Beck’s Hardware was still open, and Mr. Beck, looking tired and bewildered, presided over rows of empty shelves. On The Day itself everything that could be immediately useful, from flashlights and batteries to candles and kerosene lanterns, had vanished. In the continuing buying panic, almost everything else had disappeared. “Only reason I’m still here,” Mr. Beck explained, “is because I’ve been coming here every weekday for twenty-two years and I don’t know what else to do.”
In the warehouse Beck found a dusty carton of Mason jars. “People don’t go in much for home canning nowadays,” Beck said. “I’d just about forgotten these.”
“How much?” Randy asked.
Beck shook his head. “Nothing. That safe is full up to the top with money. That’s all I’ve got left—money. Ain’t that funny—nothing but money?” Mr. Beck laughed. “Know what, I could retire.”
Randy drove on to the Medical Arts Building. Here, he had expected to find activity. He found none, but he did see Dan Gunn’s car in the parking lot.
There were reddish brown stains on the sidewalk and the green concrete steps. The glass in the front door was shattered and the door itself swung open. The waiting room was ominously empty. There was no one at the reception desk. Randy possessed a country dweller’s keen sense of smell. Now he smelled many alarming odors—disinfectant, ether, spilled drugs, spilled blood, stale urine. He called, “Dan! Hey, Dan!”
“I’m back here. Who’s that?” Dan’s voice emerged muffled after echoing through a corridor.
“It’s me—Randy.”
“Come on back. I’m in my office.”
In the corridor’s gloom Randy stumbled over a pair of feet, and he stepped back, shivering. A body lay athwart the doorway of the examination room, legs in the corridor, torso in the room, face up, arms outstretched. The face was half blown away, but when put together with the uniform, it was recognizable as Cappy Foracre, Fort Repose’s Chief of Police.
Randy hurried on. A fireproof door hung crazily from one hinge. It had been axed open. Behind the door was the laboratory and drug storage. The smell of chemicals that came from the laboratory was choking and overpowering. Within, Randy glimpsed a hillock of smashed jars and bottles. The clinic had been wrecked, insanely and deliberately.
He was relieved to find Dan Gunn standing in his office . Dan’s face was more deeply shadowed with fatigue and a two-day growth of beard, his shirt was torn, and he looked dirty, but he apparently was unhurt. Two medical bags were open on his desk. He was examining and sorting vials and bottles. Randy said, “What happened?”
“A carload of addicts—hopheads—came through last night. About three this morning, rather. Jim Bloomfield was here, sleeping on the couch in his office. We’d split up the duty. He took one night, I took the next. You see, with no phones people don’t know what else to do except rush to the clinic in an emergency. Anyway, the addicts—there were six of them, all armed—came in and woke Jim up. They wanted a fix. Poor old Jim was something of a puritan. If he’d given them a fix he might’ve got rid of them.”
Dan picked up a hypodermic syringe and slowly squeezed the plunger with his tremendous fingers.
“I’d have given ‘em a fix all right—three grains of morphine and that would’ve finished them.” Dan dropped the syringe into one of the bags and shook his head. “That probably wouldn’t have been smart either. Three grains would kill a normal man but it wouldn’t faze an addict. Anyway, Jim told them to go to hell. They beat him up. They emptied these bags and found what they were after. That wasn’t enough. They took the fire ax and broke into the lab and drug storage. They cleaned us out of narcotics—everything, not only morphine but all the barbiturates and sodium amytal and pentothal and stimulants like benzedrine and dexedrine. What they didn’t take they smashed.”
“What about Cappy Foracre?” Randy asked.
“Some woman came in and heard the commotion and ran out and got Cappy. He was sleeping in the firehouse. Cappy and Bert Anders—you know, that kid assistant—came screaming over here. Literally, screaming, with their siren going, the darn fools. So the hopheads were set for them. There was a battle. More like a fire fight, an ambush, I guess. Cappy caught a shotgun load in the face. Anders got one in the belly. Cappy was dead when I got here, about fifteen minutes later.”
“And old Doc Bloomfield?” Randy asked.
Dan swayed and rested his palms on the desk. His head bent. When he spoke it was in a monotone.
“I drove Anders and Jim Bloomfield to the hospital in San Marco. I couldn’t operate here, you see. No anesthesia. Couldn’t even sterilize my instruments. Everything septic. Young Anders was dead when I got there. Jim was still alive. I thought he was going to be all right. Beaten up, maybe a rib or two caved in, maybe concussion. Still, he was able to tell me, quite coherently, what had happened. Then he slipped away from me. I don’t know why. He had lived a long time and after this thing happened maybe he didn’t want to live any longer. Maybe he didn’t want to belong to the human race any more. He resigned. He died.”
Randy said, “The bastards! Where did they come from? Where did they go?”
Dan Gunn shivered. The night had been chilly and it had warmed only slightly during the day and of course there was no heat in the building. He shook his head and slowly straightened, like a great storm-beset ship that has been wallowing in the trough of the sea but will not founder. “Where did they come from?” he said, slipping on his coat. “Maybe they broke out of a state hospital. But more likely they were hoods from St. Louis or Chicago driving to Miami or Tampa for the season. Probably they were addicts as well as pushers. The war caught them between sources of supply. So by last night they were wild for junk, and the quickest way to get it was to detour to some little town like this and raid the clinic. As to where they’re going, I don’t care so long as it’s far from here.”
Randy resolved never again to leave the house unless he was armed. “You should carry a gun, Dan. I am, from now on.”
Dan said, “No! No, I’m not going to carry a gun. I’ve spent too many years learning how to save lives to start shooting people now. I’m not worried about punishment for the addicts. They carry a built-in torture chamber. Eventually—I’d say within a few weeks—no matter how many people they kill they’ll find no drugs. After this big jag they’re bound to have withdrawal sickness. They will die, horribly I hope.”
Dan closed the two bags. “So ends the clinic in Fort Repose. Can you give me a lift to the hotel, Randy? I think my gas tank is dry.”
“I’ll take you to your hotel—only so you can pack,” Randy said. “On River Road, we’ve got food, and good water, and wood fireplaces. At the hotel you don’t have any of those things.” He picked up one of the bags. “Now don’t argue with me, Dan. Don’t start talking about your duty. Without food and water and heat you can’t do anything. You can’t even sterilize a scalpel. You won’t have strength enough to take care of anybody. You can’t even take care of yourself.”
When they entered the hotel Randy smelled it at once, but not until they reached the second floor did he positively identify the odor. Like songs, odors are catalysts of memory. Smelling the odors of the Riverside Inn, Randy recalled the sickly, pungent stench of the honey carts with their loads of human manure for the fields of Korea. Randy spoke of this to Dan, and Dan said, “I’ve tried to make them dig latrines in the garden. They won’t do it. They have deluded themselves into believing that lights, water, maids, telephone, dining-room service, and transportation will all come back in a day or two. Most of them have little hoards of canned foods, cookies, and candies. They eat it in their rooms, alone. Every morning they wake up saying that things will be back to normal by nightfall, and every night they fall into bed thinking that normalcy will be restored by morning. It’s been too big a jolt for these poor people. They can’t face reality.”
Dan had been talking as he packed. As they left the hotel, laden with bags and books, Randy said, “What’s going t
o happen to them?”
“I don’t know. There’s bound to be a great deal of sickness. I can’t prevent it because they won’t pay any attention to me. I can’t stop an epidemic if it comes. I don’t know what’s going to happen to them.”
Dan moved into the house on River Road that day. Thereafter he slept in the sleigh bed, the only bed in the house that could comfortably accommodate his frame, in Randy’s apartment, while Randy occupied the couch in the living room.
That night, afterwards, was remembered as “the night of the steak orgy.” Yet it was not for the rich taste of meat well hung that Randy remembered the night. He and the Admiral and Bill McGovern cooked the steaks outside, and then brought them into the living room. Fat wood burned in the big fireplace and a kettle steamed on hot bricks. At a few minutes before ten Randy clicked on his transistor radio, and they all listened. Lib McGovern was sitting on the rug next to him, her shoulder touching his arm. The room was warm, and comfortable, and somehow safe.
They heard the hum of a carrier wave, and then the voice of an announcer from the clear channel station somewhere deep in the heart of the country. “This is your Civil Defense Headquarters. I have an important announcement. Listen carefully. It will not be repeated again tonight. It will be repeated, circumstances permitting, at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Randy felt Lib’s long fingers circle his forearm, and grasp tight. Around the group before the fire, all the faces were anxious, the white faces in the front row, the Negro faces, eyes white and large, behind.
“A preliminary aerial survey of the country has been completed. By order of the Acting Chief Executive, Mrs. Vanbruuker-Brown, certain areas have been declared Contaminated Zones. It is forbidden for people to enter these zones. It is forbidden to bring any material of any kind, particularly metal or metal containers, out of these zones.
“Persons leaving the Contaminated Zones must first be examined at check points now being established. The location of these check points will be announced over your local Conelrad stations.
“The Contaminated Zones are:
“The New England States.”
Sam Hazzard, sitting in a prim cherry-wood rocker which, like Sam, had originated in New England, drew in his breath.
The newscaster continued:
“All of New York State south of the line Ticonderoga-Sacketts Harbor.
“The state of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland.
“The District of Columbia.
“Ohio east of the line Sandusky-Chillicothe. Also in Ohio, the city of Columbus and its suburbs.
“In Michigan, Detroit and Dearborn and an area of fifty-mile radius from these cities. Also in Michigan, the cities of Flint and Grand Rapids.
“In Virginia, the entire Potomac River Basin. The cities of Richmond and Norfolk and their suburbs.
“In South Carolina, the port of Charleston and all territory within a thirty-mile radius of Charleston.
“In Georgia, the cities of Atlanta, Savannah, Augusta and their suburbs.
“The state of Florida.”
Randy felt angry and insulted. He shifted his weight and started to get to his feet. “Not the whole state!” he said, at the same time realizing his protest was completely irrational.
“Shh!!” Lib said, and pulled him back to the rug.
The voice went on, ticking off Mobile and Birmingham, New Orleans and Lake Charles.
It moved into Texas, obliterating Fort Worth and Dallas, and everything within a fifty-mile radius of these two cities, and Abilene, Houston, and Corpus Christi.
It moved northward again:
“In Arkansas, Little Rock and its suburbs, plus an area of forty miles to the west of Little Rock.”
Missouri, who through the whole evening had said nothing except in answer to questions, now said something. “How come they hit Little Rock?”
The Admiral said, “There’s a big SAC base in Little Rock, or was.”
The voice moved up to Oak Ridge, in Tennessee, and then spoke of Chicago, and everything around Chicago in northern Indiana, and crept up the western shore of Lake Michigan to Milwaukee, and Milwaukee’s suburbs. Inexorably, it uttered the names of Kansas City, Wichita, and Topeka.
The voice continued:
“In Nebraska, Lincoln. Also in Nebraska, Omaha and all the territory within a fifty-mile radius of Omaha.”
There goes all hope of Mark, Randy thought. More than one missile for Omaha. Probably three, as Mark had expected. From the moment of the double dawn on The Day, he had known it was probable.
Now he must accept it as almost certain. He looked across the circle, at three faces in the firelight.
Peyton’s face was half—hidden against her mother’s breast. Helen’s face bent down, and her arms were around Peyton’s shoulders. Ben Franklin stared into the fire, his chin straight. Randy could see the tear path down Helen’s face, and the unshed tears in Ben’s eyes.
The announcements went on, the voice calling out portions of states, and cities—Seattle, Hanford, San Francisco, all the southern California coast, Helena, Cheyenne—but Randy only half-heard them. All he could hear, distinctly, were the sharp sobs out of Peyton’s throat.
Randy’s heart went out to them but he said nothing. What was there to say? How do you say to a little girl that you are sorry she no longer has a father?
Close to his side Lib stirred and spoke, two words only, to Helen. “I’m sorry.” Randy had noticed, that evening, a tenseness between Helen and Lib, Nothing was said, and yet there was a watchfulness, a hostility, between them. So he was glad that Lib had spoken. He wanted them to like each other. He was puzzled that they didn’t.
Then it was over. The radio stilled. More than ever, Randy felt cut off and isolated. Florida was a prohibited zone, and Fort Repose a tiny, isolated sector within that zone. He could appreciate why the whole state had been designated a contaminated area. There were so many bases, so many targets which had been hit, with resulting contamination. They had been extraordinarily fortunate in Fort Repose. The wind had favored them. They had received only a residue of fallout from Tampa and Orlando, and none at all from Miami and Jacksonville. Even a reasonably clean weapon on Patrick would have rained radioactive particles on Fort Repose, but the enemy had not bothered to hit Patrick.
Standing on the other side of the room, Preacher Henry had been listening, but he did not fully understand the designation of contaminated zones or comprehend the implications. He did feel and understand the shock and grief the broadcast brought to the Braggs, and he sensed it was time for him to leave. He nudged Malachai, touched Two-Tone’s rump with his toe, caught the attention of Hannah and Missouri, and said, with dignity, “We be going now. I thank you, Mister Randy, for a real fine steak dinner. I hopes we can sometime repay it.”
Randy rose to his feet and said, “Good night, Preacher. It was good to have you all.”
On the fourth day after The Day, Randy, Malachai, and Two-Tone extended the artesian water system to the houses of Admiral Hazzard and Florence Wechek. Stretching pipe across the grove to the Admiral’s house was simple, but to provide water for Florence Wechek and Alice Cooksey it was necessary to dig through the macadam of River Road with picks.
On the night of the sixth day the Riverside Inn burned. With no water in the hydrants, and the hotel’s sprinkler system inoperative, the fire department was all but helpless. Only a few reserve firemen showed up, and only one pumper was got into action, using river water. It was a puny effort, and far too late. The old, resinous wooden structure was burning brightly before the first stream touched the walls. Soon the heat drove the firemen away. A few minutes thereafter the last scream was heard from the third floor.
Dan had been summoned an hour later, and Randy had driven him into town. By then, there was nothing to do except care for the survivors. They were few. Some of these died of smoke poisoning or fear—it was hard to diagnose—within a few hours. The burned were taken to San Marco in Bub
ba Offenhaus’ hearse-ambulances. The uninjured were lodged in the Fort Repose school. There was no heat in the school, or food, or water. It was simply shelter, less comfortable than the hotel, and within a few days more squalid.
Dan Gunn suspected that the fire had started in a room where the guests were using canned heat in an attempt to boil water. Or perhaps someone had built a makeshift wood stove. It was, Dan said, inevitable.
On the ninth day after The Day, Lavinia McGovern died. This, too, had been inevitable ever since the lights went out and refrigeration ceased. Since Lavinia McGovern suffered from diabetes, insulin had kept her alive. Without refrigeration, insulin deteriorated rapidly. Not only Lavinia, but all diabetics in Fort Repose, dependent upon insulin, died at about the same period as the drug lost its potency.
Randy and Dan had done their best to save her. They had driven to San Marco hoping to find refrigerated insulin, or the new oral drug, at the hospital.
It was, eighteen miles to San Marco. Even driving at the most economical speed in his heavily horsepowered car, Randy estimated that the trip would consume three gallons of gasoline. He estimated he had only five gallons remaining in his tank, plus a five-gallon can in reserve.
Randy made a difficult decision, By then, the Bragg home was linked to the houses of Admiral Hazzard, Florence Wechek, and the Henrys not only by an arterial system of pipes fed by nature’s pressure, but by other common needs. The Henrys’ Model-A was neither beautiful nor comfortable but its engine was twice as thrifty as Randy’s rakish sports hardtop. Sam Hazzard’s car gulped gasoline as fast as Randy’s. Dan’s was empty. The Model-A was even more economical than Florence’s old Chevy.
Randy decided that henceforth the Model-A would furnish community transportation. So it was in the Model-A that Randy and Dan made the trip to San Marco.