William Stone - How We Survive - EMP Survival in a Powerless World

The leader’s face hardened into a threat. Hatfield knew that any more words would be a challenge he couldn’t make. “Trevor, I need you to stay in your lane, as the kids say. And that lane is an important one. We will need good shooters, and a good shooter you are.”

Hatfield and his wife gave each other a look. They knew something Cecil didn’t. They knew the steady shooting hand was in danger.

“Open wide for me,” Jess said. Then she slipped a pill on her husband’s tongue and gave him a glass of water. “This won’t knock you all the way out, but it’ll keep you from feeling any pain.”

He swallowed the water and pill. “I’m ready for you.” The syringe she then pulled out made him a little less ready.

Noticing her husband’s widened eyes, she said, “You never were too fond of needles, were you?”

With a half-grimace, half-smile, he shook his head.

“I’ll need this to apply a local anesthetic. You’ll need it, but you don’t have to look at it if you don’t want.”

They shared a grin, recalling a memory from years ago.

“HONEY, can you help me practice my needlework?” asked a nineteen-year-old Jess from the bathroom.

Hatfield lifted his eyes from a magazine just long enough to glance at his wrist. Even the word “needle” made him uneasy. But he tried to play it cool anyway. “Sure. You need me to be your guinea pig for poking?”

Jess stepped into the room, carrying a small bag. Taking a seat in front of him, she rolled her eyes, putting on rubber gloves. “Needle poking? The correct term is phlebotomy.”

“Excuse me, Miss Registered Nurse.”

She held up crossed fingers. “Not yet, but we’re a month away.” As she pulled out the needle and raised it to his arm, she noted the look on his face. Tense, eyes sharply focused on his arm. “No rule that says you have to look at it,” she said. “Unless you just don’t trust the phlebotomist.”

“No, it’s not you that I don’t trust. It’s the needle. Never been a fan.”

“Well, just train your eyes somewhere else.”

He did, and when she saw where his gaze landed, she gave him a playful slap on the wrist. “Not there.”

“Well, looking isn’t the same as grabbing, is it?”

She smiled. “I suppose you’re right. Just make sure it stays at looking.”

He groaned.

She mocked his groan and said, “That’s what you get for dating a pastor’s daughter.”

When he finally brought his eyes back to hers, Jess said, “We both know a way you could fix the situation.”

“In time,” he said, looking down at the lump in his breast pocket. “Until then, why don’t you empty my pockets to help me get more comfortable.”

“Very funny.”

“No, I’m serious. I insist that you check my pockets before you perform this procedure.”

“Why? So you can pounce over me while I’m trying to focus on your arm?”

He sighed. “Look, There’s something in one of my pockets I think you need to know about.”

“I bet there is, you horndog.”

Pointing to his breast pocket, he said, “Seriously. Isn’t that a rule? Make sure the patient’s pockets are all empty so they’re nice and comfortable while experiencing the lobotomy.”

“It’s phlebotomy and—” Her eyes landed on the lump in his breast pocket. She tapped it, pulled it out, and opened it, her mouth wide open as she gasped. “Trevor!”

He’d spent months saving up for the ring, and it brought Jess to exactly the place he’d been hoping. “It’s yours if you’ll have me.”

She smothered him with a hug, screeching out an answer that sounded close enough to “I do” to make him happier than he’d ever been.

JESS’S FACE was still glowing with the grin decades later as she pulled the needle from his arm. “That’ll do it.” His field of vision grew blurry, and the room seemed to be spinning.

A voice from his side yanked his attention away. “Come on, boy! Can’t you handle a little needle?”

Hatfield turned and spotted a familiar face.

“Hi, Dad,” he grunted to the sergeant.

“Don’t hi Dad me. Answer my question! Are you really expecting your men to follow you if you can’t endure a little pain in your hand? What kind of leader are you?”

“It’s not my job to be a leader,” he answered drowsily. “That’s the captain’s job.”

“You’re right about that. You are no leader.”

“Why not?”

His father leaned in closer, bringing his loud baritone to his son’s ear. “Because you will not lead!”

“I told you, it’s not my job!”

“Bullcorn! If you were a leader, you’d have the courage to tell the current leader you don’t agree with him.”

The conversation ended there with Hatfield’s eyes dancing on a distant wall. He had no comeback for his father’s words, no justification for his retreat.

Hatfield wasn’t sure how many hours had passed, but it seemed like days since his hallucinatory chat with his father when the room snapped back into focus. The smiling face in front of him had been talking for a while, but her words were lost in echoes. Now the echoes were gone, and the face was familiar again. “You back with us, stranger?” Jess asked.

“Huh?”

“You seemed a little lost there for a while.”

He gave his head a vigorous shake. “I suppose I was.” He lifted his hand, saw it fully bandaged now. “It’s… still there. You didn’t have to amputate?”

“Not completely, no.”

“What does that mean?”

She nodded toward his hand. “Go ahead, take a peek.”

He pulled the bandage partly off. The palm was scarred and a little tender but otherwise felt normal. He kept going, releasing a relieved breath when he saw all fingers there—mostly. The upper half of his right forefinger was gone. His trigger finger. “You amputated my finger.”

“The tip, yes,” his wife answered. “And you’re welcome.”

He looked up, met her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound—”

She lifted a hand and nodded. “No, that’s fine. I understand how much that trigger finger means to you. You men and your guns.”

“Jess, it wouldn’t be a big deal ordinarily. But we need—” He stopped himself before running the risk of coming across ungrateful again. “Thank you. My wife the doctor, huh? Who knew?”

They shared a tiny laugh. He turned and took a glance at the Cecil in the bed next to him, snoring as he slumbered on his back. His father’s imaginary rant reverberated through his head as the captain dozed.

The voice was part encouragement, part nag. Something was deeply wrong with Cecil’s approach to things, his insistence on staying the course despite the dangers. “I’m sure you’re going to need the bed back soon,” he said.

Jess answered, “Well, not right away—”

But her husband was already on his way out.

Hatfield stood in the front doorway, watched the guard bring a cigarette to his lips. He looked back and nodded when he noticed he was being watched.

He nodded back but said nothing, every gear in his mind shifting. The guards had worked in shifts, according to Cecil’s schedule. The three VVs must have leaked that schedule to the others.

Other things caught his attention. He stepped over to the guard, extended his hand. “How are you? Name’s Trevor Hatfield.”

They shook, and the guy laughed. “Come on, we all know who you are. After the job you did with the pistol.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m Jake. Jake Stillwell.”

“Jake, why are we using a chain-link fence?”