Apocalypse Atlanta (7 page)

“In the house.” Peter said.  “Basement.”

“Okay.  Let’s go then.”

Peter led the man into the house and down the stairs into the basement.  Amy had rolled off the couch cushions, but was still floundering around on the floor.  She seemed stymied by the belt around her ankles.  There were some marks on her face and chin that hadn’t been there when Peter’d left her . . . scrapes or something.

“Why are her ankles restrained?” the paramedic asked as he set the bags down next to Amy and knelt.

“She kept trying to go up the stairs.” Peter said, feeling helpless.  “Her coordination is gone – I was afraid she’d fall and hurt herself.”

“This is damned odd – ow!” The paramedic yelped as Amy grabbed onto one of his arms and started to bite him just above his wrist.  The man had good reflexes even if it seemed he’d been caught off guard, and managed to yank his hand away just before she managed to get her teeth set in him.  He was left with a bite mark, but it didn’t look too bad.  There was only a little blood.

“Okay, patient is disoriented and aggressive.” the paramedic muttered, standing and moving back from Amy.  He plucked a radio off his belt and keyed the microphone.  “Hey Tim?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re gonna need the backboard down here, and make sure you bring all the restraints down too, okay?”

“Got it.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Peter asked, hating how he sounded.  His voice was desperate, not calm; pleading, not confident.  He couldn’t help it.

“Sir, that’s a determination for the doctors to make.  We’re just here to stabilize her and get her transported.”

Peter watched, his feeling of helpless unabated as the second paramedic joined his partner.  They got Amy strapped onto the backboard, using nylon straps to immobilize her.  It took both paramedics to get her positioned and restrained, she kept trying to fight them.  All without a sound, always eerily silent but insistently combative.  They finally tried sedating her, but it didn’t even make a dent in Amy’s efforts.

The two of them carried her up the stairs and got her onto the stretcher that had been left in the living room.  Peter watched as they just fastened the backboard onto the stretcher, then rolled Amy outside on it.  He trailed after them, unsure what to do.

“Where are you taking her?” Peter asked as they wheeled it down the walk towards the driveway where the ambulance waited.

“Gwinnett Medical.” one of them said over his shoulder.  “Are you riding with us?”

Peter hesitated, then shook his head.  “No.” he said.  “I don’t think she’ll be coming home tonight, so I’d better follow you so I’m not stranded at the hospital.”

“You know where the hospital is?”

“I do.” Peter said as he closed the front door, remembering to lock it.  Amy wouldn’t like it if he left the house unlocked.

“You can follow us, but you’re not an emergency vehicle even if we are carrying your wife.”  The paramedic who’d been bitten said.  He didn’t seem too upset about his injury, seeming to take it in stride as part of the job.  They shoved the stretcher into the back of the ambulance expertly, letting the rear deck of the vehicle fold the stretcher’s legs up as they fed the stretcher in.

“She seems stable for the moment, but if we get another call and have to expedite our arrival, or if her condition deteriorates enroute, we’ll have to go lights and sirens.  If that happens, you can’t trail us when we start blowing through intersections.  If a cop catches you, or the traffic cameras, you’ll be ticketed.”

“I understand.” Peter said, watching as the one who’d been bitten climbed into the back of the ambulance with Amy, and the other started closing the doors.  The last thing he saw before they blocked his view was his wife’s raised head, her empty eyes tracking the paramedic next to the stretcher.

“Okay, we’re going to roll out then.”

“Go, I know the way.” Peter said, turning toward the garage.  He flipped up the cover on the keypad as he heard the ambulance door open and close behind him, and punched in the garage code to open the door as the vehicle’s engine started.  By the time he’d gotten into his GTO, the ambulance was already out of the driveway and headed up the street.  Peter fired the sports car up and backed out, barely remembering to hit the button on the remote clipped to the passenger side sun visor to close the garage door.  He shifted into first and accelerated after the ambulance, catching up just as it reached Highway 78.

He waited behind the ambulance for a break in traffic, then turned out behind them, heading east on 78.  The ambulance made it to the next intersection, then its lights came on, and the siren started wailing.  Peter felt his heart lurch, but his hands on the steering wheel were steady as he gripped it carefully and followed until he finally caught a red light at Fountain Drive.

The ambulance raced east on 78, weaving around cars that were too slow, or their drivers too oblivious, to get out of the way.  Peter swallowed hard.  He made the turn onto Highway-124 behind the usual huge line of cars, 78 and 124 being two of the major thoroughfares in this part of Gwinnett, but almost immediately started darting in and out of traffic, working the GTO up to the head of the pack of cars each time they were bunched up by a traffic light.

When he rolled into the parking lot of the hospital twenty minutes later, he still looked calm, but inside he was numb.  He couldn’t honestly say how he’d gotten here, his driving had seemed to have been almost entirely on automatic responses.  Or the decisions he’d made while driving had been immediately discarded by his mind as irrelevant.

Either way, he didn’t care; he was here.  That’s what mattered.  He jabbed sharply at the button on the ticket machine at the entry to the emergency room parking lot, waited impatiently for the crossbar to rise without bothering to take the ticket the machine spat out, then slid the GTO into the first open space.

He didn’t bother locking it, merely thrust the door open, got out, and slammed it behind himself as he started running for the double doors.  He didn’t care if he never saw the car again, just so long as his wife was okay.  Peter slowed to a rapid walk as he passed inside, and made right for the first admitting window he saw.  The woman seated behind it wearing medical scrubs was calling someone’s name, but Peter got there before whoever she’d called could respond.

“My name is Master Gunnery Sergeant Peter Gibson.” he said in his command voice, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.  “My wife, Amy Gibson, was being brought here ahead of me.  Where is she?” he said as he pulled out his military ID card, which he used to get onto the bases in state to access the exchange stores, and slapped it down on the counter in front of the woman.

He didn’t normally throw his military service in people’s faces, which a lot of his buddies did since these days it often got some preferential treatment, but right now he’d take any advantage that would get him closer to Amy and seeing her made well.  Plus he was pretty damn sure they wouldn’t let just anyone walk in and claim to be a relation to a patient without proof.  The military ID might take care of both issues.

The woman eyed him in surprised irritation, then her eyes flicked down to his card.  A moment later she looked at him.  “If you’ll wait a moment Sergeant, I’ll check for you.”

Peter didn’t bother to correct her as she made the common civilian mistake of shortening his rank, which was the same thing as demoting him multiple grades.  It didn’t matter.  What did matter was that she turned to her computer, and her fingers were typing Amy’s name.  He waited, leaving the card in his hand on the counter, as she finished typing and looked at the screen.  Then something flickered past her eyes, something embarrassed and sad, and she looked back to him.

“Sergeant, you need to wait a moment.”

“I need to see my wife.” Peter replied.

“I know.  But I need to get someone to come talk with you first.” she said apologetically.

Peter said nothing, merely gave her the same look he’d given his Marines when they explained they had to go do something they already should have dealt with.  She wilted under his stare almost immediately, and pushed back from the desk.

He watched her scurry away from the window and disappear around a corner, and looked down at a sharp pain to see he was gripping the plastic coated ID card hard enough for its edges to start biting into his hand.  Forcibly, he relaxed his grip, but he didn’t put the ID away, in case he needed it again.

He waited almost a minute, and was considering if yelling might speed things up, when the door on the wall to his right opened, and a tall woman in a doctor’s coat came out.  She looked around, and came over to him as he turned.

“Mr. Gibson?”

“Yes.” Peter answered.  “Where’s my wife.”

“I’m Doctor Lambert.” the woman said.  “Come with me please.”  She turned back to the door and pulled it open.  Peter followed, catching the door on his shoulder as he did so.  She led him down a hallway bordered by offices, most of which looked to be dedicated to admitting clerks, then turned the first corner.  She stopped at a doorway and gestured for him to enter.  Peter looked, and saw only another office, and stopped in the hallway next to her.

“Where’s my wife?” he asked again.  Amy was not in the room the doctor wanted him to go into.

“Mr. Gibson, I need to talk to you about her, and it might be best if we did that in here.”

Peter resisted, again, the urge to shout, and made no move to enter the office as she’d requested.  He felt a cold feeling spreading through his body, but marshaled his willpower to gaze back at her calmly.  He felt like screaming, like yelling.  Or throwing things, that was always a good release.  But he didn’t do any of that.  He just stood there facing her.

“Tell me Doctor, what’s wrong.” he asked, his voice as calm as he’d made his face.  It was simply the only thing he could think of to avoid delaying things further.  He knew that civilians would not respond well if he went into a full on shouting fit.  Hell, towards the end of his last tour some of the younger Marines hadn’t responded like they should have.  What was the world coming to?

The doctor’s face contorted with something, an expression he recognized after a moment as a mixture of embarrassment and sympathy.  He began to brace himself.  “Mr. Gibson, we don’t know what’s wrong with your wife.”

“Is she dead?” Peter asked, his voice still even only with the most intense of effort.

“That’s . . . we don’t know.”

Peter blinked, then his eyes narrowed.  “How can you not know?” he asked sharply.  “Is she alive?”

Lambert was looking increasingly uncomfortable.  “We don’t know.”

Peter opened his mouth, closed it, then closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.  Exhaling very slowly, he opened his eyes and looked at the woman, who was still watching him awkwardly, sympathetically, and with no small measure of embarrassment.  “Doctor, I’m just barely holding it together here.  My wife is either dead, or she’s alive.  So can we stop . . . whatever’s happening here, and you just tell me what her status is.”

“Mr. Gibson.” The doctor said in a strained voice.  “I assure you, I am not playing games, and I am not trying to make this any harder than it already is.  But we honestly don’t know what’s wrong with your wife.”

“Explain.” Peter said, only just barely keeping from snapping the word at her like an order.

She thrust her hands into her coat pockets, and sighed.  “The paramedics couldn’t find a pulse, and couldn’t hear a heartbeat, or breath sounds when they were transporting her.  But they reported she was still moving.  When we admitted her, we confirmed what they’d told us before arrival.

“I thought they were just poorly trained, rookies or something.  Or that they were missing something, or maybe in too much of a hurry.  But I’ve had a number of medical personnel check your wife after I did, including other doctors.  We’ve tried ten different stethoscopes and three different ECG machines, and they all tell us she’s dead.”  She sighed again.  “Or, she should be.”

Peter said nothing, merely waited.  He watched the doctor visibly gather herself, and after a moment she continued.  “Your wife has been examined by three doctors now.  Her body is not holding heat, and there are signs of lividity in her limbs.  Her heart does not appear to be beating and she does not appear to be breathing.

“We’ve tried a variety of drugs, and she’s not responding to any of them, not even adrenaline delivered directly to the heart.  But she is clearly conscious and still moving.  It’s . . . we don’t know what it is.”  She sighed and shrugged her shoulders helplessly.  “A doctor from neurology is on his way down, and technicians are bringing an EEG machine for him to check your wife’s brain patterns with.  Beyond that, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Can I see her?” Peter asked.

The doctor opened her mouth, but before she could answer Peter heard shouting.  It sounded like it was coming from the waiting room, and he turned involuntarily.  The doctor stepped out of the doorway of the office and peered down the hallway, just in time to see one of the admitting clerks appear looking wildly in all directions.  The man’s eyes seized on Lambert’s white coat immediately.

“Doctor, we need you out here, stat.  The first units are rolling in from the schools, and …”  He hesitated, seemingly searching for words, then finally shrugged.  “We’re gonna need everyone.  Doctor Paulson is on the way down, and he’s apparently calling a lot of other personnel out of the wards to help.” was all he finally said, his eyes flicking to Peter at the last moment as if he was editing himself because of Peter’s presence.