Twenty minutes later I smell cornbread, pinto beans, and country ham. The smell of it is better than anything I’ve ever tasted. To my own amazement, I ate three plates that night. I was hungry after all.
CHAPTER 72
Main Conference Room
Clocktower HQ
New Delhi, India
Dorian read through the list of living and dead from the two trains. “I want to send more bodies to the US. Europe looks ok, I think.” He scratched his head. “I think the allotment to Japan should suffice as well. The population density will help.” He wished he could consult Chang or one of the scientists, but he needed to limit access to the information.
Dmitry studied the list. “We can still reallocate, but where should we pull them from?”
“Africa and China. I think they will move slower than we think. China tends to ignore or suppress public health crises, and Africa simply has no infrastructure to deal with an outbreak.”
“Or spread it, that’s one of the reasons we assigned—”
“Developed nations, they’re the real threat. Don’t underestimate the CDC. They will move fast when it hits. And we can always work on Africa after it starts.”
CHAPTER 73
Kate held David’s head up as he swallowed the antibiotics with water from the ceramic cup. The last of the water ran from his mouth, and she wiped it away with her shirt. He had drifted in and out of consciousness the entire morning.
She eyed the wound in his chest. She would have to do something soon. But not yet. She would wait until he was stronger. Or was she procrastinating? Delaying the inevitable — pulling the bullet from his chest and watching the blood squirt onto her clothes and his life slip away. How many days did she have left with him?
She opened the journal again. She wouldn’t look at the wound or think about it again, not today. She read aloud.
I lead my men through the tunnel, holding the candle in front of me. We’re almost there, but I stop, holding my hands up as the men stumble into the back of me. Did I hear something? I plant my tuning fork in the ground and watch it, waiting for the verdict. If it vibrates, the Germans are tunneling near us. We’ve already abandoned two passages for fear of connecting with them. The second we blew up under them, hopefully stopping their progress.
The fork doesn’t move. I stuff it back into my tool belt, and we trudge deeper into the darkness, the candle casting faint shadows on the walls of dirt and stone. Dust and pebbles fall on our heads as we walk.
Then the constant rain of grime stops. I look up and hold my candle closer, trying to discern what’s happened.
I turn and shout, “Get back!” as the ceiling collapses and hell pours through. The faint light of the candles wink out as I’m thrown to the ground. The falling rubble crushes my leg, and I almost pass out.
The Germans land on their feet, practically on top of me, and begin firing, killing two of my men instantly. The muzzle flashes of their machine guns and the screams of the dying men are my only guide to the carnage.
I pull my side arm and fire at them at pointblank range, killing the first two men who must have either thought I was dead or couldn’t see me in the darkness. More men are pouring through, and I shoot them too. Five, six, seven of them dead, but there’s an endless line of them, never stopping, a whole regiment, ready to pour through the tunnel and behind the allied lines. It will be a massacre. I’m out of rounds. I toss the empty pistol aside and take out a grenade. I pull the pin with my teeth and hurl it with all my might into the German tunnel above, at the feet of the newest wave of soldiers. Two long seconds tick by as the men jump down, firing at me as they come and then the explosion racks them, collapses their tunnel, and brings both tunnels down around me. I’m pinned. I can’t get up and won’t ever get out, the debris is suffocating me, but there are hands on me too—
The nurse is there, wiping the sweat from my brow and holding my head.
“They were waiting on us… connected to our tunnel in the night… didn’t have a chance…” I say, trying to explain.
“It’s all over. It’s only a bad dream.”
I reach down to the leg, as if touching it will stop the throbbing pain. The nightmare isn’t over. Won’t ever be over.
The sweating and the pain has gotten worse each night, she must see it. And she does. The white bottle is in her hand and I say, “Just a little bit. I’ve got to get free of it.”
I take a swig and the beast backs away and I get some real sleep.
She’s there when I wake, knitting in the corner. On the table beside me, three small shot glasses hold the dark brown liquid — the day’s ration of the opium-infused concoction that delivers the morphine and codeine I desperately need. Thank God. The sweats are back and the pain has come with it.
“I’ll be home before sundown.”
I nod and take the first shot.
Two shot glasses each day.
She reads to me every night, after work and dinner.
I lie there, adding clever comments and witty remarks from time to time. She laughs, and when I’ve been a little too crude, chastises me playfully.
The pain is almost bearable.
One shot per day. Freedom.
Almost. But the pain persists.
I still can’t walk.
I’ve spent my life in mines, in dark confined spaces. But I can’t take it. Maybe it’s the light, or the fresh air, or lying in bed, day after day, night after night. A month gone by.
Every day, as three o’clock draws near, I count down the minutes until she gets home. A man, waiting for a woman to get home. It calls into question the premise of the sentence.
I’ve insisted she stop working in the hospital. Germs. Bombs. Chauvinists. I’ve tried it all. She won’t hear it. I can’t win. I don’t have a leg to stand on. I simply can’t put my foot down. And on top of that, I’m losing it, making lame jokes about myself, to myself.
Out the window, I see her coming down the path. What time is it? 2:30. She’s early. And— there’s a man with her. In the month I’ve been here, she’s never brought a suitor home. The thought’s never occurred to me, and now, it strikes me in all the wrong ways. I strain to get a better look out the window, but I can’t see them. They’re already in the house.
I frantically straighten my bed and push myself up, through the dull pain, so I can sit up in bed and appear stronger than I am. I pick up a book and begin reading it, upside down. I glance up, then flip the book right-side-up just before Helena enters. The mustached, monocle-wearing poser in a three-piece suit is close on her heels like a greedy dog at the hunt.