War, p.4
War, page 4
part #2 of A Journey Through Hell Series
Chris turned and walked away. As he reached the door, he turned back to look at Mr. Williams, who waved, so Chris left, heading for the elevator.
Once Chris left, Mr. Williams grabbed the bottle of nitroglycerin and shook it, hoping there was a pill he had missed, but as he’d known, there was nothing inside. A dying man will do anything for a reprieve on life, but he knew there would be none today and his shoulders hung low as he put the bottle down on the desk.
***
A few days before the sickness hit, Mr. Williams had found himself in the downtown hospital’s emergency room after experiencing severe discomfort in his chest. At first, he’d thought it was indigestion, but the pain soon worsened. It felt like someone was jabbing a knife into his chest, and his shirt became soaked in perspiration; beads of sweat ran down his forehead, dripping off his nose.
Instinctively, he clutched at the pain rooted deep inside his chest—he now felt light-headed as pain radiated down his left arm. Overwhelmed by thirst, he stood up to get a cup of water, then instantly had to sit back down. His breathing had become labored, and for the first time in his life he feared dying. Not knowing what else to do, he sat back down in his leather chair and pressed the button on his phone to call for his assistant.
“Help,” he gasped, mouth dry.
Within seconds the door burst open, his assistant rushing in. She dialed 9-1-1, and provided the dispatcher with his symptoms, then provided the code to the elevator that made it go straight to the penthouse— no stops.
The paramedics arrived and inserted an IV, putting him on oxygen. Once in the ambulance, the medic called the hospital and requested the use of nitroglycerin. The ER doctor approved the request and the medic reached into a cabinet, pulling out a small bottle.
The medic had lifted the oxygen mask from his face and said, “Open your mouth and lift your tongue. I’m going to give you some nitroglycerin.”
Watching as the tiny pill dropped into his mouth Mr. Williams had thought, What the hell is that little thing going to do?
The pill landed under his tongue and he closed his mouth.
“Leave it under your tongue,” the medic had said, putting the oxygen mask back on.
Within seconds the pill dissolved, causing him to feel light-headed as the pain in his chest started to dull.
“Better?” asked the medic.
“Yes,” Mr. Williams said, the relief in his voice.
“Gotta love the nitro. Why don’t you lay back and relax? We’ll be to the hospital soon,” the medic said as the siren blared to get through the bustling city traffic.
Mr. Williams took deeper breaths, inhaling the oxygen. Suddenly, he did something he’d rarely done. Reaching out, he’d grabbed the medic’s arm and when the medic looked down, Mr. Williams said, “Thank you!”
“Just doing my job,” the medic replied.
After a few hours of lying in the ER he’d finally met with a cardiologist, who asked all sorts of questions, from his family history to his diet— which didn’t exist now, and never had. The cardiologist told him he would perform a cardiac catheterization, and then described the procedure. “I will insert a small needle into a vein in your wrist, then feed a tiny camera up through your arm and into the heart, where I will look around.”
“Will I be awake?” Mr. Williams had asked.
“Somewhat. We will use a conscious sedation on you.”
“What does that mean?”
The doctor chuckled, as if he knew the question was coming, and said, “You will be awake but sleepy, and you’ll slip in and out of consciousness, but you’ll be able to answer our questions.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Do I have your consent to perform the procedure?”
“Yes.”
“Great! One of my assistants will be down with some paperwork for you to sign, and then they’ll bring you upstairs to the cath lab.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Williams said for the second time today.
“All right. I’ll see you upstairs.”
After the procedure, all he’d wanted to do was sleep, and when they brought him back downstairs to his room, he’d fallen into a deep sleep.
The next morning, the cardiologist had come in and provided him with the results of the test.
“We found a sixty percent occlusive blockage in your heart. We believe this is causing you the pain and discomfort in your chest.”
“Will I need surgery?” Mr. Williams asked.
“No. We typically do not perform surgery unless it is seventy percent or more blocked, plus your blood pressure is extremely high.”
“So, what do we do?”
“We treat it with medication and diet. I’ll write you a prescription for nitroglycerin, and one for your blood pressure. I suggest you follow up with your cardiologist as soon as possible. If left untreated, you could potentially die.”
The next day they’d released him from the hospital, and his driver had picked him up and dropped him back at the office. His assistant made an appointment with the best cardiologist in the city, and two days later he’d met with her. She had graduated from Harvard Medical School and was the absolute best at what she did. After reviewing the reports, she’d believed his heart was worse than the hospital believed it was.
“I’m not sure I agree with the hospital cardiologist. What’s today, Tuesday?” she’d asked.
“Yes, it’s Tuesday,” he’d said.
“I’d like you to rest for a few days, and then I want you to undergo a stress test.”
“Okay.”
“A stress test will determine how your heart works under physical activity. We will look at the blood flow and the movement of your heart muscles, and this will help us determine the best course of treatment.” She looked at her schedule and said, “How does this Friday the thirtieth sound?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“How are your prescriptions?” she’d asked as she searched his paperwork.
“They gave me one for my blood pressure, and some nitroglycerin in case the pain comes back.”
“It looks like he gave you a month’s supply. That should hold you over until after the strength test, then we’ll reevaluate your prescriptions. If you can’t make the appointment, please call us; we’ll phone in a new prescription until you can reschedule your appointment.”
Then, on the morning of the thirtieth, Mr. Williams received a phone call from the cardiologist’s office stating they had cancelled his appointment for later that day due to the epidemic that was sweeping the city.
***
Now, the room suddenly grew cold, and Mr. Williams thought he saw a shadow move across the room.
His left arm felt like it was on fire, and the pain in his chest grew worse. It was so bad it now took his breath away, causing him to wince in pain every time his chest expanded, eventually causing his breathing to become shallow.
“Please, God, make it quick,” he said aloud.
The room continued growing colder, and Mr. Williams thought the end was finally here.
“Is this part of death, oh Lord?” he said out loud. “Does everyone feel cold when they die?”
The old man could feel himself dying. His consciousness was leaving and as he lay there, fading, he thought he saw another shadow move across the room. Then he heard a whisper.
Do you want to live?
“Yes,” Mr. Williams said, breathing a dying breath.
Do you really? The voice asked.
“Yes,” he repeated.
Will you live for me?
“Live for you,” he mouthed.
Open your eyes, the whisper said.
Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open and a rising pressure coursed through his body. A pounding rose from inside his head as his blood pressure skyrocketed. The pounding was so intense he could barely keep his eyes open.
Open your eyes, the dark voice commanded.
The pain in his chest intensified, and there was now a burning sensation— along with a stabbing. He closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness, asking it to take him and end his misery.
Open! The voice boomed, filling the room, causing the thick glass windows to vibrate.
Mr. Williams’s eyes shot open, fear coursing through him. On the other side of the desk stood the dark silhouette of a man with molten-red eyes.
“I’m going to hell, aren’t I?” Mr. Williams asked as his bladder released at the sight of the pure evil being standing before him, soaking the front of his pants in warm urine.
Live for me and I will let you live forever, the entity said.
The silhouette came around the desk and stood before him, inches away.
“A demon has come for me because of my wicked ways,” Mr. Williams said, as he watched one of its arms reach toward him.
Slowly, the appendage began to spin, and Mr. Williams's eyes widened as a hand formed and started to protrude from the blackness until it was inches from his chest.
An intense jolt of pain shot through his body, arching his back; his heart felt as if it would explode from his chest. He screamed out in agony, but he could make no sound—just silent cries. A single tear escaped from the corner of his left eye before both eyes rolled up into the back of his head and his final breath escaped him— everything had gone dark.
Chapter 5
Paxton, Nebraska
Bill Johnson sat on the front porch with a glass of cold lemonade that his wife, Maureen, had just poured. For the past few hours he’d worked at repairing the windmill, which needed greasing to keep working and create electricity for the house and barn. Along with the windmill, they’d also had solar panels installed behind the house three years ago to help offset the rising electricity costs.
The screen door creaked open and then slammed shut behind Maureen as she came out to join her husband and enjoy the cool weather. The heat from the stove kept the kitchen cozy, but sometimes it could become a little too stuffy for her liking.
“How far do you think he’s gotten?” asked Maureen, referring to their salesman, and friend, Stanley, who’d had the luxury of being with them the day the FAA had closed all the airports.
“Boston is a long way from here,” he said before taking another sip of his drink. “And the carnage he described seeing on his first attempt before returning, well, I guess that’s going to add some time to his trek home, especially if it’s like that the whole way.”
“Well, he hasn’t returned, so he must be doing okay,” she said.
“Or he’s already dead.”
“Bill!” she yelled, hitting him with her apron. “He’s our friend, how can you say that?”
“I’m just saying, is all. You saw how bad it was on the news.”
“I know, but I don’t want to think about it. He was a nice man.”
“Don’t you mean, is a nice man?”
“Yes, is,” she said, straightening her apron.
“I’m just concerned about all the major cities and towns he has to cross through before reaching home. People act like monsters to one another when society collapses.”
“Oh, hush,” she said, whipping him again with her apron.
“I gave him those guns, so he should be all right,” he said, placing his hand on her lap. “He’s a resourceful man; he’ll be fine. Try not to think about it, is all.”
She gently tapped his hand and said, “I can’t help it,” then stood up. “Go wash up. Dinner should be ready in a few minutes,” she said, turning and walking into the house, the screen door slamming shut behind her.
Bill took another long swig from the glass and looked out at his crops, which he knew he would soon need to be harvested.
I just hope there is a society left to sell them to, he thought, before carrying his glass into the house.
After dinner, Maureen snuck out onto the porch, making sure the door didn’t slam behind her, to have a smoke. It had been a while since she’d had one, and for some unknown reason she’d been craving one all day. Pulling a cigarette from the pack, the sweet smell of the old tobacco filled her nostrils. The pack was probably a year or so old, and the butt tasted the way the pack smelled when she placed it between her lips. The old lighter sparked right up, and she drew in a deep breath of smoke, filling her lungs. It tasted good, and she instantly felt a rush as the nicotine hit her system.
Sitting there, smoking, helped wash away the stress of the day and calmed her nerves. In the morning, Bill planned on venturing into town. They were low on supplies, and after days of discussion they’d decided he would head into town to look for supplies and to see who, if anyone, in town had survived. Bill had wanted to take the boys, but she’d given a hard, “No.” There was no way she would allow her two babies to risk their lives over simple, everyday supplies they could live without if they had to— but soap would be nice, as they all stank.
They showered with just water, which as Eben put it, was like rinsing a dirty dish before putting it in the dishwasher. They only got so clean, and soap helped with the “stuck-on”, smells, as he called them. The boy was right, water itself did not wash the stink off from working all day in a barn with animals.
Besides the supplies, Bill wanted to find out how bad it was out in the rest of the world. They had crops to harvest soon, and if there was no one left to buy the crop, they wouldn’t have to rush trying to get them to market. Nor would they have to plant next season, other than what they would consume for themselves. She guessed the only good thing about the sickness was that there were no more bills to pay, and chuckled to herself that she no longer had to write out a check for the mortgage. They wouldn’t receive any more threatening letters from the bank.
Taking another haul off the cigarette, she scanned the darkness before her, hoping someone they knew was still alive out there.
Tilting her head back she exhaled, blowing smoke into the night sky. The stars were in full view, and she searched them, trying to find the different constellations as she had as a child, when something on the horizon had caught her eye. The stars seemed to dim in a certain area, appearing as if a wave of heat had passed in front, the way the road shimmers on a hot day. She thought it might be water evaporating and rising into the night sky, and took another drag from the cigarette.
A piece of tobacco stuck to the tip of her tongue and she tried spitting it out, but it wouldn’t budge. Bringing her hand up to her mouth, she licked the tip of her finger to transfer it off her tongue. But still it stuck. Using her fingernail, she scraped it off, looking at it before wiping it on her apron. When she looked back up, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
Off in the distance, a pair of bright red lights appeared in the middle of the field, piercing the darkness. Maureen sat still as a chill of fear ran down her spine. Time seemed to halt as the pair of glowing red orbs grew closer. The cigarette between her fingers burned down to the filter, and the long bit of ash fell onto the porch. Fear turned to fright as Maureen realized what the red glowing things were: eyes.
Hello, Maureen!
She heard her name as if someone had whispered it from the nearby crops.
Maureen tried to move, but couldn’t. She was frozen in place.
Chapter 6
Decatur, Illinois
Stanley drove with the 9mm in his lap and the rifle leaning across the console, the barrel toward the floorboards. He didn’t know guns. Hell, he didn’t know the difference between caliber and millimeter. All he knew was how to point and shoot.
He had been driving for days, and no longer knew which day it was. It was as if time had been obliterated. The miles dragged on, his mind filling the long gaps of time in an endless fear of what lay beyond the windshield. Snaking his way through the abandoned cars reminded him of the brutal traffic back home in Boston, except those cars had sat idling with living occupants inside.
Thinking of home, Stan thought of the slalom course he drove nightly, trying to avoid all the neighborhood kids’ bikes and toys left out on the asphalt of the cul-de-sac where he and his wife, Carol, lived. They’d never had children of their own, but all the kids in the neighborhood had made up for that. They used their yard as the home base for most games they played, and Carol would bake cookies and other treats for them to snack on. In return, they would help her weed the garden and assist her with things around the yard.
The porch light was usually on for him when he returned home from work, and Carol always met him at the door with a wet, slobbery kiss, excited that he was home. She’d hated when he was away on business, as she thought the house didn’t feel like a home until he returned.
A large amount of abandoned cars barring the road up ahead brought him back. But there was a gap between a couple, an old Dodge truck and a compact Toyota. Making his way toward the opening, he pulled himself up using the steering wheel, hoping it would give him a better view and help him judge if he could make it through. Stan had figured there’d be enough room to squeeze through, but there was not.
The left side of his bumper rubbed up against the Dodge and the car slowed. Still thinking there was just enough room, Stan gave the car a little more gas. But as he did, there came a cracking sound as the plastic bumper twisted and began to splinter and break apart. Stan pressed his head against the windshield, trying to see if there was enough room, when the twisting turned to screeching as the plastic gave way and metal rubbed against metal. He gave a little more gas, hoping the car would break free, but it just rocked in place as the two vehicles caught on each other.
Then came a loud bang.
The car jostled, then the front left side dipped as air escaped from the pressurized tire.
“Damn it!” Stan shouted, slamming his palm against the steering wheel at the thought of being stuck in the middle of nowhere with no help.
After a minute, seething, he looked around at his surroundings. The car to his right had a body slumped over the wheel.
