Hi again, Posterity. Happy to see me? Or just surprised? Wish could be happier to see you. Should be, of course, and perhaps one day will be again. But just now view prospect of commencing this record with less than enthusiasm.
Appreciably less: Present overdue status not question of mere sloth, inefficiency; delay is product of sober consideration, sound reasoning. Entirely deliberate: been stalling.
But before condemning dilatory scribe out of hand, please attend, one, all; explanation follows, to wit:
Scared. No, not shaking-in-boots scared, not blood-turns-to-cottage-cheese scared; more an ominous-disquiet scared, two shivers qualmier than knock-on-wood scared. Leery of tempting fate.
See: commensurate with tenacious optimism expected of journeyman-grade Pollyanna, intend this record (together with previous journal [Vol. I], plus all subsequent memoirs) for future study by, ultimate benefit of, future generations — if any — tended in respectful, unhurried fashion by historians, students, archeologists in suitably dignified setting: Smith-Foster Post-Armageddon Historical Library Archives.
Fond aspirations envision lots of subsequent volumes, eventually amassing truly impressive collection covering very long time span; accumulated in orderly manner by Library courtesy of Yours Truly through regular donations, personal delivery. (Key words here are regular and personal: Want no gaps — and especially don’t want final volume dropped off by unwashed, travel-weary, buckskin-clad, intrepid explorer-of-unknown, plucked from God-knows-where.)
Foregoing tidy scenario intrinsic to present emotional well-being; implying, as does, long-range goals; own demise postponed many, many years hence; arriving (if ever) long after achieving revered status as beloved silver-haired old counselor; authentic sage, oracle senectutis causa, expiring gracefully in own bed amidst tearful mob of properly devoted descendants, admirers.
However (follow logic closely now): Longer journal commencement deferred, longer am able to ignore alternate possibilities — perhaps even probabilities — that impending events may interrupt record midchapter. Even midsentence. Until begun, this volume cannot be last in series. (Cannot be discovered incomplete amongst own bones somewhere on depopulated planet.)
Which is uncomfortable notion at best. Much prefer waiting until events justify more positive outlook, reasonable expectation of survival, living Happily-Ever-After.
(Curious behavior, must admit, for certified genius.)
However, personal problems are no excuse to compromise record; responsible histographer must face darkest prospects squarely, do job. True, this journal meant for proper delivery to proper audience; and if such be assured, could be prepared as well after the fact, at leisure, as minor adjunct to activities comprising Happy Ending. But if not — assuming worst: found under grisly circumstances by fellow involuntary ragtag explorer — even he entitled to complete account, within limits imposed by conditions.
Not least of which: very real doubt typical Bold Wanderer able to decipher Pitman shorthand. But would be no record in longhand: So inefficient, agonizingly slow; results bulky, burdensome to carry.
Besides, not my problem: shorthand system identified on cover, together with author, subject matter. Texts available at any library (most should stand, protect contents for centuries). My notes clear, straightforward; without unusual briefs, nonstandard phrase linkages. Given time, motivation, legible to anyone.
And must demand some effort from Posterity (regardless of whom may consist). Being furnished, after all, valuable detailed information on End of World. Not available at every corner newsstand.
As may be.
Peter Bell, trustworthy, reliable, responsible (according to Tarzan File — along with brilliant, sensitive, witty, handsome). Distinctly not sort to ignore constantly ringing phone. Or 50 messages on answering machine. To say nothing of known damsel (distress or otherwise quite immaterial; evidence suggests ain’t many of us). Would have returned call had been home, gotten message. Since didn’t, wasn’t.
Certainly. I knew that.
But human — pardon, mean Homo post hominem — psyche surely most perversely useless corner of entire mind. Unreasonable beastie, downright illogical. Makes no sense at all for naked-eye confirmation of months-ago deduced fact to precipitate funk.
Move-out deliberate, unhurried, thorough; signs unmistakable: Doors, windows neatly shut; closets emptied, personal effects removed; utilities switched off at fuse box. Obviously had business elsewhere, went; had ample time to. Nothing about absence to create ominous doubts, assumptions, speculations. Simply moved. Period.
Granting which, enigma remains: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster, superkid, prize intellect in or out of research project — coldly analytical, logical; rational, etc., etc. — agitatedly pacing through Peter Bell’s empty house; repeatedly peeking into empty closets, endlessly ransacking empty drawers; playing back empty answering-machine tape over, over again; wringing hands, streaming tears, sniffling, blubbering -
For almost three solid hours…!
Disgraceful performance: Behaving like maiden forsaken at altar. Atavistic. No justification.
Terry endured in relative silence, occasionally moving from one shoulder to other, shifting weight, intermittently shrugging to settle feathers. Comments limited to single low whistle when we entered obviously vacant premises, occasional “How ’bout that” as time passed. No doubt embarrassed for me.
Wait. No justification?
Correction, please: Atavistic, true, but partially justified…
Justified.
Entirely justified.
Justi-damn-fied all to pieces!
Why not upset? Months of hopes, anticipations, expections; long, hard trip — for nothing! Nary a clue — not even faintest hint remains to suggest destination, whereabouts.
Some superman…! Inconceivable could go off without leaving note — self-respecting five-year-old human would expect me on doorstep eventually (if alive), leave forwarding address.
But perhaps being too harsh… Should take comfort instead from apparent discovery that certain fundamental behavioral principles transcend interspecies gulf; continue unchanged, intact, eternal; intrinsic to new race as was old. Datum no doubt scientifically fascinating in own right; of great satisfaction to researcher. But frankly, until now never troubled head over whether new species might boast thoughtless, self-centered, imbecilic male twits!
Oh, dear. Just look — ink hardly dry following wallow through well-intentioned (if debatable) solicitude for plight of hypothetical NonScheduled Reader (NSR) and already hip-deep in tirade comprehensible only to proper audience. So sorry; will try to do better. Really.
By now NSR probably wondering what H. post hominem might be. Or Tarzan File. Or perhaps who Peter Bell is. Or Teacher. Or Terry. Or (at very least) me.
All right. Fair questions; deserve straight answers. So shall endeavor to bear in mind possible audience other than intended: Fellow survivor, perhaps — but demonstratedly better at it — someone lacking vantage of orderly progression from Vol. I (left in shelter library beneath address on cover, Index No. 1.1.1). Viewed in that light, however reluctantly, introductions are in order:
Name: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster. (Note: Nothing “sinister” about “bar”; used here proudly to honor adoptive parents together with kin.) Born 11 years ago to Smiths; orphaned ten months later; adopted by Dr. and Mrs. Foster — Daddy and Momma. Been known as Candy since first breath.
Beyond that (briefly): Homo post hominem is new species; originating during great influenza pandemic of 1918-19 through viral recombination of unborns’ genes; apparently immune to all “human” disease, plus smarter, stronger, faster, etc.; discovered accidentally by researchers headed by Teacher (next-door neighbor, genius), aided by Daddy, while hunting for clues identifying genius-level children as newborns; emerging to inherit Earth after H. sapiens eliminated selves in short, efficient bionuclear war. Tarzan File Teacher’s record of said research; identifying, profiling, locating all known hominems. Peter Bell H. post hominem associated with Teacher’s research project; closest of project hominems to own age; best prospect of lot for future soulmate, according to matchmaking Teacher in letter constituting Last Words. Terry is own adopted twin brother (full name Terry D. Foster — initial stands for Dactyll); identical but for mental retardation and being Hyacinthine Macaw. Am myself Homo post hominem. Rode out war in Daddy’s marvelous shelter; now engaged in walkabout, searching for fellow survivors. Of which reader must be one.
There. Clear enough?
No? Complaints — from NSR? Too brief? More confused now than before explanation?
Some nerve! If reader truly nonscheduled, then writer almost certainly dead…!
Wait, please don’t sulk; surely can’t expect sympathy from corpse — should be grateful for simple courtesy… True, could repeat entire background each time begin new journal — of course, volumes soon rival Tarzan File’s bulk even before commencing new entries. But then why bother writing Vol. 1 in first place? So shan’t; have better things to do.
Now: Tarzan File lists names, addresses of all AA, known AB hominems. But specifically, Teacher referred me to Peter Bell — AA superkid, smart as me (intimated might be smarter; hurled gauntlet to prove him wrong). Had told him about me, too. Suggested I get in touch.
Now, current scope of interest in “future soulmate” limited to practical matters: food, shelter, protection, survival — short-term essential stuff; deferring obvious racial continuity issue until puberty, completion of glandular development, make pertinent. (And probably unavoidable — have no valid basis to doubt will be just as tiresomely boy-crazy, once plumbing commences normal function, as next ingénue. But can hope.)
However, long experience (relativistic expression, of course, considering modest life span thus far) amply justifies habit of equating Teacher’s least hint with Revelation From On High. Certainly adequate incentive to make attempt. Phone system still functioning in many portions of country (according to aural evidence: Ring tone obtainable using most area codes, random numbers); so tried number listed in Tarzan File.
No luck. True, answering machine camped on line picked up phone, spouted message for me; but Peter never returned calls.
For two and a half months!
(Oversensitive soul might; by this time, ponder reciprocity of interest. Might even [given modest encouragement] contemplate feeling neglected, unattractive; launch into spate of mouthwash, deodorant changes; file teeth, fluff nails, polish hair, etc.)
Nonsense, of course. Endless possible explanations: Defective answering machine, talking but not recording; phone system itself finally disintegrating (not unreasonably: six months without maintenance — even in system based on hydroelectric power, with computerized call routing automatically diverting calls around trouble spots, time must come when trouble spots constitute norm, system collapses). Perhaps, too — certainly equally likely — Peter simply not home, for own good purposes. No more reason now to wallow in morbid speculation than during months since initial contact attempt frustrated.
Though, granted, too busy then to spare attention for proper moping. Not easy, in only two and a half months, to locate suitable farm convenient to Daddy’s house (and shelter treasures beneath); catch up all chores necessary to improve chances that livestock, structures survive Wisconsin winter’s ravages.
Nor did trip from Dairy State heartland to Peter’s Cornell campus (New York State) residence provide much time to reflect unsettling possibilities, generally inequitable nature of life. Physical fragility of human civilization becoming evident after only six months’ neglect: Road system in sorry state, getting rapidly worse. Trees down here, there; poles broken, lines draped elegantly in inconvenient places; surprising numbers of washed-out culverts, impassable bridges.
Four-wheel-drive Chevy van wonderfully capable, easy to drive — with lifts on pedals to accommodate own modest stature. High ground clearance, awesome traction make easy work of marginal terrain. Solved many blockages simply by driving around — through fences; across fields, small streams; up hill, down dale, etc. — but spent fully as much time on shanks’ mare, cutting, prying, winching, digging, etc., as driving. (Educational travel mode: Really get “feel” for countryside — feel it under nails, in shoes, tangled in hair, embedded in clothing…)
Well, journal commencement, however belated, yielding usual result: Hurt, rage, disappointment discharged on paper; blood pressure lowered, practical state of mind restored along with perspective: Crying over spilled milk null exercise; benefits neither spiller nor spillee.
Okay. So Peter Bell not here. Elsewhere. Gone. Now what?
Prime objective obviously unaffected; unchanged from very first day we stuck nose outside shelter following expiration of predicted maximum contagion factor after World Ended: Find somebody else.
Somebody smarter, bigger, stronger; with broad shoulders, laughing eyes, windblown blond hair; font of wisdom concerning all aspects of establishing bright new civilizations for fun and profit. (Be nice, too, if knows location of Yellow Brick Road.)
But Teacher’s statistics project only 150,000 hominems on North American continent. (Entire continent-8,795,052 square miles [National Geographic World Atlas figures].) Another perspective, same problem: 58.63 square miles per person.
One solution: Rule off continent graph-paper style, in squares 7.6575 miles per side; pick square at random; stand at center; yell through bullhorn. Then repeat — 150,000 times.
However viewed, awful lot of elbow room. Population spread terribly thin. Accidental meeting probability effectively zilch — which fact may, upon reflection, be disguised blessing…
Don’t really want to meet ABs; not until securely ensconced within bosom of AA community. Hate to sound prejudiced, but am; can’t forget Teacher’s opinion that majority laboring under some form of emotional problem, high percentage downright pathological. Not unreasonable, then, to assume every contact but AAs, absent convincing evidence to contrary, possibly hauling unsecured payload — potentially dangerous.
Which revives burning issue: Peter Bell not here; no hint of how long gone, where to. May even be dead — from available data; likely as not. Speculation pointless.
But I’m alive. Very much so. Firmly resolved to maintain trend. Ergo, logical next step: Pick another AA from File. Doesn’t matter which; only Peter Bell personally recommended, described. Others only represented by impersonal File entries. Okay, but faceless.
However, close to 100 AAs recorded, scattered all over U.S. No assurance any address still valid and random visits could take forever, or longer. Only reasonable procedure: Plot locations on map; lay out most efficient meander touching all bases, shortest time, distance — reserving, of course, right to fly off on wild tangent should events offer even most tenuous clue.
Intend just that. Tomorrow morning, though; not now. Tired. Disappointed. Probably still vexed, too, if had energy. Even Terry subdued — for him. Perhaps senses mood. Perhaps just bad day: too long, too many expectations. Too much letdown.
Never mind. Tomorrow is another day — Pollyanna lives…!
Good morning, Posterity! Night’s sound sleep; huge, well-balanced, delicious breakfast (prepared by gourmet chef, with — or despite — intensive assistance of manic twin [laughing hugely, grabbing at everything in sight]) produced usual result: Energy, optimism restored — along with independence:
Who needs Peter Bell…!
Plenty of fish in sea; Tarzan File full of alternatives — or failing that, might well be more fun to go out, locate, stalk, capture indigenous AB buck in native habitat; then housebreak, domesticate, teach rudiments of coherent thought, civilized speech. Why not? Might work. (And if not, gently separate cervical vertebrae [to discourage kiss-and-tell; wouldn’t want to acquire “reputation”], throw back, try again.)
True, simpler to find AAs, settle again into secure little-girl/student rôle; allow others to make important decisions, feed, clothe, house, protect. (Sometimes wearisome, being master of own destiny. Worse than being genius. Lonely, too. Need hug.)
Enough! Used up whole year’s sniveling ration yesterday. Brace up chin! Square off shoulders! Forward ho!
So this morning, following breakfast, scrounged campus (carrying crowbar, sledge hammer; implements intrinsic, these days, to serious pursuit of scrounging trade); located large-scale U.S. map, plotted AA locations, connected with straight lines.
And discovered predictable trend: All grouped about top-line schools, leading research centers. Harvard, M.I.T., Johns Hopkins, etc., on East Coast. UCLA, U. of California (Davis), etc., on West. Kansas State U., U. of Minnesota, U. of Colorado, U. of Illinois, U. of Chicago, etc., etc., about Midwest. Plus AEC, NASA, JPL facilities all over country. Appears nation’s recent progress muchly traceable to AAs. (Hope didn’t also figure in downfall.)
Okay. So much for short-term strategy: Hunt proceeds hence by-the-numbers.
But what about long-term? Good point. What if, at last, search comes up dry? As might…
Indeed — what if…? Not most comfortable premise for dyed-in-wool Pollyanna to contemplate, but valid. Every coin has two sides. Rankest stupidity to ignore possibility might lose toss; fail to plan for exigencies lurking on dark side.
Very well. Reflecting as pessimist, grimly: Wise to leave notes all over, wherever might stop, pass through, visit; where other survivors (of whatever stripe) might find. True, probably — certainly — come to attention of itinerant ABs. Can’t be helped.
But so what? Candy Smith-Foster, youngest-ever wearer of Sixth Degree Black Belt, uneasy at prospect of meeting strangers? Even potentially dangerous strangers? Yes. (But pretty potentially dangerous own self; harbor no genuine doubts about ability to cope with aberrant behavior as necessary. Will reach peaceful understanding, accommodation with fellow survivors; will live in altruistic, gentle harmony with neighbors, whomever may be, whatever background. Or else.)
College utilities still working; administration building well stocked with modern communications media marvels: electric typewriters, photocopiers, etc. Convenient opportunity; shall take advantage, spend next few days here; compose most utterly bare-bones, boiled-down condensation possible: message to leave about countryside during travels.
Content giving pause. Should identify self — but within limits. (No point, for instance, mentioning age, sex, dimensions. Teacher’s caution firmly in mind; well aware that whatever response in numbers, substantial percentage bound to be maladjusted. No point slanting advertising toward weirdos.) Should describe resources, advantages of hometown area, farms (omitting shelter mention; my little secret for now, until familiar with recruitees, confident of intentions). Must include invitation to visit, partake in mutual deliberation over whether acceptance into community advantageous both ways.
Have also concluded, after initial hesitation, message must contain explanation of H. sapiens/post hominem situation, etc. Facts, evidence clearly documented; Teacher’s conclusion unaffected by scoffers — but doubt will care much for neighbors lacking minds sufficiently open to appreciate data, understand implications, and (most of all) accept necessity of next step:
Central industry in my community to be AA-type upbringing, education of children (to degree possible in ruined world). All else secondary, supportive. No compulsion, pressure; volunteers only. But dissenters need not apply. Big world; can live elsewhere.
Granted, noble resolve most conveniently parallels own selfish desires (so much to learn!); but if Dark Ages follow collapse of H. sapiens’ civilization, won’t be my fault.
There! Not so tough: Mere three days’ full-time, unremitting labor — writing, rewriting, trimming, condensing, paring, slashing, distilling, rooting out, re-rewriting, etc., etc. — and leaflet complete.
Masterpiece of brevity: single page (legal size, double-sided; uniform 1/10-inch margins top, bottom, left, right; 15-pitch type) says everything necessary in only 5,768 well-chosen words — plus metaphoric extra thousand implied by tiny map sketched at end.
Initial small stock produced on nifty both-sides-at-once Xerox. (Wonderful machine; some benefits of old civilization must be saved-for Posterity — 10,000 copies, three hours!)
Shall affix to doors of food, hardware, sporting goods, clothing stores, etc., as ride along. Pass hundreds every day; been taking local roads rather than interstates. (Esthetic choice; admittedly not logical: Interstates doubtless better condition, easier driving; but somehow lonelier [said wasn’t logical], more depressing.)
Not terribly original plan, but I forage constantly, almost daily; reasonable inference holds other survivors do likewise. And certainly have generally similar needs, “shop” same places.
Final analysis — becomes question of numbers: Post enough leaflets, bound to catch eye. Somebody’s eye. Someplace. Sometime. Probably.
Tomorrow leave for Boston. Harvard-M.I.T. area, home for five AAs: Herman Smith, Mario Ling, Gayle Kinnart, Theron Parker, Rex Hollister.
Parker, Ling, Smith deeply involved (according to File) in project combining M.I.T.’s space research center, computer center, nuclear reactor, magnetics lab; Harvard’s medical school, biochemical facility, seismographic station. Wouldn’t discuss objective, but spin-off breakthroughs, inventions, products so numerous, administration declined to push it.
Hollister working at Harvard only, but at medical research, anthropology, biophysics, geology, political theory.
Kinnart’s Ph.D.’s in nuclear physics, oceanography, computer science, meteorology, astronautics. Worked when, where, with whom, on what she chose. Taught, researched, invented at will. Delighted in shaking up Establishment’s institutions, the crustier the better; C.L.E.P.ed Juris Doctor in spare time, over organized opposition of Bar (disapproved failure to utilize proper law-school channels). Sued pro se, won, obtained J.D. by Supreme Court decree. Also holds Seventh Degree Black Belt. (If consciously, actively seeking role model, girl could do lots worse — hope-she likes me.)
Enough woolgathering. To bed now. Far to go tomorrow; much to do.
But calmly, coolly; optimistically but with caution, discipline. No more paralytic disappointment, hysteria, tears — no matter what. If trail proves cold, will play hand as dealt: Study facts as materialize; proceed logically, efficiently as indicated.
But can hope…
Silly me. To think, really expected to make Boston in single day (seemed reasonable goal while studying map: only 275 miles, straight-line distance).
But not crow, not flying. Driving. Slowly, cautiously. Through heavily wooded, very hilly (almost mountainous) terrain; numerous small towns, villages; over narrow, winding, bumpity road obviously surveyed, installed by larcenous paving contractor whose sole ambition (well and truly realized) was smothering in concrete most expensive distance between any two points.
Together with previously observed uniform deterioration of highway system, conditions generally less than ideal for rapid transit: Downed trees, abandoned vehicles, landslides, etc., do little to speed progress.
Then final unexpected barrier: Hudson River. Not anticipated as problem; maps show bridges all up-, downstream.
True, are many bridges; however, those encountered thus far quite impassable: Some blocked by horrendous traffic jams; some visibly unsafe, spans sagging, etc.; some actually collapsed, lying in, under water. Several boast combinations of all of above. (Prefer not to think what must have been like when refugee-laden bridges, loaded beyond designers’ worst nightmares, came down.)
Camping tonight on romantic west bank, at lush forest’s edge, under clear star-studded, moonlit sky. Doubtless be more favorably impressed if conducting appraisal from other side.
Tomorrow will head south along river. Bridge frequency increases as approach New York City. Bound to get across sooner, later.
Delete previous pearl of wisdom. Written by idiot, without consideration of facts, human nature. Indeed, bridges more frequent to south. Also bigger, wider, more capacious. However, increased population more than made up difference.
Drove south all the way to Newark, Verrazano Narrows Bridge to Brooklyn. All blocked, damaged, or both.
Jams on surviving spans exceed belief. Example (not worst): Faced with immovable crush of vehicles parked on George Washington Bridge, obsessed beyond reason, control, someone elected to leave Manhattan — in large bulldozer, over top. And so tightly packed together were cars in path that most occupants unable to open doors, squeeze through windows, etc., flee in time. Predictably dreadful results. (But someone coped: Operator, crawler both dead; stopped halfway across, perched like giant carnivore on mashed vehicles beneath.)
Camping again tonight on romantic west bank of Hudson River, same place as night before last — same lush forest, under same clear, star-studded, moonlit sky, etc.
(Bah…!)
Tomorrow will head north along river. Population density decreases considerably that direction. Bound to get across sooner, later. Or drive around damned thing.
Murphy would have snickered, said, …told you so.” And been right: Very first bridge north of where quit exploring, three days before, stood wide open, unobstructed, safe.
Crossed without incident; continued through New York State, into Vermont, east-southeast across Appalachian Mountain spine into Massachusetts — into more bridge trouble: Connecticut River.
Pretty stream. But wide, impassable due to bridge damage. Lots of bridges, lots of damage. Appears to have been heavy flooding earlier: Barges flung about like toys; presence of bridge supports in paths presented little hindrance.
None daunted but wiser now, headed north immediately, upstream. Mere 150 miles sufficed to bring us to intact span.
Across and flushed with confidence, headed again southeast — toward Boston, with no potential geographical obstacles visible ahead on map.
Be there by noon tomorrow, barring untowardnesses. (And not getting excited. Waiting to see what lies ahead. Calmly, coolly, objectively.)
Nothing lies ahead! Or sits, stands, hops, skips, jumps. And getting mighty fed up with whole business.
Once is nothing more than random incident, dice cast, crumbled cookie, flopped mop. Twice probably coincidence, without statistical significance; no doubt concerning to pessimist, but not alarming to rational intellect. Three times could still be coincidence, but scary coincidence; probability laws bent way out of shape.
Four times is trend. No doubt about it; worry is appropriate response.
And six times — conclusive. Utterly so.
Nobody home. Again. All signs point to orderly move-out. Again. No clues suggesting possible destination, whereabouts. Again!
Performed most thorough going-through of homes, offices, labs of all five M.I.T.-Harvard-area AAs. Turned up nothing. Simply vanished. Carefully, efficiently, without loose ends.
AGAIN!
Kinnart’s house first stop; then office. Scene at house duplicated Peter Bell’s; office equally barren: Everything personal, if even faintly portable, gone. Results at Smith’s, Ling’s, Parker’s, Hollister’s similar, equally dismaying. No affirmative data; all evidence negative, inferential, based on what not found.
Returned to Kinnart’s house for night. Lovely place: Even stripped of personal touches, still homey; retains comfortably feminine ambience.
Great relief after weeks of living in van, sleeping on bunk, cooking with charcoal, Sterno. Electric power out, but gas, water still work. Easy enough to run extension cord in for evening’s lighting.
Decision to spend night under civilized roof met twin’s approval. Loves travel, but bon vivant at heart; wallows in luxury at every opportunity (believes anything worth doing worth overdoing). And apparently concluded time ripe for good wallow: Hurled self into project with glee (mere fraction of which, publicly displayed in times past, sure to result in involuntary hospitalization). Participation included: assisting carrying tee stand in from van (me carrying; manic sibling gripping crossbar with toes, wings flapping at max); unpacking food (container-opening one of brother’s pettest passions — problem arises confining enthusiasm to appropriate time, place, object); setting table (loves this part: Waddles joyously about tabletop, seizing plates, utensils — anything not nailed down — laboriously carries/drags to edge; surreptitiously peeks around to see if observed yet; then heaves over side, watching fall, bobbing head, chortling under breath as impact occurs — then back for more).
In especially rare mood today; having wonderful time: talking, warbling like trained chainsaw, assisting until seemed must be three of him. Finally became necessary — to retain own sanity — to banish him to stand, order him, “Stay!”
Feelings unruffled by rebuff, of course. Within moments had discovered refrigerator handle within reach. While doing sideways chin-ups, indicated continuing willingness — nay, eagerness — to help clear table. Before meal was over.
Had turned on gas first thing on arrival, lit water heater. Have put clean sheets on firmest bed in house. Looking forward to indescribable pleasure of hot shower, followed by best night’s sleep in weeks.
Looking forward intensely — helps keep mind- off AAs’ disappearance. Impossible six people could vanish so utterly, without any clue.
Well, perhaps morning will bring inspiration: Maybe subconscious noticed something so-called “conscious” missed while worrying.
Good night.
Eureka! (Sort of.)
Upon waking this morning, realized search not thorough as should have been. Oh, thorough enough regarding not missing single drawer, looking under beds, examining every inch — but was looking for things; paying no attention to what might be missing. Stated in yesterday’s entry, …all evidence negative, inferential, based on what not found.” But made no effort to determine what not found; haven’t inferred worth darn.
So following breakfast (found old-fashioned campfire waffle iron in basement; works equally well on kitchen gas range — results wonderful with maple syrup after so long); adjourned back to Kinnart’s office; conducted repeat search, this time with eyes, perception, mind open. And learned:
Remaining lab contents limited to stock equipment, scientific goodies available anywhere. Nothing visible appropriate to work of most brilliant researcher in five (un?)related fields. Vacant table space suggests missing equipment, but not much. And no clues as to what.
However, one artifact obvious by absence — her First Microscope. (Every student scientist and/or doctor receives as gift or purchases in school a First Microscope. Sometimes powerful, sophisticated instrument; sometimes Woolworth’s Student Special — but always treasured for life; always prominent in office, whether used or not.) Absence significant.
But not as glaring as lack of any scrap of work notes, memoranda, programs, floppy disks, photographs, printouts, results — in short: irreplaceable stuff, without which any research reverts back to square one.
Went back then; reinspected homes, offices of other four Boston-area AAs; confirmed similar conditions. Physical gear remaining wondrously varied but limited to catalog stock; nothing custom-made, no records. And no First Microscopes!
So much for available facts; now for inferences: Left, probably as group; went somewhere already physically equipped to continue studies, taking more specialized, irreplaceable tools, notes, records,. etc.
(Granted, premise requires quantum leap past logic; but given reasonable parallel between their thinking and mine — assuming also work in progress [and opportunity] — only tenable conclusion.)
Besides, was necessary: Had, while ruminating, forgotten Armageddon side effects. No possibility hominems, with olfactory sensitivities far transcending H. sapiens’, could have remained in population-dense Boston area during months immediately following species’ end. Or any large, heavily peopled area. Own experience in tiny Wisconsin hometown proof enough: Had not spent first three months sealed in shelter, breathing own recycled air, would have been driven away.
So — again — what now? Conclusions interesting, probably valid — almost certainly valid. Also, in practical terms, next to useless. Even were conclusions confirmed — all Tarzan File AA addresses in fact obsolete — so what? Who cares? Equally pointless is speculation over why gone. Ringing question is where!
Without some hint — positive data, not accumulation of negatives — search deteriorates to pure exploration. Futile on face of it; continent simply too big for random poking about. Too much area; too few targets — and even methodical search won’t improve odds. Not really. AAs might well move into section just covered, remain undiscovered forever.
Besides, what (beyond wishful myopia) limits scope of search to North America? Whole planet now available (excepting only several extremely radioactive areas in Asia, where [according to Daddy’s secret papers] U.S.’s displeasure over attack most intensely expressed). Surprising if AAs failed to capitalize on all available resources, natural or man-made, wherever extant, to found, secure, develop community from which to gather, store, preserve, ultimately extend knowledge base accumulated during H. sapiens’ sway on Earth.
Hmm… Uninformed observer might suspect pattern developing here: Seems every time central question (“What now?”) crops up, somehow vanishes again beneath welter of irrelevant detail, philosophy, speculation.
Goodness… Candy Smith-Foster subconsciously refusing to face facts? Perhaps because answers unpalatable?)
Nonsense! Nothing subconscious about it. Plain as day: scared to death. And with best of reasons: answers stink!
Consider remaining options: One, can assume — not unreasonably after six consecutive strikeouts — Tarzan File truly dead end; set off blindly into wilderness, playing entirely by ear; distributing leaflets widely, collecting ABs catch-ascan, if at all.
Or, two, ignore six-ply coincidence; play out hand as dealt by Tarzan File, follow through to conclusion; not so much expecting dramatic results as sticking to scientific method, ensuring resultant fine-tooth examination of homes, offices overlooks not least clue suggesting whereabouts.
Then set off blindly into wilderness.
Or silly-season stuff, among which least harebrained notions include: Acquiring necessary knowledge (not impossible, considering formidable reading speed, comprehension/retention level); constructing, activating powerful omniband radio station; broadcasting endless worldwide appeal for company.
Or how about skywriting? Attention-getting, certainly; and effective each time over huge chunks of geography. Given H. post hominem mind, reflexes (far quicker, better integrated than predecessors’), how difficult can be to learn aircraft operation basics? Memorize book, absorb theory; then apply practical. (Shucks, Wrights only human, managed without theory)
Probably neither truly silly-season ideas. Farfetched, yes. But not totally beyond pale, given sufficient impetus (i.e., desperation — cornered rat apt to try anything).
No, not really silly — silly is debating whether might be possible very quickly to breed special strain of mosquito (limited to drinking hominem blood); securing very small notes to very tiny collars, sending out to spread word.
Now, that’s silly…
And demonstrates lengths will go to avoid facing “What now” question. Not that have any real choice: Big world; only information even potentially helpful is Tarzan File, whether current or not. Must be verified, unto bitter end if necessary. As well might be.
So. Six down, 93 to go. Next stop: Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University; Barbara, James, Frederick Harper. No, not related — family: Idyllic ménage à trois of several years’ standing. Harpers, according to file, enjoyed benefits, protections of marriage laws, without violating them but without common-law togetherness risks, by simply cohabitating; defining responsibilities toward one another, to heirs, regarding assets, etc., by forming corporation, incorporating into bylaws useful provisions from marital, probate law. Reported very happy. Perhaps all three being doctors, dovetailed specialties, helps.
Discovery piqued curiosity. Checked further through File. And learned plural living arrangements not uncommon amongst AAs: Fully one-third involved in family units of more than two. Largest such encompasses five.
Intriguing. But not sure my cup of tea. Earliest memories pervaded with gently intense love emanating from, between, all around Daddy, Momma Foster. Couldn’t have spent formative years basking in glow always surrounding, enveloping them, anyone near them, without being imprinted to some extent with bias toward general wonderfulness of twosome life — joy of being single most important thing in life of Someone Wonderful.
Certainly hope Harpers home. Apart from obvious, interested in observing daily workings of family life; see whether they glow together. (If so, at what intensity in which combinations.)
Off tomorrow to Baltimore — or perhaps “toward” more realistic preposition: Though only 427 miles, according to map, know about map distances now (been through that before, haven’t we). So don’t expect to make it in single day. Or even two, three.
For one thing, must retrace path around much of Connecticut, Hudson rivers — doubles distance right there. Additionally, frequent stops to post leaflets in promising locations takes time. Finally, map shows two additional major rivers between here, there (Delaware, Susquehanna); both so convenient to large populations, almost certain downstream bridges useless.
Can’t take less than week. Maybe two.
If possible at all — for very different reason: While hasn’t been hint of residual radiation heretofore, Baltimore very close to Washington. Capital one of few targets across land scheduled for broken windows: According to Daddy’s secret papers, favored with many direct hits. Quite conceivable D.C. area still hot. Equally probable, Baltimore unsafe as well.
Been testing ambient background radiation periodically with geiger counter from shelter (recent design: lightweight, quite sophisticated [nine-tenths of capabilities completely over head]). Will step up checking frequency as approach Baltimore area.
Bedtime again — after another deliciously hot shower. Then to that firm, cool bed.
Tomorrow beckons…
Yes, Posterity, derelict again — sorry. Trying to do better, really. Sometimes difficult to muster energy. But trust me: Missed nothing through failure to enter daily progress from Boston on regular basis. Omissions, if any, not substantive in nature — events not substantive; absence from history books not world-shaking.
Because mostly dull. Indescribably so. Hundreds of miles. Some on roads, some not. Thoroughfare varied from expressways to pasturelands; passability from utterly not to unobstructed. Myriad get-out-and-copes. Engaged four-wheel-drive lots. Cleared path with winch frequently. Doubled back often.
First break in routine came while working southward through rural portion of Pennsylvania, apparently egg-farming region. Accidentally rediscovered old source of fresh meat: Hit chicken. Happily, not going very fast; killed cleanly with bumper instead of mashing flat with tire. Stopped, cleaned immediately; roasted over charcoal for early dinner.
Delicious — thought so myself — but Terry transported beyond ecstasy: Waded in with gusto; split, pulverized bones; cleaned out every scrap of marrow, gristle. Long time since last chicken dinner; poor baby probably in throes of withdrawal.
Experience profitable long-term as well as short. That night switch clicked in brain, disturbing sleep. Old switch. Primitive circuit.
Found self suddenly awake, staring into darkness. Pictured clearly in mind’s eye was tee shirt seen on tourist several years back: cartoon of hungry vulture glaring down from tree branch, muttering, “Patience, hell — I’m going to go kill something…!”
H. sapiens not scavenger. Was, in fact, puny physique notwithstanding, deadliest predator on planet. Any reason for successor to be less forthright about satisfying appetite? Moral issue, perhaps? Should H. post hominem be vegetarian, as philosophical principle?
No…! Nothing philosophical about vitamin deficiency, creeping malnutrition. Granted, probably entirely possible for hard-working, full-time agrarian to raise sufficiently diverse crop to constitute balanced meatless diet. But for explorer, nomad, simply not practical.
So next day, again feeling carnivorous (anticipating brother’s vote if asked), stopped van, caught chicken in footrace. Issue considerably in doubt at first. Prey ran to, fro, dodged about squawking. Wondered for time if might have to resort to gun.
But finally zigged when smart money all on zag; fell victim to feral pounce to gladden heart of primalest hungry raptor ever admitted to guild — which, in fact, by then apt self-description (though neither growled during chase nor stood with foot on kill afterward, beating chest, screaming mangani victory cry).
Dinner that night especially tasty. Perhaps calories expended in pursuit honed appetite; perhaps enjoyment on more atavistic level. Hard to say — and don’t much care: If reverting, will enjoy it.
Began edging westward to flank Delaware River while still far enough north that detour of little consequence. Finding passable bridge never became issue.
But same not true of Susquehanna; another matter entirely: long, extending far northwest, very wide. Bridges encountered during initial exploration all collapsed. Began to think might have to circumnavigate after all. Until came to railroad trestle.
Stopped van abruptly. Stared. Deliberated at length, with distaste. Reconnoitered on foot, all the way across. Took careful measurements.
Yes, was possible — probably not even actually dangerous. But uncomfortable notion: Span between tread centers and track separation identical; giant mud/snow flotation tires fully 15 inches across tread face, providing perhaps four inches’ grace either way before risk mounted. And even if did allow vehicle to slip off rails, wooden ties sufficiently closely spaced to permit crossing completion by bump-bump-bump method, assuming care, deliberate progress.
(Rather not slip off rails, though, thank you. True, walked entire span; inspected structure for apparent faults. But layperson; key word is “apparent”: Not versed, personally, in abstruse skills required to determine at single glance which tie sound, which rotten. And cantilever loading provides severest test of strongest member; little doubt that bump-bump-bumping whole way across surefire system for substandard tie detection. Quick, positive detection.)
However, longer debated matter, less attractive became alternative. Judging by map, dearth of bridges upstream, mountainous contours of land, can’t-get-there-from-here character of roads, less appealing became prospect of driving around Susquehanna. Looking at thousand miles at minimum; probably more, considering present-day road conditions. Did not care to spend another two weeks getting past dumb river.
Therefore backtracked to last small town. Located hardware store; scrounged to good effect, assembling components necessary for Rube Goldberg device intrinsic to rash solution: Mirror, mounted out at end of tripodish boom secured to front end of roof rack, both ends of bumper; with control rod permitting accurate positioning from driver’s seat — lash-up enabling direct observation of front tires’ actual ground-to-tread contact point, removing seat-of-pants element from precision driving required to remain on tracks.
With mirror boom in place, control rod tested, working properly, next step was getting van perched on tracks. Accomplished well back from trestle, on solid right-of-way.
Front wheels easy; went where pointed. Mostly. Were, of course, encountering rails at fairly acute angle. With four-wheel-drive engaged, transmission in first gear, transfer box in low-low, released brake, eased out clutch, crept forward inch by inch. Right front wheel climbed first rail effortlessly, dropping to roadbed between tracks. Double contact next; doubled weight also — and doubled resistance, as smooth steel/rubber coefficient attempted to hoist weight of van’s entire front end. Progress first limited to sideways, tires glancing off rails’ shoulders, sliding along tracks without mounting. But finally corners of big mud/snow treads caught, drew front end upward. Moments later, following careful steering adjustments, front tires centered on rails.
Rears another matter, however: Right rear stubbornly dragged against left track for 30 feet before bumping up, over onto roadbed between rails. Then for good hundred feet both rears clawed ineffectually, unable to gain purchase.
Finally, with bare hundred yards remaining before commencing trestle ascent, gave up. Set brake, exited. Employed shovel to pile up small gravel ramp against rail ahead of each rear tire. Primitive solution (employing engineering principles well regarded in Pharaoh’s day) but serviceable: Five feet beyond, all four wheels poised neatly on rails.
Astonishing, after all that effort, how quickly enthusiasm for project (product of own cleverness) waned:
Ten feet out on span, to be precise. Just far enough for hitherto-unnoticed breeze, unimpeded now by aught but trestle’s cobweb structure, to seize ample sail area presented by van’s slab sides and nudge. Gently but perceptibly.
(In retrospect, doubt actual chassis movement [limited, of course, to slight suspension yield, tire sidewall squirm] exceeded quarter inch in any direction. Then, however, felt like major tectonic adjustment.)
Was suddenly conscious how very different trestle had looked from on foot: wider, solider, much more secure.
And wooden ties projecting from under tracks on either side appeared shorter now when viewed through windshield from driver’s seat, with river as background beyond, below — far below. Tie ends not visible, for instance, through side windows — nothing visible through side windows. Except distant ground, river.
Noticed van had stopped. Wondered briefly if due to wind also, until discovered (looking past white-knuckled hands gripping steering wheel) both feet apparently trying to push brake pedal through floorboard. Had forgotten clutch; engine dead.
(Probably just as well. With engine dead, could not yield to rash impulses: Could not attempt to back up. Mirror not placed to permit observation of exact rear-tire/rail relationship, nor could envision any practical means of doing so. Further, geometry inherent in reverse steering precluded making attempt to regain solid ground astern: Small angular changes at rear are product of large lateral displacements at front. Would have led to immediate bump-bump-bumping. Or worse.)
Became aware was perspiring all over. Felt spontaneous aching sensation in soles of feet, palms of hands. Eyes began to burn, tear. Noticed also mounting sense of suffocation.
Memory chose that moment to call up, play back lifelong accumulation of admonishments concerning Bridges, Premature Burning Of; Corners, Painting Oneself Into; Leaping Before Looking, etc. Cheeks grew hot; glad Teacher couldn’t see star pupil then, frozen at wheel amidst predicament created solely by own failure to consider all aspects of problem before charging in.
But wait — what if Teacher were watching…? From Above. Wouldn’t do to let him see funk continue. Momentary startlement probably barely excusable, considering circumstances, provided not carried beyond limits of good taste. If watching, Teacher would expect to see constructive signs of recovery soon. Or would look sorrowful; make entry in notebook.
(Said recovery no doubt expected to include movement of portions of completely paralyzed body — that would be hard part.)
With effort almost physical in character, managed to wrench gaze from river below. Turned perceptions inward, initiating code sequence leading to transcendental state. And reaped prompt dividends: Upon closing eyes, cause of optic discomfort immediately evident — probably hadn’t blinked for whole minutes! Likewise, shortness of breath alleviated by resumption of respiration…
And as meditative discipline took hold, thought processes again began to acquire semblance of coherence; acted to clamp down, brake churning emotions, restore control. Heartbeat slowed, perspiration subsided.
Opened eyes; focused on point at which rail disappeared under tire. Noted was perfectly centered under tread. Directed attention to left hand. Tried three times before fingers unclenched from wheel, shifted grip to mirror control rod. Readjusted mirror to inspect other tire, rail. Also centered.
Okay. Everything. Under. Control.
Returned mirror to left tire, rail. Without angles to allow for, offered more direct observation, clearer perspective.
Returned left hand to wheel. Eased right hand’s grip to point where feeling returned to fingers; moved to ignition switch. Took longer to get left foot from brake pedal, depress clutch. Turning key required act of raw will.
After being clutch-killed, engine started raggedly, settling into lumpy, galloping idle as gas-soaked plugs shorted, fired, shorted again. Torque reaction, transmitted through engine mounts to chassis, produced motion almost as scary as wind.
Ignored it. Moved right foot from brake pedal; placed gently on accelerator. Eased clutch out (had never taken out of gear); applied hint of gas. Forward motion resumed.
Applied fraction more power. Small fraction. Proceeded deliberately. About two-thirds mile across trestle, but in no hurry. Plenty of time.
Quickly learned driving not that difficult:. Merely question of keeping eyes fixed on rail disappearing beneath tire tread; steering precisely to keep centered; ignoring van’s frequent wind-induced shrugs. (Ignoring also scenery and own position relative thereto.)
No, not difficult at all. But rather tense work. And as initial session dragged on, began to feel effects of prolonged concentration; decided might be wise to stop, take breather. Did so, looked around — discovered had come barely hundred yards!
No, wasn’t difficult. But took best part of three hours to complete crossing.
And when finally cleared trestle, solid ground under rails beneath all four wheels (waited until could confirm in rearview mirrors to ensure wasn’t being fooled by optical-mistic illusion; do something silly while rear end still overhung void), wasted no time turning sharply off tracks, bumping over rails, driving down embankment to level ground.
Stopped, got out; walked back to cliff edge, breathing hard. Suddenly rubbery legs seemed to suggest another time-out. Sat abruptly. And as stared out over valley, down at river, up at bridge, found was reviewing incident in detail: Had saved minimum of week’s travel; and barring ever-present potential for untoward development arising out of mechanical failure (and despite recurring apnea episodes during crossing), probably not inherently dangerous. Reflected at length, totaling pluses, minuses.
Finally concluded: stupidest damnfool stunt have ever pulled…! What was all-fired rush? So might have had to spend another week circling river. Or month, for that matter. So what…! Not as if on schedule…!
Mechanical-failure risk real; but only then, sitting at brink, contemplating vistas conquered, did practical implications sink in: What would have done had tire gone flat midspan? Or engine quit? Or steering come adrift…?
Sum of potential failure through which could have been stranded or pitched into space at least equals, probably exceeds, total number of parts of which van constructed. Madness to hazard position in which ten-cent part’s failure could cause other than fleeting botheration.
Now, loss of van not disaster per se; replacements endlessly available, one form or another. But inconvenient; much semi-irreplaceable equipment aboard. (To which considerations might be added inconvenience attendant to dropping self, Terry into river, some bunchteen dozen feet below.)
However, when scrutinized under gimlet microscope of hindsight, incident not entirely devoid of redeeming aspects (apart from obvious: Yes, am across that river). No question now: Been blundering along, gripped by curious form of mental myopia. Tight grip, too: Even when glimmer of sense raised head (in form of blithering panic ten feet from safety), never entered head to abort — set brake, seize Terry, abandon ship through rear doors.
Few bridges thus far encountered standing actually physically impassable — to pedestrian. But for blinder-mindedness regarding van, could have walked across, carrying gear; then picked new vehicle on far side. Certainly no dearth of replacements.
Sure, would take several trips to move whole inventory. Probably hard work. But quicker than driving around each river found sprawled across (And surely easier on nerves than emulating Wallendas.)
But, incredibly, was first time concept crossed mind, even as most fleeting of notions. (Curious behavior for certified genius — perhaps should just resign gracefully; avoid humiliation intrinsic to being found out, summarily drummed from corps.)
Okay! Was stupid — lesson learned. But water over dam; no benefit accrues from brooding over mistakes (besides, sackcloth itchy; ashes hard to shampoo from hair). On notice now — van expendable; shall keep fact in mind.
(But perhaps, in exercise of reasonable foresight, new policy implementation unnecessary. Ever. Because not truly fond of idea — not through fuzzy sentimentality, irrational attachment to inert mechanism; of course; practical considerations only: supremely capable on/off-road vehicle; quirks, limitations of which now second nature. Also capacious: lots of gear aboard, stowed neatly; everything in its place, readily at hand. Further, after pedal-lift installation, shift-lever extension, seat relocation, fits me — not insignificant factor from four-foot-ten-inch perspective. Besides, finally have galley in shape: cabinets, drawers organized; stove, oven properly broken in. Hate to go through that again.)
So van expendable, true. Fact now in mind. But “expendable” not synonymous with “consumable”: that fact in mind, too. Next question, please.
Which (from serious historian, student) must be: Did you find anyone, anything, in Baltimore?
Answer: Of course not. Yet — just got here. (Apart from happy discovery that, proximity to Washington notwithstanding, ambient radiation still reads within normal limits.)
Harpers not home; no surprise there. House displays usual signs (which have come to know, hate) of methodical move-out seen elsewhere. No clues immediately apparent; fine-tooth search must await morrow — been long day.
But first, another wallow in civilized decadence. Power out along much of East Coast, but Harpers’ house totally solar powered, plus has own deep well — utterly independent of local utilities. Flip switch, electricity restored. Water standing in system already hot from automatic convective functioning of calorie collector on roof; with electricity working again, pump stands ready to replenish water as used. In brief: Hot shower time again!
Which is practically first thing did upon investigating house. Supper preparation, consumption next; only then turned to present journal update. (Sorry, Posterity; itchy, smelly skin and empty belly come first.)
And delays aside, now appears have done duty: Noteworthy observations, activities memorialized. Time for evening’s revels to peak:
Three beds to choose from. Not difficult decision, though: King-size unsuitable (truly, have walked on marble floors with more resilience). Queen-size fitted with ten-inch foam mattress (into which unwary sleeper might sink beyond hope of rescue). Twin bed, however, is Just Right.
Good night, Posterity.
Goodness…! Hard to know where to begin. So much to relate, but must keep tight rein on impulses lest record become even less coherent than usual. Strictly, therefore, by chronology:
Arose well rested. Indulged in another long, hot shower. Prepared breakfast with usual hilarious difficulty; fending off, with effort, assistance intensively volunteered by jovially ravenous sibling (surely most trying aspect of relationship: Seems the earlier the hour, more unbearably cheerful becomes).
Performed usual half-hour kata to settle breakfast, loosen up musculature.
Thereafter went through house. Thoroughly. Negative-result pattern confirmed suspicions previously formed: Deliberate, preplanned exodus; whether prior to H. sapiens’ demise or immediately thereafter, unknown, immaterial. Lingering question still where.
Finished house examination; time to extend sweep to offices, general work environs. Packed, adjourned to van. Dug address list from Tarzan File, placed on dash next to wheel. Cleaned, refilled Terry’s water, seed dishes -
Of course bringing twin: Wouldn’t dream of leaving birdbrained innocent alone, unprotected. Besides, what if failed to return? Ever. Food, water soon run out. Consequences inevitable; details (how end arrives, how long takes) simply don’t bear thinking about! Yes, retarded brother’s constant companionship high in nuisance value (often downright maddening), but necessary to peace of mind.
Found city map at nearby drugstore, oriented self, located destination; set forth in general direction of Hopkins campus; specifically, doctors’ office park adjacent to teaching hospital.
Never got there.
Everything happened at once, in slow motion: One moment was driving west (had overshot, going first to Harpers’ home) down medium-wide downtown arterial (four lanes, no parking; high-rise buildings jutting from sidewalk edges to form concrete canyon), slowing to turn north at next corner. Next moment, just as moved wheel to begin turn, caught glimpse (same instant heard engine’s bellow, tires’ shrieking) of gold-trimmed, shiny black blur already entering intersection from north, turning east: Full-race Trans Am (wide wheels, tires; unmuffled chrome headers; heaven knows what else) flailing into corner almost sideways, on radius which, requiring entire width of both streets, terminated somewhere between own vehicle’s headlights.
No time for cleverness — instinctively stamped on brakes, threw hand up to brace Terry, stiffened other arm on steering wheel to brace me, gritted teeth, awaited outcome.
Trans Am driver did react, somehow: Sensed, rather than saw, front wheels twitch outward; heard engine’s thunder falter, almost gasp, then redouble. Hurtling vehicle’s sideways approach around corner abruptly changed radius, momentarily flattening curve, missing van’s left front corner by merest fraction of flinch.
Progress thereafter less clear: Observation limited to what could make out in mirrors.
Trans Am apparently completed slide around corner (and own frail self) by slapping right rear wheel into curb, with front wheels still pointed sharply to right. Sliced immediately across sidewalk into storefront.
Vehicle, building, both erupted in shower of fragments, dust, sudden plume of flame. Remnant of car ricocheted from impact cloud, spinning like dervish, shedding parts en route, to recross street. Smote that building tail first with horrendous thump, triggering yet another debris explosion, considerably more flame; from which emerged still spinning, appreciably smaller, still shedding parts, now gushing fire in earnest; recrossing street to crash again. And still again. And — oh, never mind.
Would be nice to report own reaction at this point cool, efficient, intelligent. Can’t. Wasn’t. Intellect momentarily shut down completely. Forgot existence of large, fully charged CO2 extinguisher; forgot about Gel-Coat (flame-retardant, wet-chemical-soaked blanket with whose protection could have bathed in burning gasoline for five minutes without discomfort); forgot about Hurst gasoline-engine-hydraulic rescue equipment (capable of ripping open any door, shearing off roof posts, unpeeling vehicle crumpled like ball of foil to extract occupants); crowbar, sledge — all languishing in lockers in rear of van. Even forgot to set brake, shift transmission to neutral before taking action. (Didn’t matter; had killed engine again in heat of moment.)
Only knew had finally found somebody — possibly very last other soul on Earth — and might be dying before own disbelieving eyes.
Sprang from driver’s seat while accident still unwinding (seemed to take forever). Landed in dead run. Forced to hurdle several gasoline trails left burning as careening wreckage crossed, recrossed street between impacts.
Overtook accident at Trans Am’s ultimate resting place, half-buried in display window some hundred yards beyond van. Arrived as building-material cascade tapered off; rubble piling high on roof, hood, trunk, littering nearby pavement.
And since kamikaze slide’s final yards were backward, vehicle now resting on own gasoline track; flame pond spreading slowly about wreckage, storefront, as contents gurgled from ruptured fuel tank (rescue growing more complicated even as stood there, shielding face from heat [painful even at ten yards], squinting through inferno for glimpse of occupant).
But not last-desperate-second, screaming-crisis emergency; merely grim. No flames yet visible in interior; reasonable to assume passenger compartment intact (underneath, at least; topsides a mess: Glass gone, along with bumpers, fenders; front windshield posts both torn loose; roof at angle never contemplated by styling engineers).
Cooked occupant inevitable but not imminent; had time to secure from van equipment appropriate for crossing gasoline lake safely, forcing probably jammed door, extracting victim, retreating in good order.
(Never mind exploding gas tanks — exist only in fevered imaginations of sensation-oriented, irresponsible Hollywood screenwriters: Fire Marshal Hathaway [Daddy’s friend, neighbor; lived just down street] said so. Claimed endless fueling of myth fostered needless widespread explosion-fear. Marshal Hathaway considered filmmakers’ behavior quasi-criminal — certainly reckless negligence: Public saw so many crashes-followed-by-explosions on TV, in films, believed it; and more peoples’ injuries compounded when unprofessionally dragged from wrecked cars — burning or not — by Good Samaritans fearing explosions following accidents than recordable. Liquid gasoline doesn’t explode; only gasoline vapor, correctly mixed with oxygen, explodes — and only if ignition delayed until precise moment ideal mixture achieved. Burning cars don’t explode.)
None of which rambling bears on fact driver in fair way to roast if not gotten out promptly — gasoline fires hot!
Therefore steeled heart, clamped down emotions, blocked from mind distracting awareness of real stakes at issue; concentrated dispassionately on tactical evaluation, selected tools, commenced organized rescue effort…
Well, not exactly. (Mind still shut off.)
Took short run, dived headfirst. Passage through flames too brief for more than hint of real heat. Felt only momentary, intolerable ovenlike sensation; had barely time to be startled as breath sucked from lungs in reaction. More startling was incredible roar as flames licked at face, hair, clothing: From distance imperceptible; at heart of conflagration sounded like freight train.
Sailed through left front side window, fetching up in disarray on far side against door. Raised head to look around, discovered was gasping for breath: Already pretty warm inside.
Untangled limbs, crawled to driver — sprawled under dash. Examined gently as commensurate with haste, thoroughly as possible under conditions; determined no condition apparent taking precedence over fire: Bleeding from various lacerations ranged from inconsequential to serious, but no fracture grossly evident — though spine distinctly separate question, not determinable under present conditions. Would have to cross fingers.
(Of course qualified to render opinion: Fair-haired only baby girl of best doctor in whole world! Thoroughly, properly instructed in advanced first aid; more knowledgeable in emergency medicine than paramedic.)
Once assured rescue itself probably wouldn’t kill him (him? — HIM…!) turned attention to getting us out: Really getting hot in there.
Especially floorboard, now that had moment to notice; not ideal storage environment for victim while figuring out next step. Braced self, hauled limp body up one end at a time, dumped on seat.
Cast about interior for inspiration. At first found little cause for optimism. Then attention fixed on rear seat cushion: Ripped from moorings, lay skewed across interior, one end almost protruding from rear window. Recognized possible solution.
Tried left door. Not surprised when refused to budge. (But disappointed.) Didn’t bother with right door; solidly wedged against wall in which vehicle embedded.
Indulged in moment’s worry: Required little imagination to visualize consequences of attempting to push cushion through window, positioning to bridge pooled gasoline; climb through window dragging victim — amidst 20-foot-high flames…!
Options (few at outset) evaporated as gasoline lake outside spread, temperature inside mounted. In fact, as practical matter, single avenue remained. But regarded with disquiet: somewhat risky.
No — damned risky. For self (until now personal safety never at issue; could have aborted, exiting same way arrived, exposure limited to possible superficial scorching, crisping around edges) as well as for rescuee: If failed, both dog meat. (Well done.)
Indeed might fail: Strength required far beyond that usually at command. Plus considerable endurance.
Now. Strength available. But endurance most iffy.
Surely everyone remembers stories of 92-pound housewife who, witnessing car fall off bumper jack onto husband, performs hundred-yard dash in three seconds flat, lifts car with one hand, extracting hubby with other. Or hiker, confronting grizzly without warning, who subsequently finds self standing 30 feet above ground; on lowest limb of tree too big to have encircled with arms, legs; with no memory of how got there. Etc.
Less widely known: Many such stories true.
Solution arcane but not supernatural. Straightforward biochemistry: Given protein machine (assuming well-toned musculature, ample lung capacity, sound heart, circulatory system in good repair), energy expenditure limited to rate at which fuel metabolized; muscle cells nourished; heat, waste removed. Reserve stored in muscle tissues negligible.
Cells of which muscles composed contract not in unison but take turns; work in relays. System allows each cell a rest period to recharge during even most strenuous exercise; also means only tiny fraction actually participate at any moment.
Now, if stimulus encountered which triggers substantial majority of cells in given muscle simultaneously, awesome feats ensue (along with real potential for popped ligaments, tendons, fractured bones — system designed for shiftwork operation).
Own karate training, as with any advanced student, had covered Hysterical Strength, Unleashing Management Thereof; had gone, in fact, beyond routine analysis, theoretical discussion — into practical: Teacher included hypnosis in curriculum. Planted within psyche posthypnotic code to loose Beast Within at ultimate need.
Present quandary seemed to fall within definition: Needed more strength than possessed; else would die. Clear enough, even allowing for Teacher’s dire warnings.
For nothing magic about transaction. Simple arithmetic: X calories produced, available within Y length of time. Rigidly controlled by inverse proportion rule: Double consumption, halve duration.
During tests had seen own strength increase tenfold. Briefly. Followed by crushing fatigue: in strict accordance with tanstaafl principle.
But saw no alternative.
Lay back on front seat, fanny close to door. Gripped steering wheel with one hand, seat edge with other. Drew back legs, knees on chest. Concentrated inward. Gathered forces; focused ki flow into, through legs. Transformed trigger word utterance into kiai, intensity of scream hurting throat, and…
…KICKED!
Astounding results: Door burst open, whistled through arc, crashed against hinge limits; welds failed, door flew down sidewalk, bouncing end-over-end.
Instantly air vanished inside vehicle as heat flooded through door opening; searing lungs; dessicating eyes, nasal passages; scalding exposed skin. Smelled burning hair; never doubted was own.
Time of essence now as never before: If couldn’t get victim, self, safely beyond flames before metabolic supercharge ran down, likely wouldn’t — unconsciousness only seconds away.
Organizing actions to avoid waste motion suddenly acquired desperate importance. Snatched rear-seat cushion over into front; thrust through door opening (through which flames now licked, beginning to char headliner), positioning to bridge infernal moat. (Or almost bridge — just lacked length to span, with pond still spreading.)
Seized driver, propped up into approximately seated position, slumped against seat back. Loosened jacket, pulled up over head, zipped shut. Shoved limp arms down into pants; tightened belt to hold in place.
Shrugged own jacket upward, retracting head like turtle. Placed shoulder just below victim’s beltline; tugged, felt weight roll onto back as torso collapsed forward. Slid arm under thighs; lifted, jogging shoulder to center load in fireman’s carry (And marveled at own strength — while dreading impending consequences of reckless squandering: Sustained consumption rate surely four, five times norm; probably more.)
Straightened experimentally: Bumped roof to gauge relationship between victim’s fanny, own shoulders — crouch needed to clear upper door frame.
Fixed seat cushion’s location indelibly in mind’s eye. Took deep breath, held it; closed eyes, pinched jacket shut over face. And…
…LEAPED!
Time stopped as again felt blast-furnace ambience envelop whole body. Seemed to hang motionless midair; conscious this time of flames probing, digging, seeking access through flimsy coverings. Oppressive heat, pervasive roar blanketed all other sensations.
Feet blindly seeking landing, but impact somehow unexpected, surprise. Cushion yielded underfoot as knees bent, absorbing extra weight; then airborne again, leaping for fire’s boundary — and heart stopped as cushion skidded away from legs’ thrust, robbing jump of power needed for distance, throwing balance off.
Eyes snapped open, head jerked forward, trying to get clear of jacket; even at risk of optic burns, needed to see, reestablish orientation — mustn’t fall while still within holocaust!
Dragged fabric clear of eyes just as cool air washed jacket, over clothing, into lungs; as landed, stumbling briefly, on flat, dry, cool pavement.
Shrugged victim to ground; conducted hasty inspection for burning clothing — mine, his. Used own jacket to smother small blaze on victim’s left pants leg.
Then attention riveted by rapidly forming pool of blood under leg: bright red — arterial stuff. Probably femoral, judging by amount. Must have been lying such that position created pressure block, preventing loss in car. Moving eliminated obstruction. If femoral, had as little as 20 seconds left — less whatever time had been bleeding in car since first moved.
Heavy denim parted like cobweb before preternatural strength: Tore pants leg open from ankle to crotch; then ripped entirely free from garment. Turned victim over; confirmed suspicion immediately:
Deep gash from medial upper thigh to anterior knee — spurt-ing.
Twisted denim strip into rope; looped about thigh above wound. Looked around briefly, wistfully — no sticks within reach. Slid fingers under bandage, made hard fist; partially stood, stepped three fast turns around body, using own hand as stick, tightening tourniquet very nicely, thank you, but cutting off blood to fingertips in process.
Seized collar with left hand, right still lodged in tourniquet; swung victim back up over shoulder into fireman’s carry.
Staggered then, beset by flash of vertigo; suddenly aware of warning twinges as muscles all over body threatened to cramp. Conscious also of perspiration abruptly streaming from body in rivers as autonomic system belatedly noticed calorie-consumption rate, tried to do something about mounting internal temperature. And breathing affected now, too: coming in deep, tortured gasps.
But couldn’t complain; not unexpected. In fact, remarkable aspect to condition is why symptoms so long deferred — no idea how was still functioning at all. According to data, painfully garnered through previous supervised (and conservative) experiments, activity level sustained during past few minutes flatly impossible. Should have achieved coma long since through massive fatigue products build-up, with vital organs shutting down from systemic shock; death imminent, barring only most profound life support, treatment.
However, seemed less than opportune moment to question blessing. Set off for van at dead run.
Arrived still conscious but deteriorating: Heartbeat thundering inside skull; lungs afire; cramps attacking in earnest now; black patches flickering across vision; clothing dripping, saturated with sweat.
Terry greeted with “Hello, baby; what’cha doo-in’?”; but couldn’t spare breath, time to respond.
Threw open side doors, slung victim into own bunk. Then found couldn’t reach tool locker door from bedside. Frantic visual search located crowbar on floor near door (had used earlier to enter drugstore). Made long leg, snagged with foot. Dragged within reach of left hand; substituted for right in tourniquet — with relief.
Stumbled to refrigerator, shaking life back into fingers. Rummaged through stored food; found quart of Gatorade, plastic container of yesterday’s chicken soup. Gulped about half Dr. Cade’s elixir in single swallow; put away equal portion of Yiddish cure-all.
Worried somewhat over possible consequences: Food, drink not easy travelers in stomach during, right after sustained violent exercise. Especially cold. But knew needed something immediately to start replenishment after huge energy drain.
Couldn’t afford collapse then; didn’t have time for own problems. Victim about to lose leg — plus certainly in shock, doubtless sinking moment by moment: Even if somehow failed to die as direct result of injuries, shock could finish job — would, untreated.
Returned to bunk. Apprehensively called again upon unnatural strength. Found, to surprise, enough remained to lift foot of bunk one-handed; hold elevated while inserting prop (Gel-Coat kit — flameproofing goodies which should have been used to eliminate much drama from rescue). Would have been easier to elevate legs conventionally, with pillow; unfortunately, supine position unworkable due to wound location: Needed victim prone to treat.
Located Daddy’s Number Two black bag, saline I.V. kit from medical supply locker. Rooted through bag; found stopwatch, sphygmomanometer. Took pulse, checked blood pressure: fast, strong, respectively.
Lifted eyelids, flicked sunlight across pupils with hand mirror. Were unequal, nonreactive; plus unmistakable twitching movements: nystagmus — concussed certainly.
Then froze, transfixed.
All this time — while examining in car, on sidewalk; lifting, dragging about, carrying; attaching tourniquet, checking vital signs — had dealt with discrete anatomical components. Never connected dots; never mentally assembled into whole person. Never saw face. Until then.
Was kid…!
Little, if any, older than self.
Comprehension dawned suddenly: Had thought was dealing with adult; carrying, in addition to own compact tonnage, perhaps three times again own weight (heft difficult to judge when heart is pure, strength is strength of ten). In fact, apart from peak efforts (unsticking door, traversing flaming moat with piggyback passenger), exertion level hardly more than doubled. Could have accomplished most heroics almost as well without metabolic short circuit. Well… maybe.)
However, with understanding came chilling realization: Clinical picture even less rosy than first appeared. Healthy blood pressure reading but snare, delusion in child when hemorrhage a factor. Young cardiovascular systems amazingly resilient when challenged; simply pump faster, harder as blood volume diminishes, maintaining adequate pressure the while.
Right up to sudden, catastrophic, final dissolution; total failure.
Viewed thus, pulse rate most disquieting: Suggested important fraction of total blood supply already gone. And quick review of wound confirmed loss still in progress, though slowed by tourniquet.
Agonized for endless moments, poignantly aware of limitations of own training; indecision compounded by mental processes blunted by physical, mental fatigue. Knew, of course, what needed doing; but shrank from unavoidable conclusion regarding by whom.
(Granted, possessed requisite knowledge. Inescapable, since Daddy [pathologist or not] one of only two doctors in town, often called upon to perform emergency-room care, usually in own home, invariably at odd hours when no one available to assist but Yours Truly. Watched closely then; listened attentively to accompanying lectures. Even, at proud paternal urging, acquired skill at certain limited surgical techniques, practicing on animal cadavers. But never — alone, unaided — so much as placed Band-Aid on person.)
However, time — blood — wasting. And own condition now serious impediment to concentration, precision work. (Maybe wasn’t burning energy at quadruple usual rate; couldn’t know what overload factor consisted of. But knew was exhausted; never experienced such fatigue before.) Nor without long rest, much nourishment, was condition likely to improve. Which ruled out usefully immediate future. Unless…
Weighed options carefully — shuddered. But saw no way out. Closed eyes, directed consciousness inward. Took deliberate, deep breath; held briefly; released slowly, exhausting tension with it. Then — for second time in only minutes — triggered hysterical tap.
Like magic, felt vision clear, hands steady, cramps abate. But not fooled: Heart still hammered; was still fountaining sweat; breathing, though no longer paroxysmal (regular now, slowed to point where wouldn’t affect dexterity), still amounted to panting. Condition unchanged: Beneath veneer was still totally exhausted. Tried not to dwell on probable cost when came time to pay Piper. Hoped benefits of sufficient duration — surely wouldn’t work third time.
Took seat on campstool at bedside. Bent over leg; drew wound lips apart to assess damage extent, severity. Blood volume made visual structure identification impossible. Removed saline baggie from kit; extended I.V. tube, chopped off end. Squeezing bag to provide pressure, used as hose to irrigate, cleanse area. Worked pretty well, but relief only temporary: Adjoining tissues full of slowly oozing bleeders; and at very bottom of gash, visible now, gaped slice in femoral artery, welling gently afresh with each systole, reflooding area with bright red blood.
Which wouldn’t do at all; had to see to work. Pondered briefly; then cranked another turn into tourniquet. Uncomfortable about solution: First Law of Tourniquets holds must be loosened every 12 minutes, 18 at outside. Failure to comply results in tissue death downstream, autolysis, ultimately gangrene.
But here question less clear: Two-inch rent in artery wall complicated equation; hydraulic principles demanded concern at least equal to other factors. (Probably more than equal, as continued to debate matter: Blood geysering out through least resistant path certainly of negligible value downstream — and even if somehow beneficial, advantages accruing to leg moot if body to which attached promptly expires as side effect.)
But knowledge that choice impending if artery repair not completed within time limit acted as incentive to speed work. Fell to; gathered, set out, organized equipment.
Hosed down wound again. Scrutinized closely; breathed sigh of relief: Tourniquet now achieving desired result; arterial flow stopped. Virtually imperceptible seepage remained from vascularity in surrounding tissues, but makeshift lavage spray adequate remedy.
Next juggled odds quickly, unhappily. Time most critical, true; but upon reflection, concluded potential shock consequences justified investing whatever time necessary to start I.V. before undertaking actual repair.
And if Daddy watching from Above, made him proud: Had I.V. inserted, taped in place, saline flowing — all within single minute. (Practice on long-suffering arm simulacrum [paramedic training aid] paid off: Found vein first try.)
Performed necessarily abbreviated scrub, using drinking water, soap, finishing off with alcohol slosh. Squirmed into rubber gloves with difficulty — not easy, solo, while maintaining asepsis.
(Mostly unworried about infection per se; Teacher’s opinion holds H. post hominems immune to known human disease. But key words, even if Teacher’s very own, are “opinion,” “known,” and especially “H. post hominem” [of which victim surely must be one — but don’t know that] — and would be humiliating to perform repair successfully; then lose patient to toxemia through preventable gross sepsis. So within limits imposed by surroundings, did best to adhere to sterile procedure.)
Tore open first packet, containing prethreaded fine needle, suture (offered up silent thanks for modern medical technology as did so; would never make good stereotypical female — were own life at stake, couldn’t thread needle in fewer than 20 tries).
Picked up two hemostats. Stared down into wound. Took deep breath. Seized needle with finely-pointed jaw tips of right-hand hemostat. Commenced.
Proved less difficult than feared. Following initial shock (as learned live patients warm inside), technical fascination took over, supplanted apprehension; permitted training to emerge, do job properly. Hemostats gripped needle surely; resultant control wonderfully precise, even down in cramped quarters at bottom of wound. Artery cleanly slit; edges straight; stitches went into place neatly, evenly, closely spaced, just as had when practiced similar repair on hog cadaver under Daddy’s direction.
(Sure wish had practiced oftener; developed semblance of professional competence, speed — sealing high-pressure artery called for such tiny stitches; so little time remained and seam so long…)
But wasted none glancing feverishly at watch; concentrated on task at hand. Mind already made up, subconsciously at least: Would not risk boy’s life to save leg. True, be nice if managed to save it, too — indeed, striving mightily to accomplish repair in time to prevent limb death.
(Mightily — but not quickly; never realized vascular surgery so time-consuming.)
For one thing, one-legged comrade poses significant liability in present-day survival-oriented environment. For another, despite pretensions toward calloused pragmatism, must confess to certain esthetic prejudice in favor of physically sound partner — perhaps even, should circumstances so devolve, mate.
(But repair was taking so long.)
Finally, even granting advantages intrinsic to performing amputation at leisure in Hopkins teaching hospital’s modern operating theatre, amidst latest, most advanced medical wonders (who cares — lack even faintest notion of how to operate them), odds slim for patient surviving procedure. Above-knee amputation serious business, truly major surgery; approached with due respect by most veteran of doctors — likelihood of happy outcome, given amateur-level ministrations in procedure so intrinsically fraught, seemed less a question for serious assessment than object of gallows humor.
(But not laughing; was going to find out unless got move-on — taking too long!)
And didn’t want to cut kid’s leg off! Even if somehow managed to avoid killing him in process, would never be able to meet eyes without cringing inside. Yes — despite full knowledge that dummy’s own maniacal driving brought on disaster; that consequences on his head alone; that own role limited to saving fool life — would still feel guilty…
(Damn — taking too long…!)
Stole glance at watch — at least 16 minutes gone (guestimating from crash) and good half inch yet unrepaired. What to do…!
Discovered mind not made up after all. Convictions wavered, crumbled at moment of truth. Should continue repair, cross fingers for dispensation from immutable metabolic laws? Or gamble on holding blood loss to tolerable minimum with local pressure now that wound largely closed?
(But how much is tolerable minimum — considering losses to present; mitigated by, thus far, just under pint of saline? Further, how effective is local pressure apt to be on femoral spurting — even if wound largely closed?)
Wait. Perhaps another way out. Not cornered — maybe. With luck.
Solution required judicious hemostat placement: Was necessary to grip, pinch together remaining open edges of sliced artery walls with curved jaws; lock handles, sealing shut.
Now could ease tourniquet temporarily, safely…
…If hemostat secure.
…If stitches adequate.
…If no other significant bleeders in wound.
…If abruptly releasing balance of blood supply into previously substantially drained extremity didn’t trigger final shock collapse through major blood-pressure drop…
…If — oh, hell! Simply couldn’t stand it any longer — released tourniquet, poised to take action as required.
Wasn’t. So glad.
Took time then for breather, suddenly aware of first hints of returning fatigue. Peeled off gloves; finished Gatorade, soup.
Removed patient’s shoes, socks; inspected toes as circulation resumed. (Should have at outset: color, temperature key clinical signs to circulation status in leg, foot.)
Sat back, eyes closed, relaxed; breathed deeply, modulating oxygen intake just at fringes of hyperventilation symptoms, hoping to get running start on replacing stores before disintegration set in in earnest. Knew wouldn’t really help, but beat waiting idly for collapse — for which still didn’t have time.
After five minutes, retightened tourniquet, donned second pair of rubber gloves, released hemostat. Lavaged site again, flushing away seepage accumulated from surrounding tissues. Resumed needlework.
And marveled: Delicate stitchery, tiny knots suddenly easy — now no longer racing clock, impeding own efforts through tight-collar syndrome.
Soon last stitch in place; femoral repaired. Only closing-up chores remained, housekeeping incidentals: Rejoining severed muscles, closing skin layers; assembling, installing homemade pressure bandage incorporating splint to prevent knee flexion during initial healing process. Much easier going — nothing life-or-death. And could use larger stitches.
Then followed quick, apprehensive review of own condition. No serious portents detected; so stripped limp body (yes, completely; potentially fastest bleeding tissues on male body concealed by shorts; no shrinking damsel I — besides, modesty lousy reason to lose patient through negligence); examined head to foot, identified additional serious (relative term, this, compared to femoral) lacerations; closed with stitch here, tuck there, bandage where appropriate. Finished by covering with blanket, slipping pillow under head, connecting fresh saline baggie to I.V.
Whereupon, quite without warning, found self facedown next to bunk, viewing world through darkening, flickering mists (viewing two worlds, point of fact), while breathing transformed abruptly into agonizing gasps, heartbeat stabilized at tachycardiac level, every muscle in body knotted into single huge cramp. Couldn’t even cry out. And wanted to.
Could have ended pain by triggering posthypnotic relaxation sequence; but sleep — akin to coma — sure to follow immediately and couldn’t afford yet; important details remained undone:
Van’s right-side double doors gaped wide; driver’s door hung open, too, just as had left it when leaping out. Knew must remedy before letting go: Bound to be dogs in area (have not forgotten [will never forget] dog-pack encounter shortly after emerging from shelter); pooches would be pleased indeed to discover van standing open — and ready access to three helpless occupants.
Besides, Terry’s water, food dishes not filled since leaving Harpers’; no telling how long oblivion might last. Plus urgent need to stoke own fires before going under; nourishment deficit almost as critical as fatigue.
All of which posed problem:
Body on strike. Brain apparently still operating at what passes for normal function, but commands ignored as burnout reaction intensified, symptoms worsened. Try as might, couldn’t elicit so much as purposeful twitch from any voluntary muscle, even unto least finger.
Too busy twitching involuntarily; spasming, in fact: Body jerked, convulsed, shuddered in response to multiple random cramps attacking, releasing, attacking again from head to toe. Ravages flopped body about like chicken recently deprived of head (uncomfortably apt simile; brain quite as unable to communicate with body as if physically separated).
Thrashed for timeless, endless interval. Several seconds at least. Then subsided into gently quivering heap, face up, limbs intertwined in Gordian disarray; cramps abated, muscles relaxing, going limp — pain easing toward residual ache. Would have sighed with relief if such possible, but breathing not among voluntary functions then.
Besides, knew relief was only fool’s paradise: Could feel heat; knew face was flushed. Could feel perspiration volume increasing, sweat streaming from entire body; dripping where possible, collecting in hollows elsewhere — one pool quickly threatened to overfill valley formed by nose, cheek; invade eye. And breathing rate such that nose began to run.
Suspected was not pretty sight. But not encouraging to realize Terry, intently peering down from stand, actually had nothing to say. Just made big, round, worried eyes; stared first one eye, then other. And know what it takes to dismay my brother.
But worry surely nullest of exercises. Understood problem; knew only solution was food, sleep. And knew must finish chores first.
So again turned perception inward. Concentrated. Groped for ki within soul. Felt it stir. Created channel, felt flow begin. Gently guided into right arm. Willed dead meat to move.
Terribly pleased to note response. And not a little amazed.
Expanded control zone. Levered body into sitting position; then rolled over onto hands, knees. Moving most carefully (nothing worked without painstaking, step-by-step supervision), crawled forward to driver’s seat.
Where paused momentarily, mulling options, calculating odds. Shortest route involved climbing into seat to reach door handle. But never seriously considered as solution (as well might have been mountaintop). Or could go around; between seats, past engine cover, under steering wheel. Farther to travel. But level.
Even so, had to stop en route, rest. Twice.
Eventually, however, fingers closed limply around door handle. Marshaled forces for effort — pulled door shut hard enough to secure latch. Barely. (Noted, gratefully, front windows rolled up far enough for safety; all others swing-out construction, couldn’t open far enough to pose security risk.)
Then — somehow — managed to turn around under steering wheel, avoiding getting snagged on pedals in process; set off on return trip amidships.
Arrived in due course within reach of side door handles. Again assembled energies (what remained), swung door shut — even remembering to close in proper order: Rear first, then front, so overlapping latches engaged instead of rebounding, negating efforts. Experienced profound thrill, sense of accomplishment, from having done it right.
Considered taking brief time-out for rest but realized wouldn’t help. So heaved self upright on knees, ignoring tendency for surroundings to orbit own vertical axis. Scooped up saucer full of parrot seed mix from container on counter; lumbered (still on knees) to stand, prepared to dump contents into sibling’s food cup.
And stopped, confused: Was full. As was — now visible at far end of perch — water cup.
Set down saucer carefully. Tried to think problem through, but not easy: Data input too fast; of such anomalous, almost contradictory nature; mind functioning so slowly. Shook head — regretted at once: No one in such condition should move head quickly. Ever. Pain obscured vision momentarily. When receded, found self leaning against side doors, head resting against window glass, eyes closed.
Solution obvious, but reached only after labored deliberation: Of course food, water untouched: Had embarked from Harpers’ this morning — several lifetimes prior — something under an hour ago! (Indeed, Albert knew whereof spoke: Time is relative; truly flies when having fun…)
Probably smiled as arrived at conclusion. Which expression surely faded as eyes opened, focusing on glare from holocaust surrounding Trans Am, mere hundred yards behind van. Building in which vehicle embedded now well involved: Smoke, fire gushing from windows many stories up, obviously spreading rapidly.
And given shoulder-to-shoulder nature of downtown concrete-canyon architecture, only matter of hours before entire block ablaze — in fact, as flames gutted high-rises, structures’ collapse sure to follow; filling, bridging streets with burning debris, spreading conflagration from block to block. Only few more hours before entire city engulfed in fire storm.
Implications percolated slowly but with finality. Knew taste of defeat: truly bitter — age-old cliché accurate, but woefully inadequate.
Not that had given up. Though slowed, dulled, mind still functioning more or less coherently; knew if passed out now would never wake: Van’s destruction, together with frail contents, guaranteed as blazing walls crashed down to fill street where parked.
But problem deeper than mere awareness of threat, unflagging resolve. Body pushed too far; was finished: Utterly in grip of fatigue-toxin-overdose-induced myasthenialike collapse, paralysis. Not a single cell from voluntary musculoskeletal group responsive to brain’s commands — doubt house-current application would have elicited so much as twitch.
Tears began to trickle from under lids as eyes closed, body slid limply down door, crumpling onto floor to lie unmoving. Final thoughts were fading jumble fuzzy with disappointment, regret, outrage: Had come so close; felt so cheated —
“Hel-lo, baby…!” wailed Terry in anguished tones.
— and horror: Hoped smoke, fumes, big piece of falling debris would find us before flames; couldn’t bear thought of retarded twin, gorgeous feathers ablaze, rolling about floor, struggling, screaming…
Waking was nice: gradual, luxurious process, allowing time to revel in same cozy lack of urgent purpose which always attended first awareness on summer mornings during school vacation. Bed was lovely: firm; made up with cool, clean-smelling sheets; light, soft blanket. And from somewhere floated lilting chords of Beethoven’s Pathétique sonata.
Once got around to opening eyes, saw that surroundings comprised large, cheerful, well-appointed bedroom, simply reeking of restrained good taste.
Had no idea where might be, how got there, or why; and didn’t much care. Was sufficient that felt marvelously rested, deliciously comfortable — until essayed first lazy stretch.
Accompanying yawn brought cognizance of tube up nose; a discovery so startling, almost distracted from surprise of learning right arm immobile, apparently strapped down. Deliberate swallow confirmed tube also present in esophagus. Unpleasantly so.
Followed tube with eyes to bottle hanging on stand at bedside. Didn’t need to read label to recognize Isocal HCN, first choice amongst medical community for endogastric feeding of comatose patients.
And next to Isocal hung partial baggie of Ringer’s lactate — saline with electrolytes added. From it ran tube to I.V. — plugged into right arm.
As pondered these phenomena (with rapidly dwindling enthusiasm), yet another anomalous sensation intruded amongst already churning thoughts. Or perhaps lack of sensation more accurate: For first time in living memory, had awakened without awareness of overfull bladder. Which realization flowed without pause into dawning perception that Something Was Amiss in that region as well.
Began immediate left-handed exploration to determine quality, extent of damages. Was dismayed to learn attire consisted of overlarge (knee-length) tee shirt — and diaper…! Complete with safety pins. And, speaking as expert baby-sitter, quite professionally executed. (Strategically located slit in crotch of mortifying garment admitted [as suspected] Foley catheter.)
Further exploration revealed substantially absent eyebrows, lashes; head hair appreciably shorter in spots than remembered it. Had obviously been brushed out, breaking off scorched, shriveled ends -
Oh! Memory returned in bewildering rush. Bringing with it sudden dread, rampant curiosity: Where was Terry? What about kid? What happened? More particularly, who happened it?
Reasonable questions, to be sure. When last participated in events, score was Candy zero, Grim Reaper nine — in ten-point match. Lethal probabilities abounded; situation, without exaggeration, dire.
Known on-site cast included Terry; concussed kid (with stiff leg, profound blood loss, stitches all over hide); and, of course, Yours Truly — plucky neighborhood zombie. Terry didn’t get us out of fix; get me cleaned up, plugged in, plumbed, drained. I sure didn’t — and kid was…
No! Enough… Without facts, speculation worse than nonproductive; downright maddening…!
Had to find out for self — couldn’t lie quietly in bed, waiting for someone (whomever!) to walk in, in own good time, and fill in blanks (selectively — telling patient “only what’s good for her”). Had to know — now…!
Doggedly returned to self-examination. Found tender areas of pinkish skin on forehead, hands, ankles — another few seconds and would have been serious burns. Determined all muscles, while weak, again responded to wishes. (Almost unbearably relieved: Daddy had recited cases where muscle overuse resulted in permanent burnout.)
Concluded, at length, was sound enough to dispense with life-support toys; return to transacting personal business personally. Could eat faster, absorb protein, calories more efficiently orally than through tube (certainly enjoy it more). Further, examination demonstrated no clinical evidence of dehydration; no point, then, to retaining I.V. And could damn well go potty myself!
Okay, no reason couldn’t get up — just matter of unplugging tubes. (Straightforward-sounding, simple statement of intent: easy to say.)
Effectuation, however, less so. Sensations accompanying do-it-yourself nasogastric tube removal unlikely to find place in catalog of experiences without which life is not complete. Same for catheter. Neither truly painful coming out. Actually. Exactly. Quite. But felt horrid…
I.V., on other hand, did hurt. But over quickly; slight bleeding stopped immediately with momentary pressure.
Then addressed question of standing. Knew was weak, but fairly certain could manage. With care, slowly, taking very short steps.
Question of very short steps, however, proved premature. Spent appreciable interval sitting on edge of bed, head between knees, waiting for room to stabilize. Which did, eventually.
Whereupon, gingerly stood, paused briefly to verify balance in working order; then employed selfsame care, very short steps, to navigate slowly to door.
Hall in which found self was higher-ceilinged, wider than those in houses which constituted experience during formative years. Decor, too, beyond what have come to recognize as norm.
Piano now into first measures of unfamiliar solo transcription of Wagner’s Rienzi overture. Stood briefly, listened.
(Daddy included in shelter collection essentially entire Andre Perrault international catalog; record collection upstairs in house almost equaled. Have myself spent important fraction of short life exposed to, absorbing, enjoying classical music. Plus Daddy once took me to Horowitz concert in Chicago, where, in three too-short hours, artist demonstrated all he’d learned about playing piano over perhaps 70-odd years of training, practice, dedication. Have, despite youth, acquired discerning ear.)
This pianist good. Possibly even that good. But didn’t recognize touch. Wondered who might be; when recording made.
Followed music down hall to balcony — from either end of which descended wide, sweeping staircase (of sort on which Cinderella lost slipper), terminating in foyer into which Daddy’s whole house would fit without crowding (if tucked to side to miss chandelier).
Glided down nearer staircase, feeling like figure in dream. Music coming from partially open door on far side of foyer. Crossed room, silently pushed door open.
Terry’s tee stand stood next to gleaming ebony concert grand at center of library/study whose shelves held books in numbers rivaling perhaps even Daddy’s shelter library — and all hardbacks, most leather. Harebrained sibling himself (alive!) relaxed on one foot, raptly watching, listening as my erstwhile patient, leg bandaged but now unsplinted, played and music flowed through room, filling heart, crumbling barriers behind which had thought those emotions safely locked away forever.
Moved silently into room; held out arm. Twin’s eyes snapped wide; almost leaped in eagerness to swarm aboard. Settled in chair just behind, to side of oblivious musician. Terry discharged immediate hysterical gladness over reunion through series of head dives, cheek rubs; then snuggled down in lap, pressed close, sighed, closed eyes. Held my baby brother tight in arms.
And, soundlessly, cried. Cried for Momma, for Daddy; for unknown, unremembered flesh-and-blood parents; for Teacher; for all my friends; for acquaintances; for whole world of strangers — cried for all dead.
Cried for Terry, miraculously alive when should have burned to death. Cried for boy — another person! — incredibly still alive in spite of crash, terrible wounds, my bumbling treatment, fire — sitting now at piano, playing as composer only might have dared to dream.
Cried for me — for grief, for relief, for joy.
Cried for past. Cried for future. Cried for hope.
Cried while boy finished Rienzi, swept into Rachmaninoff, Chopin, Brahms, many others; all from memory, most full orchestral works somehow transcribed for piano alone; all played as if keyboard itself were come to life, complete with soul demanding outlet, expression.
Boy finished Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique with marvelously cacaphonic climax whose violence quite made up for missing orchestra; tiptoed with startling gentleness into Pachelbel’s Canon in D. And into resultant sweet tranquility he spoke; voice low, tightly controlled: “I thought you were dead.”
Didn’t reply — correction: Couldn’t.
“Terry woke me trying to rouse you — he and I have become friends waiting for you, and I’ve had time to read your journal. He was down from his stand, scrambling all over you, flapping his wings, pulling at you desperately, nuzzling you, screaming at you. That’s what woke me up.”
Lapsed into silence for long moments, music flowing without pause. “The whole block next to us was in flames. The heat was incredible and wreckage was coming down all around us. The street was filling up with burning debris and the building on the other side was starting to go as well — it looked like something out of an old movie of London during the Blitz.”
Again fell silent, moving bandaged leg restively, but music never hesitated. “I had a hell of a time getting into the driver’s seat with my leg in that splint, not to mention maneuvering the I.V. hose and pouch; and I knew I’d better leave it in place — I was weak as a kitten, and the blood all over the place made it obvious why. Finally I hung the I.V. pouch on the rear-view mirror, stuck the leg out the window, and used my right leg to drive. It wasn’t easy, shifting an unfamiliar transmission without using the clutch. I don’t think I hurt it.
“I got us out of there and came home. I thought you were dead.” Music soared gently, filling lengthening silence with beauty, while boy’s breathing rate mounted visibly, settled gradually. Only quarter profile visible from own vantage, but wet cheek’s glint unmistakable. Yet when resumed, voice was still almost conversational.
“You looked dead. You were grayish-white and you didn’t appear to be breathing at all. Terry wouldn’t let me touch you at first; he crouched on your body, wings half-spread, feathers fluffed to make him seem three times life-size, neck outstretched, that huge hooked bill open and threatening, and making a noise in his throat that…
Voice trailed off, but fingers never faltered.
“…that reminded me of the sound my mother made when she found my father’s body. He was the first to go in the plague.” Tendons stood out in neck, but music continued unbroken.
“I thought you were dead; so I concentrated on trying to comfort Terry, soothing him, getting him to accept me, to come to me. Only after that was I able to attend to you — and notice that you were still perspiring. I had never heard of a dead person perspiring — I’ve never seen anyone sweat like that — so I brought you inside, got you cleaned up, and put you to bed.
“You were running an astonishing temperature for a live person — the books I’ve read suggest that people don’t survive at 109 degrees, and it didn’t seem very likely that you’d manage it much longer — so I packed you in ice and started an I.V. to put back some of that water sluicing off you. I wired you to our EKG -
“Oh, yes, we have a fully equipped emergency room here in the house. This was the kind of neighborhood, back when we had lots of fussy, hypochondriac old neighbors and relatives, where one couldn’t afford to be without one; it would get you talked about, at the very least, and more likely disinherited. All the house staff were required to be fully conversant with the use of all the equipment, just in case.
“And while there was a stigma attached to people who possessed those skills — menial work, you know, performed by the ‘servant class’ — and even though I’ve never been sick in my life…”
Bingo! Heart skipped a beat — never been sick…!
“…I judged that it was the sort of thing that might well come in handy someday. So I kept my eyes open — and bribed several of our retainers, incidentally — and_ became a pretty fair EMT, if I do say so myself. But you…” Narrative faltered again; music bridged gap as breathing discipline labored to restore control.
“You were my valedictorian exercise.” Declaration followed by long breath, uninterrupted music. “Keeping you alive called for everything I learned from our staff, extensive study on my own, and more luck than anyone has a right to expect — yours or mine, I’m not sure.
“You were a mess.”
“Thank you.” Blurted reply after boy’s last four words but before content registered. Experienced momentary pang of dismay lest he take it wrong; be offended. How could he know how slowly own thoughts functioning; how far behind utterance comprehension lagged.
But mattered not. Hadn’t heard. Probably not listening at all; wrapped in own thoughts. Monologue continued without pause:
“Your heart stopped twice. The first time I managed to restart you with CPR alone; the second time it took three jolts with the defibrillator paddles and an injection of adrenaline directly into your heart. That’s something the staff didn’t teach me…”
Without bidding, hand drifted to chest; fingers sought, found tiny bandage just to left of sternum, between fourth, fifth ribs.
“Between the ice — courtesy of the industrial-grade icemaker in the bar in the ballroom — and the I.V., I got your temperature back down somewhere near normal and restored your fluid level. That took most of the rest of the day.
“But still you were fading almost as I watched. For some reason your tissues apparently were consuming themselves, as happens in extreme starvation, but faster — which made no sense to me as you were in good flesh and apparently healthy otherwise. So I intubated you gastrically and started you on the Isocal. And to save time, to start nourishing your cells immediately, without waiting for you to metabolize the Isocal, I briefly piggybacked a filtered solution of it into your I.V. and changed you from straight saline to Ringer’s.
“Fortunately, I had to answer Nature’s Call myself at about that time, and that started me thinking: All that fluid had to go somewhere. You had stopped perspiring; logic offered but a single alternative: If your sphincter held, you would rupture your bladder.
“So I catheterized you. Yes, that’s something else the servants didn’t teach me. But according to the book, I probably did it correctly — you didn’t bleed and haven’t shown signs of infection.
“And you confirmed my suspicion promptly by filling the first container in a single nonstop gush. I had to mop the floor after fumbling the container change on the fly.
“You probably don’t want to hear the details of how I coped with your bowels; but I can attest that you were marvelously regular until you emptied out what you had eaten before and were down to the Isocal residue; of which — I’m glad to say — there’s almost none. But that’s why you’re in a diaper. And I’ve been transferring you back and forth between two beds as cleanup demands necessitated changing them. And you.”
Shook head, almost shuddered, but music never wavered. “Ever since I attained puberty and learned what it implies, my primary ambition regarding girls has revolved around getting their clothes off. Et cetera. That has not been the case with you; I’m not into necrophilia, and a catheter is not conducive to romance: There was no ‘et cetera.’
“And though I have acquired an exhaustively detailed, painstakingly thorough, unflinchingly intimate familiarity with your every tangible aspect — in fact I learned more about you physically than any girl in my experience — I must admit that I would have traded gladly every success I’ve enjoyed in the past in that respect at any moment during these six days for the privilege of getting you dressed. You have not been a fun date.”
Can’t say just when lost track of soliloquy; drifted off into own blissful, music-filled reverie. Didn’t have to listen; details irrelevant — had found somebody…!
Months of accumulated desperate tension drained from soul like sand spilling from ripped sack, leaving slightly limp, giddy euphoria suffusing entire being. Wouldn’t have been surprised had started glowing from head to foot. Was supremely happy.
And not without degree of justification — not leaping to conclusions; some data in already (sketchy, obviously preliminary, but [beyond mere fact of his being] encouraging): Appears to be good prospect. Hominem beyond doubt: obviously intelligent (piano talent alone points toward genius-level intellect; and when coupled with resourcefulness displayed in keeping me alive, plus syntactic evidence apparent from first words, leaves little room to doubt quality of brains). Further, demonstrated gentlemanly instincts. Additionally, sound physical specimen, apart from wounds (apparently healing nicely); with pleasant, well-bred features.
Finally, was good to helpless birdbrain, and idiot twin likes him (Terry spends bulk of waking hours rowing with only one oar in water — but is never wrong about people).
Not perfect, of course: Will be period of adjustment; may require gentle retraining (at bare minimum, driving habits need attention!).
But issue not impending. “Ever after” is long time, and too young now myself for twosome involvement; while boy (implied conquests notwithstanding) hardly year, two years older. Question resolvable at leisure, without deadlines.
Because doesn’t matter now…! Teacher was right — really are other people out there…!
Hominems — my people! Perhaps 150,000, according to Teacher. Maybe more, maybe less — who cares! — numbers immaterial…
Are others!
And we’re going to find them.
Together…