Shock Wave

by Keith Taylor

  “I don’t suppose you have a band aid on you?” he asked, as Boomer poked her nose inside his suit jacket. “No? Not even a little one?” She tried to push her way into his pocket, searching for the snacks hidden within. “Of course not. You’re just a damned freeloader, aren’t you?” He pushed her head away and grabbed her affectionately around the neck. “A big, furry freeloader. You only want me for my snacks, don’t you?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out another piece of jerky. “You may be able to walk ten miles on those paws, but they’re no good for tearing open plastic, right? Admit it. Hands beat paws.” He split open the pack and tore off a piece of jerky.

  “OK, go get it.” He tossed it far ahead, calling after her as she raced off to find it. “I’ll catch up.” He looked down at his ruined feet and sighed. “Just as soon as I get a new body.”

  Ten miles. Back home you couldn’t walk ten miles without stumbling on a dozen gas stations and a couple of strip malls, but that sort of distance was nothing in Oregon. Here it was just a short stroll through the woods. For all Jack knew it could be another fifty miles to the nearest hamlet, and in his heart of hearts he knew he’d drop dead long before that. Even without the blisters he just didn’t have the legs for more than another hour or two. He needed to rest his aching feet, eat a meal and grab some real sleep. He wasn’t built for this.

  The problem wasn’t that he was out of shape. Considering it had been the best part of two decades since he’d last run track he was impressively slim, but his thirty two inch waist wasn’t maintained through exercise and healthy living. His lats showed because he often forgot to eat, and whiskey doesn’t have all that many calories, and his toned stomach didn’t come from crunches. It was the result of crouching over countless toilets, heaving up the remnants of the last night’s excesses. He hadn’t jogged more than a mile in three years, and it showed in his aching calves and ragged breath.

  He tied his shoes together by their laces, hanging them around his neck before he pulled himself to his feet, and with an exhausted sigh he reluctantly began to plod after Boomer. She was the only thing keeping him going now, setting the pace and dragging him along for the ride.

  It only took a few steps before Jack’s socks were soaked, and he realized it had probably been a mistake to remove his shoes. Ten minutes from now his cold, wet feet would be driving him crazy. He'd be praying for warmth, kicking himself for being so dumb.

  Still, the pain was gone now that the heels of his shoes were no longer scraping against his blisters, and already he could feel his pace quicken without the wincing hobble holding him back. Now, with the cool night breeze at his back and a soft, gentle slope in the road, he found himself breaking into a slow jog. More of a barely controlled stumble, if he was honest with himself, but however he’d describe it he was moving much more quickly without the constant sawing of leather against his heels.

  “Boomer,” he called out, his voice sounding eerily loud in the heavy silence of the surrounding forest. “Boomer? Where are you, girl?”

  There was no response. She can’t have gone far, he thought. His throwing arm wasn’t that strong, so she’d only had to run a couple dozen yards to find the jerky. Even if she’d bolted off into the trees on whatever mysterious errand labradors take on she should still be well within earshot.

  “Boomer!” He called a little louder, and again he was met with deathly silence. He brought his fingers to his lips, pursed around them and let out a piercing whistle.

  It was so loud it surprised even Jack, lingering over the forest for seconds after he stopped. Every dog for ten miles must have pricked up its ears at the shrill whistle, but still there was no response from Boomer. It was as if she’d vanished from the face of the earth.

  And then, finally, a sound broke the silence, but it wasn’t the dog.

  It was an answering whistle.

  Almost without thinking Jack scurried into the shadows at the side of the road, the hairs on his neck standing on end. He crouched in the darkness, scanning up and down the road for signs of movement, but with the breeze rustling through the trees there was nothing but movement. Both the road and the forest floor seemed to shift unceasingly in the swaying, dappled moonlight. A dozen armed men could be standing a stone’s throw from him and he’d never know it.

  Jack felt exposed and vulnerable, and for the first time since he’d walked away from the gas station he felt his heart pound in his chest. He’d expected cars, not walkers. It had never occurred to him that someone else might be on foot out here, stalking the forest in the dead of night.

  Would they be friendly, or a threat? Surely it was too much to hope that anyone out here tonight might be a friend. It wasn’t as if he was going to stumble on a scout pack toasting s’mores over a campfire. Much more likely it would be…

  He shook his head, stopping that train of thought the moment the word Deliverance popped into his mind.

  “Don’t be stupid, Jack,” he muttered, trying to calm himself with the sound of his own voice. “You’re in Oregon. It’s probably some hipster kid in $300 hiking boots.”

  As he convinced himself of his overreaction he felt his confidence begin to return, and as he stepped out from the shadows he chided himself that his first thought had been to hide. What did he have to be afraid of? After all, he thought, reaching into his pocket for the comforting heft of Warren’s pistol, it’s not like he was helpless. He knew the gun was empty, but nobody he bumped into on the road would know that at a glance. All they’d see would be an armed man ready to defend himself. They’d turn and run as soon as—

  The whistle came again, loud, shrill and close. It seemed to be coming from all around him, and as it echoed through the trees he felt the fear bubble up once more.

  “Hello?” he called out, consciously dropping his voice an octave. “Is somebody there?”

  He listened carefully, and over the rustle of the leaves in the trees he’d swear he could hear a voice, oddly muffled but somewhere nearby. He gripped the gun a little tighter.

  “I can’t hear you! Do you need help?”

  The voice returned, this time much clearer. It was a man’s voice, high pitched and panicked, and it seemed to be coming from straight ahead, just a little way down the road.

  “Please call off your dog!”

  Jack broke into a run, racing in sodden feet down the gentle slope. Up ahead there was a soft kink in the road, a long bend verged by red alder trees swaying in the breeze, and as Jack began to round it he saw a vehicle parked by the side of the road a hundred yards ahead, a Civic with the driver’s door hanging open.

  The whistle came again and again in quick bursts, and then the panicked voice returned. “Please! I can’t hold on much longer!”

  The voice was coming from the edge of the forest beside the car, and as Jack approached he finally saw Boomer standing at the foot of an alder, looking up into the branches and yapping out curious barks.

  “Boomer!” Jack yelled out. “Heel!”

  She ignored him. It was clear that Warren hadn’t trained her well, but at least she knew enough to run towards food. Jack pulled the last bag of peanuts from his jacket and shook it, and the dog came running.

  “Hold her back!” The muffled voice cried out as Boomer reached Jack and began to leap excitedly around him.

  Jack finally caught sight of the man, a middle aged professorial type in a rough tweed jacket that looked to be caught up on a half dozen low branches, leaving him looking like a marionette suspended by its strings. He clung desperately to the narrow trunk of the tree like a squirrel, his legs wrapped around it and his cheek pressed up against the bark.

  “Are you OK?” asked Jack. “Are you hurt?”

  The man was breathing heavily, clearly struggling. “Do you have that thing under control?” For the first time the voice was clear enough that Jack noticed an English accent, clipped and precise.

  Jack looked down at Boomer, staring up at the peanuts with wide, covetou
s eyes, panting as she waited for the treat. He reached down and took her by the collar. “Settle down, Boomer. Umm, yeah, I’ve got hold of her.” He still couldn’t figure out what was going on. “Do you need help or something? What are you doing up there?”

  From the tree came a long scraping sound, and in the moonlight Jack watched with amusement as the man gracelessly slid down the trunk, his jacket pulling up over his shoulders as it clung to the branches. He slid in fits and starts, falling a few inches at a time before eventually he lost his grip, and he dropped the final few feet and landed in an ungainly pile in the leaf litter, his clothing in disarray.

  He pushed a pair of horn rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, checked to make sure Boomer wasn’t running for him, and then scrambled back towards his car on hands and knees.

  “Wait!” Jack yelled as the man leaped through the driver’s door, slamming it behind him. “We’re stranded! Please, can you give us a ride?”

  The man cracked his window an inch and looked out at Boomer with an expression of sheer horror. “With that wild beast? You must be insane!”

  Jack looked down at Boomer, sniffing innocently at the bag of peanuts, impatiently waiting for him to open them. “Beast?” He raised an eyebrow. “She’s just a labrador. She’s like… like a furry toddler.”

  The man curled his lip in disgust. “You say that like it’s a good thing.” He shivered with revulsion. “That monster came bounding out of the darkness like the Hound of the bloody Baskervilles just as I was… taking a comfort break. I almost had a heart attack! Your dog, sir, could have spelled the end of me!”

  Jack stifled a laugh. The man was clearly one of the special people, not quite on planet earth with everyone else, but he couldn’t afford to offend him. He had a car, and Jack’s feet wouldn’t take too much more walking.

  “I’m very sorry, sir. I’m sure that must have been quite, umm… quite alarming for you.” He took a step towards the station wagon, careful to keep a hold of Boomer’s collar. “I’m Jack, and this is Boomer. I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm. She’s just a friendly dog. I swear to you she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Garside,” the man replied reluctantly, his courtesy just about winning out over his pink-faced indignation. “Douglas Garside. And you should keep that thing on a leash all the same. Dogs should not be allowed to run wild, scaring the wits out of innocent people.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Jack agreed with a firm diplomatic nod. “I’ll be sure to keep her on a tight leash in the future, but in the meantime we’re stranded out here. If I tie her up and keep her away from you could we please get a ride into the next town? We’ve been walking for hours, and I really need to to get home to my daughter. Please?”

  Garside looked down at the dog with a hateful expression, then back up to Jack.

  “Even if I wanted that thing shedding hairs all over my car it would do you no good. I’ve broken down. I’ve been waiting here for a tow truck or a Good Samaritan for several hours, but I haven’t seen a single vehicle on this godforsaken road, and I haven’t been able to get a signal on my blasted mobile.”

  “Your car broke down?” A thought occurred to Jack, and the moment it did he kicked himself for not putting the pieces together hours ago. “What happened? Was it the electrics?”

  Garside nodded, narrowing his eyes. “Well, yes. It seemed as if everything just went haywire in an instant. All the lights lit up on my dashboard, and then the whole thing went dead. How could you possibly know that?”

  Jack laughed out loud. Now it all made sense. That’s why Warren’s plane had fallen out of the sky. It’s why the lights had been out at the gas station. It's why Janice had been struggling to start the generator, and why there had been no cars on the road since he’d first stepped onto the asphalt three or four hours ago.

  “It’s not just your car,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s everything. Everything’s dead.”

  ΅

  CHAPTER SIX

  GRAY'S ANATOMY

  KAREN WATCHED WITH tearful eyes as vomit and dirty gray water sluiced down the drain in the center of the floor, carrying with it the radioactive dust that seemed to have found its way to every inch of her body. The tepid water felt scalding against her inflamed skin, and she wept with pain as Ramos scrubbed her with a wet dishcloth that felt like a steel wool scouring pad.

  “We’re almost done, Karen,” Ramos assured her. “I’m sorry, I know it hurts. It’ll all be over soon. Just hold still a little longer.”

  She was naked, crouched down on all fours with the floor tiles biting into her trembling knees, but she didn’t care. There was no room in her head for self consciousness. The pain was too great to think about anything but the water cascading over her each time the Doc tipped his bucket, and what little space was left was occupied by fear. Fear that she’d end up like the man lying dead in the next room, raving incoherently through her final moments as the sickness stripped her sanity away.

  Finally, after what felt like an agonizing eternity, the faucet stopped running and Ramos announced that she was as clean as she’d ever get. Karen fell sideways with relief, curled in the fetal position on the cool tiles, struggling to hold off the waves of nausea that flowed through her every few moments. She felt like she’d been beaten up. Everything hurt.

  The door back to the office cracked open an inch. Karen knew it was Emily coming to check on her, but she ignored the quiet, concerned voice as her daughter asked Ramos what was happening, and she ignored Ramos himself as he stepped over to the door and whispered that mommy was resting before he closed it in Emily’s face. She didn’t have the energy to face her little girl, nor worry about her fear.

  “How are you feeling?” Ramos asked, crouching into a squat beside her. “How’s the nausea?”

  Karen groaned. She didn’t want to speak for fear that it would bring on another bout of vomiting, but she struggled to get the words out. “Bad. I feel like I’m dying. Am I dying?” She gagged, holding it back with a deep breath. “Be honest with me, Doc.”

  Ramos ignored the question. “Can you follow my finger?” He moved his forefinger back and forth in front of her face. She did her best to keep up, but it was hard to concentrate. “That’s good. Now, can you remember the date of Emily’s birthday?”

  Karen frowned. “What? Why?”

  “Emily’s birthday,” Ramos repeated. “What’s the date?”

  “It’s…” Dredging her memory felt like fighting through a cloud of cotton candy. Everything felt... fuzzy, but it finally came to her. “It’s April fifth.”

  “Good, good,” said Ramos, speaking in a soothing tone. “And can you tell me where you are right now?”

  She struggled up to her elbows, fighting off the spins that hit her as her head left the floor. “I’m in a bathroom by an office under a tunnel on the bridge out of San Francisco, Doc. I’m stark naked and I feel like I’m gonna throw up all over you. Why are you asking me these questions?”

  Ramos replied patiently. “I’m just trying to assess your faculties, Karen. Trust me, this is important.” He touched the back of his hand against her forehead. “How’s your head? Do you have a headache or migraine? Any kind of visual impairment? Maybe you’re seeing spots or colors? Anything like that?”

  “I… I don’t know. I guess my head hurts a little, and everything looks a bit… swimmy. But are you surprised? I must have hit it a dozen times in the last couple of hours.” Now she dragged herself up into a seated position, shuffling on her ass until her back was against the wall. She could breathe a little easier now she was upright.

  “Seriously, Doc,” she said, holding back tears. “I want you to be brutally honest. Don’t sugarcoat it. Am I dying?”

  Ramos took a seat beside her, shifting into place with a sharp intake of breath as the sleeve of his t-shirt shifted across the graze the bullet had scored into his arm. “No sugar coating?”

  “No.” Karen shook her head. “I want to know. Please don�
��t lie to me.”

  Ramos nodded. “OK. OK, here it is. I just don’t know.”

  Karen felt her stomach flip, but this time it wasn't the nausea.

  “This is far from an exact science,” Ramos continued, “and without a lab there’s just no way to know for sure, but based on your symptoms my best guess is that you got a cumulative dose of radiation in the region of two or three Grays.”

  “What does that mean?” Karen demanded. “Roentgens, Grays… these are all just meaningless words, Doc.”

  Ramos fidgeted nervously with his hands, avoiding meeting her eye. “I’m a radiologist, not a radiation oncologist. This really isn’t my specialty, but a typical patient undergoing aggressive radiation therapy will be exposed to a dose of two Grays per session. That’s… well, I don’t want to say the maximum safe dose, because it’s not safe. Two Grays can be fatal, but that’s the maximum dose we’re willing to risk. Anything above that is… well, it’s touch and go.”

  “And you’re saying I got two or three?”

  Ramos shook his head firmly. “I’m guessing, just guessing. I want to make that clear. Like I said, this isn’t my specialty. I’m just looking at your symptoms and making an educated guess. Your nausea, your headache, the radiation burns, your cognitive impairment… I’m guessing you maybe got a little more than two.”

  Karen protested. “Cognitive impairment? No! I followed your finger. I answered your questions. I’m thinking clearly, Doc. There’s nothing wrong with my brain.”

  Ramos rested his hand on Karen’s shoulder. “Karen, you told me Emily’s birthday was April fifth.”

  “Yes! Yes, April fifth, that’s right!”

  Ramos sighed. “I’m so sorry to do this to you, Karen, I really am, but I remember the day Emily was born. I was working that day. I remember Jack pulled me out of a consult to hand me a cigar.” He took Karen’s hand, trying to comfort her. “What I remember clearly was that it was the day after my birthday. It was October eighteenth, Karen.”