Sunrise (3 page)

“Drive,” I told Ed. “I’ll help load. We need to pick up Aunt Caroline and get back to Dr. McCarthy. Fast.”

Ed nodded and vaulted out of the bed.

I ran ahead of the truck with three others. We loaded the injured into the bed and dragged the dead to the sides of the road while Ed inched the truck forward. By the time we got to Aunt Caroline, the bed was full. People lay practically atop each other, and the floor was awash in blood. We laid Aunt Caroline on the open tailgate, and Uncle Paul crouched next to her, holding on to her with one hand and the side rail of the truck with the other. I helped a woman who’d been shot in the foot hobble into the cab and squeezed in beside her. Ed goosed the gas, and we raced back toward the farm.

I was out of the cab, sprinting to get Dr. McCarthy, even before the truck rolled to a stop. I found him on the leeward side of the partial stockade wall. A large fire had been built there, and five pots of water were suspended above it on a wire. The tables from Uncle Paul’s kitchen and dining room were beside the fire, one clear, the other stacked high with blankets, bandages, towels, and medical instruments.

“How many injured?” Dr. McCarthy barked.

“Sixteen on this truck,” I gasped. “More coming on the other truck and on foot.”

“Truck? Never mind. Run to the house. Get Belinda. And round up anyone who’s steady enough to help.”

I turned toward the house. Dr. McCarthy was already gone, running the other way, toward the truck.

Belinda, Alyssa, and Max were in the living room, caring for convalescents from the last disastrous fight between Stockton and Warren.

Alyssa gasped as she caught sight of me. “What happened?”

I glanced down—my clothing was caked with blood. Some of the blood had already dried and started to flake off; some of the blood was still fresh, glistening in the firelight. “It’s not my blood. Dr. McCarthy needs help. Sixteen injured. Badly More coming.”

They dropped what they were doing. Belinda ran past me with Alyssa at her heels. I grabbed Max’s arm as he tried to pass by “Max—”

“Let go! I can help too.”

“Your mother is out there. She’s hurt.”

Max hesitated, looking at me over his shoulder. “Is it—how bad?”

“It’s not good. She’s been shot.”

“I’ve gotta go.” He tugged on my arm, but I tightened my grip.

“You’ve got to hold it together. Help Dr. McCarthy and Belinda. Can you—”

“I’ve got it.” He turned, fixing a determined gaze on me.

I let him go, and he left at a run. I dashed up the stairs to the girls’ room, entering without knocking.

Darla wobbled to her feet. “Alex, Christ—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said. “The blood’s not mine. Rebecca, Dr. McCarthy needs help outside. Anna, you and Darla stay here and take care of the people downstairs.” I leaned in as if to kiss Darla’s ear and whispered, “Keep Anna here. Aunt Caroline’s hurt. Bad.” Darla nodded. Everyone leapt into motion, and I went to look for Ben.

I found him in the exact same place he’d been that morning, reading the exact same book. “Ben!” I yelled. He didn’t even look up. “Ben!” I finally had to walk into the room and grab the book. My glove left a bloody smear on the page.

“You are covered in blood, Lieutenant,” Ben finally said.

“It’s not mine,” I said for at least the third time. And what was up with calling me Lieutenant? I didn’t have time to ask. “Can you—”

“I presume the attempt to retake Warren failed?”

“Miserably,” I said, but Ben just kept talking.

“You should have used misdirection or surprise. An attack on Stockton or from an unexpected—”

“I know, I know!” I shouted, but Ben kept right on talking. “Shut up for a second, would you?”

Ben started moaning and rocking back and forth in his chair. I cursed myself for an idiot—yelling at Ben was never helpful. “Can you help Dr. McCarthy?” I asked.

“Ben is not qualified as a field medic,” he replied, still rocking.

“Right. Sorry I yelled.” I turned to go.

“Lieutenant!”

I turned back. Ben was still now.

“Stockton’s leader will expect you to spend time regrouping. If you attack their base in Stockton now, you might take them by surprise.”

“I’ve got to go help Dr. McCarthy,” I said as I left.

The field hospital outside was a hive of frenzied activity. Dozens of those too old or young to fight had descended on the hospital, helping to unload the truck, bandage wounds, and comfort the injured. Belinda had triaged the injured into three groups: those who needed medical care immediately, those who might be able to wait, and the two unfortunates who’d died on the way back to the farm.

Aunt Caroline was in the second group. Belinda said that since she hadn’t bled out already, she probably wouldn’t in the next few minutes. Uncle Paul stayed with Caroline, his hand pressed to her belly as if he could hold her together by pure force of will.

We had three trucks now: the two we had just captured and one I had brought back from Iowa. All three raced back and forth to the battlefield, picking up survivors. Ed drove one of them. A few hours before, I wouldn’t have trusted him with a captured truck. I would have assumed he’d take off, maybe return to the flenser gang. Now, I didn’t give it a second thought.

Max rushed to do whatever Dr. McCarthy asked, stopping only during the rare lulls to gaze longingly at the blanket where his mom lay. We ran to fetch more thread for stitching wounds. We refilled the pots hanging over the fire and kept the fire stoked. We washed patients’ wounds. We held their hands. We unloaded the trucks when they pulled up with more wounded. Three more people died, and Max and I moved their corpses off the table to clear the way for those who might yet be saved.

More injured came, at first on the three trucks, but after about two hours, the walking wounded started to show up. Dr. McCarthy moved in a mechanical blur, plunging his bloody hands into nearly scalding water between each patient, racing to stabilize them so they could be passed off to Belinda to be stitched up, or passed off to Max and me to be laid out with the rest of the corpses. I didn’t think nurses had usually stitched wounds in the old world, the pre-volcano world, but Belinda was good at it, her hands fast and sure.

Almost three hours passed before Dr. McCarthy had time to examine Aunt Caroline. Her skin was yellow and bloodless. Max, Uncle Paul, Alyssa, and I lifted her as gently as we could. Max whispered over and over again, “You’re going to be okay, Mom. You’re going to be okay.”

It sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Aunt Caroline gasped loudly as we set her down.

Dr. McCarthy used a pair of shears to cut her clothing away from her stomach. Two crusty, puckered wounds marred the bone-white skin just above her waist. Blood had pooled in her belly button, so that the wounds looked something like a screaming face. Dr. McCarthy had me help roll her onto her side. Her back was unmarked, other than a huge, ugly bruise spreading along her spine.

Dr. McCarthy tapped on her knees—hard—with his fingers. I had no idea why. He turned to Uncle Paul, gesturing toward the fence with his head. “We need to talk— over there, maybe.”

Aunt Caroline hadn’t moved or done anything but moan since we’d moved her to the table. But when Dr. McCarthy started to move away, her hand shot out, clasping his arm. “No. Tell him here. I need to know too.”

Dr. McCarthy said, “Should Max—”

“He can stay too.”

Dr. McCarthy sighed and gathered himself. “It’s not good. Two bullets. No exit wound. A huge contusion along the spine. They missed your abdominal aorta somehow, or you’d have bled out already. But the bad news is that both bullets are still in there. Since you have no autonomic response, one or both of them must be lodged in your spine.”

“I’m paralyzed.”

Dr. McCarthy nodded once.

“I can move my arms. It could be worse.”

A strangled cry escaped Dr. McCarthy’s mouth, quickly choked off.

“It is worse, isn’t it.”

“Yes. If I had a modern operating room—if I were a trauma surgeon, if I had a full support team, maybe. But . . .” “I’m going to die.” Aunt Caroline said it flatly, with quiet assurance, like she’d known it all along. Max made a choking sound and turned away. Uncle Paul clenched his wife’s shoulder, his knuckles white.

“Alex,” Aunt Caroline said, “go get Anna.”

I stood there dumbly too overwhelmed to move.

“Now, please. I don’t have forever.”

I ran for the living room.

Darla insisted on coming with Anna. I put an arm around Darla’s waist to support her. She held Anna’s hand. When we stepped into the foyer, I saw Mom standing at the top of the stairs.

“Alex, you’re—”

“It’s not my blood, Mom. Aunt Caroline’s hurt. We’ve got to go.”

“I’ll come with you. Maybe I can help.”

When we got outside, another patient was on the table where Aunt Caroline had lain. I looked around in panic— could she have died in the moment or two I was gone? Then I saw her not far from the fire, wrapped in a blanket. Max and Uncle Paul knelt by her side. Anna wrenched free of Darla’s hand and ran to her mother. Mom went to stand behind Uncle Paul, extending her hand halfway as if she wasn’t sure whether she should touch her brother-in-law or not.

How would Mom even survive this? Losing my dad, her husband, only two days ago and now her sister-in law? Then I thought of Uncle Paul. He’d lost his brother and now his wife was dying. Would he go crazy like Mom had? I swallowed hard, as if to eat my fear.

Anna threw herself into Aunt Caroline’s arms before any of us could stop her. A shadow passed over Aunt Caroline’s face, and she cried out in pain, but she held on when Anna tried to pull away, clutching her daughter even more tightly. “Oh, Anna,” Aunt Caroline breathed.

I clung to Darla. I wasn’t sure if I should stay or go. I wanted to be anywhere else—another place, another world, one where mothers didn’t die. But I knew I couldn’t run fast enough to escape the weight in my chest.

“He . . .” Anna said to her mother, her voice tremulous, “Alex said you were hurt.”

Aunt Caroline smoothed her hand slowly along Anna’s back. “Dr. McCarthy says I’m dying.”

Anna yelped, holding her mother tighter, and Aunt Caroline moaned, her eyes squeezing shut.

“Anna . . .” Uncle Paul laid a hand on Anna’s shoulder, and she relaxed her desperate grasp.

Anna was sobbing now. Max was biting his lower lip, trembling like a flag caught in an uncertain wind. Tears flowed freely from Uncle Paul’s eyes. Aunt Caroline was the only one who wasn’t crying.

Anna choked out a few words, “You can’t . . . I need . . .” “Anna,” Aunt Caroline whispered. “When I’m dead, will you still love me?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then I’ll still be with you. And love you.” Aunt Caroline lifted a hand toward Max. Her hand wavered, and Max caught it.

“I’m proud of you, Max. You’re becoming a good man.” Max crumpled over her hand, bawling.

“Don’t go,” Uncle Paul pleaded. “I love you.”

“I’ll never leave you,” Aunt Caroline said. “I love you too.” Three hours later, she was dead.

Chapter 7

My dreams that night were bizarrely vivid: staccato flashes of perfect memory, like images captured in the hyper-saturated flash and pop of a dying light bulb. Cyndi’s skull flying apart—pop. The gunners on the pickup, crumpling as I shot them—pop. The sharp end of Ed’s broomstick, protruding from a man’s chest—pop. The ragged wounds on Aunt Caroline’s stomach—pop.

I woke screaming.

Ben moaned and Max sobbed. The darkness hid our faces but not our pain. A few moments later, the covers lifted, and Darla slid in beside me. Even though we were both fully clothed against the cold, I felt the edge of her ribcage digging into my side. “Shh,” she whispered, “go back to sleep.” Tangled in her arms and legs, I found I could.

Later that night I dreamed of the uncertain rhythm of gunfire. It emanated from the darkness all around me. Some gunners played frenzied sixty-fourth notes on their automatic weapons. Others, a steady four-four time of careful pistol shots. Sometimes multiple guns fired together in a thunderous roar; other times they all lapsed into brief, fearful silences during which the only sounds were the bleating complaints of the goats stabled in the downstairs guest room.

Darla shook me awake. “Someone’s shooting.”

My violent dreams and the evidently real gunfire were too much. I felt as if I’d been sucked into the airless darkness under a huge wave, crushed by the weight, my life ripped by the shifting currents. I pulled the covers over my head, smothering the noise.

Darla ripped the covers off both of us so forcefully that the blanket tore. The freezing air was like a slap to the face. “Get up. Now,” she said, her words as much a slap as the air.

“I froze yesterday. When they shot at Aunt Caroline. I could have—”

“There’s no time. We’ll talk about it later. If whoever’s shooting out there makes it to the house, everyone will be in danger. Rebecca, Anna, Max . . .”

She was right. I took a deep, shuddering breath and hurled myself out of the bed.

“I’m going back to the other room for my boots,” she said.

“Just wait here,” I said as I jammed my feet into my boots and pulled a knit cap on my head. She was still debilitated from her ordeal with the Dirty White Boys and in no condition to be running around outside. I started to tell her so, but she was already gone.

When I got out to the hall, she was sitting on the top stair, wrenching on her boots.

By the time we got outside, the shooting had trailed off. A few distant pops echoed in the darkness enveloping the farm. One of the ramshackle lean-tos at the edge of the encampment was ablaze. Flames leapt from its canvas-and-stick roof,threatening to ignite neighboring shelters. People were running everywhere, frantic shadows silhouetted by the fire. But nobody seemed to be fighting the fire.

I ducked back into the house and grabbed a stack of water pails from the kitchen. Darla and I ran—not toward the fire but to the farm’s hand-pumped well.

“Fill buckets as fast as you can, okay?” I said to Darla. “I’ll organize a fire brigade.” I didn’t think she should be out there at all. Filling buckets would at least keep her away from the fire.