William Forstchen - One Second After

She began to sob again.

“Where’s the supervisor?”

“In her office, I think.”

He nodded, left Caroline, and went down towards the opposite wing and turned into the administrative corridor. The door to the supervisor’s office was closed, and without bothering to knock he pushed it open.

The woman behind the desk was fast asleep, head on her desk.

“Ira, wake up,” John snapped angrily.

She raised her head.

“Professor Matherson?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

She rubbed her eyes and sat up.

“I know you must be upset.”

“‘Upset’ isn’t the word for it. This is an outrage.”

She nodded silently.

“I know. I’ve got four people in the building, maybe three; I think Kim-berly took off. I sent the last of our kitchen staff down to the town to try and get help. But that was hours ago and no one’s come back. No water, no air-conditioning, no refrigeration for food or medication…”

She fell silent, then looked down at a checklist on her desk. The woman was obviously pushed over the edge and reverting to an almost standard routine to hide in.

“Last rounds I counted seventeen dead. Six families have pulled their relatives out…. Let’s see, that leaves forty patients and three staff on overtime. Normally during the day I have over thirty working here.”

God, you’d think everyone would have pulled their people out, John thought, then realized the difficulties of that. Some had no family nearby at all. A couple retired here, the spouse died, the other wound up here, the kids somewhere else, New York, California, Chicago… the American way.

Even for locals, just five or ten miles away. How to get a sick, demented, or dying parent or grandparent moved? And many most likely just assumed or wanted to assume that “Grandpa is safe there; we’re paying five thousand a month to make sure of that.”

“But you’ve got to do something,” John protested weakly.

“Pray, tell me what I should do first,” she said quietly. “Did I tell you we were robbed last night?”

“What.”

“Some punks. One had a gun, and demanded the drugs. They took all the painkillers, pills, the liquid morphine.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. The one with the gun had a shaved head, earring, tattoo of a serpent on his left arm, red motorbike.”

“Animals,” John said coldly.

Tyler was on a morphine pump. Jesus, if he comes round it will be hell for him.

“That’s what I called them and they laughed.”

John found he couldn’t answer her and was filled with a sudden pity for her. She was a good woman, her eldest son a member of his scout troop a couple of years back.

“I’ll get into town and see if we can get these people evacuated somehow.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m taking my father-in-law out now.”

“That’s good.”

“What about his feeding tube, the formula?”

“I wouldn’t trust the formula anymore. It’s supposed to be refrigerated.

We still might have some cans of Ensure. Use a funnel and gravity feed it into him.”

John nodded, stomach rebelling.

“I better go.”

He left her in her miserable solitude, and went into the next corridor. It was a deeper hell here. The entire wing was the “restricted wing,” all the patients with Alzheimer’s or another form of severe dementia. A number of them were out in the hallway, those capable of some mobility wandering aimlessly, at his approach reaching out with withered hands, some speaking, others just muttering or making incoherent sounds. He felt as if he had just fallen into a surreal nightmare. He could not stop for them, help them; to do so would trap him in the nightmare forever.

Passing an emergency exit door, he looked outside. There was a patient slowly shuffling towards the woods. With the entire security system down, the ankle bracelets that were touted as the newest thing in safety, which automatically locked the door and set off an alarm at the nurses’ station if someone with dementia tried to open it, were now deactivated. It was a wonder that any who could still walk were inside the building, and he wondered how many had indeed just wandered into the woods.

He spotted a gurney at the end of the corridor, and as he approached it, to his horror he saw that the body of small, withered old man was on it, an elderly woman standing beside the body, stroking the man’s hair.

John approached, determined to take the gurney, if need be, but as she looked up at him, his will failed and he backed away, then fled the ward.

He returned back to the wing where Tyler was. Somehow, Jen had indeed cleaned him up, a pile of torn soiled sheets tossed on the floor, a torn blanket wrapped around him. She looked at John, eyes calm, her strength amazing him.

“Did you find a gurney?”

“I’ll carry him out.”

She had already disconnected the hose of the feeding tube and the IV tube. John slipped his arms under Tyler and stood up. The man, in spite of his wasting away, was still heavy, and John braced himself for a second before daring to take a step. He turned to ease out the door and then continued out into the corridor, walking fast, a race against dropping Tyler. They went past the desk, Caroline said nothing, Jen raced ahead to open the back door.

In the corner of the sitting room John saw the slumped-over body of Miss Kilpatrick in the corner, a pool of drying blood was soaked into the berber carpet beneath her, flies were swarming on it.

Gasping for breath, John was out the door and down to the car, laying Tyler down in the backseat. He opened his eyes; there was a glint of recognition.

“It’s ok, Tyler; we’re taking you home. It’s ok.”

He couldn’t speak. The cancer had long ago devoured his throat, vocal cords, and spread into his chest. His breathing was raspy, sounding like another bout of pneumonia was setting in.

Still, he had enough strength to grasp John’s arm and squeeze it, then let go.

“Jen, start the car; I’ll be right back,” and John handed her the keys. He went back in and returned to the nurses’ station. “Caroline, I need some Ensure.”

She nodded towards the storage room. He went in, again a struggle for control. Someone had vomited on the floor. He gingerly stepped around the mess, tearing open storage cabinets; the bandage that covered his injured finger was soaked through with God knows what and finally just slipped off. Empty shipping cases of the precious liquid were scattered about, and when just about to give up, he found two cartons of twenty-four cans, grabbed them, and stepped back out.

He started for the door, hesitated, and then turned, going back to the room with the two old men. He took two six-packs and placed them on the old veteran’s lap.

“Thanks for what you once did for us, Sergeant,” he whispered.

The old man smiled and nodded. John felt a bit foolish at first but could not stop himself. He came to attention and saluted the old man, who stiffened in his chair, smiled, and returned the salute. John left him and headed to the car.

Dumping the cans onto the floor of the front seat of the car, John climbed in.

“Get us the hell out of here,” John said.

He turned away, blocking out the sight of the demented patients wandering about outside. If he stopped for them he would be pulled back into the nightmare, with Tyler stuck in the backseat in the sweltering heat.

They drove out and several minutes later were back home. “Ben, Elizabeth!” John shouted.

The two kids, soaking wet, came out of the pool, laughing, but then slowed as they saw John struggling to maneuver Tyler out of the car. Elizabeth stepped back. “Oh, Pop-pop,” and she began to cry. “You need help, sir?” Ben asked nervously. “Just get the door.”