Jacqueline Druga - Fallout

Joe stood there watching as they backed up and the truck and jeep drove away. At least they didn’t search his property, his stash under the warehouse would remain hidden. That didn’t make things any better. He had no idea what they would want him to produce. A part of Joe feared it was going to not only be a hard quota to fill but one that would interfere in his underground movement plan. However, it wouldn’t stop it. He’d figure out how he’d get things done. In the meantime, he’d break his routine and do an afternoon production just in case it was going to be a few days until he could stock his private stash. Before that, he headed back to the house. He wanted to call Saul and see if he received a visit and demand on his strawberry farm. If not, he was going to give Saul the heads up. It was only a matter of time before they showed up. The foreign invaders were making it known they claimed the land and that included their farms.

There was never an instance in his life, at least that Cal could remember, when he felt so sick. Maybe he did and just forgot, but he couldn’t recall feeling as bad as he did, lying on a cot in a packed high school gym.

His chest was sore and black and blue, the nurse told him that was from them doing a cardiac thump on him. He felt weak and short of breath, and to top that all off, he couldn’t keep anything down or in him.

If he wasn’t leaning over a basin, he was asking for help changing the bed pad.

The odor was horrendous, not just from him but everyone else around him.

Cal wasn’t special. Not there, not when the closest sick person in proximity to him was an arm’s reach away. At least he was grateful that he wasn’t seeing any blood in his regurgitation unlike the poor man next to him. All that man brought up was blood and it smelled putrid.

The guy’s face was spotted with a burn on his cheek. His arms were blackened with what looked like bruises and his hair was thin and scarce.

Cal wondered what he looked like but dared not to ask for a mirror.

He just wanted to get better. To stop floating in and out of consciousness and find his friends, find… Louise.

When Leana searched for them, all she could report to Cal was that all of them were being treated for radiation sickness.

“It’s not a short game,” she told him. “You’re not gonna feel better in a few days. It’s not the flu. And you especially will take a while. You’re recovering on many levels.”

It wasn’t like Cal to just do nothing, sick or not. From his cot, he watched the number of workers dwindle. The healthcare worker to patient ratio used to be good, but over a period of a few days, he only saw one and Leanna wasn’t the worker.

What happened to her? Was she alright?

While he tried to focus on the goings-on of the aid station, he drifted off again.

The brief slumber bred a vivid dream. The wedding that never happened, all the guests, the purple and gold decorations. Staring at his beautiful wife. When he woke, at first, he believed the entire war, the bombs, the sickness was all part of a dream. They weren’t. Just as he started to close his eyes again, he saw the lone health care worker struggling with a patient and Cal decided, sick or not, he couldn’t lay and do nothing.

With a grunt he sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the cot. He took a moment, let the dizziness subside before he stood.

When his feet touched the ground he swayed left to right nearly losing his balance. Hand to the cot, he caught himself. He wasn’t attached to an IV and that was a good thing. He took a deep breath and slowly, nursing the cots as a crutch, made his way to the health care worker.

Cal couldn’t tell if the patient was a man or woman, only that the worker, who was male, was having a hard time.

The patient thrust up and down, legs kicking. The worker was trying to secure the legs, give some sort of medication while pleading with the patient to be calm.

The closer Cal drew the clearer he saw that the bedding was a mess and so was the floor. Smeared with blood and bodily fluids, Cal brought his hand to his mouth as he made it even closer.

The stench of rotten bile burned his nostrils

“Calm, please, I just want to help you,” the health care worker said.

“Here,” Cal said as he made his approach. “Let me. Hold them down, I’ll inject. I don’t have the strength.”

“Thank you so…” The worker peered over his shoulder and saw Cal. “No, get back in bed. You shouldn’t be up.”

“I can’t… I can’t just lay there.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No… I can’t. What can I do to help?”

Exasperated, the worker exhaled in defeat. “Here.” He handed Cal a syringe. “Just inject it in the thigh. Do it fast, I’ll only be able to hold her down so long.”

Cal nodded and stepped forward. He could see the woman’s legs were frail and thin, covered with sores that bled and looked bruised. When he made it directly to the cot, he saw her arms were the same, and she shook her head violently. Her head was void of hair and covered with brown birth-like burn marks.

“Get ready,” the worker said.

Cal prepared to deliver the medication. He watched as the worker secured her legs. When that happened, Cal froze.

“Now. Right now,” the worker ordered.

It took a second for Cal to snap out of it and he plunged the contents of the syringe into the thigh, then stepped back and froze again.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach when he saw poor woman wasn’t a stranger… it was Louise.

It was something Madeline didn’t expect to feel… guilt. Not for being taken as a prisoner of war, but she felt guilty because she was relieved.

She tried to rationalize the relief, but it was hard. She was leader of the free world, which was no longer free. She wasn’t supposed to be relieved she was captured. Yet, she was.

There was a sense to her that it was over.

The invasion, the war, even the domestic terror strikes, were a lot for an experienced sitting president to handle. Madeline was tossed into the fray, full body and mind, and there wasn’t a solid plan. They couldn’t even come up with one because there was no way to know what was going on.

She was stuck in an old cold war era bunker, wearing a military uniform that was far too big for her. She was cold, hungry, tired, and confused. She hated herself for it.

Given the time, Madeline would have come up with a strategy. Now, that was time was done.

She was taken, like the queen in a game of chess.

Madeline didn’t know where they were taking her. She raised her arms because she didn’t want a shot fired, she didn’t want her men and women at the bunker hurt. She assumed those who were there would be taken as well.

There were two trucks and she was loaded into the back of one alone.

It was when the truck began to roll away that she heard the shots fired, the explosion. She closed her eyes and wanted to cry. Her yielding to the soldiers was for naught, they hit the bunker anyhow.

Troy and the others were more than likely gone.

Madeline was the only surviving member of the senate or congress, that she knew about.

She was now a prisoner of war.

The one voice to represent the fight and defense was silenced and in the back of a truck.

With each mile she rode the more she realized, there would be no battle, no fighting back, no conquering the enemy.

It was over.

In fact, it was pretty much over the second the enemy landed on American soil.

They drove for a while, at least an hour. She couldn’t see where they were. Madeline wasn’t shackled or handcuffed, nor was she treated roughly. She was escorted by two armed guards who didn’t speak to her at all.