Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  “That,” Richard said tiredly, “is precisely what I am implying.”

  “But, but…we pay our taxes,” the man stuttered. “My wife and I have been dutiful citizens all this time. Why would they do this to us? We’re the good guys.”

  “One-hundred-and-sixty-two!” someone called from the front.

  “That’s my number,” Richard said, straightening. But before he left, he leaned close to the man. “Spread the word. People need to know what’s happening and what our president is capable of.” Then he left the couple and shook CJ’s shoulder.

  “That’s our number, CJ. Are you ready?”

  With effort, CJ used the chair handles to push himself up onto shaky feet, but May didn’t move. Without CJ’s support, her head slouched lower on her chest.

  Richard crouched and patted her knee. “May, can you wake up?”

  “One-hundred-sixty-two!” the man called again.

  “Here!” Richard said, waving a hand. “Just a moment. May, are you ready?”

  She sniffed awake, looking around in momentary confusion, and then nodded. Richard and CJ each took an arm to help her up.

  “Wait!” she cried, eyes closing to stave off the dizziness.

  “One-hundred-sixty-three!” the man up front called.

  “No!” Richard shouted. “Stop!”

  He had no choice but to hand dizzy May off to her aged husband. Then he pushed through the crowd to the row of desks. A young father and his children were moving to the open seats. Richard cut in front of them.

  “My apologies,” Richard said, “but we’re here. One-hundred-and-sixty-two. Look, my number,” he said, pulling it out. “My in-laws are old and struggling to make it up here, but we’re here. Please.”

  The man behind the desk didn’t seem happy to be kept waiting, but he waved the father and his children back. Then he held a hand out to Richard.

  “Cards.”

  “Let me grab them.” Richard ran back to help CJ and May move through the crowd. Then he handed all three of their citizenship cards to the man. The hospital worker swiped them and checked each card against their faces.

  “Is Curtis John Trenton the patient?” he asked.

  “Curtis John and May Trenton,” Richard said. “Both have taken ill.” He didn’t mention himself because there already wasn’t enough money.

  As if reading Richard’s thoughts, the man said, “How much money do you have available for treatment?”

  “I’m not really sure,” Richard said, suddenly remembering that he hadn’t given Oliver any money. He pulled out his wallet. “Let me see. I have around three hundred and—”

  The man snatched the bills clean from Richard’s hand. He counted the money twice and put it in his drawer. Then he wrote Richard out a receipt.

  Panicked, Richard eyed that drawer. It held the entire financial security of his clan. “How much treatment will that cover? We were hoping to not have to use all of their money.”

  “Do I look like a doctor? The medical staff will decide what treatment to give based on the money written on this receipt. If there’s any leftover money, it will be returned to you upon checkout, but only if you have this receipt, so don’t lose it.”

  “Okay,” Richard said, feeling even more exhausted. “Just out of curiosity, is it normally this busy here?”

  All anger seemed to dissolve from the man. He ran a hand down his face. “I’ve never seen it like this in twenty years.”

  Probably why he was so short-tempered.

  “Well,” Richard said, “thank you for your help and good luck.” Because if this epidemic kept sweeping through the population, the man would need it.

  They all would.

  * * * * *

  Once the fire was strong enough it wouldn’t blow out, Greg stepped back into the shrubs and waited for somebody to notice. The dumpster was made of metal, and there would be plenty of water in the kitchen on the other side of that gray metal door, making his plan harmless. Except…the fire kept growing, catching more and more things ablaze within the dumpster, and not a soul in the hospital came out.

  When the orange flames rose above the top of the dumpster, Greg started to panic. He could feel the heat from fifteen feet away and he feared for the wood fence and nearby shrubs. Yet the gray metal door stayed sealed. If somebody didn’t notice soon, the fire would be beyond control.

  Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t do anything stupid. No matter how many times people told him, he couldn’t—

  A tiny boom sounded, and the fire leapt another five feet. Greg knew he had overdone the flammable materials.

  Other people in the parking lot noticed the flames, and cries of alarm went up. A few people peeked down from upper hospital windows to see the cause of the black rising smoke, but no hospital staff.

  Wanting to shoot himself and his stupid plans, Greg ran to the metal door and pounded on it.

  “Open up!” he yelled. “You’ve got a fire out here!”

  He kept pounding until the metal door flung open. Seeing the fire in the dumpster, a woman cried out in shock. A man swore loudly.

  “What did you throw away?” the man shouted at her.

  “Nothing!” the woman said.

  Ditching all previous plans, Greg stepped into full view. He was going on instinct now, and instinct told him that they only had a few minutes before the fire reached the trees and the hospital itself.

  “You got any buckets in there?” Greg asked. “A hose? Anything? We gotta get this under control.”

  The workers ran back inside, and the metal door slammed shut. Again. The fire dipped below the top of the dumpster, making it look like it might go out on its own. If that was the case, his plan was still idiotic because the door was—

  Another explosion sounded.

  Greg jumped back as the fire leaped up, snagging the first branches of a nearby tree. Black smoke billowed. He shielded his face, but the first of the smoke hit his lungs, and he started to cough.

  Even more desperate, he pounded on the door again. “C’mon! We don’t have time!”

  The door flew open. Several people rushed out, each with buckets and huge pots. They threw water on the flames. It did nothing to squelch them.

  “Where are more buckets?” Greg asked the nearest man.

  “On the left,” the man said, waving Greg inside. “Hurry.”

  Greg sprinted inside and ignored every desire to make a run for it. He’d started the fire. He’d have to finish it. Through the chaos of people running into the kitchen, he found a large pitcher and darted after the others.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid! Greg continued to yell at himself.

  As he ran to the nearest massive sink, the inefficiency of their work struck him, and he shouted at them to switch to a water bucket line. People listened. Up and down they passed buckets like the clan sometimes did during droughts, tripling their efficiency.

  The flames disappeared below the top of the dumpster. Several more buckets, and it was nothing but smoke, but they kept working. By then, scores of people had gathered in the parking lot on the other side of the fence to watch. More huddled around windows overhead.

  As the smoke dissipated, the other half of Greg’s brain kicked back into gear. Things seemed in control outside, and every person dumping water wore their citizenship cards in lanyards around their necks. Any second, somebody would notice that Greg didn’t have one.

  Pretending to search for more buckets inside, he left the line and slipped into a corner of the kitchen near the giant ovens. He coughed and swallowed hard to clear the irritation in his lungs while watching people streaming in from the hall. When there was a break in people, he quietly made his exit.

  The hospital hallway was just as chaotic with people rushing back and forth. A man wearing scrubs saw Greg and ran toward him.

  “Which way to the fire?” the man asked.

  Greg covered his mouth with both hands to keep his chest—and lack of ID—hidden. “That way,” he said in
between coughs. “Out the kitchen. Careful of the smoke.”

  Greg turned the corner and sped-walked down another hallway past the cafeteria, coughing enough to justify both hands at his mouth. But even that wouldn’t hide his lanyard-less-ness forever. He needed ID.

  He hobbled toward an elevator as if he’d done this every day of his life, hoping the confidence made him look less suspicious. Once the doors closed, he didn’t push any buttons to give himself a moment to figure out his next move. His skin and clothes were smeared black. That would distract people, and his lungs still felt on fire with smoke, making a few coughs legit.

  But still.

  According to the buttons, there were six floors. He had no clue where to find Carrie and his grandparents. None of the buttons were labeled with departments, and he hadn’t seen a hospital map. How was he supposed to find anybody this way? Oliver and the others went in through the ER, but would they still be there, or would the staff quarantine this cursed disease to a special section of the hospital?

  Should he be searching the morgue instead?

  His pent-up frustration exploded. He whirled and punched the wall of the elevator. Not hard, but the elevator dinged and started moving upward. He straightened in time for the doors to open on the second floor.

  Two nurses were waiting to ride up, so Greg covered his mouth to cough and shot out of the elevator as if he’d wanted to be on the second floor the whole time. The last thing he needed was to be stuck in a small confined space with hospital staff.

  The longer he wound through hallways, the faster he went. Radiology, Cardiology, and too many other -ologies. He’d always prided himself on a good sense of direction, yet a few minutes inside, and he didn’t know north from south. Thankfully, the only people who spoke to him asked him which direction the fire was, but every time he passed a guard with a gun, his pulse leapt.

  In the next hallway, he saw a cart of unattended linens. The guy who had been pushing it stood near a window watching the smoke, telling a janitor how awful it was that “the rebels were targeting hospitals now.”

  Without slowing, Greg grabbed a stack of sheets from a shelf and kept walking. He hugged the sheets to his chest. Not a perfect way to hide his lack of ID, but better than keeping both hands at his mouth.

  That’s when he heard the sirens.

  Fire trucks.

  He was distracted enough by the sound that he nearly ran over a large, ornery-looking woman.

  “What are you doing?” she said, stumbling back. “You’re not supposed to be in this area. Where’s your ID?”

  Greg bent in half and mimicked his mom’s raspy cough. “Sorry. Where do I go for…” Another cough. “…smoke inhalation? Somebody said ER?”

  Her eyes narrowed on his dark smudges, and she pointed him back the way he’d come. “Down to the first floor. Turn left and take your second right. There’s an information desk there. They can direct you to the ER. Unless you need me to escort you? Are you well, sir?” she asked as Greg continued to hack away, doubled-over.

  Nodding, he waved her off.

  When he reached the information desk, he changed tactics. The ER was sure to be packed with security guards. Clutching his pile of bed sheets, he asked, “Can you page somebody for me?”

  “Who would you like to page?” the receptionist asked, barely looking up.

  “Officer Simmons. Tell him he’s needed in”—Greg looked down the hallway—“the outpatient lab, stat.”

  fifty-six

  “TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH,” somebody said. “Where have you been?”

  With effort, Greg straightened. A tall, balding patrolman strode toward him, looking haggard and spent.

  Oliver.

  Greg could have kissed him.

  “You knew I was gonna break into the hospital?” Greg said.

  Oliver rolled his eyes. “I knew it the second you climbed into my trunk. How did you get past security?”

  “I had to get a little creative.”

  Eyes narrowing, the patrolman took in the dark smudges covering Greg. He shook his head. “That was you?”

  “Maybe.” Greg looked around. “Where are the others?”

  “This way.”

  Oliver ducked past a nurses’ station and headed for the stairwell. They took the stairs two at a time, Greg still clutching his pile of linens.

  “How’s Carrie?” Greg asked, voice echoing in the empty stairwell.

  “She’s been on an IV for over an hour,” Oliver said. “The only improvement I see is that her feet aren’t blue anymore. I have no idea where your grandparents and Richard ended up. Sorry, but it’s been crazy.”

  Oliver gripped the hand railing, huffing with the assent. “How are you going to hide the fact that you don’t have a citizenship card—or do you plan to hold those sheets forever?”

  “Seen any dead guys?” Greg asked. “I need to swipe somebody’s lanyard.”

  Stopping, Oliver glared over his shoulder. “If you’re arrested, I’m not bailing you out.”

  “Don’t worry. I have a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  “Which is…?”

  Greg didn’t say. He just kept climbing. His bad leg ached, and the rest of him didn’t feel too hot either. Not enough food or sleep to fuel the body.

  “Did the doctors give you any indication if the treatment will work?” he asked.

  “No. They almost didn’t treat her, so I had to get a little creative, too. By the way,” Oliver said, “they think Carrie is the daughter of a high-ranking official.”

  “Nice,” Greg said.

  “No, it’s dangerous, but I didn’t have a choice. I’m glad you’re here, though. I have to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to salvage my job,” Oliver said.

  Before Greg could ask what he meant, Oliver reached a door. “Alright,” he said softly. “Stay close.”

  They exited the stairwell on the third floor and headed for a sign which read Obstetrics. Greg hung close to Oliver, hoping nobody would question a soot-covered guy with a patrolman. When Oliver reached a set of double doors, he pressed a button on the wall and looked directly into a small camera lens, holding up his ID as he did.

  “Yes?” somebody said through a speaker.

  “Officer Simmons back for room 322.”

  As the doors swung open, Greg frowned at the speaker. He wasn’t getting back in here without Oliver.

  Neither man spoke as they passed room after room. It was a quiet corner of the hospital, and Greg only saw three nurses. When they reached room 322, he held his breath, anxious.

  Then he saw her.

  Carrie.

  She was alone in the darkened room. Machines beeped and hummed around her. She had an oxygen tube taped beneath her nose and an IV strapped to her hand.

  An unexpected wave of emotion hit him. The IV. The dark room. The smell of disinfectant. The fear of death. In a pale hospital gown, Carrie looked so similar to how Greg’s sister had the last minutes of her life—so peaceful—that his chest constricted. He didn’t want Carrie to look peaceful. He wanted her pained grimace back, her hands covering her eyes. He wanted some sign that she was still aware, still feeling, still…here.

  Sitting next to her, he took her free hand. It wasn’t as cold as before, and while her coloring was still pallid, her cheeks had more form, more bulk. The IV liquids were helping even if the medicines weren’t. He told himself she was getting better. She was.

  She had to be.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. “You doin’ any better?”

  He didn’t expect a response, but Oliver shifted uncomfortably behind him.

  “If the doctor or nurses come back like they promised,” Oliver said, “you’re going to need some kind of ID. I’ll go peek around.” But before he left, he stabbed a finger in Greg’s direction. “Don’t wake her up.”

  As the door closed, Greg scooted his chair closer to Carrie. He brushed some hair from her forehead, adjuste
d her blankets even though they didn’t need adjusting, and read the screens on the machines until his eyes blurred. Then he figured he needed a backup plan.

  He searched the room for a hiding spot in case somebody came in who wouldn’t appreciate his illegal status. No closets, dark corners, or curtains, but there was a tiny bathroom. Unfortunately, it was next to the door where the staff would enter. He wouldn’t reach it in time unless he hid there now. But that meant leaving Carrie’s side, which he refused to do.

  As he waited, his eyelids grew heavy. He kept telling himself that she looked better, that it was working, but the despair was as consuming as the exhaustion.

  The door cracked open, and his heart kicked into full throttle. He started to crouch behind Carrie’s bed, but it was just Oliver ducking back in.

  “Here,” Oliver said, handing Greg a lanyard. “It’s not perfect but better than nothing.”

  Greg inspected the green card tucked inside the plastic sleeve. A middle-aged Asian lady smiled up at him. Interesting, but better than nothing. Greg wrapped it around his neck so the lady’s picture faced his chest.

  “Is she gonna miss this?” he asked.

  “The woman was covered with a sheet a few rooms down. Hopefully the staff won’t notice her card is gone. Now…” Oliver said, “I really have to go. I’ll be back when I can. If I find Richard, I’ll tell him where you are. Oh, and they’re expecting Carrie’s father to send more money tonight, only I’m broke, so I’m not sure what to tell you on that.”

  “That’ll make things interesting,” Greg said. “Anything else?”

  “Probably, but I don’t know what.” Oliver rubbed his eyes. “Man, I dread going back. Jamansky is going to throw a fit. He’s paged me four times in the last twenty minutes. I missed his mandatory meeting, and I completely skipped my patrols last night. He was already making my life miserable. How will he punish me now?”

  Probably in a way that would punish the clan as well.

  “You know,” Greg said, “if there’s ever a day you gotta quit your job, the clan will support your decision.”