Chapter 16

In twelve years of soldiering, Fulton had never seen a military installation so woefully understaffed. Other than the NCO in charge, there were only two other individuals manning the HHQ, and they both looked to be in even worse shape than the NCO.

“What do you mean they all left?” he asked. “When?”

“Last night, around twenty-two-hundred,” First Sergeant Elizabeth Kurian replied in a weak voice.

Her sallow face showed evidence of radiation burns to her forehead, cheeks, and nose. Not the severe, deep tissue burns he’d seen in the high school trauma ward, but a sure sign nonetheless that she’d received a significant dose of the deadly radiation.

“Where did they go?”

“Same as you. I sent them to Mission Hospital.”

When Fulton and Ibarra departed yesterday, only four guardsmen showed symptoms. The ones who’d gone outside to witness the blast, receiving what would likely end up being a fatal dose of gamma radiation as their reward. But everyone else on staff that day had eventually fallen ill a few hours later. Apparently, the brick-clad administrative offices and maintenance sheds provided scant protection, unless you happened to have been inside the heavily reinforced arms room.

Unable to reach the battalion commander, or anyone else for that matter, and with her entire staff puking their guts out, First Sergeant Kurian made the difficult decision to send most of those under her command to seek medical attention in Asheville, while she and a skeleton staff remained behind to secure the armory.

“What can I do for you, First Sergeant?” he asked, feeling helpless. “Let me at least take you to get help.”

She waved her hand. “I’ll be fine, Sergeant. Debrief me on your mission. How did it go?”

He related the events of the previous evening, starting with his observations of the chaos in Asheville, his encounter with the school teacher, Mike Messina, on the side of the highway, and the ad hoc treatment facility he and the pharmacist managed to cobble together.

“Sounds like you got lucky running into this Messina guy,” she observed.

“If any of them survive, it’ll be because of him, First Sergeant. He even got the Beast running right. The guy’s solid. For a civilian.”

Kurian nodded her agreement. “Sounds like it. How many of their students did you say were sick?”

“Thirty or thirty-five by the time we left.”

“And that was out of what? Sixty?” she asked, receiving confirmation from him. “So we’re talking a better than fifty percent casualty rate in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Sounds about right, First Sergeant.”

She shook her head. “My god. What about Morgan Creek? What do you think is going on over there?” she asked, intrigued by his report of their encounter at the police roadblock.

“My guess is they’re trying to keep out folks coming up from the bigger cities and using up all their resources. Mike managed to get in there before they closed the roads, and he said their only clinic was overrun with casualties.”

“Yet they still turned away your offer to help. I wonder why.”

Fulton shrugged. “You know how it is with some of these rural rednecks, First Sergeant. Don’t trust the government, we can do it better. To them, we’re all Feds.”

“True enough, Sergeant. True enough.” She steepled her fingers and thought for a moment. “I want you and Corporal Ibarra to hitch a trailer and resupply with as much first aid supplies, MREs, and fuel as you can carry, and proceed to rally point one. Then I want you to integrate with whatever units you find there.”

Fulton stared at his NCOIC. “Are you kidding? I’m not leaving you here by yourself. All due respect, First Sergeant, but fuck that. Ibarra and I are going to stay right here and help you secure this facility.”

Kurian laughed at his insubordination. A weak, sickly laugh with very little humor behind it. “That’s not your decision to make, Sergeant. Those are my orders, and I expect them to be followed.”

Ever the dutiful soldier, he clenched his jaw and grudgingly nodded. “Yes, First Sergeant.” Then something occurred to him that he never thought he’d have to consider. “What if we don’t find any other units out there?”

Kurian breathed deeply. “In that case, Sergeant, I expect you to use your best judgment. Do whatever you can to help the surrounding communities while trying to reestablish contact with the chain of command. Is that clear?”

Fulton snapped to attention. “Hooah, First Sergeant.”

While driving through the outskirts of Asheville, en route to the rally point, the true magnitude of the bomb’s destructive power came into stark focus. The sick and dying loitered in parking lots and on sidewalks by the hundreds. Stricken families shambled aimlessly down streets in search of help they would never receive. Here and there, unconscious or dead bodies lie where they fell. Not just people, but dogs, squirrels, and birds too.

In less than a day, the vibrancy and luster of the city’s eclectic, bohemian residents had dulled to gray, harkening back to the haunted, shell shocked villagers Fulton frequently saw during his tour in Afghanistan. For the first time in a long time, Ibarra had nothing to say. He just stared out the window, taking it all in.

Pulling into the Norfolk Southern rail yard, he was both relieved and dismayed. Relieved that at least one other unit had made it. Dismayed that there were no others. He hopped out of the Beast to meet with their unit leader.

“Staff Sergeant Charmagne Pollard, 868th Engineer Company out of Naples,” she said, introducing herself first.

“Sergeant Fulton Chapman, 105th MP Battalion, Asheville HHQ. What the hell are you driving there, Staff Sergeant?” he asked, gesturing to her vehicle.

The hefty blonde looked back over her shoulder at the old M35-series cargo truck. “Shit, ain’t you never seen a deuce-and-a-half before, Sergeant?”

“Only in the movies,” he said. “How long have you been waiting?”

“We rolled into town about oh-six-thirty. How many are with you?”

“Just me and Corporal Ibarra,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

“Just the two of you? Shit. And neither of you’s a medic, either. Figures. Fuck it. Five’s better’n three, that’s for damned sure. That there’s Specialist Draper. PFC Skansi’s in the back of the deuce, sick as a mutt.”

“Have you made contact with any other units?”

“Just yours. In fact, if you two hadn’t showed up when you did, I was fixin’ to lit out to Black Mountain and see if maybe we couldn’t find her some help over that way.”

“You try Mission Hospital?”

The Staff Sergeant made a face. “Fuck no. Couldn’t get within a quarter mile of that place. Civilian police got most of the roads leading in blocked off. You having any luck with that radio, Corporal?”

“Negative, Staff Sergeant. We’re transmitting in the blind,” Ibarra reported.

“Our final order was to rally here and link up with you,” Fulton informed her.

“How are you supplied?”

“First aid, MREs, and diesel. You?”

“About the same. We also got some electrical equipment with us. A couple gennies, spools of wire, insulators, shit like that. Thought we might be able to help get some power back up, but whoever did this to us must’ve taken out our substations, so we ain’t fixing shit. That derrick digger over there is ours too,” she said, pointing to a white International 7400 with a telescoping auger and two bare utility poles strapped to its back, “but it’s about as useless as tits on a bull right now.”

“You an electrician?” Fulton asked Specialist Draper.

Draper shook his head. “Negative, Sergeant. Lineman, with Piedmont Energy.”

Fulton nodded, then regarded the ranking woman. “Well, this is your show now, Staff Sergeant. What are your orders?”

She didn’t hesitate. “PFC Skansi’s my top priority. I want to get her looked at before we do anything else. I’m open to suggestions, if you got any.”

He lifted his lips and nodded. “Yeah. I think I know just the place.”

After the longest day of her career, Linda finally returned home, shortly before three in the afternoon, to get out of her vomit and shit-stained clothes, take a hot shower, and catch a few hours of sleep, before returning to Leavitt Hall for orderly duty.

That pharmacist, Kali, was a relentless taskmaster, and while Linda appreciated her efforts to bring a spiraling situation under some measure of control, she would need to reign her in at some point. Scirewood was Linda’s domain, and any newcomers would be required to take their directions from her.

Upstairs in her bedroom, she found Kristin tucked into her bed. She’d nearly forgotten the young administrator was still there, and came to her side when she opened her eyes.

“You’re back,” Kristin said in a weak voice.

Linda paled when she saw the telltale signs of radiation sickness she’d become intimately familiar with after several shifts in the trauma ward. The small trash can from the bathroom lay on the floor by the side of the bed, recently used. Linda put her hand on Kristin’s forehead.

“I’m sorry it took me so long. How are you feeling?”

“Sick. Think I have the flu.”

Linda gave her a sad smile and caressed her cheek. “I’ll warm up some soup and bring it up to you.”

Kristin shook her head. “I’m not hungry. Can’t keep anything down.”

“I want you to try anyway.”

She silently appraised the young woman’s condition. Kristin had mild burns on her face and shoulders. Not nearly as severe as the students who’d been outside, and that made perfect sense. Kristin would have been inside when the bomb went off, and had the whole two-story house over her for protection.

If Linda had to guess, Kali would have put Kristin in the likely to survive category. Still at risk, but treatable with the right care. If Linda could just get her hands on some of the medication, she could treat Kristin herself, right inside her own house, and no one would need to know she was there. Not until she was better.

After heating some soup on the stove, Linda stripped down and took a long, hot shower. Then she crawled naked into bed next to Kristin to snuggle with her. Kristin turned onto her side and pressed her bare back against Linda’s body to spoon, and the two women soon drifted off to sleep.

Under the spectral glow of the aurora, Mike marched up the dewy grass hill from Leavitt Hall to Overton House, delirious with fatigue and highly agitated. Just inside the front entryway, Kali and Renata set up a station for orderlies to wash their hands with sanitizing gel, and to don gloves and a mask. The earlier cordon had been enhanced with two sheets hung across the transition to the common areas, just beyond the dormitory supervisor’s bedroom.

He walked inside to the trauma ward, his eyes scanning for Natalie and Taylor. When he found the two girls, lying side by side on the carpeted floor of the TV room, he pressed his fist against his mask and shut his eyes. He hadn’t seen either of them since the night before, and their dire condition was nearly more than he could bear to look at.

Their breathing was labored. Some of their blisters had opened, draining their fluid to reveal the delicate, moist dermis underneath. Tiny ulcerations dotted their chest and neck. The nurses and orderlies had applied bandages to some of these open wounds, but hadn’t been able to keep up with all of them. Seeing their condition now, he was immensely grateful for the sedatives and powerful pain medication that eased their suffering.