Loss Of Reason, Miles A. Maxwell [electronic reader txt] 📗

What’s he looking at now? The radio trickle chargers. Their small cube power supplies were black blobs of melted plastic. From the moment he walked in the room, the chief controller Sue felt bad for the incredible-looking green-eyed man.

He’d given up his own radio and now he’d fixed their backup generator. Despite the horrible circumstances, he appeared to be controlling his anger, doing whatever he could figure out to do. Like if he can just fix enough stuff we’ll let him go into the city.

The city’s glow lit the side of his face, luminesced his eyes. Two years ago, Sue and her three girlfriends had flown down to Puerto Rico. The water off the beach had been that exact same shade of startling green. So what if he was a foot taller than her own five-two.

“Hey, electronic genius,” she smiled at him, “think you can do anything with our scopes?”

She stood watching his blond hair, the way the muscular California surfer build flowed beneath the tan leather jacket. The feel of him moving around the cabinet mounted in the wall. Are his hands shaking? He’s pretty upset about not being able to get into the city but doesn’t know what to do about it.

Well, neither do I! She honestly didn’t really think he should go in there anyway.

He walked rapidly over and offered a quick firm hand. “Everon.”

“Sue.” She felt an electric tingle zip up her arm, down into her belly, almost glad he didn’t smile. It might have killed her.

His eyes quickly surveyed the dead radar system. One of the guys had been pulling out square green circuit boards the size of serving platters, strewn them all over the floor — each a melted mess of chips and electronic parts. The way his hands sorted through a nearby stack of replacements, they looked like the wrong ones.

“Doubtful, Sue.”

He knelt on the floor — lay down on his back and opened the access hatch. Movements rapid and sure, he stuck his head inside the console.

He has to know women see him as beautiful, she thought, but there’s a rough edge there too. The faintly glowing blond stubble, a one-day beard maybe. Lightly tanned skin, green-blue eyes shining in the starlight.

She hurried her eyes away when she realized she was staring at his crotch. Shit! I’m being ridiculous — like a schoolgirl! I’m a supervisor, for fuck’s sake! In the middle of a disaster!

“Fried beyond repair!” his voice echoed out of the console. “Not unless you have a lot more spare parts than what I see around here. The radar pulled in even more of the bomb’s pulse than the radio system.”

“How could that happen?”

“I heard about a high-altitude A-bomb test in the Pacific once. Took out a telephone system in Hawaii a thousand miles away. Engineers use high-frequency alternating current models to calculate numbers for lightning strikes. Nobody knows how to model the electromagnetic pulse from a nuclear bomb . . .” She tried to listen but almost didn’t care what he was saying. As long as he was talking to her.

As he rose from the floor, his green-blue eyes locked onto hers. With a quick look to see if Marsh was still busy across the room, he asked softly, “Do you think you could do something for me?”

She gulped. “What’s that?”

“Think you can get my brother and me authorized as one of those EMS teams? We’ve got our own helicopter.”

“Are you crazy? The things you’ll find in there — fire and thick, black smoke. The smell of death every way you turn. Radiation, buildings in pieces. No way to get through to anywhere. I don’t think you should go!”

“Our sister’s in there.”

She stared at him.

“They say the bomb went off on the south end of the island —”

“That’s what that —” She glanced at Marsh. “That’s what Colonel Marsh told us —”

“Cynthia and Steve and their baby live pretty far north,” Everon replied hopefully.

She smiled grimly. Took a deep breath. “I can try. I know a couple of the EMS guys.”

While he waited with growing agitation, she radioed the team just landing.

“That’s being handled over at the Med Center,” the reply came back. “Our personnel’s already set.”

She felt a certain relief they weren’t willing to give up open seats either — they were reserved for rescue victims. The blond man — Everon — watched the EMS flight lift off.

“What the hell? Franklin?” he gaped through the big tower windows. “Where’s he going?” Everon watched his younger brother down below, running toward the airport entrance.

Things were falling apart. Like some horrible pain in the middle of his back he couldn’t reach. No military clearance — helicopter just waiting for Cyn, Steve, Melissa. Now Franklin goes off somewhere?

Then a voice called over his radio in controller Sue’s hand, “Six-Six-Six-Kilo-India, authorized for military rescue.”

Everon’s eyes widened as he watched the red four-place chopper he’d rented lift off and bank for the city, two men in Army fatigues in its front seats.“Goddammit!” His fists closed and opened. “They’re taking our way in!”

Knuckles pressed against the cold observation glass, he leaned his forehead against it. He stretched out his fingertips at the distant flames. So close! Cynthia! He didn’t know what to do. He could reach out and touch — It was so frustrating, he felt like screaming!

He frowned, pressing his right cheek against the big window. “What’s that?” he pointed down on an angle through the glass, toward the low U-shaped building near the far end of the runway. “That building, with all the old aircraft.”

“Oh, the museum?” she answered.

Around its side he could see wings and tails. He couldn’t have made it out before, but the airport lights were up now — casting shadows from old fighter jets, a bi-plane.

“Is that an old Coast Guard chopper down there?”

“That thing?” Sue snorted. “That’s Sam’s pet. I think it was in a movie last year. It’s just for display. I don’t think it runs.”

“How long’s it been there?”

“I don’t know. A few years, I guess.”

“Who’s Sam?”

“Sam Gunn. He owns the museum.”

“Thanks!” Everon called over his shoulder. He went through the door to the stairs on a run.

A Red Cross Man

Franklin kept seeing Cynthia and Steve and Melissa huddled together, trapped by flame and smoke. How long can they survive? Everon has the rental helicopter. All we need is clearance. He forced himself away from the hallucination and onto the people around him.

The green marble floor inside Hackensack Med Center was crowded and crazy and people were anything but normal. They sat and milled about agitated in long lines and gibbered. All I need is a certain type of person —

Franklin noticed things about people. How they walked and dressed, their posture, the way they combed their hair. Especially their voices. From these he could guess things about the way they thought.

He made a rapid study through the intake windows, behind the counters.

Him? No. Her — not her either!

I’m not going to find the person I need out here!

At the rear of the ER, he found a gray metal door into the hospital proper. He tried the handle. It was locked. He stood next to the door’s edge. Can’t be too long —

Somebody pushed it open.

He turned to slide through, but a tall gray-haired nurse in whites blocked his way. She glanced at his black leather jacket, obviously looking for a hospital ID.

“Hospitals have rules,” she said sternly. The door was closing.

Out of the increasing chaos, someone called out, “Nurse Vandersommen!” She rushed away. Wife? Franklin pictured the airport security guard. Mother? His fingertips caught the door’s edge at half an inch.

Inside, it was field hospital triage. Franklin considered the doctors and nurses in scrubs, running around binding up bloody wounds, treating burns. Him? — maybe — No! Him . . ?

Down a side corridor lined with temporary wooden cots was a big beer-bellied man, face framed by a pair of bushy red-gray muttonchops. He wore a white lab coat and a harried expression.

Is he the one?

A printed paper Red Cross tag, safety-pinned to his coat, said CHUCK FARNDIKE, BLOOD COORDINATOR. He carried a clipboard, seemed to be in charge of organizing emergency donors among volunteers. Including some of the hospital staff.

Franklin watched the way the big man moved. Guy must have been a real dynamo. Something’s worn him down. The Medic pin on his shirt. Yes —

Franklin walked over.

“Hello. I’m Franklin Reveal, a minister from Pennsylvania. Could I get a couple minutes of your time, Mr. Farndike?”

“Don’t know I have a couple minutes, Reverend.” Chuck rushed past to check a filling blood bag connected to a middle-aged hospital administrator’s arm. “We can’t locate our emergency blood shipments. The phones are out. Our computers are down. I have two people out knocking on doors trying to find donors. We’re gonna be in one hell of a real mess around here pretty soon.”

A young dark-haired nurse in scrubs hurried up to the big man. “What do you want to do about AB neg, Chuck? We’re completely out!”

“Did you check the backups by OR 3?”

The nurse hurried away.

“Mr. Farndike?” Franklin tried.

Chuck rushed on by.

But the red liquid flowed as nurses connected empty bags to waiting arms of the few volunteers, each resting on one of the empty cots. Each time Franklin began, Chuck was grabbed by somebody else. He couldn’t hold the man’s attention. It was exasperating. Impossible to hold a private conversation. But this was a man who could get their helicopter put on the clearance list.

The young woman in nurse’s scrubs rushed back. “No AB neg over there either! And you know how hard it is to find —”

Franklin could tell Chuck held his true feelings buried deep down inside: On the surface, his primary connection with the world was visual.

“I’m AB negative,” Franklin said, to Chuck’s surprise. “Hook me up. We’ll talk while you drain.” Franklin sat down on a cot and added softly an embedded command,“but I WANT US TO BE-NOT-INTERRUPTED.”

Chuck frowned at the strange minister with the long, dark tied-back hair. Whatever he needs is important enough for him to donate his own blood?

He nodded, opened a fresh needle and pinched it into Franklin’s arm.

Instead of lying down, Franklin remained seated on the cot’s edge, angled toward the big man at forty-five degrees. And began speaking softly, in deep, even tones, “You must . . . BE TIRED . . . Were you AHH — SLEEP when the blast went off?”

“No,” Chuck frowned, “I was getting ready to go to bed.”

“Hmmmmm . . .” Franklin nodded, dropping his vocal