The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival)

by Billig, Barbara C. Griffin

  He paused to allow his statements time to be mentally digested before continuing. “Naturally, no one desires to pressure you into granting us the medical use of his body against your wishes. The decision is entirely yours to make,” he stated.

  A silence followed as Sara considered his arguments.

  Two aides entered the room, carrying a stretcher on which rested a long, empty canvas bag. They hesitated, uncertain, then moved out into the hall until their superior was ready to issue instructions, to tell them to take the body or leave it.

  “Where would he be taken—out of state, I presume?” asked Sara at last.

  “Oh yes, to Washington, D.C.” He hastened to explain, “The condition of his tissues after all his exposure to the radiation could tell us much about the sort of damage done, and thereby, perhaps, lead us to devise medications and treatments to allay such effects,” he remarked as he glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Thus far, we have nothing to combat radiation sickness.”

  Sara wasn’t to be rushed into making a hasty decision, however. “Wouldn’t you think that a more acceptable method than dealing with the effects of radiation would be to simply prevent those facilities from producing radiation—from being developed—in the first place, Doctor?” she asked in a biting voice.

  “Yes. Yes,” he agreed readily. “But I am only a man of medicine, Mrs. Harrington. I’m not politically motivated. Such things as safeguards for nuclear reactors is not my concern.” He hesitated, seemingly reluctant to spend more valuable time in discussion with the woman. He glanced at the aides waiting in the hall, then back to Sara. “My concern is with locating the proper subjects to provide a basis for research.”

  It was a cold, hard statement that he’d made, speaking of the victims of White Water as though they were so many research animals. To be studied, autopsied, and converted into statistics. With revulsion Sara thought of Ben’s final importance divulged in the tale told by his poor, mangled tissues. A wave of nausea spread through her, and was rapidly fought down. “Isn’t it interesting, Doctor,” she asked, “that until Tuesday, this sort of accident had been declared an impossibility?”

  Peering through his thick lenses, he observed the woman sitting across from him. He considered the question momentarily, then finally remarked, “Shall we say that what was formerly impossible, has happened? And now the question in most minds is exactly what kinds of damages have been done.”

  Sara thoughtfully tugged at a rent in her dress. “You seem to be a very busy man, Dr. Seevers.”

  He removed his glasses and dried the perspiration on the frame. “Yes, there is much to be done,” he replied as he replaced the spectacles.

  “Then I will not take more of your time, Doctor. You may take Ben’s body with you.”

  Seevers showed no surprise at her decision. Wiping his brow with a handkerchief, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Harrington. Yours is a compassionate and noble gesture, one of which I’m sure your husband would approve.” After a slight hesitation, he added, “There is no reason why you could not have services for Mr. Harrington before assigning him to us.”

  “Yes, I’d like that,” said Sara. “We are from the east coast originally and we have relatives there. Yes, we’ll have a private service for Ben back in Connecticut,” she said at last.

  “In that case I will arrange transportation for both you and your husband,” said the pathologist.

  His habit of referring to Ben as though he still lived was annoying to her, but she was reconciled to placing both of them in the doctor’s seemingly capable hands for the present. “Are there papers that I must sign declaring my permission has been granted,” she asked.

  Dr. Seevers nodded, “Yes, but they need not be dealt with today. There is time enough for that, Mrs. Harrington.”

  He flicked his hand to the aides; they, in turn, moved quietly into the bedroom to begin their grisly chore.

  Ben’s death was forever in her thoughts, but now there were other considerations. “Dr. Seevers, what sort of protection has been established for our homes and belongings that we are leaving behind?” Not that she had any intention of staying, but she hated to think that the beautiful house with its collection from six years of marriage would be looted and stripped.

  With calming reassurances, he replied, “Sentries will be posted throughout the whole sector, I’m told. Military personnel will be designated to guard against the unlawful taking and destruction of property. Mrs. Harrington, you needn’t worry.”

  A far away look passed quickly over her face, then she said, “it’s impossible to imagine this vast area being abandoned. Why, millions of dollars in possessions will be left behind as people flee their homes.”

  “I’m certain many, many residents will not leave,” said the pathologist. “There is no place for them to go, and for a variety of reasons they’ll choose to stay, I think.”

  “But how?” she asked in disbelief. “What will they do for water, for instance?”

  The little physician repeated what he had been told. “According to the latest decision made, emergency supplies of water and food will be trucked in. Sources of community water that were contained in reservoirs will have to be expelled through the sewers into the ocean. It’s not usable as it is. Refilling the reservoirs will take quite awhile. And until unpolluted, clean water is made available, the citizens who stay must make do with having it hauled in to them.”

  The impact of lack of water was to be keenly felt for the next several months, not just to the populace who would be forced into a strict, skimpy allotment for the barest of emergency uses, but for commercial and industrial purposes, there would be no clean water available.

  “Eventually electricity will be restored, I suppose?” asked Sara, recalling the feeble flames of alcohol lamps at Beckman Hospital.

  “Engineers and crews are being brought in to put the oil-burning plants back into operation,” he replied, “but for a very minimal output. For Los Angeles and these smaller cities to get their feet back on the ground, it is going to take longer than we thought, I’m afraid.” Seevers glanced at his watch a second time.

  Sara had grown tired of the conversation. The physician was anxious to be about his gruesome business and she was eager to have an end to the movements and the muffled conversation in Ben’s bedroom.

  Hearing the aides finishing their chore, Dr. Seevers took Sara away from her chair and turned her aside so that she would not see the aides as they came by.

  The canvas bag, taut from its contents, was borne slowly through the hall, through the front entrance, and into the helicopter.

  To him, the chore was completed. “Mrs. Harrington, when you are ready we can depart.”

  “If there is time, I’d like to gather a few items to take along,” said Sara.

  “Of course,” he replied. “We’ll wait.”

  Sara started out of the room, then paused and said to him, “By the way, Doctor, there is a man, a body on the rear lawn. He was our gardener. I couldn’t very well leave him here in the house, since he died Tuesday,” she said with detachment. “Perhaps you will want to look at him.”

  The pathologist accepted her statement without any show of concern. “He has been outside since Tuesday, you say?”

  “Yes. For four days,” she said as she walked out of the room. Summoning his aides, he ordered them to prepare the remaining corpse for removal. “And rush it up,” he added.

  As assistants to the pathologist, the two men had often performed unpleasant tasks. But the prospects of bagging a body that had lain in the hot sun for several days promised to be their most repulsive encounter.

  “Shit,” mumbled the younger member as he strolled across the flagstone patio, “why doesn’t he do it himself if he wants to drag every rotten carcass back with us.”

  His companion poked him in the ribs, “Hush! You want him to hear you?” he asked, glancing back toward the physician.

  “I don’t give a damn. When I took this job I didn’t
know everything that went with it, so I don’t figure they’re paying me enough for this kind of work,” answered his friend petulantly.

  “Aw, quit your bitching. Nobody is making you hang onto the job,” replied his companion as they stepped into the yard.

  “Jeez, lookee there! Somebody rolled the dude up like a mummy!” said the younger man. “Bet he stinks when we get him out of that plastic.” He stared through the wrapping at the corpse.

  They cautiously began the process of unwinding the translucent covering, anticipating the moment when a foul odor would escape from the package and soil the air they breathed.

  “This dude is going to be a mess to get in the bag,” remarked the complainer, cutting the plastic away in layers.

  Finally the body was free, its wrappings to the side.

  “Man, look at that!” exclaimed the youth. “I can’t believe it!”

  “Hey, I’d better call Doc Seevers. He’ll want to see this one before it goes in the sack,” said his companion, rushing off.

  Returning with his superior in tow, the two walked directly to the corpse. The doctor dropped to his knees beside the body and began a visual examination of the face, hands, and hair. “This is hard to believe. According to Mrs. Harrington, this man has been out here since Tuesday, but he surely doesn’t seem in any state of decomposition—not at all what you’d expect.”

  “That’s weird, really weird, Doc. He’s in perfect shape, like he could have just died.”

  The physician, still stooping, gazed thoughtfully at the excellently preserved form. “She said she’d rolled him up in a plastic sheet. Was it tight, boys? Did the sheet fit him snugly?”

  “Like a glove. She really did a job on him. But why didn’t he... decay?” asked the younger man. “I’d have figured him for rotten.’’

  “Yeah, I can’t figure that either,” commented the other aide. “I once helped load a guy that had been drowned, and had washed onto a bank. He’d been there about a week when we got the word to pick him up. Wow, I’d never smelled anything like it.” He shuddered at the memory. “He was falling apart when we got to him.”

  Dr. Seevers stroked his chin as he continued to stare at the corpse. “You know, boys, this is very interesting. Yes indeed. Mrs. Harrington covered him tightly preventing air from freely circulating around the body. That would reduce the rate of growth of decay bacteria. Then, radiation was constantly pouring down into the man, irradiating and killing any decay organisms that ordinarily would have resulted in deterioration of tissues. In essence, the body was preserved by irradiation.”

  “You make it sound like a new method for preserving food,” remarked the young aide.

  “No, not new. Irradiation of food was used as a means of conserving texture and taste a decade ago. It prevented spoilage successfully, but never did quite catch on as a preservative. I recall seeing pork chops that had been kept unrefrigerated, in paper for several months. They were still fresh enough, yet no one volunteered to cook and eat them.”

  “They wouldn’t have been harmful, would they?” asked the aide.

  “No, of course not, It’s just that no one in our group wanted to try them out,” he answered shortly.

  “Well, that guy’s head is not in very good shape. That’s a hell of a bruise over his temple,” noted the other aide.

  Drawing closer to the inert form, the physician carefully scrutinized the wound. At last he stepped away and said, “Bag him.” As he turned back toward the house, he called out, “Mrs. Harrington! I'd like to talk to you.”

  Sara filled a large purse with personal items but paused in her packing when she heard his call from the patio. “Yes, Dr. Seevers?” Her tone verged on haughtiness.

  “This man, your gardener—his, uh, remains are in superb condition, Mrs. Harrington. Much, much better than we had expected.”

  Since the woman offered no comment, the doctor elaborated further. “You did a splendid job in covering him, a splendid job,” he said, watching her carefully.

  “Should I say that I am pleased, Doctor?”

  Her flippancy had surprised the doctor somewhat, causing uncertainty as to how the issue should be discussed. After all, the woman had undergone great mental stress, and yet had managed to show real composure in arriving at the decision to donate her husband’s body for medical exploration. Insistence on her clarification of the method of the gardener’s death could prove to be inhumanly cruel in light of her earlier traumas.

  “I hardly know where to begin,” he stammered. “I....”

  “You are concerned over how the man died, is that correct?”

  “Yes. That bruise on the side of his head, it seems....”

  Again she interrupted him. “Perhaps I’d better explain, Dr. Seevers. You see, last Tuesday, things became hectic for those of us living close to White Water. By evening, the word had thoroughly circulated about the dangers. Presumably, those who had decided to stay on rather than run, were fairly panic-struck. Looting and stealing had already begun and I....well, I naturally thought Ben was dead,” she said softly. “It was nearly dusk when the gardener burst into the house and began throwing my silver and jewels into a bag—a total shock to me.”

  “He had worked for you some time, Mrs. Harrington?” asked the pathologist.

  “Yes. Several years.” She paused in her narration to reconstruct the actual events, then continued, “Anyway, when I discovered the thief, I tried to stop him. He became abusive, then threatened my life. He was reaching for a tool from the fireplace at the exact moment that poor Ben miraculously staggered into the house.” Once more she paused. “You can imagine my surprise to see my husband, Doctor. He was in dreadful shape, but alive. Seeing the gardener threatening me with the tool infuriated him and he...” she hesitated, “well, he...”

  “He killed the gardener, Mrs. Harrington?”

  Sara answered softly, “Yes. As unbelievable as it sounds, he smashed the man’s head with a huge vase.”

  Silence followed the end of Sara’s narration. An explanation had been given, and satisfactorily, to her mind. She was aware that there would be suspicion attached to the man’s death, so she had told the story quickly, and to the point.

  To Dr. Seevers, the tale had sounded logical and conclusive. His purpose was not to enforce the law, nor did he seem inclined to report this infraction of the law. Nothing could be accomplished by compelling this woman to repeat her tale before authorities.

  “Has he a family in the area?” the doctor asked.

  “I really couldn’t say. We never talked about anything other than the yards,” Sara answered.

  He hesitated for a moment. Then finally, he said, “We will take him to Washington with us. I’ll fill out the proper notice of death and present it to local authorities once they’re operative again. Eventually his family will be notified,” he said.

  “Thank you, Doctor. Now, give me another minute and I’ll be ready.” Turning, she walked rapidly back into her bedroom.

  Sara was anxious to be gone. The past few days had nearly destroyed her memories of the lovely home overlooking the blue Pacific. Without Ben, the home no longer existed—it served no purpose. With her packing completed, she hesitated before the mirror. God, what a wretch, she thought. A white bone comb lay on the dresser. She snatched it in her hand and sank the teeth into the matted knots of blond hair. A shampoo. If only she could wash it. The teeth had snagged. With growing impatience, Sara yanked at the tangles, and a whole hank of hair fell out of her scalp. It hadn’t hurt. Actually she didn’t remember tugging particularly hard, but there it was—a long blond skein hanging from her comb. She stared in disbelief. Then, deliberately, she sectioned out several smaller strands, and gently pulled at them. They, too, ripped free of the scalp. With dismay, she realized that she was losing her hair. Something was causing the roots to die and the strands to drop off her head. Very, very carefully she selected one last strand, a strand from near the back of her head. Exerting only the most minimal of
effort, she gave a light tug. Again the hair pulled loose from the scalp. Throwing down the comb, she clutched the heavy purse in her arms, and taking a final look around the room where Ben had died, she walked out.

  Dr. Seevers was waiting as she stepped into the hail and said, “I’m ready to go, Doctor.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two Months Later

  ‘Washington, D.C., in December can be a bleak, dreary city. Frigid air hung over it on this chilly morning leaving a powdery coat of crystalline frost on the ground. By ten o’clock puny rays of sunlight had dissolved the frozen moisture on all but the shady sides of buildings, but the chill remained.

  Cecil rested in a slightly hunched position on the rear seat of the taxi. As a Californian, he had maintained a wardrobe of light weight suits and summer clothes. Now, the outfit he wore was unsuitable for warding off the cold, and adding the lining to his raincoat had not increased his protection sufficiently. He turned the poplin collar up around his neck.

  Washington had changed over the past twenty years. Not the city itself, though it had enormous new buildings, but the towns surrounding it had changed. During his military years, he had served a brief appointment within the huge, brown complex that was the Bureau of Personnel. Directly across Columbia Pike from the Bureau stood the gray compound of Arlington Barracks, one of the several naval outposts within the Washington area, and behind it, Shirley Highway stretched into Virginia. Commercial buildings had sprung up from what used to be broad, well-manicured expanses of lawns and foliage.

  He instructed the driver to go slowly around the clover-leaf at the Pentagon so that he could get a better view of the structure that housed the military empire of the country.