The day after: An apocalyptic morning (166 page)

              Stinson sighed. "I understand," he said. "We'll take as many as we can."

              "And make sure that the ones you leave behind," Adams added, "do not have any weapons available to them. Remove their rifles and place them apart from them. Take away their sidearms. If any of my people are shot at while we are clearing our terrain, if even a single bullet flies from one of your wounded that you leave behind, then this armistice that we have agreed upon will be null and void and we will hunt you down on your return march."

              "I understand," Stinson said again. "It will be done."

              "Good," Adams said. "I suggest you start doing it then."

              Stinson sighed again and put the radio away. He looked over at the men, all of whom were still lying in the mud, still unable to believe that it was really over. "Everybody who is not wounded," he said. "Form up on me. We got some work to do."

              Part 21

              It was approaching 4:00 PM on the afternoon following the battle and Skip was in a room in the El Dorado Hills elementary school that had been converted to a hospital room. It had once been one of the smaller classrooms just off of the former administration area. The desks had been removed and replaced with a four portable beds of varying type. The one that Skip was lying on had once been someone's hide-a-bed. His closest neighbor, Susan, who was only four feet away, was lying in a cot. She still had a bloody bandage covering her shoulder wound. She, like Skip, had yet to be operated on. Both of them had IV locks installed in their arms through which they were given injections of Dilaudid and Torridol every two hours to help with the pain and inflammation. Across the room from them were Rhonda and Sarah, both of whom had already been through their surgical procedures by the weary, overworked general practitioner and were now sleeping the sleep of the very heavily drugged. On the chalkboard at the front of the room the four occupant's names were chalked in and separated into columns by vertical lines. In these columns were vital signs, which were taken and charted every fifteen minutes, and the last drug dosages. Near the front of the room was Jennifer Harris, a middle-aged woman who had once been a teacher at the school and who was now one of the newly christened nurses. She was sitting down in a chair reading through a physician's desk reference manual.

              Skip had been here for a little more than three hours now, one of the last group to come over after the battle. It had been hard leaving the cockpit of the helicopter and allowing Jack to solo for the first time, harder than he had ever imagined it would be despite the uncanny speed with which the young man had picked up the basics of flight and landing. But leave it he had too. His wounded leg had been screaming for relief by the time they finished circling and observing the retreating militia members as they went back to the highway and flying the other wounded to El Dorado Hills.

              Skip was much more relaxed now, thanks mostly to the intoxicating quality of the narcotics he had been given. He was in fact, having a deep, philosophical conversation with Susan, who was flying about as high.

              "I think Charmander is definitely the best," Skip said. "I mean, he can start a fire, can burn shit up with his tail. Squirtle is totally useless in a fight. What's the point of squirting water at people? You can't win a battle with water for God's sake."

              "Not true," Susan said seriously, her words thick and slurred. "I saw him knock Team Rocket right the fuck down one time while they were battling Ash and Misty. Right on their asses! Tell me that's not a serious-ass stream of water. And Squirtle is cuter too."

              "But you can't kill someone with a stream of water," Skip protested. "Ask those assholes we napalmed. Fire is the way to go."

              "Nobody dies in Pokemon," Susan reminded him. "It doesn't Micker if they get burned or squirted. They just get knocked out."

              "That's true," Skip allowed. "And they always wear the same clothes too. Don't they ever wash them?" He smiled a little, thinking about it. "I've always wondered what Misty looks like naked. Or maybe Officer Jenny. Yeah."

              This gave Susan the giggles, which in turn gave Skip the giggles. Both of them laughed so hard that they caused pain from their various injuries by the jostling of their bodies this produced. They were still chuckling a little when Pat entered the room. He was wearing his traditional jeans and flannel shirt. Mick and Paula were behind him, both obviously having bathed and changed clothes since the battle.

              "Mick, Paula," Skip hailed, seeing them. "What are you doing here? Is there trouble?"

              "No, no trouble," Mick said. "We just got done dropping the food supplies for the militia and we thought we'd swing out here real quick to check on everyone so we can give a report at the community meeting tonight."

              "So you had Jack fly you all the way out here for that?"

              "We also thought you'd like a report on things back in town," Paula told him, leaning down and taking his hand in hers. "And I wanted to see you too. I haven't had a chance to lay my eyes on you since we assembled this morning. I was worried about you."

              "I should yell at you guys for wasting jet fuel to fly out here," he said, squeezing Paula's hand back. "But to tell you the truth, I'm really glad to see you too."

              They discussed the health and well being of all of the wounded for a few moments, starting with Skip himself and working their way to the most severely injured. Skip and Pat both assured them that they were all doing fine - or at least as well as could be expected under the circumstances.

              "Renee tells us that the most dangerous thing to worry about now is infection or emboli in those with bone injuries," Skip explained. "She's putting us all on antibiotics and anticoagulants."

              "What about your leg?" Paula asked. "I heard it was pretty torn up. Will you walk again?"

              He frowned a little. "Renee only had a chance to take a quick look at it between other patients," he said. "She doesn't know yet. She thinks she might be able to put it back together but the bone is pretty shattered and some of the tendons are torn." He shrugged. "We'll just have to wait and see."

              Paula leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "You'll be all right," she said stoically. "I just know you will."

              "So anyway," Skip said, changing the subject in order to keep his mind off of his leg, "how're things back in town? I assume you finished clearing the battle area?"

              "Yes," Mick said, nodding and grimacing a little. "That was actually worse than the battle I think. It really bothered a lot of the troops."

              "Not so much the bodies," Paula put in. "Although that was pretty bad, but the... you know... the wounded."

              "How many were there?" Skip asked.

              "Well, you saw that they hauled five of them out when they withdrew, right?" Mick asked.

              "Right," Skip said. They had taken two from the battle area itself and three from the staging area behind the lines, carrying them out on crude litters made out of sleeping bags and limbs from trees. That was in addition to the five or so that seemed able to propel themselves. In all, thirty-eight men made their way back to the highway to start their long trip home - thirty-eight out of four hundred that had started the journey. That was more than ninety percent casualties or desertions.

              "There were about thirty of them that were still alive in some way out there," Mick said. "A lot of them were unconscious and pretty much beyond salvation anyway, but a few... a few could've been saved maybe. We shot all of them in the head with pistols."

              "It was the only way," Skip said. "There's no way we could afford to waste the fuel to transport them here or the resources of the doctor here treating the enemy. No way."

              "I know," Mick said. "I explained that to everyone and they all understood it. But still, it's not easy shooting an unarmed, wounded man in the head. Especially when they're begging for help or crying for their mothers. I shot several of them myself. I know."

              "There's going to be quite a few people who are going to have trouble sleeping tonight," Paula said, her eyes saying that she was going to be one of them.

              "I wish I could tell everyone that it was the right thing to do," Skip said. "I really do. But I can't. It was wrong to shoot wounded prisoners. It goes against everything that we've been taught and raised with. But unfortunately, that morality is something else we can't afford anymore. Did anyone refuse to do it?"

              "No," Mick said. "Not everyone did it of course, but no one who was faced with it actually refused."

              "I hope we never have to do anything like that again," Paula said.

              "There's always hope," Skip said. "Never promises though. How about weapons? Did we recover all of them?"

              "More than a hundred and fifty rifles," Mick confirmed. "That includes twelve fully automatic M-16s and AK-47s and nearly sixty semi-autos of various type and caliber. We hauled them all back to the community center and we'll get a crew together to clean them up when we have the time. We also got nearly seventy pistols from the dead bodies. Rifle ammo wasn't as good as we'd hoped though."

              "No?"

              "No," he confirmed. "They probably smuggled most of what they had left out with them. All that we found was what was in the weapons themselves and even that wasn't too terribly much. Maybe three hundred rounds total for the assault weapons and about the same for the rifles."

              "Not nearly enough to replace what we shot up at them," Skip said, although that was pretty much what he had expected.

              "No, but I don't think we'll have to worry about that bunch anymore for a while. Hopefully there are no other Placer County Militia type groups on their way to us. If there is, we might have problems. We'll need to keep a real close eye on the surrounding area from now on. We got lucky by having advanced warning of this attack. The next time we might not."

              "That's true," Skip said. "And remember, there's only so much life left in that helicopter. We need to find another one as quick as we can and from there we need to find spare parts, more fuel, and more ammo. All stuff to work on when I get out of here. How far did the militia make it out of town anyway?"

              "They made it just past the border sign the last time we checked on them," said Paula, who had been adopted as the new observer for the time being. "We dropped them three hundred cans of chicken noodle about a mile to the west, just before the first mudfall on our side. They should reach it just about sunset if they keep moving."

              "Tell Jack to make at least one flight before sunset, just to make sure they're still where they're supposed to be."

              "We will," Paula promised.

              "And what about our bodies?" Skip asked next.

              Another sad look passed between the two of them. "All recovered," Paula said. "That wasn't a lot of fun either."

              "No, I don't imagine it was."

              "They're all in the storage room for now, in sleeping bags," Mick told him. "We're going to get some people out digging graves tomorrow in the park near where Dale and the others are buried. Steve's already working on making some crosses with their names and dates on them. Paul suggested having a ceremony of some sort after we bury them, just to honor them you know. Of course we don't have a priest or anything to give a proper funeral, but all the same, I think they deserve something other than just being tossed in the holes and covered up."

              "I think that's a very good idea too," Skip said. "I want to be there when you do it. I want to say a few words."

              "How long are you going to have to stay in here?" Mick asked.

              "I'm coming home the day after she fixes my leg," he said. "Whether she likes it or not."

              At 10:30 the next morning, in Auburn, Jessica finally stirred and raised her head from her pillow in the bedroom of the high school administration building. This was her typical awakening time these days, particularly when she had been drinking heavily the night before, as she had been the previous night - as she did almost every night. Her eyes were bleary and bloodshot and her head pounded sickeningly. Worst of all was her stomach, which was rumbling like a volcano about to erupt. Experience told her that it soon would.

              "Oh God," she mumbled, refusing to open her eyes completely. She fumbled her hand across the nightstand next to the bed until she encountered the walkie-talkie that she carried with her at all hours. She picked it up and put it next to her mouth. "Alice?" she groaned into the mouthpiece after keying up. "Are you there?"

              The reply was almost instant. "I'm here, Ma'am," she said. "Good morning."

              "Right," Jessica said sourly. "Bring me up a bloody Mary and some Tylenol, will you? I'm feeling a little under the weather."

              "Right away," Alice replied. "Would you like breakfast brought in to you?"

              "Not for another hour or so," she said, the thought of food making her stomach turn over a few more times. "And make that bloody Mary a pale one, if you know what I mean."

              "I know what you mean. I'll have it in to you in five minutes."

              Jessica put the radio back down, not bothering to thank her assistant. She covered her eyes with her hand, trying to lie as still as possible to fight off the nausea and the headache. It was a losing battle at best. Christ, how many drinks had she had last night? Ten? Twelve maybe? She wasn't entirely clear on exactly what had happened after 11:00 PM or so. She and ten of her closest acquaintances had been having themselves a little party - as they did every Wednesday and Saturday evening. There had been food, music, booze of course, and one of the men that had been captured with the town had been brought in for entertainment. They had been... well... what had they done with him? She remembered having him lick everyone's ass - that had been rather early in the festivities. And then there had been the inevitable reaming of his ass with the huge dildo that was such a favorite at parties. There had been a lot of drinks consumed during this portion of the party and things were a little hazy after that. She had the sense that things had gone a little bit too far - it had happened before - but she was not at all sure just how.

              While she was still sifting through the opaque haze of memories her stomach insisted that it was not going to hold its contents down any longer. With another groan, she rolled out of bed, landing on her hands and knees on the floor. Moving quickly she crawled to the private bathroom and put her head in the toilet, arriving just in time to disgorge a small amount of stomach acid and watery liquid that smelled strongly of vodka and orange juice. She retched a few more times, mostly dry heaves, and then finally her stomach settled the tiniest bit, allowing her to pull her head out of the bowl and stagger to her feet.

              She panted weakly for a few moments, trying to get her equilibrium. She was still dressed in the pantsuit and blouse that she'd worn the night before (she would never wear anything as common as blue jeans and a flannel shirt now that she was in charge) although there were several nasty looking stains on them now. When she felt she could do it without falling, she turned herself around, lowered the toilet seat, and then unbuttoned her pants, pushing them down to her ankles along with her silk panties. She sat herself down on the toilet and began to urinate, relieving her drink-swollen bladder of its burden. As she peed she looked down at the crotch of her panties, hoping to see the telltale stain of menses there, instead seeing nothing but a few urine stains.

              "Damn," she cursed, shaking her head a little in frustration. When she finished peeing she pulled some toilet paper from the roll and wiped carefully, pushing the wad well inside of her vagina. She looked at it. A little moisture but no blood. Not a single drop. Her period still hadn't started. What was wrong? It was almost four weeks late now, a little bit longer than could be blamed on simple stress. Surely she was too young for menopause. Her mother hadn't gone through the change of life until she was 54 years old. So logically, shouldn't she be about the same? She had never even heard of anyone going through it at 34.

              She stood up and pulled her pants back up, staggering a little as she did so. As she fumbled through the snapping and zipping process she wondered if maybe that asshole Stinson or some of his cronies had... well... done something to her when they had raped her all of those times. Could they have done some damage to her reproductive system that would have broken her cycle in some way? Was that possible?

              Even as that thought came into her mind another thought, this one much darker, tried to push its way forward. The thought was of Linda, one of the other "wives" that had shared the hell of living with Stinson with her. She was now nearly five months pregnant with Stinson's baby, just now starting to show. Was it possible that she, Jessica, could be... ?

              She groaned as if in pain, pushing that thought away and burying it before it could be fully formed. She did not want to even think about the possibility of that being a possibility. She was having a physical problem, or maybe a stress problem - leadership was challenging, wasn't it? That was what was wrong, not... well anything else. Certainly not!

              She heard the door to the main room open a moment later, just as she was finishing up with the flushing process. She walked out of the bathroom and beheld Alice, who was dressed in blue jeans and a sweater and had a pistol strapped to her waist. Alice's eyes were bright and alert, her expression non-committal as she took in her boss. She had seen Jessica under much worse conditions than this. She had a large glass that contained maybe five ounces of vodka and six of tomato juice. It was so pale that it was almost pink in color.

              "Give it to me," Jessica said, walking quickly across the room and nearly snatching it out of her hand. She downed almost half of it at a single gulp, feeling the burning of the booze as it poured down her throat and into her abused stomach. It almost made her retch again for a moment but this was an effect she was familiar with. After a few moments the opposite occurred and her stomach settled as the booze took hold.

              "Here's your Tylenol," Alice said, handing her four of the red and white pills.