Apocalypse Atlanta (6 page)

The bathroom was empty, even the tub when he stepped over to it and checked behind the shower curtain.  He went back into the bedroom and checked the floor on the far side of the bed, then in the closet.  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to find her lying there, or not, but he couldn’t not check.  His wife was not there.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Going back into the hall, he looked in the two spare bedrooms, which were also empty, then headed for the basement door, still not quite hurrying.  There was, however, more energy in his movements than there had been thus far in his search.  When he opened the door down into the basement, he saw the lights were on and relaxed a little.

“Amy?  I’m home.” he called down the stairs.

There was silence for a long moment, then he heard something, someone, moving.  No voice answered him, and he couldn’t help the cold chill that ran up his spine as his mind supplied a scenario that involved a burglary or home invasion, with the perp still down there.  His hand reflexively went to his belt, but he wasn’t wearing the sidearm he’d become accustomed to having at the ready when he was in the Sandbox.

He had his backup piece, the one he had let Amy ‘forget’ he wore around, but as he considered drawing it, he decided he was probably overreacting quite seriously.  This wasn’t the third world, and he wasn’t in a combat zone.  Calmly.  Proceed calmly.

“Who’s down here?” Peter said loudly as he took the stairs rapidly.  He wasn’t concerned about quiet or surprise so much as he was answers.  He had a typical Marine’s confidence in his ability to handle anything that might come up.  His concerns at the moment were centered around what was going on and where his wife was.

Still, there was no answer.  He looked around quickly as he reached the bottom.  To the left, he saw the boxes of old junk and mementos they still hadn’t found places for upstairs, including the old lawnmower he kept meaning to fix.  On the right, he saw the washer sitting with the lid down, the dryer next to it with its door open.

And a slight figure with long graying hair tied back at the base of the neck wearing a faded housedress standing off to the side near the high, narrow window up near the ceiling.  She seemed to be looking out the window, which didn’t show anything beyond a bit of one of the bushes.  And was too small for anyone except a contortionist to get through.

“Amy?” Peter said uncertainly.  “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

The figure turned, and Peter saw a blank look on his wife’s face, rather than the smile, or occasionally the frown, he was accustomed to seeing.  The smile was for normal times, the frown she reserved for when he’d screwed something up, in her opinion.  But neither expression was in evidence now, only an emptiness that didn’t look like her at all.  And her eyes, normally so alert and alive, looked even more vacant.  They fixed on him immediately, and she stumbled towards him.  Other than the scrape of her slippers on the bare concrete, she was silent.

Peter stared at her in shock.  In addition to her complete lack of recognition, of him, her husband, she was so incredibly pale.  The skin on her face and neck was so white it was almost translucent.  “Amy, what’s wrong?” Peter asked as her arms came up when she was almost to him, her body wobbling as if she were having trouble staying upright.  He reached for her automatically.  Her hands closed on his work shirt with surprising strength, and she pulled, hard.

“Sweetheart!” he blurted as he stumbled off balance, colliding with her.  His wife toppled over backwards, still gripping his shirt, and he half bent even as he reached for her arms to stop her fall.  He noticed, almost absently, her hands and forearms did not share the pale color on her face; they were bluish-purple and seemed bloated.  And the flesh beneath his fingers was not only unnaturally . . . squishy . . . but it was cold too.

She still made no sound, not even a grunt or a gasp as she crashed to the ground, though he grunted as her weight hung from him.  “God, are you alright?” he exclaimed, as a feeling of panic, deeply uncertain panic, started bubbling within him.  Her head came up, and he searched her face looking for some sign, any sign, but her eyes swept across his face almost like he wasn’t even there.  They fixed on his hands, gripping her arms just above the elbows, and she bent forward, up really, abruptly.

Peter yelled in surprise as he realized she was about to bite him, and released her, snatching his hands away in an instinctive reaction.  He felt, actually felt, her teeth scrape across the skin of his left forearm as he stepped back.  She collapsed to the floor as his hands stopped supporting her, and he stood staring in shock at his wife.  A moment later, she started trying to sit up.  She moved slowly, hesitantly, like her body wasn’t working correctly.

“Something’s wrong.” he whispered, trying to quell the panic bubbling within him.  His hands were cold, cold from contact with her flesh.  She shouldn’t be cold.  He and Amy had been married for over thirty years, and he’d deployed to active warzones five times during his career.  He’d seen death, he’d seen injury, and he’d killed people.  Not often, not even as often as a Marine who was tasked with front line combat, but he’d done his share.

None of it had prepared him for this, the feeling of helplessness and fright that gripped him as he watched his wife loll about on the floor in utter silence, without the faintest sign she recognized him or even knew who she was.  Strangely, that complete lack of recognition in her eyes scared him more than any of her other physical . . . symptoms, at the moment.  That she could look at him and not react like the Amy who knew and loved him, even if she did occasionally call him an idiot who should listen more and talk less.

His training took over.  Unless it was critical, only if there was no other course of action available, the correct procedure was to call for the right personnel to handle a situation.  There was always someone to handle whatever came up, even if it was an officer you merely dumped the responsibility on.  This seemed clear enough though, and he stepped back, to the stairs, as he reached into his pocket and all but ripped his phone out.

He thumbed the keys without looking away from Amy as she managed to sit upright.  Her head, her empty eyes, remained fixed on him as she struggled to get her feet under herself and rise.  Peter raised the phone to his ear and reached for the banister, stepping backwards up the first few steps.  The phone rang, then rang again, and was picked up.

“Nine-one-one operator, what is your emergency?” came a cool, calm, and slightly bored female voice.

“Peter Gibson, 2342 Westridge Court, Snellville, 30078.  I need an ambulance here, now.  My wife has collapsed . . . she’s having some kind of episode.” Peter said into the phone, speaking rapidly and clearly.  “2342 Westridge Court, Snellville.  Ambulance.”  Amy was still struggling to get to her feet, and from the look of it might take some time to accomplish the task.  She had never been the most athletic of people, but she was acting like she was a drunk toddler.

“Okay sir.” the operator said, and he could hear keys tapping on her end of the line.  “I’ve got your location.  Do you know your wife’s medical history?”

Peter’s hand clenched around the phone, and he only kept his voice even by virtue of years of experience in the service.  “She has high blood pressure and a bit of arthritis.  That’s it.”

“Is she conscious, is she alert?”

“She’s conscious, but she’s not alert.” Peter answered, watching Amy as she continued trying to stand.  “She’s not talking.  She doesn’t seem to recognize me.”

“Is she visibly injured?”

Peter paused, then decided it wasn’t lying.  He couldn’t see any wounds, at least, nothing that looked overly traumatic.  No cuts, no impalements, nothing like that.  But her hands and lower arms did look like they were bruised, and he supposed that technically qualified.  He couldn’t imagine what in the hell was causing it, but that didn’t matter.

“Yes, she hit her head when she fell.” he said, deciding to lie at least a little.  “And both her arms are heavily bruised.”

“Do you know how the injuries occurred?”

He heard a slight change in the tone of voice of the operator.  It confused him for an instant, then it occurred to him she might be assuming this was some sort of domestic dispute gone too far.  Peter took a moment to step, hard, on his self control.  When he spoke, his voice was even.

“I don’t, she was like this when I got home.  Please, I’m retired military, and we’re both in our fifties.  We need some help.  She needs help, fast.  Please.”  He heard the needy almost-whine, the pleading quality, in his voice, and didn’t care.  He needed them to get here as fast as possible, and didn’t want to be scheduled down the list.  God knew he drove past enough ambulances everyday in the area, they could spare one now that he needed one.

“The call’s already gone out sir.  Stay on the line while I check with the dispatchers in your area.”

“Thank you.” Peter said.  He waited, gripping the phone in one hand, the railing in the other, as he watched Amy finally get one of her feet under herself and start to rise.  She moved like she was very, very, old.  Like she had all but forgotten how to control her body.  And that horribly empty expression stayed on her face the entire time, silently watching him as she staggered upright.

“Okay, sir?”

“Yes.” Peter said, stepping back up another level on the stairs.  He wasn’t sure why he was backing up, and stopped there on the third step when the thought crossed his mind.

“The ambulance is enroute to your location, should be there in five to seven minutes.” the operator said.  “Let me confirm the address you gave me.”  She read it back, and Peter nodded involuntarily.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Good.  Now, normally I’d stay on the line with you, but we’re starting to see a high call volume here so I need to have you wait for the paramedics while I move on to the next person who needs help.  The ambulance is on the way.”

“I understand.  Thank you.” Peter said.  Amy was shuffling determinedly towards him.  Based on what he’d seen, he wasn’t at all sure she’d be able to climb the stairs.

“Okay sir.  They’ll be there shortly.”  There was a pause, then the operator added, “I hope your wife is okay.”

“So do I.” Peter said softly.  The line went dead, and he continued to hold the phone to his ear for a few seconds before shaking himself and snapping it closed.  Amy was halfway to the stairs, and he watched her for a moment before a thought occurred to him.  If she couldn’t climb the stairs, like it looked like she was going to try to do, she might hurt herself when she fell.  He put the phone in his pocket and considered the situation for a moment.

“Damnit.” he said, ashamed of what he was thinking.  He darted down the steps and backed away from her.  She changed course, sluggishly, and continued to pursue him.  Peter backed further, then glanced around the basement.  There, his eyes lit on the old sofa, the one Amy had been after him to donate to the Salvation Army for the last month, since they’d had the new one delivered.  He waited for her to shuffle over close to him, then went around her in a wide circle and hurried over.

He snatched the sofa cushions off and threw them on the floor, then bent and quickly shoved them together to form a rectangle of padded fabric.  Glancing up, he checked on Amy’s progress, then stripped off his belt.  Holding the loose belt in his hands, he waited anxiously, feeling sick to his stomach.  When she was almost to him, just in front of the cushions, he circled around her again.

She turned slowly, still tracking single mindedly on him, still eerily quiet.  Peter steeled his resolve, then reached out and shoved her shoulders as hard as he dared.  His wife toppled over backwards, landing on the piled cushions rather than the bare concrete of the basement floor.  He darted forward with the belt outstretched and looped it around her ankles, quickly cinching it in on itself, then stepped back.

Amy was flopping around on the cushions, but didn’t look hurt by the fall.  Based on her struggles, he judged it would take her even longer to sit up on the uneven and shifting surface the cushions provided.  And with her legs restrained, he doubted she’d be able to stand.  A strangled sob erupted from his chest as he watched the woman he loved flopping around on the floor, but he reached deep down and found what he needed to turn to the stairs.

Quickly, he vaulted up them like he was twenty years younger, and all but ran for the front door.  Hands flying, he threw back the security chain that would only allow the door to be opened an inch and unlocked the deadbolt and knob before tugging the door open wide.  Darting outside, now he did run, for the street.  He halted at the curb and scanned in both directions.  Nothing.

“Five to seven minutes.” he repeated, like a mantra.  Automatically, he pulled his phone out and looked at the time, then thumbed up the recent call list.  They should be here in the next two minutes.  He looked at the street again.  “Come on, come on.”

He stayed there until he saw the ambulance coming down the street.  They were driving with their lights on but no siren, and didn’t appear to be in any particular hurry.  Peter waved his arms anxiously at them, and they turned into the driveway when they got to his house.  It was all he could do to not curse as the driver took his time parking the vehicle.

“Where’s the victim?”

Peter blinked, then realized a second paramedic had gotten out of the ambulance and come around from the passenger side.  He was holding two bags in his hands and looking at Peter expectantly.