The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival)

by Billig, Barbara C. Griffin

  “Of course not. Those were difficult days—for you more so than most of us. I’ve wondered about you several times, you know. I read that you’d been in Washington talking to Senator McCauley.”

  “Did you know the formal inquiry begins next week?” she asked.

  “I heard that. But I’m surprised that you returned here, especially right now. I’d have thought you would have stayed on the east coast where you’d be free from all these reminders of the past.”

  “My being here does seem inopportune, doesn’t it? Here, at Beckman, which I hardly knew existed until a few months ago?”

  Leaning on the foot of her bed, he asked, “Would I be nosey if I asked why, Sara?”

  “Oh,” she said after a moment, “there are several reasons. Ben had some papers in a safety deposit box. I thought I should have them with me.”

  “Surely they could have waited until after the baby was born and you felt well again,” he commented.

  “No. I wanted them now, in case something happened.”

  “Something happened? Hmm, what could go wrong with you? Why would you be worried about your pregnancy? Or, isn’t that what bothers you?” he asked.

  “Not really,” she replied slowly. Then, “Well, maybe. You see, I have a terrible feeling about it, as if something is not quite right.”

  “You shouldn’t worry. Obstetrics is a very modern, up-to-date science. Even the most difficult pregnancies are handled routinely.”

  “The feeling, though, I can’t get away from it, Dr. Parsons.”

  “Ah. Then it wasn’t the desire for your husband’s papers but something else that caused you to return.”

  “I suppose so. Subconsciously, I must have wanted to be here when the baby is delivered. That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

  “I’ve heard of stranger things in pregnant women,” he answered without any sign of the humor that would ordinarily have accompanied such a statement.

  “Beckman is the place for radiation victims, though.”

  “True, but....”

  “And you’re in charge,” said Sara.

  He searched her face for the underlying meaning to this conversation. Her pink-hued lips were replete with invitation, but that was unknown to the woman, who felt in her face nothing more than a warm flush as occasional contractions occurred. Her slender fingers lay across the white sheet, their nails burnished with a lacquer of identical color to the natural tone of her lips.

  In seriousness he asked, “What bothers you about this pregnancy?”

  She searched for the explanation and then admitted, “It’s hard to say. When I told my physician, he wanted to take x-rays. And, it’s ridiculous, but I just can’t allow any more radiation to enter my body. Stupid, isn’t it?”

  “Refusing the x-rays? Not really. No, I don’t blame you, but that would be the only way to see what the fetus is like. This feeling you have...?”

  “The kicking, for instance. I had always been told that the baby will do a lot of moving about—kicking motions—felt by the mother. I haven’t noticed anything like that. In all these months, I haven’t felt a thing that was like that.”

  “Did you tell Dr. Archer?”

  “Well, I haven’t talked with him all that much,” she answered. “Sara, would you mind if I listened to the heartbeat?” he asked.

  He was a surgeon with a better than average record at problem-solving. Still, what could he hope to learn by hearing a fetal heartbeat when in a few hours he’d see the baby?

  Receiving her permission, he applied the stethoscope and listened intently for a couple minutes. Finally he stepped back from the mound of flesh and smiled reassuringly. “It sounds fine to me, Sara. There’s nothing at all unusual about the fetal heartbeat.”

  “Then why don’t I get the same kind of jolts I’ve heard other women describe in their pregnancies?” she asked with concern.

  “You have felt some motion, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but very slight—nothing like I expected,” she said.

  “Well, Sara, I don’t know. But I’m sure everything will be all right. And it won’t be too much longer until you’ll be a mother with a trimmer figure than you have now,” he said with a lightness that he did not feel.

  She seemed unconvinced that there was no cause for concern. “I wish I could be sure.”

  “You’re borrowing trouble when there’s no need to. Let’s just wait and see what happens, okay?”

  “There’s not much choice for me, is there, Dr. Parsons?”

  “Oh, I remember you as a fighter. I say you struggling against insurmountable odds, while lesser people gave up. This thing won’t get you—not you.”

  “Dr. Parsons...” Sara began.

  “Bernard.”

  “Bernard, what thoughts did you have after I stole that whole bottle of morphine from you?”

  “Hmm, as I recollect, I was past the point of having thoughts. I was a robot, going about my tasks as mechanically as though I was remotely controlled by some unknown being.”

  “By taking the entire bottle, did I leave you....did I cause anyone to suffer?”

  “Everybody was suffering, Sara. One unit of morphine wouldn’t have made much difference.”

  “It helped Ben. It made him unaware of the pain so that he... he...” she faltered, unable to continue.

  “I’m sure it did,” he hastened to complete her thought. “You know, I’ve read your recent medical history. It must have taken tremendous will power for you to attend those investigations. You probably should have been getting complete bed rest instead.”

  “Fatigue was my biggest enemy during those first months; and it still is. But I had this compulsion, I guess you’d call it, to do my share, to add whatever I could about the conditions here. I often wonder why I was compelled to be there, to talk with the Senator, and the only suitable explanation is that because I have lost so much, I’m desperately anxious that the incident at White Water not be repeated.”

  “Was it worth it, Sara—giving your account to Senator McCauley? Will it cause any changes do you think?”

  “Until the formal inquiry is over, we won’t know what to expect. But one experience like I’ve had is enough for a lifetime,” she asserted. “More than enough, actually.”

  “Not that anybody ever noticed, but most of the physicians in this region signed a petition protesting the operation of White Water until safety factors could be positively guaranteed. Of course, nobody paid any attention to us,” he said sadly. “That’s always the story—nobody pays attention.”

  “Bernard, what will happen to Los Angeles?” asked Sara.

  “Time is the answer. In time, it’ll slowly revert to a normal city—the same gigantic sprawling city of six months ago,” he answered. “Its scars will disappear. Eventually.”

  “Do you really believe that?” she asked.

  “That it’ll regenerate its lost parts? Sure, in that respect a city is more durable than the men who made it. After all, it’s not the only city to have been destroyed—it’s just unique in the method of its destruction.”

  “You have great faith,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “In mankind. Yes, I do. When people collectively put their brains together, there’s no limit to their accomplishments.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “There’s not much recorded history of people collectively putting their brains together, though.”

  “That’s perfectly true, Sara. However, we’ve been rudely thrust into an age where the failure to exercise our brainpower could result in our annihilation. We have a choice. Now we simply use our right to make it.”

  They both realized that the subject of exercising rights had been open long before the destruction of White Water.

  A visible twinge of discomfort passed through her body. “Umm. They’re coming more often—the pains.”

  “Dr. Archer doesn’t expect labor to progress this quickly,” said Bernie with sudden concern. “I’m going to g
ive him a buzz.”

  “Wait!” Sara asked as the last of the pain left her. “Wait, Bernard.”

  “Yes?” he asked.

  She smiled weakly at him. “I know this doesn’t make much sense, but will you stay with me in the delivery room? It’s unusual, but I’d like it if you were there.”

  He laid his hand reassuringly on her thin shoulder. “I had planned to assist Archer. I’ve already seen to it, Sara. I’ll be in the delivery room with you.”

  Fitting the cap down over his head, Dr. Parsons watched his colleague from the corner of his eye. “Why didn’t you slow the labor, Archie? For her first, didn’t you think it was progressing too rapidly?”

  The obstetrician was tying his gown. “Six hours is pretty quick for a first, but the fetal head was showing through the entrance of the vagina—quarter-size—so I figured what-the-hell, we’d go on with it.’’

  There was nothing for the surgeon to say. This was out of his domain.

  They moved into the delivery room which was being readied for the patient.

  “Isn’t she here, yet?” Archer asked a nurse.

  “They’re bringing her over. It’ll be a minute.”

  Anesthesia machines with their tanks of gas were pulled over to the delivery table. The overhead surgical light would not be turned on until the woman’s shaved pelvis was scrubbed with antiseptic and covered with a sheet.

  Dr. Parsons inspected the large mirror by which the patient could view the proceedings. Its presence, its function, made him uneasy. “What kind of anesthesia are you giving her,” he asked Dr. Archer as he turned away from the reflector.

  “Meperidine was given up in the room.”

  “No. I mean during the delivery. Did she have any preference?”

  “She didn’t mention having a particular choice. A saddle block will do.”

  “She should have scopolamine,” said Parsons.

  “What? I don’t see any necessity for completely blocking out her memory of the birth. A lot of women want to see what’s happening, and want to feel it—at least they want to feel some of it.’’

  “Nevertheless,” said Parsons, “I believe it would be wiser if she slept through the whole thing.”

  “Aw, come on, Bernard. That’s ridiculous. Besides, it’s not advisable to give sedation at this stage. We need her awake enough to do some pushing.”

  The doctor was insistent. “Look, Archie, I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job....”

  “Don’t then,” snapped the physician.

  “But I think it would be smarter to slow the delivery a bit, than have this woman mentally charting everything that’s happening in here.”

  “Parsons, if I’d known you were going to be a pain in the ass I wouldn’t have let you in here!” Archer began checking the instrument tray, ignoring the surgeon.

  Parsons reached and nudged the tray aside. “Will you put her out or won’t you?”

  Wheeling around, his eyes smoldering with annoyance, Archer said, “Man, I can’t figure you! Why is this so important that you’re standing here arguing with me?”

  “For the life of me, I don’t know,” answered the surgeon. “But I wish you’d just do it my way, and put her out.”

  “Many women want to see their babies immediately, as soon as they’re born,” Archer protested.

  “And some women have unpleasant memories from their pregnancies,” said Parsons in a voice suddenly grown cold.

  The double doors were shoved open as Sara was wheeled in. She was draped for the occasion and fully awake.

  Arrival of the patient should have ended their discussion, but for Bernard it was not ended—not until he had his way on the anesthesia. “Well, Archer?” he asked.

  Archer’s eyes glared over the top of his mask. “Parsons, you don’t know a damned thing about this. Now either shut up or get out!’’

  “Then you won’t knock her out?” asked Parsons in a low voice.

  “No!”

  The surgeon was not defeated yet. He stalked over to the mirror and bent it out of line with the delivery table.

  Dr. Archer observed the action, but allowed the mirror to remain in an angle.

  Sara was assisted onto the table. Both feet were placed in the stirrups as she lay down on her back. Metal handbars were raised along each side for her to later grasp and push against during the heavy contractions. With final adjustment to the stirrups, the lower part of the table was slid in under her pelvis. A nurse stepped forward and swabbed the lower abdomen and inner thighs with antiseptic. The entire area was then blanketed by a sheet containing a window for the vaginal opening.

  At the last minute Dr. Archer had decided against the saddle block and opted for a local anesthetic. The anesthetist moved into position and administered the agent to the area around the vagina. This would effectively block the pain receptors and would leave Sara capable of the pushing movements necessary to help extrude the baby.

  Since her entrance into the delivery room, the tension between the two physicians had lessened. Parsons had been satisfied in insuring that Sara wouldn’t see the actual birth, and he stepped aside to give the obstetrician plenty of room to work.

  Allowing the anesthesia to take effect required a few minutes and the surgeon walked over to stand by Sara, momentarily sharing in the short wave of fear that flitted across her face.

  She watched his eyes as they darted back and forth over the top of his own sterile mask, and saw one lid drop into a long wink at her. That she had asked him to assist was proof that he inspired confidence in her, that his being here was consoling.

  The vaginal opening was becoming distended from the baby’s head. “We’re ready to begin,” announced Dr. Archer. Reaching for the tray, the obstetrician chose a scalpel and with a flick produced an incision which enlarged the opening further. With the episiotomy completed, there would be no danger of random tearing of the mother’s tissues as the baby began its exit. “All right, Sara, let’s bear down now,” said Archer.

  Sara clenched her hands even tighter around the bars and inwardly pushed. The inner tension was clearly evidenced in her face.

  Bernard had moved to stand behind Archie, content to be out of the way and a spectator.

  The top of the child’s head appeared slowly, moving outward by a fraction with each contraction.

  “Bear down, Sara! Come on. Push.”

  Sara’s grunt was audible as she followed Archie’s instructions.

  “Harder, Sara! Harder, now!”

  More of the same gutteral sounds issued from her.

  Slowly, slowly, the tiny head, wet and smooth from fluids, inched into the world.

  “That’s a good girl,” Archie said encouragingly, “a good girl.”

  The small face was turned towards the floor, in his hand.

  “Come on, Sara. Once again,” he said. “Once more, now.”

  The head was free, and Archie carefully rotated it to the left, turning the body ever so cautiously until the shoulders were correctly positioned. Fluids dripped between his gloved fingers as he gingerly maneuvered the tiny body through the last of the birth canal.

  “Again, Sara. Just as little more,” he said. “Come on now, Sara. Just a little longer.” His voice was soft, almost a croon to the expectant mother. “Here we come,” he said.

  The shoulders were shoving through, widening the vaginal gap even more. “Ahhh, here we come.”

  Abruptly the shoulders popped through with unusual ease. Dr. Archer stared down at the infantile form supported by his hand. In disbelief, he glanced up at Dr. Parsons, who by now was making sure the mirror had not become re-aligned to Sara’s view.

  A faint gasp was heard from one of the nurses who was assisting Archer.

  For what must have seemed like minutes, the animation of the medical persons was suspended.

  Sounds indicated Sara was still laboring at expelling the infant, and it was these noises that finally reminded Archer of his task.

  The
abdomen with its thick slimy umbilical cord was just coming into sight when the doctor regained his speech. “A little more, Sara.” He choked over the words, then cleared his throat. “Push, Sara!” he said.

  And it was free.

  All eyes turned to look at the child. Parsons, Archer, the two nurses—only the anesthetist stood by Sara.

  Across the gloved hands of the obstetrician lay a miniscule human being. From each tiny shoulder extended a knobby bud, less than an inch long, with several stubby projections. Opposite miniature male genitals were two other buds, again no longer than an inch. In all, it looked like a diminutive doll, without arms or legs, but with a distinctly-formed head atop the red-stained torso.

  The room was quiet, empty of adult expression as they stood in somber disbelief.

  Parsons saw the shock registered in the obstetrician, who was transfixed as he held his charge. “Slap him!” he urged. “Now, Archer!”

  His command jarred Archer into frenzied action. Failing to find lower limbs by which the infant could be suspended, he shuffled the baby from one hand to the other.

  “Slap him, dammit!” repeated Parsons.

  “I... .I can’t. There’s no way...!”

  “Turn him on his belly and slap!” Parsons yelled.

  Archer stood helplessly shifting the child for a more secure grasp when the nurse reached out for the tiny bundle.

  “It’s no use, Dr. Archer. He’s dead,” she whispered.

  She took the baby from him and held it.

  Archer snatched up a gleaming sterile instrument and clipped the umbilical cord.

  Dr. Parsons heard the faint, plaintive call of his name.

  “What is it? What’s happening?” Sara asked.

  The nurse moved away from the center of activity. “Bernard, where’s my baby? I want to see it,” demanded Sara. He quietly closed his fist over her warm sweaty knuckles. “Sara, the baby is... the baby is dead.”

  “Dead? Oh, noooo,” she wailed as she threw her arm across her eyes, trying to stop the rush of tears.

  “It was....there was nothing to be done for the little thing,” said Parsons. “There was nothing to be done.”

  “My God how I wanted that baby. Ben...oh, Lord, it was all I had of Ben....all that was left,” she cried.