Sleep! That would kill him for sure. Every breath was a fight, something to struggle for, an effort of will. If he relaxed for a moment he’d stop breathing.
“What the hell do I do now?” Hooker was asking. “You the only brother left I can rap with.”
Words formed on Alim’s lips. Erika translated. “He asks how many brothers are left.”
“Ten,” Hooker said.
Ten blacks. Were they the last blacks in the world? Of course not. Africa was still there. Wasn’t it? They hadn’t seen any black faces among their enemies, though. Maybe there weren’t any more in California. He whispered again. “He says ten is not enough,” Erika said.
“Yeah.” Hooker bent low, to speak into Alim’s ear. No one else could hear. “I got to stay with this preacher,” he said. “Alim, is he crazy? Is he right? I can’t think no more.”
Alim shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about that. Armitage was speaking again, of the paradise that waited for the fallen. The words blended into the vague, slow thoughts that crept into Alim’s consciousness. Paradise. Maybe it was true. Maybe that crazy preacher was right. It was better to think so. “He knows the truth,” Alim gasped.
The fire’s warmth was almost pleasant. Darkness gathered in his head despite the glimpses of morning sunshine he thought he’d seen earlier. The preacher’s words sank through the dark. “Strike now, ye Angels! This very day, this very hour! It is the will of God!”
The last thing Alim heard was Sergeant Hooker shouting “Amen!”
When Maureen reached the hospital, Leonilla Malik took her and led her firmly into a front room.
“I came to help,” Maureen said. “But I wanted to talk to the wounded. One of the Tallifsen boys was in my group, and he—”
“He’s dead,” Leonilla said. There was no emotion in her voice. “I could use some help. Did you ever use a microscope?”
“Not since college biology class.”
“You don’t forget how,” Leonilla said. “First I want a blood sample. Please sit down here.” She took a hypodermic needle from a pressure cooker. “My autoclave,” she said. “Not very pretty, but it works.”
Maureen had wondered what happened to the pressure cookers from the ranch house. She winced as the needle went into her arm. It was dull. Leonilla drew out the blood sample and carefully squirted it into a test tube that had come from a child’s chemistry set.
The tube went into a sock; a piece of parachute cord was attached to the sock, and Leonilla used that to whirl the test tube around and around her head. “Centrifuging,” she said. “I show you how to do this, and then you can do some of the work. We need more help in the lab.” She continued to swing the test tube.
“There,” she said. “We have separated the cells from the fluid. Now we draw off the fluid, so, and wash the cells with saline.” She worked rapidly. “Here on the shelf we have cells and fluid from the patients who need blood. I will test yours against theirs.”
“Don’t you want to know my blood type?” Maureen asked.
“Yes. In a moment. But I must make the tests anyway. I do not know the patient blood types and I have no way to find out, and this is more certain. It is merely very inconvenient.”
The room had been an office. The walls had been painted not long ago and were well scrubbed. The office table where Leonilla worked was Formica, and very clean. “Now,” Leonilla said, “I put samples of your cells into a sample of the patient’s serum, and the patient’s cells in yours, so, and we look in the microscope.”
The microscope had also come from a child’s collection. Someone had burned the local high school before Hardy had thought to send an expedition for its science equipment.
“This is very difficult to work with,” Leonilla said. “But it will work. You must be very careful with the focus.” She peered into the microscope. “Ah. Rouleaux cells. You cannot be a donor for this patient. Look, so that you will know.”
Maureen looked into the microscope. At first she saw nothing, but she worked the focus, the feel of it coming back to her fingers… Leonilla was right, she thought. You don’t really forget how. She remembered that you weren’t supposed to close the other eye, but she did anyway. When the instrument was properly focused she saw blood cells. “You mean the little stacks like poker chips?” she asked.
“Poker chips?”
“Like saucers—”
“Yes. Those are rouleaux formations. They indicate clumping. Now, what was your blood type?”
“A,” Maureen said.
“Good. I will mark that down. We must use these file cards, one for every person. I note on your card that your blood clumps that of Jacob Vinge, and note the same on his card. Now we try yours with others.” She went through the procedure again, and once more. “Ah. You can be a donor for Bill Darden. I will note that on your card and his. Now. You know the procedure. Here are the samples, clearly labeled. Each must be tested against the others, donors against patients. When that is done we must test donors against each other, although this is not so critical; then we will know, in case we must someday give one of you a transfusion…”
“Shouldn’t you be drawing blood for Darden?” Maureen tried to remember him; he’d come to the Stronghold late, and was let in because his mother lived here. He’d been in Chief Hartman’s group in the battle.
“I gave him a pint already,” Leonilla said. “Rick Delanty. We have no way to store whole blood, except as now — in the donor. When Darden requires more, I will send for you. Now I must go back to the ward. If you truly wish to help, you may continue with the cross matching.”
Maureen spoiled the first test, but when she was careful she found it wasn’t difficult, merely tedious. The work wasn’t made easier by the smells from the sewage works nearby, but there wasn’t much choice about that. They needed the heat from the fermenting boilers; by running the extraction through City Hall and the hospital they got that heat free, but at the cost of the ripe smells…
Once Leonilla came in and removed a patient sample and card. She didn’t explain; it wasn’t needed. Maureen reached for the card and looked at the name. One of the Aramson girls, age sixteen, wounded while throwing a dynamite bomb.
“With penicillin I might have saved her,” Leonilla said. “But there is none, and there will never be any.”
“We can’t make it?” Maureen demanded.
Leonilla shook her head. “Sulfa, perhaps. But not the other antibiotics. That would require more equipment than we will have for years. Precise temperature regulation. High-speed centrifuges. No, we must learn to live without penicillin.” She grimaced. “Which means that a simple cut untreated can be a death sentence. People must be made to understand that We cannot ignore hygiene and first aid. Wash all cuts. And we will soon be out of tetanus vaccine, although perhaps that can be made. Perhaps.”
The crossbow was large, and wound with a wheel. Harvey Randall turned it with effort, then laid the long, thin shaft into the weapon. He looked up at Brad Wagoner. “I feel like I ought to have on a black mask.”
Wagoner shuddered. “Get it over,” he said.
Harvey took careful aim. The crossbow was set on a large tripod, and the sights were good. He stood on the ridge above Battle Valley. That name would stick, he thought. He aimed the crossbow at a still figure down below. The figure moved slightly. Harvey checked the sights again, then stood aside. “Okay,” he said. He gently pulled the lanyard.
The steel springs of the bow gave a humming sound, and the traveler block clattered. The shaft flew out, over a yard long, a thin steel rod with metal feathering at the end; it went in a flat trajectory and imbedded itself in the figure below. The hands jerked convulsively, then were still. They hadn’t seen the face. At least this one hadn’t screamed.
“There’s another. About forty yards to the left,” Wagoner said. “I’ll take that one.”