sam stepped out from the darkness.

  Ammon gaped at him, not believing. He was an angel. He was a vision. There was no way that he was real. Sam turned to him and smiled, and Ammon cried out in relief.

  Sara looked up, her eyes wide.

  Sam saw his brother lying there.

  Sara tried to call his name but her mouth hung open, teardrops rolling down her cheeks.

  FIFTEEN

  Interstate 65, Fourteen Miles Southeast of Chicago

  Sara laid her dying son down gently, then stood and ran to Sam. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she fell into his arms, repeating his name over and over. She leaned back, looked into his face, brushed away her tears, then grabbed his hand and pulled him toward Luke, falling on her knees again. Ammon stood and ran toward him, throwing his arms around his neck. Sam slapped his shoulder, then stepped back and knelt down by Luke. He checked his eyes, looking into the pupils, then moved his flashlight down to see the blood that was soaking through his shirt and jacket. “What happened here?” he demanded.

  “Please, Sam, you’ve got to help him,” Sara pled.

  Sam turned toward the dark trees and called out, “Come on, Jerry, run!”

  * * *

  “Look,” Jerry said, “I’m not a doctor. Almost, but not really, and I don’t have any experience with this kind of thing. I’ve done a couple stints at Cook County Emergency Room, but nothing even close to this. And there were always other doctors I could turn to when I didn’t know what to do. I don’t have any light or the right equipment to examine him, and the conditions here aren’t really conducive to—”

  “Just tell us!” Sam demanded. “Is he going to live?”

  Jerry looked away. How much should he tell them? Did he even know himself? He glanced toward the young man, who was now lying in the backseat of the car. “He’s lost a lot of blood. I can stop most of the external bleeding, but I can’t stop the hemorrhaging that is going on inside. We’ve got to deal with shock, infection, dehydration, hypothermia . . . .” His voice trailed off as he rubbed a vinyl-glove-covered hand against his face, smearing a thin swath of blood across his forehead. “I just don’t know,” he said again. “The thing I’m most worried about is the hemorrhaging. He really needs a transfusion—”

  “I’m the same blood type,” Ammon interrupted.

  Jerry thought aloud. “I could jury-rig a transfusion. It would take a little time, but it would help.”

  “Do it,” Sam commanded. “Whatever it takes to save my brother, you understand? Whatever it takes, we’re going to do it.”

  Jerry looked at him and nodded. “I’ll do everything I can. If we can get him through the night, then tomorrow, if we can get him to Chicago—”

  “We can’t wait,” Sam shot back. “If I have to, I will carry him, but I’m going to get him there tonight.”

  “No. It wouldn’t be smart, Sam, moving him right now. He needs to rest a few hours. He needs the blood transfusion.”

  Sam shifted his weight. “I won’t wait—I can’t wait. My brother needs surgery, even I can see that. If we stay here, he’s going to die.”

  Jerry shook his head. “You’ll cause more injury if you move him before he’s stabilized a little bit. And how do you propose to transport him in the dark?”

  “I’ll figure it out,” Sam said, his voice determined.

  Jerry thought quickly. He understood what Sam was feeling. And though he had known him only a few hours, that drag along the road had been enough to show that he was a charge-the-bunker kind of guy. Jerry respected him already. This was a man he wanted for a friend. But Sam was wrong, and Jerry had to
convince him before he made matters worse. “I know you want to help your brother,” he answered calmly, “but you need to listen to me, Sam. If you try to move him tonight, he’s going to die. You can’t just reach into the car, throw him over your shoulder, and head off into the night. He couldn’t take the jostling. He couldn’t take the cold. He needs to rest. I need to control the hemorrhaging. I need to get him warm and stable, to treat the shock and get some blood into him. Let me do my job. You figure out how you’re going to move him while keeping him lying down. You’ve got to build some kind of stretcher. I’ll take care of your brother. You take care of the rest.”

  Sam stomped his feet in frustration, Ammon and Sara standing at his side. “I want to know the odds,” he demanded, though his voice was much less certain now.

  “I’m not an odds maker,” Jerry answered firmly. “Medicine 101: Stay away from fortune telling. It brings heartache to everyone.”

  “Please.” Sam glanced toward his mother and lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “Please, I understand why you don’t want to do it, but I’m begging you.”

  Sara reached out and placed her hand on Sam’s shoulder, then turned to Jerry. “I want to know,” she said.

  Jerry hesitated, staring off into the dark. “My best guess—and it is only a guess—but I think if we move him tonight, he’s going to die. Do I know that for certain? No. Sometimes we’re surprised. But I believe that if you try to move him, there’s maybe a ten percent chance he’s going to live.”

  Sara swallowed, looked away, then turned back. “But if we wait, if we stay here until morning and let you do what you can to stabilize him?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I don’t know what kind of damage has been inflicted by the bullet. Did it hit his spleen? The liver? Did it perforate the large intestine? I’m sorry, I want to give you as much hope as I possibly can, but there’s no way I could even guess.”