D. MacHale - Storm

The three of us jumped back in surprise as the man tumbled to the floor.

Tori was too stunned to even aim her gun at him, and that was a good thing. He wasn’t a threat. The guy was skeletal, with bony legs showing beneath his hospital gown. “It’s a zombie!” Jon cried. “No, it’s a patient,” I shot back. “Turn on the lantern.”

I knelt down next to him and killed my headlamp while Tori fired up the camp lantern.

The guy was ancient looking, though I couldn’t tell whether that was because he was so old or just really sick. He was nearly bald but had thick, gray beard stubble that looked as though he hadn’t shaved in weeks.

“Is he dead?” Jon asked.

I put my hand to his mouth and felt a faint breath.

“No. Help me get him onto a bed.”

I grabbed under his arms while Jon took his feet. Lifting him was easy. He couldn’t have weighed more than seventy pounds. He moaned when we picked him up. He was definitely alive. We wrestled him on to the bed, and as I started to back away, he reached out and grabbed my arm with a surprisingly strong grip.

“Paul?” he asked with a raspy whisper that felt like a desperate plea.

“Uh, no. My name’s Tucker.”

He looked confused, as if I had thrown him off by not being Paul.

“I’ll get him some water,” Tori said and hurried off.

The guy was breathing quickly, as if he was overly excited. Or maybe he couldn’t get enough air. Either way, he was hurting. Whatever landed him in the hospital in the first place must have been bad enough, but if he had been lying around in the emergency room since the attack, it meant that he hadn’t eaten anything in weeks.

Tori came running back with a paper cup filled with water. I reached behind the guy’s neck to help him sit up so he could drink. He felt like a bag of bones.

Tori put the cup to his lips.

“Just take a little,” she cautioned.

The guy’s eyes were staring off into space, unfocused. But he sensed the cup at his lips and eagerly took a sip. He coughed once, and Tori pulled it away.

“More,” he begged.

Tori offered the cup, and he drank it. Most of it, anyway. A lot dribbled down his chin.

“I’ll raise the bed,” Jon said.

He pressed the button on the side of the bed. It didn’t move.

“Oh, right. Duh.”

He reached down and cranked the head of the bed up manually. Jon was hospital-savvy.He raised the bed enough so that I was able to ease the old guy back into a sitting position.

“More, please,” the guy begged.

Tori took off to get more water.

The man slowly shifted his head toward me, his eyes focusing.

“I’m not Paul,” I said.

The guy squinted at me and said, “I know that!”

The cobwebs were definitely clearing out of his head.

“But who are you?” he asked, this time with a slightly less strained whisper.

“I’m Tucker. This is Jon. The girl’s name is Tori.”

“Screaming girl,” he said.

I had no idea what he meant.

“Pretty,” he added.

“Oh! That was Olivia. I guess you scared her.”

“I guess so,” he said and actually chuckled. It made him cough.

Tori came back with another cup of water and a full plastic pitcher.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

He nodded weakly. Tori brought the cup to his lips, and he drank it all down. When he finished, he closed his eyes and let out a satisfied sigh.

“Thank you,” he said.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Hartman.”

“When was the last time you ate something?”

“Couldn’t tell you. A week? Two weeks? A year? How long have I been in here?”

We all exchanged looks. I couldn’t tell if Mr. Hartman was hallucinating or just old and confused.

“I’ll get you some food,” Tori said and started to walk away.

“No!” Mr. Hartman called out.

Tori stopped and turned back to him. “You have to eat something.”

“I’m dying, missy,” he said.

“No, you’re not,” she argued. “You’re just weak.”

“I’m weak because I’m dying,” he insisted. “There’s no food that’ll change that.”

“But you’re wrong, if you just—”

“Young lady,” Hartman said, his voice suddenly steely. “They brought me here to die. The fact that I’m still breathing is no small miracle. Though it is sort of ironic, considering what’s happened.”

“You know about the attack?” I asked.

Hartman nodded, then motioned for another sip of water. Tori poured another cup full and handed it to him. This time he drank it himself, though he moved very slowly. I’d never seen an old person in such bad shape. I was surprised that he had the strength to lift the cup of water.

“I was down in the bowels of this place getting another test done. An MRI or x-ray or God knows what. They insist on doing tests to prove that I’m dying. I could tell them the same thing and save everybody a whole lot of trouble.”

He started coughing, violently, and clutched at his chest. Tori grabbed the cup, and we watched helplessly as the poor old guy was wracked by the violent spell.

Jon looked terrified, as if the guy might die right then and there.

After a painful minute, the coughing stopped and he sat back and tried to control his quick breathing.

“You okay?” Jon asked tentatively.

“I’m dying,” he said sharply. “What part of that don’t you understand?”

“Yeah, but, I mean right now?” Jon asked nervously.

“No idea,” the old man said, testy. “If you know any different, please let me know.”

“Well, you don’t look so good,” Jon said.

Tori kicked Jon in the foot.

“Ow!” he complained. “He asked.”

Mr. Hartman finally gathered the strength to continue.

“I was in the basement with a technician when the lights went out. Some emergency lights came on so he could see to wheel me out, but when we got up here, they were all gone. Every last person.”

“Is that Paul?” I asked.

Hartman looked at me like I was insane and said, “No. Xavier’s his name. Paul is my son.”

At least that mystery was solved.

“He went outside to see what happened and found a couple of other survivors. I heard all about them black planes and about how they wiped away so many people. Do you have any idea why it happened? Or who’s responsible?”

I jumped in before anybody else could answer.

“No,” I said.

The others gave me a curious look, but I figured it would be cruel to tell him all that we knew. If he was really nearing the end of his life, he didn’t need to know how bad things really were with the world.

“What happened to Xavier?” Tori asked.

“He stuck around for a few days. Good fella. He felt responsible for me. But I convinced him he was wasting his time. He still has a life in front of him, so he set me up with some food and water and took off to find his family.”

“And you’ve been in here alone since then?” Tori asked. “That’s horrible.”

Hartman shrugged weakly. “I’m not just a cantankerous old coot. I really am dying.” He tapped his chest and said, “Congestive heart failure. I’ve been living with a time bomb for years now. Slowly getting weaker. Nothing anybody can do for it. I don’t mean to sound morbid, but given the state of things right now, I’d just as soon the old Reaper came for me sooner rather than later.”

I wanted to argue with him and tell him that he should fight until the end because life was worth living and all that, but given the state of things, it would have been a hard sell.

“What’s going on?” Kent asked as he hurried up to us.

He got a look at Hartman, and his eyes went wide.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Is he alive?”