H10N1 (33 page)

“People used to just take off in any direction,” Rick said, waving his arm to the side, “to go pick tomatoes or melons. But there are too many marauders out there who find it easier to steal than pick their own produce.”

Off to one side, Rick pointed out a fenced area with a chicken coop, a few milk cows and goats.

“Come on. I’ll introduce you to Judith. She’ll show you where to put your horse and wagon. You can decide if you want to lease them for credits or not.”

Hauling his bicycle out of the wagon, Rick pedaled back to the hospital. He was anxious to see if Taeya had been able to pull off a miracle with her latest casualty. The man had been shot up pretty bad.

Rick’s first stop was the cafeteria. The curtains around the surgical table were pulled open. Taeya had her arm around the woman, offering some comfort as the woman wept over the wounded man’s body.

No surprise. Taeya lost him. Rick wondered if a defibrillator would have made a difference. He should have gone with the team. He might have found one quicker and gotten back. But Taeya freaked out whenever Rick rode with Eric. She would never come right out and ask him not to go, but he knew she worried while he was away. Now that the situation had changed, he’d decided to stick around and let the young bucks like Eric take the risks. But Rick missed the good old days when he had that medical van and he was running food and supplies.

Gently guiding the woman, Taeya led her away from the surgical table. Rick held the door open for them, and Taeya gave him a weak smile. He knew the woman had no friends or family, no one to help with her grief. He followed silently as Taeya helped the woman to the old guidance counselor suite where someone would help the woman cope.

Leaning against the wall, Rick waited for Taeya to come back out, and the instant she did, he pulled her into his arms. She just sank against him, her shoulders slumped, her face buried in his chest. There was no need for words. She just needed to be held. She didn’t lose many patients, but when she did, she took it hard.

He gently caressed her back, and felt the tension fade as she sighed. Her bulging belly kept him from squeezing her as tightly as he wanted to.

“How about a nice hot shower,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll give you the deluxe back massage.”

Rick might have felt guilty about sneaking into the boiler room to turn on the water heater if it was just him, but Taeya was one of the town’s greatest assets; she deserved a shower after this latest surgery.

They slipped into the girls’ locker room, where there were individual showers—not the gang showers like in the boys’ locker room. While Taeya undressed, Rick got towels and soap from her locker.

He stood behind Taeya in the shower stall. After lathering up his palms, he massaged the soap on her tight belly. Leaning her head back on his chest, she gripped his hands and pressed them hard against her. He felt the slight bump of the baby kicking, and a lump swelled in his throat.

“She always seems to know when I need a reminder that life goes on,” Taeya sighed.

“Yes,
he
does,” Rick chided.

Turning her head to the side, Taeya kissed his shoulder.

“Love you,” she whispered.

“Love you more,” he croaked back.

The barbeque was in full swing by the time they got to the town center. A band on the café’s patio played an old Dave Matthews’ tune. A couple women sang backup, and folks who couldn’t play guitar slapped tambourines, or shook maracas from the high school’s band room. One woman even played a huge xylophone that rolled on casters. Trumpets honked, trombones blatted. A saxophone wailed. No way John would allow extension cords from the school, but what the band lacked in electronic amplification, they more than made up for in diversity.

The smell of beef ribs filled the air. All of the tables at the café were taken, but late arrivals brought lawn chairs from home. A long table next to the grill was loaded with covered dishes. Rick intended to eat himself into a coma tonight.

Devin waved them over to a table under an umbrella. Evidently, the news had already spread that Taeya had lost her patient, because as she and Rick meandered through the crowd, folks stopped her to show her how well a broken arm had mended, or how quickly a wound had healed. It was their way of letting her know how important she was to the community.

A young woman reached into a carriage and lifted out the newborn Taeya had delivered just three weeks ago—the town’s first new citizen. When she laid the baby in Taeya’s arms, tears pooled in her eyes. She rubbed her cheek across the baby’s fuzzy head and smiled.

In the distance, Rick heard the unmistakable sound of a truck barreling down the street. He sprinted toward the edge of the parking lot just as the four-by-four careened to a stop. Four men piled out of the bed, another hopped out of the cab. They all made a beeline for the beverage table.

Rick grabbed the truck door before Eric could even climb out. “Everybody make it back?”

“Jesus, Rick,” Eric snapped. “If you think I don’t know what I’m doing—”

“Sorry, man.” Rick had no reason to doubt Eric’s abilities. After all, he’d been trained by the best. He held the door open for Eric.

“Wait ‘til you see what I found.” Reaching between the truck’s seats, Eric pulled out a package wrapped in newspaper.

“Check this out! The grill is fantastic!” Eric delicately unwrapped the newspaper, like it was protecting a Ming vase. Dear God, the dude was one sick bastard. Some guys collected beer steins. Or displayed high school trophies on their mantels. Eric was into skulls.

He cradled the human remains in his hands. “Check out the diamonds in these teeth. And the gold inlays. It’s a fucking work of art.”

“Yeah,” Rick said. “Are those garnets?” He loved pulling Eric’s chain.

“Are you fucking kidding?” Eric squawked. “These are rubies.”

“So,” Rick hinted. “Did you find anything else interesting?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eric stowed the skull safely on the front seat, then dug behind and pulled out a paper bag. “I gotta tell you though, this is one dorky present.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Rick made sure Taeya wasn’t watching, then peeked into the bag. It was perfect.

“You wait,” he told Eric. “She’s going to blubber when she sees this.”

After dinner, John came over to the table. Devin and Judith were sipping wine made with their own grapes. Taeya was lounging back in her chair with her feet propped in Rick’s lap. He was tapping out the beat to Bob Dylan’s Knocking on Heaven’s Door on her leg, keeping time with the band.

“I was on the radio last night,” John told them. “There’s a dairy farmer down in Modesto who needs field corn. I found a farmer in Colusa County who’s willing to trade a wagonload for a milk cow and a couple calves for butchering. If we coordinate the trade, we can get a calf and three wheels of cheese.”

“Sweet,” Devin said. “I’ll have a security team ready to go as soon as the deal is done.”

As he spoke, John dug his fingers into his beard. Had he trimmed it? His hair looked shorter, too. Rick leaned forward and sniffed. Cologne?

John took a step away.

“I also talked to a fellow in Washington,” he said. “As in D.C. Seems President Birch has come out of hiding, and is trying to reorganize a cabinet. But he’s meeting some resistance.”

“Good.” Taeya gave a little snort. “We’re doing just fine without those bureaucrats.”

“Where you sitting, man?” Rick asked. “Why don’t you pull up a chair?”

“I don’t think so.” John got this sheepish look on his face. Then he admitted he was with someone else. They all turned to check out a small table way off in the corner under some shade trees.

“A woman?” Rick blurted out.

“Why you old dog,” Devin hooted.

Even Taeya ribbed him. “Are you getting any?”

After giving the mystery woman a long assessment, Rick wrapped an arm around John’s neck, and whispered in his ear, “She’s got some nice knockers, Pops.”

John stuck his nose in the air. “This is why we are not sitting with you reprehensible scoundrels.” He stomped off in an exaggerated huff.

The band broke into a mellow Eagles tune, and Taeya wanted to dance.

“Yeah, okay,” Rick said. “But first, I got you something.”

He handed her the paper bag. He’d never forgotten how sad Taeya was when those guys stole the van back in Arkansas and she’d lost her family pictures.

The minute she saw the photo album, her lips started to tremble.

“I’m afraid we’re starting from scratch here.” Rick opened the book. On the first page was the photo John had taken of Rick and Taeya at their marriage ceremony. They didn’t have an actual preacher in town, but Devin, in his unofficial capacity as town marshal, had officiated. Taeya had worn this fantastic peach-colored gown she’d found in someone’s attic. And the womenfolk had scrounged around to find Rick a suit jacket and a pair of real shoes.

There were only thirty-two residents in Laurel Valley at the time, but they’d all come to the wedding, and they were all standing behind Rick and Taeya in the photo.

“I figure some day, we’ll have a whole bookshelf of albums, with pictures of first steps and birthdays and soccer games.”

Just like he predicted, Taeya cried.

Turn the page for an exciting preview of

The Ups and Downs of Being Dead

By

M. R. Cornelius

CHAPTER ONE

Robert’s legs buckled, refusing to support him. He gripped the back of an armchair, a muted blue and beige plaid no doubt intended to sooth visitors during their death vigil. His body swayed like a drunken teenager on his first binge. The walls of the room seemed to be tilting.

The plaid design of the chair blurred in and out of focus, heightening his dizziness. Unable to raise his head to escape the wavering lines, Robert closed his eyes.

Just a moment ago, searing pain had racked his body. He’d stiffened every muscle to endure that latest wave of torture. But now as he hovered in the corner of the hospice room, his body was pleasantly numb.

“On my count, one-two-
three
.”

A voice seemed to be commanding Robert to do something. Straighten up? Snap out of it? He pried his heavy eyelids open.

Across the room, two staffers in white lab coats gripped the lifeless arms and legs of Robert’s body and lowered it into what looked like a white plastic coffin. The feeling of disconnect intensified. Robert raised his right hand in front of his face, turning it to view both sides. It sure seemed like he was standing in the corner.

The petite blonde running the show was Anne. She wasn’t part of the hospice staff. She was here strictly for retrieval.

Her assistant was a burly jock with hairy arms and sloping shoulders, the muscle of the operation. While the jock wheeled a big cooler of ice closer to Robert’s body in the white coffin, Anne started an IV, then twisted open the port on a bag of fluid suspended on a pole. The fluid was for damage control, Robert had been told. If the blood didn’t continue to flow freely through the brain, too much calcium built up, neurons got damaged, free radicals went wild, blah, blah, blah. Robert couldn’t remember all he’d been told about the procedure, but basically the fluid was supposed to keep a lot of damage from happening to his body during transport.

He tried to massage his temples with his fingertips, but got no relief from the muddle in his head. He’d just been whispering something to Anne when all the bells and beepers went off.

It was about the smell in the room. The necrotic stench of cancer was everywhere, a permanent odor in his nose that he could almost taste. He’d been wondering why someone on the staff hadn’t noticed and at least sprayed some kind of deodorizer or opened a window to freshen the air. Now he couldn’t smell anything.

Anne nestled Robert’s head into a separate compartment of the plastic coffin, taking extra care to ease the neck into a recess similar to the one used by the shampoo girl at the salon where Robert used to get his hair styled.

Robert glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 8:35AM. Amanda was probably still sleeping, with that goofy chin strap cinched up tight to ward off sagging jowls, and her lotion-slathered hands tucked into her special gloves. She’d refused to come to the hospice. Instead, she‘d made one last stab at making him feel like a moron for doing this.

The clacking of ice distracted Robert, and he moved closer to watch Anne shovel the frozen cubes around his head until his face was covered. Then she fitted a white plastic lid in place and clamped it shut. Fear lurched in Robert’s belly again.

As Anne worked, the jock fastened an apparatus across the white coffin at chest level. The contraption looked like a motor from an ice cream maker, only instead of locking a paddle into the underside of the motor, the guy popped in a big suction cup. With a rubber-gloved hand, he smeared clear goo onto Robert’s lifeless chest, and then started what was called ‘the thumper’.

When the suction cup pressed down on the chest, it forced the heart of the dearly departed to circulate thinned blood through dead arteries, and when the suction cup pulled up, it expanded the chest, drawing air into non-functioning lungs. They called it cardio-pulmonary support. CPS, not CPR. There would be no resuscitation today.

Once both staffers completed their tasks, they piled blue ice packs around the torso and limbs. Anne checked her watch. “Let’s roll.”

Unlocking the wheels, the jock steered the white coffin out of the hospice room. The steady suck and woosh of the thumper reverberated down the short hallway to double doors that slid open automatically. Anne stepped into the back of the ambulance to guide the box, while the jock shoved the human ice chest inside. Robert climbed aboard, and heard the doors bang shut behind him.

Euphoria settled over him, a giddiness that begged for giggles. It was over: the chemo that left him weak and nauseous, the pain that no amount of drugs could eliminate, those phony tears Amanda always managed to conjure up at the clinic, even the alarming clumps of his hair snagged in his comb. Done. Finished.