Disaster
A light rain began to fall and Decker found himself running, awkwardly making his way through the tall grass and trying to avoid the thistles and wild blackberry bushes. Home and safety from the impending storm were just over the next hill. In his determination he was totally unaware of the strange feeling of being in a small body not yet eight years old.
The storm clouds had gathered quickly and for a while it seemed they might disappear the same way. But as the rain began to fall, the promise of a cloudburst of Noahic proportions seemed to declare itself with the first sudden clap of distant thunder.
As he ran, Decker's nerves twinged with the fear of the somehow inevitable turn of events which he knew was about to befall him. It seemed… it seemed he had done this all before. There was something in his path; something to fear. But what? Then suddenly the earth disappeared from beneath his feet.
Decker's hands flew up above his head as he grabbed at the moist thick air, trying desperately, instinctively, to slow his descent. Suddenly he felt the earth again as his stomach and chest slammed into a wall of dirt and slipped along a rough incline that threatened to swallow him. The blow had knocked the wind out of him, but before he could catch his breath, a sudden sharp pain surged through him as dozens of odd-shaped protrusions scraped against his body, tearing his shirt and pulling it up over his head as he slid down the incline. His hands, still grasping, caught a tangled mass of small fibers which quickly slipped away but were replaced by one more solid and firm. In shock he hung there, motionless.
Moments passed and Decker began to carefully pull himself upward, hoping that his hold would not fail under the strain. Raising himself a few inches, he worked his shirt back down over his head and shoulders. Now able to survey his condition, he found that he was holding onto a tree root about an inch in diameter. Near tears, he slowly turned his head and looked down. In horror he realized his imagination had not exaggerated the danger. Below him the hole continued for about thirty feet and then narrowed and veered off.
He closed his eyes and thought of the previous summer when he had first heard of such holes. He and his cousin Bobby had been riding two of his uncle's mules in the field north of the milk barn. Bobby brought him to a spot in the field where an old hay wagon had been left sitting long enough for the grass and the purple-flowered thistles to grow up around it. Bobby, who had been riding bareback, lifted his leg and slid off the side of the mule.
"C'mon," he said as he tied the twine of the mule's homemade reins through a rusted iron eye on the wagon. There was a sense of adventure in his voice and Decker was quick to follow.
"Be careful, now," Bobby cautioned as he began to inch his way slowly toward the edge of a hole in the ground on the other side of the wagon. Decker followed Bobby's lead and was soon standing on the edge of the hole looking down.
"Man, that's deep," Decker said. "What is it?"
"A sink hole," Bobby answered.
"A what?"
"A sink hole. It goes on forever," Bobby said authoritatively.
"Aw, that's crazy," Decker responded. "I can see the bottom."
"That's not the bottom, it's just where it turns off in another direction." Bobby gave a slight tug to Decker's shirt and the pair moved to the other side of the hole. "See down there," Bobby said as he pointed to what had appeared to be the bottom of the shaft. Decker couldn't tell how far it went, but he could see that the shaft continued off in the other direction. He squatted down to get a better look but there simply wasn't enough light to see any farther.
"Where'd it come from?" Decker asked.
"Whadda ya mean, where'd it come from? Ya think we dug it or sumthin'?" Decker gave Bobby a dirty look and Bobby, deciding that this was not the place to pick a fight, continued. "They just show up. One day it's flat ground and then the next day there's a sink hole. That's why they call 'em sink holes, I guess."
Decker tried again to get a better look and then an idea struck him. "Let's get a rope and climb down and explore it!" "Are you nuts?"
"C'mon! We can get a real long rope, or even better, we can find some flashlights and get that roll of bailing twine in the barn. We can tie the twine to one of the mules and ease ourselves down. I've seen 'em do stuff like that on television a bunch of times."
"Man, you are nuts! My dad told me about three guys who went down in a sink hole over in Moore County. They never came back up, and two months later they found their bodies in the Duck River!" Decker looked at Bobby, trying to figure whether he was making this up. Bobby continued, "I told ya, these things don't have no bottoms!" Just then they saw Bobby's dad stomping through the tall grass toward them. He was mad. "Bobby!" he called out, "What in the Sam Hill are you doin' out here? You wanna fall in there and get yourself killed? You get away from that hole right now or I'm gonna beat the livin' tar outta both of ya!" The boys ran as quickly as they could to the mules. All the commotion gave Decker the clear impression that Bobby hadn't been kidding about the danger.
The rain fell harder now and the dirt that Decker's face was resting against had turned to mud. His hands were locked around the root, his clothes were wet, his stomach was scraped and bleeding, and he was getting cold. He tried calling for help but gave up as his voice grew hoarse. He was only a few feet below the surface, but there was no way to pull himself any farther up. He tried to think of this as an adventure: he'd get out somehow and then he could tell the kids at school about it. Maybe he'd get a lot of sympathy and his mom would even let him skip school tomorrow. He thought about taking off his belt and somehow using it as a rope to pull himself out. Boy! That would make a great story, he thought. But there was nothing to tie it to; and anyway, he wasn't about to let go with one hand to try to take off his belt.
For an hour or more he lay there on the muddy slope, holding onto the root. The rain had almost stopped but the sky was growing dark with the night. That's when he heard the voices of his mother and older brother, Nathan. They were calling him and they were getting closer. He called out – not for help, but to warn them.
"Stay back, Mom! There's a sink hole."
But, of course, she didn't stay back. In a moment he saw her terrified face peering down over the ridge of the hole. She had crawled on her hands and knees to the side and was holding back tears as she looked down at him clinging to the root about three feet below the surface. She struggled to think clearly. She looked at his fingers wrapped around the root. They seemed so tiny. The blood had long since drained from them, and they were white and wrinkled from the rain. Lying flat on her stomach, she reached down, stretching, sliding a little farther, a little farther, knowing full well that the ground under her could give way at any second, sending both her and her son to a muddy grave. In a last attempt to gain the extra inch she needed, she held her breath, flattened herself against the ground, and dug the toes of her shoes into the soft dirt to keep from sliding in.
"Just hold on, Honey. I'll have you out of there in just a minute," she said in her bravest, most reassuring voice.
Decker watched in hope as her fingers grasped his right wrist. It was already far too numb to be able to feel her grip. When she was sure of her hold she began to pull him upward. She lifted him a few inches while Decker did his best to try to climb with his feet against the muddy slope. "Let go of the root now, Honey," she said, "I've got you."
But Decker couldn't let go.
The grip which had held him just out of the reach of death's jaw now refused to release its hold. His hands were numb, locked together, fingers intertwined, and he could not make them move. His mother pulled harder.
"I can't let go! Mommy, I can't make my hands let go," he said, only now beginning to cry.
"It's okay, Mommy's got you and she won't let go." She pulled. With all of her strength and love, she pulled. And then suddenly, she stopped.
Decker sat bolt upright in his bed.
It was a dream.
It had really happened, just that way, but that was years ago; it seemed lifetimes.
Still, inexplicably, he felt his mother's tight grip on his right forearm. He tried to move it, but it hurt and it was heavy. In the dim predawn light he looked and realized what was happening.
"Elizabeth, wake up and let go of my arm," he said. "Come on, Babe. You've been having some kind of weird dream or something." Decker mused briefly at the irony that he would be telling her that she was having a 'weird' dream. "Elizabeth, come on, you're hurting me. Wake up and let go of my arm!" Decker grabbed at her hand and pulled her fingers loose from his arm.
Finally freeing himself and shaking his arm to get the blood flowing again, he lay down to go back to sleep. But something was not right. Elizabeth was a light sleeper. Why didn't she wake up?
"Elizabeth!" he called sharply, but there was no response. He rolled over and shook her to try to wake her, but she would not awaken. He shook her again, but still she didn't respond. Suddenly a horrible thought hit him and he grabbed her wrist. There was no pulse.
He checked for a pulse in her carotid artery. There was none. He listened for a heartbeat, but still there was nothing. His own blood pressure rose as his heart pounded in terror. His jaw clenched and his head began to ache. He tried to understand what was happening.
CPR, he thought suddenly. Her body's still warm. It must have just happened. I've got to try CPR. He pulled the covers from her lifeless body. It had been years since he had taken a class in CPR; he prayed that he remembered how.
Let's see, he thought, put one hand on top of the other on the middle of the chest. Oh, damn! Is it just above the place where the ribs come together or just below? Just above, he thought. He began to apply pressure, but her body just sank with the mattress. He had to get her onto something solid. He grabbed her arms and pulled her to the floor.
He tried again. "Damn!" he said out loud. "I forgot to check her mouth." Decker pulled his wife's mouth open and looked inside for any obstructions to the airflow. It was too dark to see.
He scrambled for the light, but lost more time as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. He checked her mouth again, but could see nothing. He reached into her mouth with his fingers. There was nothing there. "Damn," he said again, in tears of desperation. I should have just done that in the first place. He had lost precious seconds.
He quickly blew two full breaths into her lungs and went back to his position above her, pressing with his palms against the middle of her lower rib cage. "One, two, three, four, five," he counted under his breath, and then blew air into her lungs again. "One, two, three, four, five." He repeated the process. Again. Again. "Don't die… Elizabeth, please don't die," he sobbed. Again, and again. Five minutes. "Please, honey. Please wake up! God, please, let her wake up." But there was still nothing.
Got to call an ambulance. Just a few more. "One, two, three, four, five."
Decker grabbed the phone from the nightstand by the bed. His hands were shaking and his fingers struggled to dial 911 as he stretched the phone cord over to where Elizabeth lay. He held the phone between his shoulder and ear and began CPR again. The line was busy. He stopped and dialed again. Busy. How can it be busy? "Damn!" He pressed the "0" button for the operator. It too was busy. He tried again, but it was still busy.
Decker dropped the phone. He continued CPR for another thirty minutes, stopping every five minutes to try the phone again. Finally it rang. He held the phone between his shoulder and ear, continuing CPR, as over and over it rang. Minutes passed and it just kept ringing. Could he have dialed wrong? Now that it was ringing did he dare hang up? No, no! How could he have dialed 911 wrong? If he hadn't dialed right it wouldn't be ringing. Unless, unless he accidentally dialed 411, the number for information. It was unlikely, but in his state of panic, anything was possible.
He hung up and dialed again. It was busy.
It took only a moment while he dialed, but when he started CPR again he noticed something that had escaped him before. Almost an hour had passed and Elizabeth's body was growing cold. She was dead. There was nothing he could do. She was dead.
Decker sat down on the floor beside her and wept. The thought of losing her now, now that he had finally learned what it meant to truly love her, was more than his heart could bear. His muscles ached from the CPR. Outside their window the sun was rising just as it did on every other morning. Elizabeth always loved the sunrise. The clock-radio came on, and an announcer's voice started in mid-sentence, but Decker didn't hear it. He heard the noise, but that's all it was. Tears streaked his face but he didn't wipe his eyes. If all he had to offer her was his tears, he would leave them where they lay.
Soon Hope and Louisa would wake up. How could he tell them what had happened? For their sake, at least, he knew he must be strong. Still weeping, he picked up Elizabeth's body and moved it back to the bed. He pulled the covers up, tucking the blanket in gently around her. Only now did the radio announcer's words begin to pierce through the wreath of grief which encircled him.
"Reports continue to come in from all around the world," the announcer's voice cracked painfully. "Thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe more, are reported dead in what is undoubtedly the worst single disaster in human history. The deaths seem to have occurred almost simultaneously in all parts of the world. So far, no one has any idea why this has happened."
What! What was he saying?
Thoughts pounded like thunder in Decker's head. Thousands dead? Was this what killed Elizabeth? How could this happen? Radiation? Poison gas? But why would it kill only some people and not others?
As if in answer, the announcer continued. "There is no apparent pattern to the deaths: Black, White, Indian, Japanese, Chinese; men, women, children… "
"Children?" Decker said out loud. "NO!!!"
Decker ran from the bedroom. A moment passed and then a scream of anguish ascended the stairs, ripping through the walls and shaking the tiny particles of dust as they floated through the morning sunlight. It seemed like no earthly scream, such a sorrowful howl. But no one heard it. They were all dead. Decker was alone.
Decker stumbled up the half flight of stairs to the living room and made his way to a chair. Upstairs in the bedroom, the voice of the radio announcer told of the world's grief. Tens of millions lay dead for no apparent reason. In Europe it had been midday. Carnage covered the roadways as cars driven by victims of the disaster sped helter-skelter into pedestrians and other vehicles.
At least thirty commercial airplanes with both pilot and co-pilot dead at the controls careened into hillsides or fields or towns. Many who had survived the initial disaster were forced to leave their dead behind as they evacuated neighborhoods around the wreckage of trains where overturned cars spilled out streams of toxic chemicals.
Nuclear power plants teetered on the edge of disaster as technicians rushed to fill the roles of those who had died at their stations. All over the east coast of America men and women awoke to find their loved ones dead. In other time zones, where it was still night, many would sleep soundly, waking hours later to find the cold, stiff body of their wife or husband lying in bed next to them.
Decker's mind was not on the radio. The combined effect of three years of captivity, his ill health, and the sudden death of his wife and daughters was more than he could bear: Decker was catatonic, hovering in the twilight of insanity.
Hank Asher locked his fingers together, forming a step for his young journalist intern to place her foot in. Suzy Stites took the task in stride as she climbed through the kitchen window they had just pried open. As she made her way to open the front door, she spotted Decker's pale motionless form slumped in a chair in the living room. Hank Asher entered the house to the now familiar stench of rotting flesh. At first he assumed that Decker had been among the unlucky ones who had died three days earlier in the "Disaster," but Suzy soon determined that he was still alive.
"He seems to be in shock," she told Asher, as she tried to get Decker to drink some water. Decker stared blankly but swallowed eagerly as she put the glass to his mouth.
Asher surveyed the situation and decided she had things well in hand. "You stay here with Mr. Hawthorne. I'll check the house to see if anyone else is alive." Suzy needed little encouragement to stay among the living. The smell of the house left no doubt of what Asher would find. Hank had not known Elizabeth or the Hawthorne children but his heart ached for his friend.
When he returned from the bedrooms a few moments later he directed Suzy to go around the rest of the house and open up all of the windows. "We need to remove the death from this house. I'll see if I can find a shovel to bury the bodies."
Asher made no effort to try to revive Decker. Even if he could rouse him, it seemed to Asher the most humane thing to do was to allow his colleague to 'sleep' through the dirty tasks which needed doing. Outside, Asher found a garden shovel and began digging a large hole for the burial of Elizabeth, Hope, and Louisa Hawthorne. It was not the grave one would have expected before the Disaster, but it was better than the mass graves at the edges of the city. Here at least Decker might someday place a gravestone.
As he was digging, Hank Asher sensed that he was being watched. Turning, he found a boy in his early teens staring at him from the next yard.
"You buryin' sumbody?" the boy asked, as he jumped the fence and came over to where Asher was working. The boy's clothes were new but dirty, as though he hadn't changed or washed in several days.
"Yeah," Asher replied, as he went back to his work.
"I knew 'em, you know. I used to ride bikes with Louisa. I don't guess she'll be needin' the bike no more." The boy paused for a second in thought and then continued. "Too bad it's a girl's bike."
Asher continued digging.
"You want some help?" the boy asked.
Asher had already worked up a sweat and the boy's offer was extremely welcome.
"I'll help you dig for ten dollars," the boy added.
Asher was momentarily disgusted by the boy's profiteering. Instead of offering to help with the burial out of charity or perhaps friendship for Louisa, he looked at the deaths as a way to make some money. Asher decided it was better to forget about motives and simply get some help. He nodded and the boy grabbed the shovel and started digging.
"There's a pick in the shed over there," the boy said.
Asher found the pick and two pairs of work gloves. "Here, put these on," he said as he walked back to where the boy was digging.
The boy put on the gloves while he rested a moment. Asher went to work with the pick.
"They all dead?" the boy asked, as Asher broke up the ground.
"Everybody but Mr. Hawthorne," Asher replied.
"I didn't know him very good. I remember him some from when I was a kid, but then he was a hostage in Lebanon. He only got out about a week ago."
Asher continued digging without responding and then stopped and looked up at the boy. "Are you going to dig or just hold up that shovel?"
The boy acted as though he appreciated the reminder and went back to work on the hole.
"My dad says it was probably some kinda germ warfare or sumthin' – maybe the Russians or the Arabs."
"Yeah, well, that's one of the theories, but the Russians and Arabs say it was us," Asher answered.
"Yeah, I heard that on the news. That's why I figure it was them. Besides, I heard that only a few thousand Arabs died."
Hank Asher continued digging and the boy continued talking. Every other sentence or so the boy would throw out a shovelful of dirt, just to keep his hand in.
When they were finished, Hank Asher was about to pay the boy his ten dollars but paused with the bill in his hand as he looked at the boy and then down at himself. The distribution of dirt and sweat left no doubt that the boy had done less than his share. Hank checked his wallet again and, as a matter of principle, decided to pay the boy eight dollars instead often.
"Hey, what about my other two bucks?"
"Eight dollars is more than you deserve, for the little bit of work you did."
"Man, what a ripoff! I'm gonna go get my dad. He'll make you pay me." With that the boy threw down the shovel and stomped off.
Asher rested for a moment and it suddenly occurred to him that he still had to carry the bodies out and fill the hole back in. "Aw, shit!" he said, realizing that he had gotten rid of the boy too soon.
Inside the house, Suzy was trying to talk to Decker, but there was no indication he could hear her. He just stared blankly into space. When she put food in his mouth he chewed and swallowed, but still he just stared.
After Asher finished the burial he came in and collapsed on the couch across the living room from Decker. "Has he said anything?" Asher asked.
"Not a word. He just stares," Suzy answered. "What are we going to do with him?"
"He needs to be cared for, but the hospitals are packed like sardine cans. I don't suppose you'd take him home with you?"
Suzy looked at Decker and then back at Asher. The desperate look on her face made it clear that she did not like the idea at all but was afraid of saying no to her boss. As she struggled to respond, Hank Asher let her sweat it out. He knew it was an unusual request, but these were unusual times.
Just then there was a knock at the door.
"I'll get it," Suzy said, jumping up from her seat, hoping to evade her boss's question. Asher was too tired to argue.
A moment later, she came back. "It's a kid," she said. "He says he wants to see Mr. Hawthorne."
"Tell that damn kid to go away; that he's not going to get one penny more than I've already paid him! No, wait! I'll tell him myself." Energized by his anger, Hank Asher picked himself up off the couch and headed for the front door. "Look, you lousy kid, I'm not… " Asher stopped himself in mid-sentence as he realized this was not the boy from the back yard. "I'm sorry, kid. I thought you were someone else. Look, Mr. Hawthorne isn't feeling well right now. Can you come back later?" he asked, trying to get rid of the boy.
"I'm sorry, but I need to talk to Mr. Hawthorne," the boy persisted.
"Like I said, kid, Mr. Hawthorne isn't feeling well. Come back tomorrow."
The boy held his ground.
"Okay," Asher said, "look, maybe I can help you. What is it that you need to talk to Mr. Hawthorne about?"
From the living room, Suzy Stites called to Asher, "Hey, he moved his eyes a little!"
Asher went to his friend's side and looked, but saw no sign of awareness.
"Mr. Hawthorne, it's me, Christopher Goodman." Asher turned around and saw that the boy had followed him into the living room.
"Mr. Hawthorne, please tell these people you know me. I've come a long way and I don't have anywhere else to go. Uncle Harry and Aunt Martha both died in a plane crash flying back to Los Angeles. Uncle Harry told me if anything ever happened to them I should call you. But you didn't answer your phone."
Hank Asher, who knew of Harry Goodman from Decker's articles, put the pieces together. "Your uncle is Professor Goodman from Los Angeles?"
"Yes," Christopher responded. "Did you know him?"
"I know his work. What are you doing in Washington?"
"Uncle Harry told me that if anything ever happened to him and Aunt Martha, I should find Mr. Hawthorne," he repeated. "I don't have any other relatives and Mr. Hawthorne was my uncle's friend."
"How'd you get all the way out here from Los Angeles?"
Christopher paused, apparently hoping to avoid an answer that might get him in trouble. But the only reasonable answer was the truth. "I drove my uncle's car," he answered.
"You drove from Los Angeles?" Asher said, surprised. "How old are you, kid?"
"Fourteen," Christopher answered. "I didn't have any other way to get here."
Asher shook his head in disbelief. "How'd you get all this way without getting stopped by the cops?"
"I guess they're pretty busy with looters."
"I guess so," Asher said. "Well, look, kid. I'm sorry you drove all the way out here for nothing, but Mr. Hawthorne won't be able to help anybody for quite a while."
Christopher looked at Decker.
"In fact," Asher continued. "I'm going to have to find someone to take care of him."
"But, I don't have anywhere else to go. Most of Aunt Martha's friends are dead and Mr. Hawthorne is… well," Christopher paused to think. "Can I just stay here for a while? Maybe I could help you take care of him."
"I think that's a great idea!" Suzy chimed in, still fearing she'd be stuck with taking care of Decker. "Let him stay."
"Let him stay," another voice repeated.
Asher, Suzy, and Christopher all turned toward the only other person in the room.
"Let him stay," Decker said again.