x
Richard touched his arm and nodded for him to come away. He followed his brother to a corner of the room, leaving Stacey offering water to his mother at the bed.
"It's horrible out there," Richard whispered, shuddering. He put one hand over his twitching eye, and Washington started when he saw the burns. "I found her in the kitchen, on the floor. Must've been fixing supper, I guess.... a gas line might have exploded." He paused and shook his head. "I pulled her outside and got the hose but..." His voice quavered. "After a minute or so, the water just quit coming."
Richard looked so drawn, so wilted, as if he no longer had the energy to go on, nor the will. For a moment Washington, too, felt the hopelessness, but then he thought, We're alive. We're together. In a voice that projected calmer than he felt, he said, "Get out of those clothes, Richard." He started unbuttoning his brother's shirt. "They may be contaminated. We've got ski pants and stuff in the camping gear, even hiking boots. I'll get 'em."
"Wait...." Richard put a hand on his arm as he turned away. "What'll we do? She needs help!"
Washington was so used to his brother planning for them, telling them what to think and do next, that for a second, he stopped in shock. Then he said, "We'll get her to the hospital." He watched Richard closely for signs of disapproval.
His brother shook his head and slumped wearily against the wall, covering his eyes with his hands. "There's more."
"What?" he asked sharply.
"I could see L.A., you know? Fires. Everywhere. I mean, I can feel the heat from here. The air's thick with smoke and ash. My heart is racing. I don't know what to do. I'm scared!"
Washington sucked in his breath and glanced back to see if Stacey heard. "What happening?" His mother moaned.287Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2mIf1JfGzu
"We've got to get mom to a doctor. The hospital's at least a mile away. Can we use the car?"
"Nope. Driveway's blocked." Richard withdrew his hands; his eyes were bloodshot. "That big 'ol pine, the one in the Del Carlo's yard fell. Right across the driveway. It must be like that everywhere. We'd never get through."
Richard slid down the wall and settled on the floor, pressing hands against his stomach, eyes closed. Washington knelt and began unlacing his brother's shoes. "Get with it, Richard. Take that shirt off, and let's get rid of these pants. I'll get the clean clothes."
His mind raced as he dumped the contents of the backpack on one of the cots and grabbed at clothes for Washington. What should he do first? He had to get Washington fixed up so they could plan together, work together to help their mom. He'd glanced at her as he passed and had nearly thrown up. Her whole body seemed rigid in some superhuman effort to control pain. She moaned softly. He grabbed the first-aid box and dumped half the contents out in his clumsy fumbling until he found the bottle of painkillers. Was it safe to give one to her? Should she even be given water? Shouldn't he be bandaging the burns, putting anything on them? God, what the hell did he know about first aid.
"Give her these," he said, turning to Stacey.
"How many?" She took the bottle.
"I don't know. It says two, but that's for headaches and stuff. Three? Four? Let's try her on four."
"I think you're supposed to put ice water on burns," Stacey said softly. They gazed at each other for a long second, and Washington's throat contracted. Now, where in God's name were they going to get any ice? The five-gallon jug of water was lukewarm. Where could he get ice?
He turned away, grabbed the boots, wool shirt, and ski pants, and came back to Washington. "Here," he said coarsely. "Get into these and I'll get rid of yours." He lifted the heap of clothes gingerly, worrying that Washington might have brought radiation into the room, and they'd all be contaminated. Didn't nuclear bombs always irradiate people? Quickly he scaled the ladder, lifted up the hatch, and hurled the clothes as far away as he could.
"I....I....I think I'm...." Washington began to gag.
"Wait, wait! Don't!" Richard cried. He ran for the nearest container, meaning to hold it under his brother's chin.
But it was too late! Washington heaved and retched and vomited up half his guts, mostly over himself and the floor, as Richard stood over him, revolted and helpless.
"Goddamn you, Washington!" he cried. "Couldn't you have just......held back? You've stunk up the whole place." He rushed back to the cot and snatched up an old shirt to wipe up the mess. Stacey hurried over with a towel. "Look at that. Macaroni and cheese, all over the place. Yuchhh!" When he noticed the stricken look on his brother's face, he said, "All right, so it could have been worse." He tried to make light of it, but his heart was pounding. "At least it wasn't spaghetti or pizza."
They'd both eaten the same thing for lunch, and he wasn't sick. What was wrong with Washington? Radiation sickness? Could that come on so soon after exposure? On the other hand, Washington was prone to stomach trouble, wasn't he? What about last week, the night before the chemistry exam, when he'd thrown up most of the night?
"Here, Washington," Stacey said. "Rinse your mouth with this." She held a paper cup to Washington's lips. Her hand trembled.
Damn, Richard thought, backing away, wanting to puke himself from the smell. Why'd you go and get sick now? How can you do that to us? He yanked a plastic bag out of a backpack and dumped the contents of the pot into it along with the foul-smelling clothes he'd used to clean up Washington's mess, then sat on the bed opposite his mother, holding the bag between his legs. What do I do? he asked himself silently. Tell me what to do, God!
But then he realized such thoughts were pointless. If there really was a nuclear attack, God would be too busy elsewhere to look in on him. Whatever happened would be up to him and Washington now, not Got. With Washington sick, that left him only him and Stacey. He shivered at the thought.
"Richard"----Stacey dropped down on the cot beside him----"he's asleep. I just left him sitting there, but he looks like hell. And your mom. We've got get help. My parents! My sister! I want to go home!" Her voice broke.
"It's dark out there! The roads are blocked! I'm not Superman!"
She lowered her head and started to cry quietly.
"I'm sorry." He touched her head for a second, then jumped to his feet as he thought of the Del Carlo's. "The neighbors! Maybe Mr. Del Carlo can help. Maybe the road's clear below his house."
Wishful thinking, yes, but for the moment the bright possibility spurred him to action. Climbing out of the shelter, he envisioned the elderly next-door neighbor greeting him at the door, hearing his plea, rushing to help. He'd drive his car up the road, help him carry out his mother and Washington, and in no time, they'd be on their way to the hospital. Why, they might even drop off Stacey at her house!
But as soon as he stood upright on the blacktop, he knew he'd been lying to himself. Washington, the pessimist, had described less horror than now met his eyes. The sky was bright, bright with distant fires. Before him, the house that had once been home leaked flames from every opening. The electrical smell he'd noticed earlier was now overwhelmed by the acrid smoke of burning things. How long would it be before smoke filled the shelter? He covered his nose and ran to the wall separating their property from the neighbor's. He leaped over the brick, dropped into the yard below, then ran to the back door.
"Mr. Del Carlo! Mrs. Del Carlo!" he shouted, pounding on the wood. For an instant he visualized the last time he'd seen their neighbor. Some high school kids, celebrating graduation, had TP'd the shrubs and trees on the Del Carlo's front lawn. He and Washington had cleared the mess of toilet paper, at their mother's urging, and Mr. Del Carlo had brought over a box of his wife's freshly baked biscotti.
When there was no response, he ran around to the front door, ringing the bell and banging the door knocker.
"Come on. Come on, oh, please, come on!" he urged aloud, pounding on the door with his fists. He stopped and desperately looked around for another place to go. Across the road was a big field cleared just last week for a new housing project. The trees, which used to block the view into Pasadena, had been cut down, so he could now see where his father would be, except that the darkness of rising smoke blocked the normally pristine view. He turned back, lifted the flashlight, and with only a moment's guilty hesitation, brought it down on the cracked glass panel beside the front door, shattering it with the third blow. Reaching around, he found the knob, opened the door, and went in.
"Mr. Del Carlo!" he shouted, feeling like a vandal, ready to explain and apologize, if only they were here. But what if they weren't? Or what if they were here and were hurt? He flipped a switch, but no light came on. He played his beam around the entry hall. Pictures hung askew, and a chair had fallen over. Shards of glass crackled underfoot from a fallen china closet. But, in one corner, a grandfather clock still ticked as if the world were normal. He moved on to the next room.
"Mr. Del Carlo! Mrs. Del Carlo!" he called again and again. His throat was aching with the need to cry.
In the kitchen he found cans and broken dishes all over the counters and floors. He cried out at the sight of the wall phone. He ran to it and plucked the receiver from its hook while he played the light on the wall to find the emergency numbers posted there. With special care he punched the buttons for the fire department, then put the receiver to his ear. The phone was stone-cold dead.
"No!" he cried aloud. "No!" For a moment he stayed motionless in the big, tilted room, biting his thumb and staring at the phone.
The house was so still, so deadly still. He couldn't shake a horribly eerie sense that the Del Carlos were dead, that everyone in the world, except him and the others in the shelter was dead. His skin crawled with a dread of what he might find in the next room, or the next.
"I don't like this!" he cried. "I don't like this at all!" He thought of running back to the shelter. There, at least, were people, living people. They had food, some water, medical supplies, and even if the ventilation system failed, they might survive. Maybe he should just pack them all up and get out over the mountains. They had camping equipment, food, a stove. But how, with his mother the way she was?
He forced himself to move, to go on from room to room, growing more uneasy with each step. Please, God, I need them. Let them be here, alive, he begged silently. But the house seemed empty. Aimlessly he retraced his steps, wandering from room to room while trying to think about what to do.
If he returned to the shelter, he'd have to watch his mother die without being able to do a thing. If he moved on down the block, maybe he could get help, but would there be any? Or would each house have its own problems trying to care for their own wounded, trying to extinguish their own fires? Was it possible he and Stacey could move his mother here, without Washington's help? Would it be safer here than in the shelter?
Just as he was leaving the kitchen, still undecided, he noticed a door slightly ajar. A basement? With renewed energy he threw open the door and ran down the narrow stairs.
The basement had been partitioned into cubicles. In one space he found a workshop; another was a storage space. In still another the walls were lined with clay pipes containing bottles.
As he threw open the last door his throat clogged with disappointment. And then he saw them. "Mrs. Del Carlo!" In the bright flicker of a large candelabrum, he saw the elderly neighbor bent over her husband, who was lying on an old couch. She was almost deaf, and she didn't hear Richard until he was almost upon her. "Oh!" she exclaimed, turning. Her eyes were wide, and her hand clutched at her throat.
He backed away and switched the flashlight off. "I'm sorry. I really am sorry. I'm so glad to find you!" he babbled. "I was scared you were.... You've got to help! My mom's burned. Washington's sick. We're...."
"Tony's hurt! He broke something. He's in awful pain. Oh, please do something!"
Do something? What could he do?
He took a deep breath and bent over Mr. Del Carlo, touching his forehead the way his mother always touched his when he was sick. His hand came away wet and cold. He shuddered. Was the old man dead? And then he noticed how the leg stuck out at a funny angle. "How did it happen?"
"He fell, coming down the steps. I didn't want to come down here! I told him!" Mrs. Del Carlo cried. "He needs a doctor! Please, child. Go upstairs. There's a phone in the kitchen with Dr. Holt's name right next to it."
"Lara! Stop fussing!" Mr. Del Carlo's blue eyes opened, and he focused on Richard. "You Richard? Or Washington? Your mother's always..." He stopped and took a deep breath.
"I'm Richard."
"Yeah, well. I'm sorry your mother.... I'd help if..." His eyes closed again, and his forehead beaded with sweat.
"Tony! Tony! We've got to get a doctor!" Mrs. Del Carlo cried.
Her husband took another deep breath, then opened his eyes again. "Holt, if he's still alive, will go straight to the hospital. He's not going to make house calls."
Richard started to giggle, unable to stop until Mr. Del Carlo put a hand on his arm. "How strong are you, son?"
Richard wiped his eyes. Washington could bench press sixty pounds; he worked out regularly with weights. Washington was the strong one, not him. He shrugged.
"What the hell. We'll soon see." He turned to his wife. "Lara, be a good girl and get me a nice bottle of wine. I'm gonna need it."
"Wine? What are you talking about? What do you mean drinking wine at a time like this!"
"Dammit, Lara! Just do it!"
Mrs. Del Carlo rose uncertainly. Richard handed her the flashlight, and she left the room, glancing back uneasily. As soon as she had left Mr. Del Carlo took Richard's hand and squeezed hard. "I think I've dislocated something. I want you to grab my leg and turn it to the left, as hard and as quick as you know how."
Richard tried to pull away, but Mr. Del Carlo held his arm.
"Now don't let me down, kid. From what your mother says, you've got a lot of guts, running like you do and all that. The trick is to put out of your mind anything else, just like when you're running. Just ignore me if I cry out. Don't listen to Lara---she'll scream for damn sure. Just grab it and pull." He regarded Richard intently.
Richard's hands began to sweat. He thought of his brother, Stacey, and his mother in the shelter. They must be worrying, wondering what had happened to him. He had to get back. "I can't! It'll hurt you!"
"It'll hurt worse if you don't. Richard...."
He lowered his eyes and then nodded.
"Good. Then maybe I can help you. Now do it, before Lara comes back and starts screaming her head off."
Richard took a deep breath, positioned himself to get a firm grip on the oddly turned leg, then shut his eyes. What if he pulled wrong and only ended up making it worse? He opened his eyes and focused firmly on the pain-drenched face of the old man.
"Ready?" he asked, heart racing.
"Ready."
"Okay. One.....two....three!"287Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUfiNyyiaAF
287Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡF5n1faa70n
287Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5F7PIAWoTN
287Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCu2iuJsWqn
287Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc74oq4HIlI
287Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBfPe39MKXJ
