While Carol gently pulled Heather away from her husband, Ed knelt down at the man’s side, ignoring the blood soaking into the knees of his pants. “He’s alive,” he said over his shoulder. “Carol, go get C.D.”
He felt light-headed for a moment, then the feeling passed. Slowly and deliberately, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the tin of pills, and fished one out, chewing it carefully as if it were the most important thing in the world. He looked up to see Carol, her face frozen with concern.
“I’m all right,” he said. “Hurry up and get C.D., and tell him to meet me in the garage.” As she hurried across the lawn he saw that the Powells and some of the other neighbors had gathered out front.
“Give me a hand here!”
The Powells helped Ed place Brandon onto a blue tarp they pulled out of the backyard where it had covered the kids’ bicycles. Ed rushed home and took his time starting up the Chevy. He didn’t want to flood it and he didn’t want to wear down the fragile battery, and he was sure he was going to do both. By the time he pulled into Brandon’s driveway, C.D. was already there.
The Powells helped them lift the tarp and place Brandon in the back of the station wagon. C.D. was hard at work. He had stripped Brandon’s shirt from him and was jamming a towel against the wound.
“Get his feet up,” he said as the Powells drew back from the tailgate. “He’s in shock.”
They shoved a plastic milk crate full of junk under Brandon’s heels, then closed the gate. Ed looked around and saw Carol holding Heather in a bear hug. Neither woman moved. He hesitated, unsure of what to do. He didn’t want both of them up front with him, but he sure as hell didn’t want Heather in the back seat where she could see what C.D. was doing to her husband.
Then Heather broke loose and rushed to the car. Ed reached over and opened the passenger door to let them in. Heather sobbed softly but uncontrollably, her head buried in Carol’s shoulder.
“I heard the shot,” C.D. said once they were underway. “Damn near broke my neck jumping out of bed. I’ve been wondering how long it would be before Jason nailed someone.”
“Put a sock in it, will you, C.D.?” Carol snapped at him without turning.
A brief pause, then, “Sorry.” He sounded like he meant it.
Ed turned his attention to the road in front of them. Maneuvering around all the derelict cars was harder than he thought it would be. The old car was nothing like he remembered—and nothing like the tight little electric things he was used to driving. The steering wheel felt loose and sluggish, and the Chevy heaved like a boat being pushed around in a stiff wind.
He navigated his way through the narrow lanes of Dutch Elm Acres as slowly as he could and as quickly as he could, not once letting the knowledge slip from his mind that it would take only one mistake—a corner taken too fast, a turn misjudged, or a slight oversteering on his part—to bring them to a halt and end Brandon’s life right there. He cursed the developers who had laid out the roads in the subdivision. What had once seemed cozy and efficient now seemed as tight as a noose.
Things didn’t get any better once they got out on the highway and headed toward town. There weren’t any streetlights, and the road disappeared into a darkness that lay thick across the land. The sky was overcast without moon or stars to hint at what lay beyond the narrow spread of the headlights.
“Where are we going?” C.D. asked.
“You tell me,” Ed said. “The mailman who came through on Tuesday said the National Guard was set up in Middletown. Do you suppose there’s anyone who can help us here in Colchester, or do we have to go all the way up there?”
“Middletown?” Carol growled. “That’s half an hour away.”
“Yeah, I know,” C.D. said, “but we could spend an hour or more looking for help in Colchester.”
“Middletown it is,” Ed said, easing out onto the highway and turning left.
They didn’t run into trouble until they passed through the center of town. Disabled vehicles filled the roads. The Chinese bomb had gone off in the middle of the day, when traffic was fairly heavy. A line of cars still sat at the dead traffic light at Route 16. At some places the cars on opposite sides of the road were so close together that Ed had to slow down and actually pass them on the narrow shoulder.
His hands were shaking and his legs ached from the tight control he tried to keep over the old Chevy. A big part of him wanted to pull over and take another heart pill, but not because he needed to. He just wanted to take something that would make him feel safe and secure.
God, he hated being old. It was only in moments like this that he really felt it. His eyes had trouble focusing and his mouth was as dry as the desert.
The worst moment came on the far side of town as they headed down the long hill towards Marlborough. The Chevy was picking up speed as it rolled along—more than he wanted—and he tried to brake, but the momentum was more than he was used to. Hard steel and rubber, instead of aluminum and plastic, made a big difference.
They came around a curve at the foot of the hill and saw the accident scene at the last minute. A big delivery truck had collided with a smaller commuter car, one of those tiny threewheeled things that ran about forty miles on a charge and could be stored in a broom closet. As they rushed towards it, Ed realized it must have been there since the lights went out.
There was barely enough time to swerve around it. The car left the road and swung wildly through the soft dirt beyond the shoulder. They bounced and jolted and shook. Ed felt the steering wheel come to life in his hands, trying to tear itself loose, and his heart began to sink—not a clinical symptom, but an emotional one. He wanted to cry. He wanted to tell Brandon he was sorry about getting him killed. He wanted to go home.
Then he drew a deep breath, tightened his grip on the wheel, and fought back. He gave the engine more gas, spinning the wheels noisily in the sand and loose gravel behind him. The Chevy fishtailed slightly, then swung obediently back toward the road.
Carol let out a short yelp, long after it was necessary. C.D. moaned theatrically in the back. Heather sobbed louder. Ed felt suddenly crowded in his pride and joy of an antique car, but the closeness gave him renewed strength. At least with the two women in the front seat, he wasn’t sliding around all over the place.
They regained the highway and the Chevy drew back into line, losing the will to resist.
“The next time you’re going to do that, would you mind giving me some kind of warning?” C.D. said.
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Ed raised an eyebrow at C.D. in the rearview mirror. “But those sudden surprises keep things more interesting, don’t you think?”
“No need to evac him into Hartford or one of the larger centers,” the National Guard medic said as he escorted them through the small crowd to their car. The Sun had just cleared the hills on the other side of the Connecticut River, and cast long shadows ahead of them as they walked.
The man was older than most of the other medical personnel they had talked to here—probably only a few years younger than he was, in fact—and looked extremely uncomfortable and out of place in the fresh uniform he wore. Clearly a civilian, it occurred to Ed that he wore the uniform as much as a badge of authority as anything else, and judging from the pandemonium he and C.D. had found at the small clinic-turned-field hospital, he could easily see the need. People milled about everywhere among a sea of dull green government vehicles, temporary shelters and power generators that had turned the small-town clinic into a virtual oasis of modem services. From what they had seen, most of the injuries were minor, and most had been caused inadvertently by people simply trying to cope with the situation: cuts and scrapes, some broken bones caused by falls, and a lot of bums from those trying to cook with real fire for the first time in years. Most of these were being cared for outside while the precious space inside the facility was being held for other injuries, more serious in nature, that were becoming more common as patience and resources wore thin. Like Brandon. Arguments, fist fights and, inevitably, more shooting incidents were keeping the medical personnel here busier with each passing day.