The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival) (36 page)

A thin, disheveled woman pushed past the intern and staggered into the room. She searched the near darkness wildly, then stumbled to him. Her face was instantly recognizable to Dr. Parsons, only it seemed to have aged since he had observed it earlier. Now she was a woman weary, ill, and on the verge of madness—if the strange glint in her eyes meant anything.

She clasped him by the front of his dirty jacket, yanking him into her body.
“
You
’
ve got to help me, Doctor! Please, you have to do something.
”
Her arms jerked spasmodically as she held onto him.

He gently attempted to break her grasp.
“
Now, now, try to be calm, Mrs. Harrington. Try to stay calm.
”

She had no more tears to shed, but dry sobs still racked her as she poured out her plea.
“
The medicine is gone, Doctor, and he
’
s in such pain. Can
’
t you give me something for his pain?
”

“
Mrs. Harrington, we don
’
t have anything. We haven
’
t had for a long while,
”
Parsons said.

She sank down on her knees and fastened her arms around his legs.
“
There is no one, if you refuse to help me. I beg of you, have mercy on my poor Ben!
”
she cried.

The others turned their backs to the rending scene. The woman
’
s humility, her self-abasement was a private experience to be shared by her and the man of whom she pleaded.

Parsons gently but firmly lifted her to her feet. Tenderly he brushed the matted hair from her tear-stained face.
“
All right, Mrs. Harrington,
”
he said softly.
“
I do have some morphine.
”
He backed away and unlocked a white metal cabinet. In his hand was a small squat bottle. His reserve—for the ultimate emergency—the last of the precious drug. He placed it on the table.

“
I can
’
t give you all of this but wait a second and I
’
ll draw out enough for one injection.
”
The woman was both pathetic and admirable in her insistence to save her husband. Such a wife every man should have, thought Parsons.

Bending toward the sink he selected an instrument with which to withdraw the fluid.
“
I
’
m sorry that this is the best I can do,
”
he said with genuine regret. Needle poised, he turned to the table to find that she was gone....and the bottle of morphine had disappeared.
 

Sara raced through the darkness of the house, bumping against the wall as she hastened to him.
“
Ben, darling! Ben. It
’
s me. I
’
m back.
”
Swiftly she pushed through to his bedside. By the flickering of a candle, Sara loaded the tube with the narcotic and plunged the needle into his arm.

He received the needle without a hint of awareness. Its fine sharp point split the microscopic nerve filaments, causing short waves of pain that were completely lost in his greater anguish. Physiologically, his systems, his vital organs, were deteriorating. Breathing sluggishly, he moved very little now, but lay still, almost comatose. Unable to take nourishment for the past twenty-four hours, his condition had steadily worsened.

“
Ben, can you hear me, darling?
”
asked Sara as she tenderly ran the wet towel over his neck.

He hadn
’
t spoken in the last day, but soft distressing moans had issued from him, an indication to Sara that the breach between life and death was narrowing.

“
The medicine will help, Ben. You won
’
t hurt now.
”

Sara traced the outline of his brow, pausing to gently caress the tight skin. Parched, cracked lips and the stubble of beard reminded her of his long hours of agony. She murmured soothingly of their lives together, how they had met as young adults, of her happiness with him. Her voice grew sweeter as she recounted glistening moments of pristine bliss that she had shared with him— of the times of exquisite tenderness between woman and man. Whispering softly, she crooned,
“
Please hear me, Ben. Please know that my life had no meaning until you, dear.
”
Finally she sobbed quietly in the dimness of the lone flickering candle, breaking the string of endearments.

A series of harsh, gurgling wails escaped his throat, sending Sara into terrified alarm. Reacting violently, she clutched at him.
“
Oh mercy, Ben! Hold on, darling! I
’
ll give you another shot.
”
Another? She couldn
’
t remember when she had given the last one. Was it too soon for another? Time had no measurement over the past few days, and there was no way of knowing how much time had elapsed since the first morphine was given. If she gave him too much narcotic....but he was in tremendous agony. She must give him relief—it was all she had to give him now.

She quickly, methodically, loaded the instrument a second time. After the briefest hesitation, she shoved it into him. It was done.

Shortly he grew quiet, but his pulse beat in spasmodic jerks that seemed to grow stronger, as though the heart were labored.

It was a Friday night; a night that might ordinarily have found the Harringtons entertaining at a small dinner party or at the theater. Recalling the past, Sara slumped back in the chair and used a towel to wipe the mixture of sebum and grime from her face. She heard him breathing, more calmly now, and continued listening as long as she could.

Discontented with her toiletries, but too weary to do more, she laid her head on the padded arm of the chair and dropped into a light, restless sleep. How long she
’
d slept she didn
’
t know, but the strange unearthly call snapped her to consciousness.

“
Sarrrraaaaa.
”

Instantly awake, her eyes wide with fright,
“
Yes? Ben?
”

There was no answer.

Hadn
’
t he called her name? Maybe she had dreamed it, but she didn
’
t remember a dream.

The night was deathly quiet, an uneasy, unnatural stillness.

God, if only the wind would blow.

Suddenly, the stillness pressed upon her. Sara lurched toward the bed, to Ben. He made no movement. But he was cooler. Ah good, the fever was going. He would feel better now. Without the fever....the fever? She flattened her palm over his brow, then his chest. She laid her cheek against him. Icy sensations coursed through her. He had no body heat. None. He was dead. She lifted her head and sat back. Ben was dead.

A crashing, shattering noise—like an aluminum sheet slapping against a wood frame—jarred her to her senses.

She looked wildly around, expecting unmentionable horrors to descend on her, to steal her life from her.

The clamor repeated itself. Then she knew. The ventilation ducts in the ceiling were being buffeted—buffeted by wind. The wind was blowing. At last.

             
             
             
             
Chapter Fourteen

News that the thermal inversion lifted spread like wildfire through the populace on Saturday. Late night radio and television stations across the nation had broken into their regular programs to make the announcement. The message was flashed to the command posts where rescue squads awaited.

Within the disaster area, change in the climatic condition was signaled by strong northerly winds that swooped cool air into the metropolis where they nudged under the heavy, stale blanket, and carried the pollutant southward. Prevailing air currents rolled high along the Pacific coast before veering oceanward in the vicinity of Baja.

Wind currents are predictable, but temperamental, forces in southern California. Usually cool moist air descends from frontal systems originating over the northwest Pacific. However, opposing flows occasionally develop from warmer latitudes and sneak in from the southern Pacific region. And often periodic drafts blow in from the northeast Nevada area. Rarely, a current dashes straight across the lower half of the state from the ocean and makes a bee-line for the east until it hits first higher elevations, then drops to lower altitudes. The latter course would have meant devastation to one of the two richest agricultural valleys in the state, and the fallout would have settled over a moderately densely populated area.

As it happened, however, the direction the wind ultimately carried the radiation was coastally, allowing minimal amounts of the fallout to deposit along the route to San Clemente, Oceanside, San Diego, and into northwestern Mexico before steering oceanward. Fallout would be dropped into the waters of the blue Pacific, where it would eventually become a factor in the food chain of the marine organisms. That the radiation in all probability would end up in the albacore, bonito, and other tuna—a major source of canned fish—and eventually in the gastrointestinal tract of man was a certainty, but it was the least of the present worries. That it was being brushed onto the ocean and not deeper into the nation was sufficient cause for restrained elation among the people.

Anticipation of the lifting of the thermal inversion had resulted in a massive mobilization of special rescue forces under federal jurisdiction. In collaboration with these forces were smaller units organized at local levels around the perimeter of the disaster zone. The coordination of the forces had begun on Thursday. Ground crews had begun a movement to the outer fringes of the radiation field, and once arrived, they threw out their tents and set up bivouac, awaiting further advancement until a wind shift came to disperse the bulk of the radiation.

On a given signal, air units would be quickly dispatched from far-off bases. As a reconnaissance squadron, the planes had been equipped with special recording instruments with which rapid calculations on the radiation levels could be made. Instructions to the pilots of the crafts had been to fly within recording range, and carry out a series of readings. Under no conditions were the fliers to take their craft into pockets of densely radioactive fields, phenomena that were generally expected by scientists because of the natural, basin-like geography of the area.

Once the advance squad gave the go-ahead, ground forces would begin their entry into the zone. Municipal water tank trucks from surrounding cities had been loaded with their life-saving fluids and pulled into position. Medic squads from across the nation, with vast supplies of medicines and drugs, formed a waiting vanguard. Batteries of scientists—chemists, physicists, biophysicists, biologists, and environmentalists—mingled at the forefront. Troopers, whose single command was to restore order, stood ready in their khaki uniforms with their oiled and shiny rifles nearby. In all, it was a formidable force that stood patiently waiting the singular order—the order to move.

To the southeast, in the tiny hamlet nestled at the foot of the low mountain range, the helicopter set down. The craft had been dispatched from San Diego with material for the group organized at the armory. The last of the packages was being lifted from the craft when the crackling of the radiophone drew the pilot
’
s immediate attention.
“
The word has come!
”
he shouted excitedly to the men standing beside the plane.
“
The wind is up! It
’
s time to go in!
”

In fact, instructions had been specific to the young pilot—he was to proceed directly to the disaster zone and begin his report on the radiation levels. Unfortunately, the remainder of his crew was back in San Diego. Anxious to be one of the first in, he determined to take off northward as soon as he could get someone aboard to do the readings. Leaning out of the plane, he shouted to the men below,
“
Hey, I
’
ve got orders to move, but my crew is at the base. Is there anyone here who can read this Geiger counter and wants to go in with me?
”

The prospect of arriving at the scene before the radiation was widely dispersed appealed to no one. Quickly the knot of men began to break up, with each one moving out of earshot of the pilot.

“
Listen,
”
he shouted at them,
“
I don
’
t know anything about this box and it won
’
t do a bit of good for me to go into L.A. without getting the readings. Come on! Don
’
t any of you know anything about a counter?
”