Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga (9 page)

“It’s presenting with typical flu-like symptoms: aches, pains, fever, and nausea.
 
But it’s only taking a few
hours
to bring people to their knees—and loved ones are bringing them
here
.”
 
She shook her head and wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her left hand.
 
“They’re coming in faster than we can process them.”

A commotion by the main entrance to the emergency department caught Nurse Goodson’s eye.
 
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, George,” Nurse Goodson said in a tired voice.
 
“This is bringing back some awful bad memories.”
 
She noticed Brenda for the first time.
 
“Who’s this?”

“I’m Brenda Alston, the new EM resident—“

“All right, Dr. Alston, you’ve got some experience with situations like this, if I remember your file correctly.
 
I know Colonel Seager from our residency years, and he gave you a glowing recommendation.
 
If
that
ornery bastard likes you, I want to see what you can do.”

“Yes, sir,” Brenda said, voice neutral.
 
Nurse Goodson raised an eyebrow and waited patiently, but the corner of her mouth curled up mischievously.

Brenda’s eyes swept over what looked like at least 50 to 75 people in various states of distress, standing, sitting, and laying down.
 
Coughing, wheezing, crying, moaning—the sounds alone were sickening.
 
And the smell!
 
More than one person had vomited on the floor and several of the younger children appeared to be suffering from diarrhea.
 
Brenda tried desperately to calm the nerves that had bound her up inside like coiled springs, quivering with unreleased energy.
 

 
“’Chief’ will do,” said the older man without a smile.
 
He folded his arms across his damp chest.
 
The man looked to be in his mid-50s but was built like a bear.
 
“What are your recommendations?” He arched one of the gray caterpillars above his eyes and watched her intently.
 
Nurse Goodson checked her watch.

Summoning all of her willpower, Brenda clamped down hard on her memories of The Pandemic as they nibbled away at the edge of her mind.
 
She slowly eyed the area and ignored the three doctors behind her.
 
She could feel the sneers directed at the back of her head.
 

She closed her eyes and was back in the forward medical base in Iran where she had spent so much time after med-school.
 
The Reserves had been called up just as she was ready to start her second year of med school, when Iran had attacked Israel.
 
When the United States invaded Iran, she too, went to war.
 
As a result, Brenda had spent more time in field hospitals than classrooms.
 
Her invaluable military training now took over as she assessed the situation.
 
She opened her eyes and took in the entire scene.

“We’re going to need triage tents in the parking lot, to quickly examine and get the worst of them inside.
 
Treat and release the walkers,” she said.
 
“Right now everyone is mixed together—we could have cross-infections and just spread…
whatever
it is…even more.
 
Plus it’s a real Charlie-Foxtrot in here.
 
We need space to work.”
 

She glanced at the number of chairs in the large entryway and continued: “We need to scan for communicables and weed those out as well.
 
Walkers that make it
this
far are the worst and need to be treated—like,
yesterday
.
 
We need to be collecting names and info all the way up to here and
here
,” she said, pointing out workstations at strategic points in the waiting area.
 
“I recommend we clear some space for visitors and well-patient walkers so they can get inside without contracting anything—better yet, until we get a handle on this, family and visitors need to stay outside.”

“What’s a
Charlie-Foxtrot
?” whispered someone behind her.

The Chief looked at Nurse Goodson and received a nod.
 
He scanned the room.
 
“Good ideas.
 
What else?”

“What about—” started the red-haired doctor.

The Chief raised his hand and got silence.
 
He nodded to Brenda, a look in his eye that looked vaguely familiar to her.
 
She last saw that look from The Colonel back in Afghanistan when he was testing her.
 
He had become sort of surrogate father to her and she desperately wished he were here now.
 

“I like what I’m hearing.
 
Go on, Dr. Alston.”

“Well,” she said, and cleared her throat.
 
Her old battlefield confidence returned as she continued, “I don’t know the day-to-day routines around here, but where
I’m
from, this would be considered a
significant
number of people you got here.
 
There’s something going on.
 
Is it just beginning?
 
How long have they been coming in?
 
Is it localized?
 
Can we expect more?
 
I heard on the radio the flu is making a comeback.
 
Is
that
what we’re dealing with?
 
For that matter, how is the Department set—did some event happen that will dump a lot of traumas on us, too—a big accident or train wreck or something?”

“I like her,” said Nurse Goodson with a smile.
 
“I guess you can stay.”

“Nurse Goodson!” someone called out near the main entrance where a man was thrashing about on the floor.
 
Two nurses struggled to hold him still.

“Duty calls,” she said and shook Brenda’s hand.
 
“Welcome aboard, Dr. Alston.
 
I look forward to working with you.”

“Excellent.”
 
The Chief said as the Charge Nurse worked her way towards the disturbance.
 
He turned to the two doctors behind him.
 
“Dr. Alston is our newest 4
^th
year resident.
 
A
resident
, gentlemen.
 
Yet, she thinks like one of us.
 
Why?
 
Because she has real-world experience—battlefield experience.
 
Dr. Alston was with the Army in Iran during The Aftermath.”

“
Hooah
, sir,” she said smartly.
 
“Iran for two years, then Active Reserves stateside for five at Walter Reed.
 
Uncle Sam put me through med-school. I’m inactive, as of last week.”

“Very good.
 
I’m sure we’ll all get to know each other soon.
 
Right now, we have sick people that need our help.”
 
He clapped his hands again.
 
“All right, Lewis, I want you to put her suggestions in place.
 
Nancy will be taking the lead on this, find out what she needs and coordinate with the nurses.”
 
Dr. Fletcher nodded and scribbled some notes on his clipboard.
 

“And Stanley, make sure Henry gets those PAs.
 
Pull ‘em off all non-critical cases.”
 

Before the pinched-face doctor could protest, he turned to Brenda. “Good thinking, Alston. I’m setting you up at a desk with a phone.”
 
He raised his right hand.
 
“I know, you want to help and jump in there with the rest of us.
 
But you picked a hell of a day to start.”
 
He frowned, as if disappointed with his own speech.
 

“We need to know what we’re facing here.
 
I want you to find out from the area hospitals if this is localized, spreading or…”
 
He paused and looked back into the room.
 
“Okay?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Didn’t I say ‘Chief’ was fine?”
 
He flashed a grin that was gone in a heartbeat.
 
“Welcome aboard, Dr. Alston.”
 
Dr. Honeycutt pointed toward the front reception desk.
 
“You’ll find phones and directories over there.
 
Get to it and let me know what you find out.
 
I need to go find some clean scrubs.”
 

Brenda picked up the phone at the front desk.
 
A clipboard held the phone numbers to all local hospitals.
 
There was a map tapped to the back of a clipboard, displaying their locations.
 
She picked up the phone and dialed the first number on the list.

Maybe this is for knocking him down…
she thought miserably.

Brenda felt a tug on her sleeve and turned just in time for an elderly man to vomit on her shoes.
 
After he had finished emptying his stomach, the wrinkled old man looked up at Brenda with rheumy eyes and smiled.
 
Brenda sighed.
 

First days
suck
.

C
HAPTER
5

Chula Vista, California.

M
ASTER
C
HIEF
P
ETTY
O
FFICER
, Cooper Braaten, lay by the pool in his teammate’s backyard and felt truly relaxed for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.
 
He could hear Charlie’s wife and young son splashing in the shallow end, playing with an innocence that was more comforting than anything he could imagine.
 
He could feel a delicious stretch in his arms and back that made him instantly sleepy.

Cooper stretched out on a lounge chair, arms behind his head, eyes closed, and exhaled a sigh of contentment as he basked in the warm early autumn California sun.
 
Winter was not that far off, but in sunny SoCal, the snow blasted memories of his youth in Michigan melted peacefully away.
 

Cooper sighed at the realization that he would be mustered out of the service on Monday, now that the final surgery to reconstruct his knee was complete and rehab had all but wrapped up.
 
Honestly, he was sad to leave SEAL Team 9, but he was looking forward to starting a lucrative new career in the private-sector with Oakrock Security.
 
A six-figure salary out the gate—they had made an offer he couldn’t possibly refuse.
 

Stranger things have happened
, he thought.
 
The soon-to-be retired Master Chief felt a smile split his face.

“Look at you, only a few days till you’re out and you’re already going soft.”

Cooper cracked his eyes at the voice and waited for them to adjust to the sunlight.
 

“Laying around in a lounge chair at 1400 hours—on a
weekday
—grinning like a damn
civilian
.
 
And the shame of it is, just last week you were in command of a first-rate, lean, mean, terrorist killing SEAL fireteam,” said his longtime second-in-command, Charlie Marshal.
 

“Hey, I ain’t dead, yet.
 
I’m still in charge,” Cooper objected, still smiling.

“In charge of a
wheelchair
, yeah,” laughed Charlie.
 
“Here, gimpy, have a beer.”

Cooper grinned and sipped the ice cold brew with his eyes closed.
 
He turned his head and shielded his eyes with a hand to see Charlie standing over him, hands on hips, his tanned physique marred with the calling cards of their shared profession.
 
Bullet wounds, knife scars, imperfections caused by the chafing of gear or heat of fire.
 
His chest and back were the story of his career in the Navy.
 
Anyone with experience in the field knew right away, he wasn’t just a soldier or sailor, he was an
operator
.
 
Cooper grinned.
 
A younger version of himself.

“How’s the knee?” Charlie asked with mock concern and smacked Cooper playfully as he sat like a coiled spring in the next chair.