The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival)

by Billig, Barbara C. Griffin

  Max slumped wearily against the table in the small, adjoining room. “Damn, Bernie, I didn’t work this hard when I was an intern.” He attempted a weak smile, without much success.

  “We’re not going to be any good collapsed. Here, take this,” Parsons said as he located them each a can of orange juice.

  Max fumbled with the opener on the top. Then lifting the can to his mouth, he drained it in one long drink. The tin can rattled as Max tossed it into a nearby cardboard box. Then he dropped tiredly into a chair.

  Parsons stood sipping his juice, reflecting on the day. “You know, it’s strange the way attitudes change,” he said quietly. “There was a period between the Nineteen Twenties and Forties when heavy doses of radiation were standard treatment for some things.”

  Max looked up with a flicker of interest.

  Parsons continued, “It used to be that young children would be sent in for x-ray therapy....the object being to destroy lymph nodes that were habitually swollen from some inner infection, or in the case of tonsillitis, the tonsillar tissue would be destroyed. Usually two or three large doses of radiation would do the trick, and, of course, the child would have been spared the trauma of surgery.”

  Max said thoughtfully, “I wasn’t aware of that practice, Bernie.”

  “Oh yes. It was used all right. But it was usually administered to the children of physicians and other upper-crust. Anyway, it much later came to the attention of the profession that there was an abnormally high incidence of cancer of the thyroid among the recipients of such treatment.”

  “While irradiating the nodes or tonsils, the thyroid also received a dose,” suggested Max, caught up in the discussion.

  “Right. You know radiation is particularly destructive to that organ. Malignancies developed—slowly, of course—but by now they’re being observed frequently in those people who had the treatments as children,” said Parsons with a frown.

  “I’ve not read any of this in my journals,” replied Max.

  “No,” said Parsons, shaking his head. “The findings have only recently been circulated.” He suddenly grew quiet, lost in thought.

  The subject had jarred the urologist out of his fatigue. “I tell you, Bernie, the thought of cancer is really frightening. Too often I’ve seen its terrible ravages. I used to be on staff with a fellow who’d done extensive radiological studies back in the Fifties. Back then we didn’t know much about the hazards of radiation.” He paused momentarily.

  “Do we know a lot now?” asked Parsons, wearily, as he finally sat beside Max.

  “Well, more, at least, But anyhow, this guy was left-handed, you see, and he was always using that hand for positioning the x-rays. So, the hand was frequently exposed in the process. He gave up his studies and went into practice, and it was then that I actually knew him—some fifteen years after he had quit the research.

  “Bernie,” said Max slowly, “you wouldn’t believe that left hand of his. First, he lost a finger from cancer....and then the whole back of his hand became a huge, black malignant growth that spread half way up his arm. God,” he shuddered, “if it had been mine, I’d have had the whole limb amputated right to the shoulder.”

  “Didn’t he?” Parsons asked.

  “No....he wouldn’t. And it probably wouldn’t have mattered, I suppose. He didn’t live much longer.”

  The quick-energy sugars from the juice were beginning to renew Max. Now animated and anxious to continue, he asked, “Say, is it true, what I’ve heard about you?”

  Parsons looked up in surprise. He wasn’t aware of any rumors going around, and at any rate, he didn’t figure the pudgy urologist to be a gossip monger. “I don’t know,” he answered. “What have you heard?”

  Max picked up Bernie’s empty juice can and inspected it casually. “Someone told me that you never send a bill to a patient who’s terminal. Is that true?”

  Parsons ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah....that’s right. Why?”

  “Oh nothing. It’s just that I’ve never heard of anyone doing that kind of thing before.”

  Having no interest in making explanations, Parsons let the comment pass. He was still irked that Cash Archer hadn’t come to the isolation unit. Archer was bloated with ego, puffed with self- satisfaction about how great he was. Well, if he was really that good, he should be down here, thought Parsons. After all, Max and the others....

  “How is it that you volunteered to work with these patients, Max? You’re a family man. Weren’t you worried about getting your family out of this?”

  The short, stodgy urologist answered rather quickly. “No, Bern. My son’s in military school in West Virginia. My daughter is raising hell at U.C. Berkeley, and Louise, my wife, is in a European health spa with one of her friends. I guess you could say that old Dad here was all alone. So I figured....what the hell. Why not do something just for the sake of doing it, for a change?”

  Military school, Europe. It must cost Max a hunk of money to keep his family going. “Your wife is in bad health?” asked Parsons.

  Max verged on laughter for a second. “Because she’s at a health spa? Hell! The name is misleading. It’s really a fat farm where overweight gals go to take off the lard.” He patted his stomach. “I could do with some of that myself, I guess.” His gaze drifted away briefly. “When this is over maybe I’ll go with Louise. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea....maybe I’ll do just that.”

  “Dr. Parsons! Dr. Parsons!” Nurse Henry motioned to the physician. “Come quick! You won’t believe how many are piling in on the parking lot!”

  The respite was over.

  Chapter Eight

  Their escape from the disaster zone and arrival at the outskirts of Blythe, the small California city bordering Arizona, had not been at all as the Warings had expected. Leaving San Mirado, Frank had imagined that they’d make the trip to the state border by dusk and be across and into Arizona shortly thereafter. But long before the desert community had come into view, the Warings began to realize that some complications lay ahead. To begin with, traffic had been more and more congested as they’d approached the border. Cars lined the shoulders of the main artery, their radiators overheated from steady driving and the hot, late summer sun. The whole area had taken on the aura of some gigantic cattle pen filled with milling people. For as far as could be seen there were hundreds and hundreds of automobile tops shimmering in the heat.

  At first, Paula and Frank thought that this spectacle of throbbing human life simply indicated a back-up at the border crossing—too many people trying to cross into Arizona at once. Then, finally reaching a position still on the outskirts of the city, they were forced to draw their vehicle to a halt, the crush of machines and people making further progress impossible.

  As night came, the city of Blythe became inundated by strangers. Services were rapidly deteriorating in the business districts. Huge, underground gasoline tanks were emptying. Water hydrants had long lines of people waiting their turns for the precious fluid. Food stores and restaurants were being virtually depleted of edibles. And public restroom facilities had hours ago jammed from over use.

  Those on the edge of town just waited to enter. Blocked in on four sides and unable to move, Frank and his family had reluctantly passed the night parked at the side of the road. It had been noisy and unsettling. There was a constant racket of car doors slamming, motors, horns, and talk. Headlights frequently cut through the darkness as the impatient tried leaving. The only comfort was the coolness of the desert air. The nighttime chill had been a blessing, a relief from the daytime heat.

  At dawn, unable to sleep and with eyes gritty from fatigue, Frank quietly opened the door, looking out at the littered landscape. Some people had managed to extricate their cars and leave.

  Paula had spent the night as restlessly as her husband. Her back ached from the cramped quarters of the car and her mood was petulant. She felt Frank slide off the seat. “Where are you going?”

  Shush,” replied Frank soft
ly. “You’ll wake the kids.”

  She bolted upright in the seat. They had decided during the night that Frank shouldn’t leave them while it was dark, for safety’s sake, but with daylight he’d have to get out and scavenge for some food. “Frank!”

  “Shush, Paula. I’m going to see if I can’t get us something to eat.”

  “How long are you going to be gone?” she asked sourly.

  “Lord, I don’t know, as long as it takes. I’ll be back when I find some food.” With that Frank disappeared.

  Paula tried unsuccessfully to settle comfortably into the seat. She glanced back at Kim and Jerry. The two youngsters were soundly asleep. Children....they can sleep through anything. She pulled a tissue from its box and wiped her face. Her skin was oily, badly in need of soap and water. God, what she’d give right now for a tub of hot water filled with bath salts. To luxuriate. This nightmare was a pain.

  She stretched her legs, pushing against the floor of the vehicle. There was a soft pop as her right hip slipped firmly into the socket; she winced at the tiny spurt of pain. What a mess this was! Sitting out here in this god-forsaken place, completely surrounded by people she didn’t know and would never know, with the smell of human excrement heavy in the morning air—how demoralizing. They’d been fools to rush out like they had. And she’d known it then, yesterday, when Frank was in a frenzy to get out of San Mirado. They hadn’t thought to bring one drop of water with them. Yet two large containers of mineral-free water sat at home in the garage. And food? She always kept the cabinets well stocked. She shopped the specials at the supermarket, she clipped coupons—her kitchen was loaded with cans and boxes and jars. She visualized each compartment, each shelf in the cabinets; she knew precisely where every item was located. And they hadn’t brought one speck of food with them, not one speck. An old hand carved clock, and a Persian Paw stole, but no food. Paula hated the idea that she’d been so thoughtless as to never consider bringing food or water along. But then, it was Frank’s fault, too. He’d started right in rushing them the moment he burst into the house.

  “Mom?” The boy’s voice was plaintive.

  “What is it, Jerry?” Paula asked, turning to look at her son.

  “I don’t feel so good.”

  She reached out and touched his forehead. It was hot against her fingers. “Are you sick at your stomach?”

  The boy raised himself up, his face suddenly very pale. “I think I’m...” and he lurched toward the window. The retching sounds preceded the vomit by a couple seconds, but in that time the weakened child couldn’t get the window down. In the next instant the bile-loaded, foul-smelling regurgitate hit the glass.

  “Jerry!” screamed Paula. “For God’s sake, get the door open!” Her arm flashed out, and she grasped the handle and pushed. The door swung wide but not before the vomit smacked against her arm. Repulsed, Paula leapt from the car and pulled Jerry out.

  He soon stood at the side of the vehicle, retching. When the last heave subsided, Paula used tissues to wipe the boy’s face and clothing, then her arm. The youth was trembling and much paler. “Are you going to be sick again?” asked Paula.

  Jerry could only nod weakly.

  “Then go sit on the ground over there while I try to clean this crap out of the car.” It was an impossible task, removing the stench. But at least the solid evidence of Jerry’s illness was finally gone. And Kim, snoring softly, had slept through the whole thing.

  Paula sat on the ground beside her son for nearly an hour. The earth was cool beneath them, a pleasure after her efforts at calming Jerry and cleaning the interior of the car. Activity around them was picking up. People stepped over Paula’s legs as they passed by; they never stopped to talk, which was just as well. She had no interest in anything they might have to say. All she wanted to do was get out of there—through the mob of cars—and over to Arizona, since that was the destination Frank had picked for them. Surely it would be better over there.

  “Paula, what are you doing sitting on the ground?”

  She looked up into Frank’s face. “What do you think I’m doing here?” her voice was waspish.

  He seemed perplexed.

  Well, God, Frank! Can’t you smell the vomit?”

  Frank peered in the car and took a whiff. His nose wrinkled. “Jerry?” he asked, nodding toward the boy.

  Paula’s lips drew tight; she didn’t give him an answer.

  Stooping down, Frank placed a small sack beside her. “Here. This is all I could get.”

  “Did you hear anything about what they’re going to do to get rid of this jam?” Paula asked, ignoring the bag. “We’re never going to get across the border at this rate.”

  Frank wiped at his. forehead wearily. “It’s closed.”

  “What?” Paula asked loudly.

  “I said the border crossing is closed. Arizona has refused to let any evacuees in. They don’t want any radiation contamination brought over.”

  “Well, for God’s sake! You mean you brought us all this way to sit outside this stinking town!”

  “Paula, how was I to know? I mean, if we’d been a few hours earlier last night we might have made it.” He hesitated, dejected. “The best I can tell there’s supposed to be some Red Cross relief showing up before long....bringing food and water, I guess.”

  Paula snorted in exasperation. Seeing the bag she picked it up. She opened it and turned it upside down. A single, flat can fell into her lap. She stared at the can for a second. “Sardines! For crying out loud, Frank! How in the hell do you expect us to eat sardines for breakfast?”

  Her outburst caught the interest of several people nearby. They paused to hear what was to follow. Paula glared up at them, quickly getting to her feet.

  “Paula,” said Frank, “don’t yell. I told you this was all I could get.”

  Paula turned her glare on him. “But sardines...greasy fish!” She looked down into the empty bag then inverted it once more and shook it. Nothing else fell out. Wadding the bag into a ball she threw it away from her. “And there’s not even an opener for the can. Just how do you think we’re going to get this open? With our teeth?” she taunted, waving the can at Frank.

  Frank grabbed the can from her and pitched it into the car. He took her by the arm. “All right, Paula,” he said quietly. “There’s no need for you to show your butt in front of all these people.”

  Paula jerked free of his grasp. She was dead tired and hungry. Her temper was on edge and Frank, for his coolness about the whole crazy matter, was not helping one bit. “Just tell me one thing, will you? Why in the world did we have to come this way? Why this...this....whatever this place is.”

  Lowering his voice as if to set a precedent for his wife, Frank replied, “For heaven’s sake, Paula, I’ve told you a dozen times. I’d hoped that we’d get over to Arizona and stay with Billy Joe until this is over.”

  “Billy Joe, Billy Joe,” snapped Paula. “How’s your brother going to help us, Frank? He doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”

  “Paula! Will you please keep your voice down.”

  “We could be eating breakfast with my parents right now if you’d just listened to me for once. But no,” she said viciously, “no, no....not old man Jorgensen. Not a nice comfortable house in Oakland where the air is clean and there’s no trouble to worry about. Oh no! You have to do everything the hard way, don’t you?”

  Frank stared at his wife a long moment. Then he reached down and shook Jerry by the shoulder. “Come on and get in the car, son. You’ll feel better inside.” Once the boy was in, Frank got in under the steering wheel.

  Speaking through the open window, Paula said. ‘Okay, Frank. It’s obvious that we’re not going to get to your brother’s house. Now....where are we going? How do we get away from here, anyway?”

  Lowering his head on the steering wheel, Frank was near defeat. “I don’t know.”

  A woman’s voice carried through the morning air. It was a sound at once familiar to both Paula and Fran
k. They looked up in surprise as Flo, with Harry behind her, threaded a path to the Warings.

  “Paula....Frank,” said Flo breathlessly. “I told Harry it was you. I heard you, Paula, from way over there and knew it was you.

  The Wintons appeared as tired and disturbed as the Warings felt. “Flo, have you been here all this time?” asked Paula.

  Flo nodded. “All night. We got here late yesterday evening.” Frowning, she added, “Have you heard? They’ve closed the border.”

  “Yes,” answered Paula, “we heard.” Then recalling that the last time she’d seen Flo and Harry was yesterday after the accident, she asked, “Where’s Rickey? You found him, of course?”

  Harry stepped forward. “We found him. He was up near the reactor site just where your boy had said he’d be.” His face was contorted with worry.

  Paula, sensing Harry’s concern, asked, “He’s all right, isn’t he, Harry?”

  The big gruff man, normally at ease around people, replied haltingly. “He’s...no, he’s real sick.”

  Paula turned to Flo for some explanation. But none was forthcoming. The reactor site—radiation. Paula felt she knew the nature of Rickey’s illness. Maybe Frank had been right about the dangers of being near the White Water ruins. “Can you get him to a doctor?”

  “That’s just it,” said Flo, distraught. “It’s such a mess here, there’s no one to take him to. Can you imagine that?” she said tearfully, turning her head.

  “Then what...?” began Frank.

  “We’re going back,” said Harry firmly. “We’re going back to San Mirado and wait this thing out.”

  Frank got out of the car. “Harry, I don’t think you ought to do that. You’re free of that area now, and sure it’s bad here, but there’ll be help coming in pretty soon.”

  Shaking his head stubbornly, Harry stayed firm. “No, we’re going back home.” He glanced over at Flo. “Everything we own is back in San Mirado, we’ve got food and water there, and well, it can’t be any worse than it is here.”