For a moment, Miles felt as though he were slipping between past and present. He’d played in this horse barn as a child when his family’s next door neighbor served as a periodic babysitter. Miss Martha, as everyone called her, had been just shy of her ninetieth birthday on Z-Day. She’d been stubborn enough to reach the ripe old age of ninety-four before passing away.
Martha’s contributions to the initial core of survivors were almost indescribable. She'd provided them with advice and know-how that would have been quaint or irrelevant in a world of electricity. It was funny, in a way. The little old lady had been more valuable to the prospects of the survivors than a dozen younger and presumably more capable souls.
Of course, it’s been like that since, well, forever.
There were always people willing to work, and those who avoided any sort of responsibility. There were those who knew how things worked and those who knew little more than the latest reality TV stars. The end of the world had just made the distinctions between the two types that much more obvious, and the stakes that much higher.
The power had stayed on for almost a week after Z-Day. Though they’d considered the consequences ahead of time, the sudden loss of water had caught them flat-footed. Even though they had well water, those wells were useless without electric pumps. It hadn’t been an oversight per se; far safer to say that it had been further down the list than other, more critical points of survival.
It would have been a fatal mistake if Miss Martha hadn’t pointed out that her windmill-powered well pump was working just fine, thank you. “Why don’t you boys do the same thing for the other houses?”
Old, sure. Physically limited? Yes.
Useless? Not in the slightest.
Was it a solution some of the survivors would have thought of on their own, at some point? Maybe, maybe not. Miss Martha had approached Z-Day with the same unflappable attitude that she took toward life. It was the perfect demonstration of leadership. In a way, she was the cornerstone of the entire community.
And to this day, behind the home that Miss Martha opened up to Miss Val and her group of terrified students, that windmill stood. It wasn't an official memorial. But every survivor knew the story — the lesson, even — of Martha’s well pump.
The trail ran past the windmill and ended at a graveled area just outside of the converted barn’s door. Larry gave Miles a thumbs up and moved to pull it open. The entrance to the barn consisted of a pair of glass French doors to brighten the place up in the daytime. There were four doors on either side of the entryway, and the staircase to the second-floor apartments climbed the back wall.
Miles eased inside and slid his rifle off of his shoulder. He kept the barrel pointed at the barn floor and flipped the safety off. Gravel crunched under his feet as he stepped to one side of the entrance. Larry shut the door behind them with delicate grace. There were footsteps and muted voices from above, but otherwise, the interior was still.
Miles glanced at the floor, trying to discern a pattern in the gravel. There was a thump from above accompanied by the muted giggle of a toddler, and Miles frowned. He considered the weapon in his hands and shook his head. It was a bad idea; especially in such a small area with so many people around. He flipped the safety back on and slung his rifle. He felt, for a long moment, a deep sense of shame.
You aren’t a real cop. A real cop wouldn’t have made that mistake.
And of course, he wasn’t. Oh sure, he had the title and the responsibility. The extent of his official training consisted of behaviors borrowed from old TV shows and the little he’d picked up from Derek Garcia before he’d bought it. As with anything else these days, sometimes they just had to make do with what they had. For better or worse, a computer geek and retired Marine were the closest thing they had to a professional police force.
So act like it. He turned to Larry and raised a finger to the ceiling, then lowered it and indicated the pistol the other man held at low ready. His father-in-law pursed his lips as though he’d bitten into something sour, but he finally nodded and slid the pistol back into his holster.
“Tasers,” Larry muttered. “Or night sticks, at least.”
“I’ll talk to Charlie,” Miles turned back and examined the ground again. With the gravel, there were no tracks to follow; scuffs here and there could have been anything.
One of the doors to Miles’ left opened and a stooped figure in worn bib overalls shuffled out. What little hair he had left stood out in proud white tufts just over his ears. As he closed the door to his apartment behind him, he regarded Larry and Miles with a placid expression.
“Mornin’, gents,” Ronnie Cartwright said in low but strained voice. He was one of the original members of the community. His own family farm had been just outside of their current borders, but the pitted geography of his fields made a wall there a tough proposition. When they had begun consolidating, the survivors had dragged him, kicking and screaming, out of his own homestead. He’d later admitted he was glad the decision was made for him — alone, he would never have survived. Ronnie had helped with farming knowledge and labor in the early going. Although the latter had become more difficult for him in recent years, his mind was still as sharp as ever.
The knowledge of a man with decades of experience as a small farmer was priceless. That work entailed everything from bookkeeping to equipment repair, on top of the core know-how of his profession. Much like Martha, Ronnie Cartwright had been a Godsend.
“Hey, Ronnie,” Miles murmured. “Hear anything out of the ordinary last night?”
Ronnie opened his mouth to answer, but his only immediate response was a quiet wheeze. A flash of embarrassed annoyance crossed his face. He held up a finger as he hauled a handkerchief out of the back pocket of his bibs and brought it to his mouth. His coughs were far more authoritative; deep and wet and somehow resonant. It wasn’t a healthy sound, and Miles had a vague, unsettled moment of panic.
The feeling was one that had become all too familiar as time went by. It was the sense that someone before you was not long for this world because the only care available was the medical equivalent of duct tape.
As Ronnie coughed into the rag and wiped his lips, a door to an apartment on the opposite side of the building flew open. “For fuck’s sake, old man, it’s not enough that you cough up a lung all hours of the night, you have to do it like a damn rooster in the morning, too? I’m trying to sleep, asshole!”
One of Ronnie’s eyebrows arched in response. Miles turned, and as he did so he felt the urge to sigh in exasperation. Because he’d had a suspicion in the back of his mind all along, hadn’t he? It wasn’t like he didn't look at everyone around him and sort them into categories as he went about his day-to-day business.
It would have been unkind to say that Chris Naylor was a waste of space. When provided with the proper motivation, he was a determined worker. He’d contributed as much sweat as anyone to the building of the wall. But when the pressure was off, well, he just kind of drifted. If Miles had to sum him up in one phrase, “works well under constant supervision” would have been it.
Miles met Chris’ bloodshot eyes, then glanced down. He was clad only in a pair of ragged boxer shorts. A black athletic bag of the type used to carry hockey equipment sat on the floor next to his bare feet. The top was open just enough for a few tassels of sweet corn to poke through. Miles looked back up, and he couldn’t help it. He laughed.
You dumb ass.
Chris’ eyes went round with shock. He blurted, “Oh, shit,” and slammed the door.
There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Ronnie spoke as he shuffled toward the exit. “Well, I’ll leave you boys to it.”
Miles turned to look at Larry. The other man looked as though he was on the verge of laughter, himself. “He’s not serious, is he?” Miles jerked a thumb at the door to Chris Naylor’s apartment.
“I got nothin’,” Larry said, then guffawed. “After you, boss.”
“Oh, brother,” Miles said
as he tried the knob. Locked, of course. They’d used metal exterior doors for the apartments. In the event the walls were ever breached, these could suffice for temporary shelters. Zombie-proof, sure, but to somebody living? Time to find out. He stepped back and eyed the doorknob. He lifted his right leg and kicked, slamming his boot just beside the door knob. The jamb creaked. If Chris had engaged the deadbolt, this was going to hurt.
“Here, alternate,” Larry said, then slammed his own boot into the door. Miles followed suit, and they fell into a rhythm; boom boom, boom boom. Doors opened around them as curious neighbors looked to see what the fuss was.
After several kicks, the door burst open with the crack of splintering wood. The interior was dim, despite the window in the opposite wall. As Miles’ eyes adjusted, he realized why, and the urge to laugh bubbled back up.
The windows in each apartment were about eight feet off of the ground. This was low enough to admit light and air, but high enough to make it difficult for anyone or anything to push inside. Chris had placed his bed right under the window. He’d used it to boost himself up and out through the screen — until he lost his balance and began slipping outside. His legs were pointing straight up in the air, waving back and forth as he tried to slow his fall and avoid face-planting on the ground outside.
Miles stepped across the room in a pair of long strides and grabbed a leg. He pulled down, and he caught a glimpse of the other man’s head outside as he did his best impression of a human teeter-totter. The sudden shift planted Chris’ crotch on the lower frame of the window, and he emitted a piercing shriek. Miles winced.
Larry stepped up on the opposite side of the bed and grabbed the other leg. “Stop wiggling, you idiot!” he roared, and tugged inward.
Chris shrieked again at the renewed assault on his crotch and began to struggle even more. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!”
Miles and Larry pulled again, and Chris slid further inside. He turned as he came in, putting his back to Miles. At once Larry let go and leaped back. “Damn it! He pissed on me!” Miles kept pulling. Finally, Chris slid out of the window and bounced on the bed. He rolled onto his stomach and curled up into a fetal position with his hands on his crotch. He groaned.
Larry roared. “We’re not here to kill you, you lush! We’re here to arrest you!”
Miles stepped back and took it all in. Finally, he composed himself enough to speak, and said, “Get some clothes on, idiot. Where the hell were you going to run in your underpants?”
Muffled: “I didn’t think it that far through.”
“News flash,” Larry spat. He rooted through the debris on the floor until he found a grimy t-shirt. He began wiping his arms and chest. “Why the hell did you piss on me?”
Chris sat up, wincing as he shifted positions. “I drank a bunch of beer last night and I’ve been sleeping it off. I haven’t had a chance to go yet.”
Miles concluded his own search of the floor and threw a shirt and pants at the other man. “Get some clothes on. You can sleep it off at the station.” He glanced up at Larry and grinned. “You get any pee on your handcuffs?”
The other man glowered at him. “One day, boy. One day.”
Chapter 6
Tish Matthews — formerly Vance — regarded her patient as she scrubbed in, and tried not to sigh.
Todd Jenkins, you are such a typical man.
After putting up with the pain in his side for three days, he’d waved off his shift on the wall and come to the clinic. These days, ‘suck it up, buttercup’ was one of the most common prescriptions. But sometimes there were things that needed addressing. Appendicitis was one such problem.
During moments of perverse self-honesty, Tish would often note that Z-Day was not without its health benefits. In the old days, doctors had taken to throwing antibiotics at everything, to the extent that the efficacy of said medicines had dropped. Most of the time Tish and her crew didn’t have antibiotics to use after major surgery, much less for garden-variety infections.
After the first few years, those predisposed to any number of chronic conditions had passed on. At this point, the remaining survivors were a damn hardy bunch, and even when they were sick they tended to shrug it off. In that light, Tish could understand Todd’s attitude, even if she didn’t agree with it in this particular case.
Though he had taken longer than he should have, Todd was here now. Unfortunately the best and only available treatment was one that had gone out of common use before Z-Day. On the bright side, it was a procedure that had still been common enough to teach. Even better, it was one Tish had observed — though not performed on her own.
Her surroundings were not dissimilar from the inner city hospital at which she’d been a resident before Z-Day. If she squinted, she could almost convince herself that she’d stepped back in time and into a modern medical facility. The floors were shiny, off-white linoleum. Fluorescent lights shone down from in the ceiling, and there was a vague odor of bleach in the air.
It was all a mirage, of course.
It was ironic that Grady Scott was the only official ‘doctor’ in the community. He was a DDS and a self-described comedian. For this procedure, he was playing the roles of surgical assistant and anesthesiologist. Tish would have handed dental surgery off in a heartbeat. In this instance even Frannie Ferguson — their lone RN — was more familiar with an appendectomy than the dentist. That wasn’t saying much, of course. Yeah, sure, Tish had assisted on a few appendectomies during her short-lived residency. They’d been laparoscopic, using small fiber optic cameras and minute incisions.
This was butchery in comparison. Her reference books indicated that the doctors had performed the first successful surgery of this type in France way back in 1735. That should have given her hope. Hell, that had been more than one hundred years before Lister proved the value of sanitary medicine, and she recalled a long-ago class discussion about a Russian doctor who’d performed the surgery on himself in a remote Arctic post. Maybe he could have empathized with her position; she doubted that the French guy back in the day had “only” had a dentist and an RN on hand to assist.
Buck up, girlie. Whining changes nothing.
On the bright side, Todd didn’t have much fat to cut through. Few of them did, after all this time. Call it the zombie apocalypse diet plan. Tish made the first incision, surprised at how steady her hands were. She licked her lips and murmured, “Forehead.”
Grady stepped forward and blotted the sweat off her brow. Once he was clear, she positioned the clamps and spread the incision.
And, wouldn’t it just be her luck that a nice, thick blood vessel was running right across the surgical cavity from the top left to bottom right. She held up the scalpel. “Hemostat.”
Grady took the scalpel out of her hand and replaced it with a scissor-like pair of locking forceps. He stepped back and placed a couple of fingers on Todd’s throat, careful not to dislodge the gas mask.
No more heart monitors — yet another relic.
“Look on the bright side, Tish,” Grady said. “At least your patient isn’t screaming bloody murder. We could be doing a root canal right now.”
Tish smiled, then glanced at Frannie and winked. “I get enough smart-alec remarks at home, buddy. None of that from you.”
He chuckled. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
Tish dug at the tissue under and around the blood vessel to free it. She edged the blades of the hemostat around the vessel and moved it to the far left side of the wound cavity. She locked it with a slight click, and then laid it aside to rest on Todd’s stomach. “Another.”
Grady placed it in her hand, and she clamped off the opposite side of the vessel. This left the inner strip of the blood vessel between the pair of clamps. “Scissors.”
They were getting into a rhythm now; Tish was thinking less about her worries and more about the task at hand. She snipped the blood vessel in the center. A little bit of blood came out, but not much — the clamps were nice and tight. “Fran
nie, warm up the cauterizer. I’m going to go ahead and ligate the ends.”
“On it.”
“Chatty Cathy in the house,” Grady observed with a chuckle. Tish smiled under her mask but neither woman gave a noticeable reaction. They were well-accustomed to Grady’s incessant commentary.
She handed off the scissors in exchange for a length of sterile suture thread. Their supplies were close to exhausted, which added to the pressure. The stitches had to be right the first time. She hoped that Buck’s salvage crew would find some in the medical warehouse. The clinic put stitches in often enough that she could almost do them in her sleep. There was a lot of dangerous work on a farm, and that wasn’t even counting the added danger of the Wild.
She looped the thread under the right-hand hemostat in an attempt to make the knot as close as possible and thus not waste as much. She made the first tie, then repeated it. The thread dug into her gloves as she pulled with all her strength. Frannie stepped back up to the table with the portable cauterizer.
“Hand it off, and then remove the hemostat to your right,” Tish instructed.
“Okay.”
As directed, Frannie released the hemostat, ready to snap it back down if the knot failed for some reason. It was good, and Tish let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.
“Cauterizing,” Tish murmured as she leaned over. The small handheld unit had a needle-like extension at its tip. Using the knot to hold the cut blood vessel steady, she held the heated tip against it. There was a slight, sizzling hiss, and she held it there for a three count. “Good.” She handed the cauterizer over. “Scissors.” Leaning in, she trimmed the surgical suture. “Same on the next one. How’s our patient?”
“Heart rate steady, he’s sleeping well,” Grady reported.
Tish and Frannie repeated the process on the opposite end of the blood vessel. So far, so good.
A Place Outside The Wild Page 8