Working With Cedar: The Early Years, page 7
Driving slowly through the gap between two vehicles with machineguns mounted on top, they heard the tires crunching hundreds of ejected brass casings.
On the far side of the barricade, Betty applied the brakes. There were too many bodies in the roadway to proceed. They sat in stunned silence just looking at the number of bloody humans.
Below them, west in the direction of Atlanta sat cars, trucks and eighteen-wheelers bumper to bumper as far as the view permitted. Roaming among the stranded vehicles or lying near them was occupants of the vehicles. Many of the ones on their feet exhibited the lurching movement Nash would come to call ‘The Ebola Stagger’.
On the far side of the bridge stood a tight knot of people, many pointing toward where Nash and Betty sat surveying the dystopian tableau. Even without the bodies covering the roadway in their path, the gathering was large enough to block further travel.
Despairing, Betty asked, “What the hell do I do, Nash? I can’t back up with the trailer attached. I don’t know how.”
Not knowing where the words came from, but come they did, Nash said, “Shift into four-wheel drive. Drive over the dead people. When you get to the crowd, don’t slow down, don’t stop for any reason. They’ll move out of our way.”
“And if they don’t?” Betty asked.
“Don’t stop for any reason.”
“Damn it Nash, there are children in that bunch.”
“Then do your best to avoid them, but don’t stop for any reason.”
Turning from the horrific scene to look at her, he said, “I can drive. I’ll just leave it in low and not shift… Close my eyes after the bodies and pray the gang of people move.”
Betty responded by asking, “How do I put it in four-wheel? Shit, there must be at least a hundred bodies on the bridge.”
The bouncing of the jeep and trailer crushing over the dead was the stuff of nightmares that would haunt their dreams. They were almost to the group of people standing on the far side of the bridge when a man raised his arm and began firing a pistol at them. The windshield starred and a bullet passed between them.
“Gun it,” Nash shouted. “Run over him.”
Betty floored the pedal. The engine hesitated and then the jeep surged, skidding and swerving as they jounced over the remaining bodies. The crowd scattered, including the man firing the pistol. Nash didn’t witness it, but Betty, forever after, swore someone shoved the gun wielding man back in front of the careening vehicle. They hit him hard enough to lift him from the ground. His feet hit the windshield in front of Nash, denting it inward as he continued up and over the top of the jeep.
Then they were past, on open road that soon hid the chaos in the distance behind them. Still the engine roared, Betty’s foot frozen to the floorboard, her hands death gripped to the steering wheel.
Speaking gently, Nash said, “You can let up now. It’s over.”
Betty screamed, a primal rip of sound, and slammed the brakes. The sudden deceleration flung Nash into the dashboard and cracked his head against the crazed glass where the man hit it. Nash’s head pushed the inward bent bulge in the other direction. The impact caused him to see stars. The jeep tires squealed in protest as the vehicle slowed, and Betty almost lost control before they came to a stop.
Immediately, she opened her door and leaned to vomit onto the road. Nash, suddenly dizzy, was slow to react. Reaching to touch the side of his head that hit the windshield, his hand came away wet and red.
Before he passed out, he managed to say, “My head’s split open.”
**********
He awoke in pitch black with a headache that felt bright red. Thick-tongued, he tried to speak. “Wherm I?”
Betty’s voice in the dark, “Where are you. Try it again. Say it.”
“Where am I? My head hurts.”
“Do you know your name?”
Confused by the question, he said, Nash, Betty. I’m Nash.”
“What’s your mother’s name? Do you know it?”
“Emerging from his daze, he replied, “Okay, okay. Her name is Valerie. My name is Nash Vaughn and you’re Betty… Hell, I don’t know your last name. You’re Gene’s wife.”
“Wrong. Gene’s ex-wife. I’m glad to see you have your faculties intact. You took a doozy of a wallop. I had to suture a deep laceration on your left temple.”
“More stitches. Jeez, call me Frankenstein. Why’s it so dark?”
“Sorry, I’ll turn on a lamp. We’re inside a storm shelter close to an old abandoned farmhouse. The house was too rotten to use. You’ll want your eyes closed. Tell me when you’re ready.”
Nash squeezed his eyes tight, but the light penetrated his lids and sent pain directly into his brain. “Too bright… Cover it with something.”
He heard Betty bustle around and then the light noticeably dimmed. “I covered it with a towel but you’ll still find it bright until your eyes adjust.”
Opening his eyes to squint, he said, “Thank you, it’s better already.” Taking in the narrow, low ceilinged concrete-block room, he said, “You said we’re in a storm shelter. How did you get me inside?”
“You don’t remember walking from the jeep?”
Nash did a quick mental survey and said, “The last thing I remember was you throwing up right after I bumped my head. Jeez, you really hit those brakes.”
“I know I did. I’m sorry.”
“I should have had my seat belt on. Is it okay for me to sit up? What am I lying on, anyway? It’s very soft.”
“I found four sleeping bags in the trailer. I made it before I went for you. You were still out cold, but woke easy enough. You walked in on your own, lay down, and out you went.”
“I slept through you sewing me?”
Betty laughed, “Like you were knocked out. No, seriously, the only time you made a sound was when I injected Novocain. While I was at it, I changed the bandages on your hand and your buttock. Both injuries are healing nicely.”
“What time is it? How long was I out?”
Betty checked her phone. “If the time is correct on my phone, it’s a little past nine p.m. I had to leave the highway we were on in order to go around the city of Sparta. We’re close to a small town called Jewell.”
“How far are we from the interstate? Hey, wait a minute! You’re a nurse. Why’d you let me sleep? People with concussions aren’t supposed to sleep. I could have slipped into a coma.”
Betty shook her head, “Myth. A well perpetuated one. While there are some contraindications, sleep after a head injury is beneficial.”
Skeptical, Nash replied, “If you say so.”
“No, truth for sure; you can look—, never mind.”
“You were going to say I could look it up. I guess that’s a civilized perk we’ll miss.” Nash repeated his previous question. “How far are we from the interstate?”
“Twenty perhaps twenty-five miles give or take. Are you hungry… thirsty?”
“Both, but I’ll settle for just water. I need to lie back down.”
Betty opened her voluminous bag to extract a bottle, and then fished deeper for a smaller bottle. “I found antibiotics in the trailer. You sure have a wide assortment of meds.”
“I got lucky at a medical supply store. The doctor there was just as frightened as I was. I’m glad he included me in his panicked, ‘Grab and run’.”
Handing him the water and two pills, she said, “Take these and try to rest some more. This room is too small for proper decorum. I’ll be sleeping with you on the pallet. Try not to get frisky in your sleep.”
He awoke once during the night. Betty was spooned against his back. He didn’t get frisky, but he did enjoy the feel of her arm draped over him and her breasts pressed against his back. The faint scent of her Gardenia perfume overlaid the pungent stink of body odor. Not wanting to spoil his idealized concept of her, he attributed that odor to himself,
Bright light from the open doorway brought him fully awake. Lying on his back, he opened his eyes to see a mishmash of spider webs draping the dingy concrete ceiling of the room. Nash abhorred spiders. He ignored the sharp pain that shot through his brain and struggled to his feet. Staying bent, not wanting to chance his hair brushing the webs, he stepped through the doorway into bright morning sunshine.
Shading his eyes with his good hand to survey his surroundings, he did not see Betty.
The storm shelter, made by first building the small concrete-block room and then covering it with a rounded mound of dirt, the mound is overgrown with weeds. The door, paint peeling, hung crooked, held up by a single hinge. Poking from the top of the mound was a section of chipped PVC pipe for ventilation.
With nothing to view but neglected fields, he followed a slightly trampled path through high grass that led around the mound.
The rear of the dilapidated home Betty referred to was only a short distance from the shelter. She was at their jeep, digging through the trailer. To his alarm, a very young girl wearing a dress and sandals was standing near her.
“Betty.”
Startled by his shout, she turned to him. “Oh good, you’re up. Do you know if you have insulin?”
“I don’t remember any. Where’d the girl come from? How do you know she’s not infected?”
In a lower tone, she said, “I know she’s not. Come over so we don’t shout.”
Nash crossed the short distance, but maintained a wary distance from the girl. Closer, he saw the freckled face below her tangled brown hair. “What’s going on?” He asked of Betty.
“I came out to get food for our breakfast and she was standing by the trailer. She lives alone with her grandmother not far from here. They haven’t seen or been near anyone for over a week. What’s worse is her grandmother’s insulin didn’t come… the man that delivers it never showed.
“Alice, that’s her name, said her grandmother turned mean, aggressive. Alice hid from her. After a while, the grandmother fell down in the kitchen and she couldn’t revive her. From Alice’s description, it sounds like her grandmother went into shock. We’re probably too late to help her, but we have to try.”
Nash, attempted to reason, ‘why’? Why was it okay to kill all the people at Merle’s hideout? Why it was okay to run over the man at the interstate, but now Betty deemed it urgent to help a sick old woman? He gave voice to his confusion.
Wording his question in a way to respect the child, he asked, “What makes this woman’s situation urgent considering what’s happening in the world? Considering the things we’ve done?”
Betty frowned and said, “Because we’re not inhumane. What we’ve done was in the cause of survival. It’s not our nature to indiscriminately kill or harm. By the same token, any time it doesn’t pose an existential threat to our lives we will extend a hand to those in need. To do otherwise puts us on the same level as uncivil beasts.”
Turning from him to gather a handful of chocolate bars, she said, “Christ, Nash. Do I really need to spell out such a simple concept? We don’t have time for this. If you’re with me, let’s go. I’m hoping we get there in time to bring her blood sugar up.”
Turning to Alice, she said, “We’ll follow you, honey. Let’s hurry.”
Nash said, “We’re together in this. Do I need to carry anything?”
“No. All we can do is the hope sugar will work. You watch our backs. Draw your pistol and be ready to use it.”
Alice, impatient with the delay, spoke for the first time since Nash arrived. “We need to run.” She took off. Betty responded instantly and was on Alice’s heels.
Nash got off to a slow start and lagged behind. His head began to throb and the gap grew wider, He slowed, but endured, putting one foot in front of the other until there came a point when he sank to his knees.
Calling to Betty that he’d catch up, he pressed his hands on his skull in an effort to drive the pain demon away. It took several minutes before the pounding subsided and he was able to fish the Vicodin from his pocket. Thirty minutes later Betty found him mincing along, following the trail she and Alice made when dashing through the weeds.
“Sorry, he said, “My head, it—.”
“No need to explain and no need to hurry. Are you dizzy, nauseous?”
“No, the Vicodin is helping. How is Alice’s grandmother?”
“She’s dead. I was too late. What’s worse, there’s a vial of Glucagon in a cabinet. Glucagon is a rescue medicine for people in diabetic shock. Poor Alice didn’t know and I didn’t tell her.”
Betty turned to walk back the way she’d come. Following her, Nash said, “It’ll take some doing, but we can make room for her in the rear seat.”
Tossing the words over her shoulder, she said, “We’ll talk about that… later. Right now I want to get you in bed.” Her phrasing didn’t hit Nash until she corrected herself. “I meant put you to bed.”
Their path through tangled undergrowth led to a slight, tree-covered grade. Topping it, the ground sloped downward to expose the vista of a few acres of well-tended pasture.
Calling for Betty to wait, leaning against a tree to rest, Nash realized they were only minutes from where his pain forced him to stop. Not far away, on the right edge of the pasture sat a white cottage with gingerbread trim on the eves of the front porch roof. A graveled driveway edged with timbers led from the house to disappear into a forest of regularly spaced pines of uniform size.
From their vantage place, he saw no other houses. Near the cottage were two buildings, one a barn, and the other, judging from the chickens he saw near it, a henhouse. Behind the house was a garden plot with many rows of various shades of green. Even at distance, he saw the red glint of tomatoes along with the yellow of other vegetables.
Betty returned from her slight lead to ask, “Are you okay?”
“Just my head pounding from the climb. It’s slacking off.”
Betty asked, “No blurred vision?”
“Vision’s fine. All that bothers me is this damned headache, but Vicodin takes the edge off.”
“We need to conserve powerful pain killers. We’ll try switching you over to a NSAID. No double vision or blurred speech; you definitely suffered a concussion but we can’t rule out the possibility of a sub cranial contusion. Once we get to the house, no more major exertion until your brain heals.”
Turning again toward the cottage, she paused and said, “I’ll need your help moving the grandmother to a burial spot, but I have to dig the grave. You can sit on the porch and watch for anyone coming up the driveway.”
Betty set a slow pace that he had no difficulty matching. From the graveled drive, a path bordered by raised flowerbeds led to the house. The cottage grew more charming as they drew closer.
Wicker furniture, dyed forest-green graced the front porch. Mounting the steps, he saw a stiffly starched crocheted centerpiece on the table separating the two cushioned-armchairs from the couch. Within the raised embellishments of the centerpiece was a kerosene lamp with a frosted glass chimney and polished brass base. The unmarred porch floor, painted deep blue, shone as if waxed. The front door was solid oak with a stained-glass insert.
Everything about the place, from the pastures to the immaculate condition of the home and outbuildings prompted Nash to ask, “Are you sure no one besides Alice and her Grandmother lives here?”
In the process of opening the front door, Batty paused to answer, “Alice’s parents. According to her, they left on a business trip a few days ago to buy “animals” and should return soon. She’s only six, almost seven, and doesn’t know much about their affairs.”
The inside of the cottage proved as quaint as the outside, with crocheted pieces adorning every flat surface. Framed embroidery depicting flowers and pastoral settings hung on walls. Excluding a recliner chair and a sofa upholstered in a floral print, much of the furniture was of hand-hewn wood.
The totality of the décor led Nash to the conclusion that the cottage was the province of Alice’s, very obese, deceased grandmother lying on the floor between the couch and a heavy bench-like coffee table.
“Where is Alice?”
Betty motioned to a door “She’s in her bedroom eating dry Cheerios. The electricity is out here too. The milk in the fridge is spoiled. She’s to stay in there until we call her. I thought it best if she’s not in here while we drag her grandmother out.”
Nash gave the dead woman a stronger study. “She must weigh over three-hundred pounds. I won’t be much help with only one hand.”
“We’re not dragging her; the jeep is. I saw rope in the trailer. I’ll tie it around her ankles and once we get the trailer backed to the porch I’ll tie the rope to it.”
Nash shuddered and said, “Just drag the poor woman like she’s a dead cow. Why don’t we collect Alice and leave?”
“Because we’re not leaving. I’ve thought about it. The road … Traveling … It’s too dangerous. This place is as good as any we’ll find.”
It didn’t take Nash long to process and agree with her assessment, but he had one problem with it, “What happens when Alice’s parents come home?”
“The way things are, they may not come home. If they do, we’ll deal with it. Convince them they’ll be safer with us here to pull guard duty and help with the farm and gardens.” She paused, and then added. “There are fruit trees here. Did you see them? Apple, pears and peach for sure.”
“No, but I believe you. This sure is a well-organized place. Let’s get the rope.”
“Yeah,” Betty said, “Let’s get it done. We need to move the recliner and table.”
Nash found removing Grandmother with the jeep proved the perfect solution to an otherwise impossible task for the two of them, made evident by the struggle they had at the doorway aligning her ponderous bulk to pass through.
Once she was the porch, they went to the barn and found a pick and shovels inside an attached tool shed. He joined Betty in the jeep, glad not to witness Grandmother thumping down the porch steps and bumping along as they dragged her to the far edge of the pasture.
Before stepping from the driver’s seat, Betty said, “I don’t think I’ll be digging six feet, but it’ll take four feet just to get a foot of dirt on top of her. If I have difficulty rolling her in, I’ll come get you.”
