Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (28 page)

“How is your chest? Need another patch? Don’t be a hero. We’ll need to move fast.”

“Open it and I’ll put it in place.” My hands shook, but the patch stuck. Lao wound a wristband on Paul, then one on me, and tied light rope around our waists. My lower-back pain began easing. I wondered what kind of medical patches we stocked at Ashwood.

“I will go first, then Anne, then Paul. Stay flat, move carefully. Turn left as we leave this room. Crawl toward the first lab station. Paul, you know that place?” Paul whispered yes. “In that station, under the long wall table, there is a panel. I’ll open it, then we’ll crawl through. Anne first, me last.”

Paul and Lao helped me to the floor. Muscles protested, my lower back clenched in a spasm, but the rope tightened as Lao crawled ahead. On the flats of my arms, hands in fists, I moved. My left ankle was like an anchor and I tried holding it slightly off the floor. Keeping up with Lao’s steady pace demanded concentration. The warmth of Paul’s breath hovered over my heels.

The rope went slack. I stopped. Lao tugged. I moved forward cautiously. “There are turns ahead. Hold my foot.” He started forward, I grabbed at his foot, felt Paul touch my good ankle. In the dark, I sensed Lao’s changes of direction, tried to stay aligned.

David and I once played a child version of Dungeons and Dragons in this space with the kids. John fearlessly hid anywhere his little body fit. Phoebe always wanted to be the one searching. While I concentrated on Lao’s movements, I tried to remember that game to place where we crawled. Suddenly I recognized the odd chemical smell Jason and I encountered when we explored this space as a possible study hall. Long tables were bolted to the wall some thirty feet ahead. Small lights glimmering in active stations.

Lao stopped. I heard the sound of a metal grate being moved. He tugged on the rope and I crawled alongside him. With one hand, he tapped at my wristband. With the other, he removed the rope around my waist.

“You first into the vent.” Lao spoke into my ear, his voice light and fast like the sound of a bug’s wings. “The space is two feet high and three feet wide. You will slide feet first for a distance. Do not make any sounds. People are waiting to catch you at the bottom.”

“How much of a fall, Lao?” My hand searched for his arm, for his strength.

“Stop thinking. Just do.” Awkwardly I squirmed into position. He gave directions while helping me lift off the floor. “Hold your hands over your stomach.”

Air of a different temperature cooled my bare feet. I hesitated and then obeyed Lao’s command to not think, but to trust that this small, enclosed shaft would lead to freedom. I slid myself into the black hole, and suddenly the metal tilted downward and I shot toward an unknown landing.

Eyes closed, silent, I felt metal tear my clothes and nick my arm. My feet sank into a cushion, bad ankle forgotten with the overall jolting impact. Hands grabbed my arms, tumbled me from a giant bin of bedding, and eased me to the floor.

I blinked in the dim light, saw a half dozen uniformed marines. One protected the entrance to this space, others focused on the chute. I drew back against a wall, one hand protecting my chest, thoughts racing through everything that happened since hearing the voice I trusted to be Lao. No one else knew of my brother’s childhood teasing name. We were either saved or doomed.

Paul landed with a grunt. I watched as the troops dumped him to the floor, with speed and care. Lao shot through the same space, an acrobat following two amateurs.

“You two.” A tall female marine gestured our way to the landing box. “We need you back in here.” Paul and one of our rescuers offered me assistance. “It’s tight. Lie on your sides, close together.” Adrenalin dominated reluctant muscles as I rose from the floor. Arms lifted me without words, set me down gently. I flopped onto my right side, swollen ankle resting on top. Paul followed, lowering himself behind me in classic spooning position. “We’re going to put a lid on this box, then wheel it out of the building and across a drive. Stay quiet.” She extended a cloth toward me. “Your right elbow is bleeding.”

Paul grabbed the cloth, wrapped it around a nasty cut. “You’re not going to squeeze Lao in here?” he joked.

She smiled. “We need him elsewhere.” More blankets were tucked around our sides. “Don’t look so scared, Manager Hartford,” she said as they finished. “The worst is over for you.”

They lowered the lid, encasing us in blackness. I closed my eyes, but the panic was too strong. “I can’t breathe,” I called and kicked the box.

Two marines lifted the lid. Dim light flowed back in.

“I can’t breathe in here.”

“You can breathe, Annie.” Lao spoke from the side. “I will punch a hole here so you can have light, but there is air coming into the box through the sides.” He poked a sharp tool through the container near my face. “Just fifteen minutes, Anne. Stay cool.” The lid was lowered again.

Eyes closed, I felt Paul’s arm loop over my side. Hating my weakness, I forced myself to think we were not in a coffin, but tucked into a large crib. The distraction lasted seconds until we began moving and the bedding absorbed only a minimal amount of the pulling and shifting. Once the box was settled on a wheeled vehicle, we swayed with its forward motion.

I knew Ashwood’s buildings better than the contents of my dresser drawers. Twice a year Lao and I inspected every storage zone, production building, and tunneled walkway. The box carried us along a straight path before we were lifted and carried down a short flight of stairs. I bet myself we would see the residence laundry and sewing room when the crate opened. I was wrong.

Strong arms helped us out into the residence’s lower-level food storage area. Coolers and freezers hummed, shelving for canned goods stood partially filled with this fall’s harvest. Dr. Frances leaned against one wall, our residence medical bags at her feet. Terrell waited next to her. Two chairs, blankets, and a small table had been brought into the room. My legs quivered as I stood.

“Who smells like bad ham and mayo?” Terrell asked as he wrapped his arm around my waist.

“Me.” Paul reached into his pants, pulled out a mashed sandwich. “Peterson’s guy was so insistent we eat these that I got suspicious. You might want to test it.”

“Paul, you’re some man. The marines stage a magnificent rescue and you can’t pass up bringing a sandwich home,” Terrell joked. “Give that sandwich to the doctor while I help Annie.”

Many chuckled in the room. Dr. Frances opened our medical kit, pulled on gloves, and extended a sterile container toward Paul for his sandwich. I noticed blood drip from the side of his hand. He noticed my attention. “Someone should have told the construction crew who installed that vent to cover screw ends so that people don’t get hurt when they’re sliding out of a building.” He held his hand up to show the doctor his injury. “Is there something in the kit to cover this before Annie faints?”

“I’m fine.” I forced strength into my voice. “Take care of Paul first.” He tried to defer. “This is a time when age takes precedence, Paul.” Dr. Frances turned from me.

“Are the children okay?” I asked, watching as she attached monitors to Paul’s chest.

“Sarah and Hajar settled them for the night, Annie.” Terrell wrapped a blanket around me. “Dr. Frances helped Phoebe with a little medication to take the edge off a possible anxiety attack. Your girl is sleeping with her grandma.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what time it is.”

“It’s four-forty-five on Saturday morning.” Lao pointed at his communication band and I remembered he had snapped one on my wrist. I felt for mine under the blanket. “You and Paul will stay here until the head of this squadron gives clearance. Ashwood is under military command.”

Paul turned from Dr. Frances. “What will that do to the grain harvest?”

“We’ll worry about that in the morning.” Lao spoke with respectful authority.

Military command of Ashwood consumed my thoughts. It was unclear to me how these marines related to Peterson’s marines. Were they here to protect us or extend his tyranny into our home? I watched Dr. Frances’s actions, aware she could be working on any side in this curious situation.

My blanket dropped and as Terrell bent to pick it up, I leaned close. “Do my medical assessment.”

He caught my insecurity, gestured toward the doctor. “That woman was the love of my life when neither of us knew where we’d find our next meal. She’s good through and through.” Dr. Frances’s head popped up. “Don’t you worry,” he said and squeezed my shoulder.

He held the blanket for my privacy as Dr. Frances ran health monitor tests then examined my bruised chest. “A couple of inches lower and Captain Peterson would have a murder on his hands,” she reported. She pressed forcibly near the site, deep discomfort breaking through Lao’s pain patch. “Let’s do a diagnostic image, but I think this is a deep tissue injury with a nasty laceration that needs sutures. There’ll be a scar.”

“It won’t be my first.” Her hands covered the rest of my chest and back. “Did you think you’d be practicing this kind of medicine when you studied psychiatry?” I asked in a clumsy effort to establish connection.

“Did you want to become a business manager when you went through student teaching?” Weariness gave her words an edge. “I’m better at my specialty for the years of delivering babies and taking care of people’s bodies.” She knelt. “Give me your injured foot.” I extended my left leg in her direction. She twisted my foot one direction and then the other, felt along the muscles and tendons, stretched it toward her. “Bad sprain. Fairly high. Something to bring down the swelling is about all that can be done. Kind of a bully bruise.”

Clammy sweat formed on my forehead as each bruised area responded to manipulation. “What’s your assessment?” I lifted a shaky hand to wipe drops away.

“Let’s start at the top.” She handed me a wash cloth as she stood up, extended one hand and pulled down a finger with her other hand as she ran through her exam results. “Bad bump on the top of the head with your eyes having some difficulty following a light, which suggests a concussion. Probably give you headaches for some days. You’ll need to curtail activities and give your brain time to heal.” I knew the cautions about concussions, worried about being sidelined.

“We talked about the chest. You may have hyperextended your neck when you fell.” She took a breath. “Deep muscle bruising in the lower back with spasms. Pain patches, hot packs for that. And that ankle.” Leaning her head to one side, she slowed her voice. “Elevation and cold or hot packs for a few days. Ten to fourteen days of meds for pain and swelling. We’ll go over all this again when you’re ready, but the bottom line is there shouldn’t be any long-term issues. Just a few painful weeks. Lots of rest.”

Another doctor might have smiled. Dr. Frances finished with her diagnostic inventory and began recording the data. I fumbled with my shirt, my hands too shaky to manage fastners.

“Let me take care of that laceration before you bother with the shirt,” she said, watching me while tapping on a datapad. “Your mother-in-law packed fresh clothes.” I heard Terrell sharing the same information with Paul, who worried about leaving his favorite field boots back in the DOE basement.

Dr. Frances worked in silence. Looking beyond her head at Ashwood’s produce coolers, I did the talking. “What can you tell me about Phoebe? I worried about her all night.”

A needle jabbed under my chest skin with a slight burn then numbing. She turned to the medical kit, withdrew antiseptics and a butterfly suture. Quickly she cleaned the site and applied sutures.

“We’ll talk when there’s quiet.” Now I felt gentleness in her hands. “You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours. Let me help you clean up before you put on fresh things. I’m going to give you both something to help you get a few hours of sleep.” She held a number of tablets my way. “Anti-inflammatory, painkiller, and an anti-anxiety pill. We’re not going to risk a true sleep aid with the military on site.”

Marines rolled in the portable beds we used for sick bay. I took the pills I recognized, held the anxiety med, let her wipe me with a warm washcloth then help me dress.

“Is there’s any news about David?” The doctor shrugged. “Before I rest I want a complete report on what’s happening.” I looked for Lao. “Would someone find Lao?”

“Marine Lieutenant Kapur, General Manager Hartford.” A medium-tall man with overly developed biceps stepped forward. “Ma’am, we are off communications at this time to avoid information interception. I speak for the unified command.”

Kapur had eyes like undiluted coffee and hair a shade darker. He wore his authority well, his voice projecting respect, intelligence, even kindness. It wasn’t how Kapur carried himself that made me nervous. Taking advantage of the painkillers in my bloodstream, I sat as tall as I could and tried not to act like a prisoner in my beloved home.

“Thank you, Corporal Kapur.” We looked into each other’s faces. Used to an environment filled with managers closer to their forties and kids under university age, I was surprised by his young twenty-something appearance. “You don’t need to stand so formally.”

He shifted his stance, kept his hands behind his back. “Thank you, General Manager. Marines are closing in on the group holding Senior Research Director Regan and the remaining members of his team. There has been visual confirmation that they are alive.”

“Hallelujah,” Paul yelled and clapped his hands. “They’re going to bring him home, Annie.” He stopped walking the perimeter of the room to come over and give me a gentle hug, very gentle. He and Terrell exchanged high fives. I wondered about their naiveté, about how they could jump to the most optimistic conclusion when Kapur said nothing about David’s health or the difficulties of rescuing him.