Sunrise

“Ben is not qualified as a field medic,” he replied, still rocking.

“Right. Sorry I yelled.” I turned to go.

“Lieutenant!”

I turned back. Ben was still now.

“Stockton’s leader will expect you to spend time regrouping. If you attack their base in Stockton now, you might take them by surprise.”

“I’ve got to go help Dr. McCarthy,” I said as I left.

The field hospital outside was a hive of frenzied activity. Dozens of those too old or young to fight had descended on the hospital, helping to unload the truck, bandage wounds, and comfort the injured. Belinda had triaged the injured into three groups: those who needed medical care immediately, those who might be able to wait, and the two unfortunates who’d died on the way back to the farm.

Aunt Caroline was in the second group. Belinda said that since she hadn’t bled out already, she probably wouldn’t in the next few minutes. Uncle Paul stayed with Caroline, his hand pressed to her belly as if he could hold her together by pure force of will.

We had three trucks now: the two we had just captured and one I had brought back from Iowa. All three raced back and forth to the battlefield, picking up survivors. Ed drove one of them. A few hours before, I wouldn’t have trusted him with a captured truck. I would have assumed he’d take off, maybe return to the flenser gang. Now, I didn’t give it a second thought.

Max rushed to do whatever Dr. McCarthy asked, stopping only during the rare lulls to gaze longingly at the blanket where his mom lay. We ran to fetch more thread for stitching wounds. We refilled the pots hanging over the fire and kept the fire stoked. We washed patients’ wounds. We held their hands. We unloaded the trucks when they pulled up with more wounded. Three more people died, and Max and I moved their corpses off the table to clear the way for those who might yet be saved.

More injured came, at first on the three trucks, but after about two hours, the walking wounded started to show up. Dr. McCarthy moved in a mechanical blur, plunging his bloody hands into nearly scalding water between each patient, racing to stabilize them so they could be passed off to Belinda to be stitched up, or passed off to Max and me to be laid out with the rest of the corpses. I didn’t think nurses had usually stitched wounds in the old world, the pre-volcano world, but Belinda was good at it, her hands fast and sure.

Almost three hours passed before Dr. McCarthy had time to examine Aunt Caroline. Her skin was yellow and bloodless. Max, Uncle Paul, Alyssa, and I lifted her as gently as we could. Max whispered over and over again, “You’re going to be okay, Mom. You’re going to be okay.”

It sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Aunt Caroline gasped loudly as we set her down.

Dr. McCarthy used a pair of shears to cut her clothing away from her stomach. Two crusty, puckered wounds marred the bone-white skin just above her waist. Blood had pooled in her belly button, so that the wounds looked something like a screaming face. Dr. McCarthy had me help roll her onto her side. Her back was unmarked, other than a huge, ugly bruise spreading along her spine.

Dr. McCarthy tapped on her knees—hard—with his fingers. I had no idea why. He turned to Uncle Paul, gesturing toward the fence with his head. “We need to talk— over there, maybe.”

Aunt Caroline hadn’t moved or done anything but moan since we’d moved her to the table. But when Dr. McCarthy started to move away, her hand shot out, clasping his arm. “No. Tell him here. I need to know too.”

Dr. McCarthy said, “Should Max—”

“He can stay too.”

Dr. McCarthy sighed and gathered himself. “It’s not good. Two bullets. No exit wound. A huge contusion along the spine. They missed your abdominal aorta somehow, or you’d have bled out already. But the bad news is that both bullets are still in there. Since you have no autonomic response, one or both of them must be lodged in your spine.”

“I’m paralyzed.”

Dr. McCarthy nodded once.

“I can move my arms. It could be worse.”

A strangled cry escaped Dr. McCarthy’s mouth, quickly choked off.

“It is worse, isn’t it.”

“Yes. If I had a modern operating room—if I were a trauma surgeon, if I had a full support team, maybe. But . . .” “I’m going to die.” Aunt Caroline said it flatly, with quiet assurance, like she’d known it all along. Max made a choking sound and turned away. Uncle Paul clenched his wife’s shoulder, his knuckles white.

“Alex,” Aunt Caroline said, “go get A

I stood there dumbly too overwhelmed to move.

“Now, please. I don’t have forever.”

I ran for the living room.

Darla insisted on coming with A

“Alex, you’re—”

“It’s not my blood, Mom. Aunt Caroline’s hurt. We’ve got to go.”

“I’ll come with you. Maybe I can help.”

When we got outside, another patient was on the table where Aunt Caroline had lain. I looked around in panic— could she have died in the moment or two I was gone? Then I saw her not far from the fire, wrapped in a blanket. Max and Uncle Paul knelt by her side. A

How would Mom even survive this? Losing my dad, her husband, only two days ago and now her sister-in law? Then I thought of Uncle Paul. He’d lost his brother and now his wife was dying. Would he go crazy like Mom had? I swallowed hard, as if to eat my fear.

A

I clung to Darla. I wasn’t sure if I should stay or go. I wanted to be anywhere else—another place, another world, one where mothers didn’t die. But I knew I couldn’t run fast enough to escape the weight in my chest.

“He . . .” A

Aunt Caroline smoothed her hand slowly along A

A

“A

A

A

“Y-yes.”

“Then I’ll still be with you. And love you.” Aunt Caroline lifted a hand toward Max. Her hand wavered, and Max caught it.

“I’m proud of you, Max. You’re becoming a good man.” Max crumpled over her hand, bawling.

“Don’t go,” Uncle Paul pleaded. “I love you.”

“I’ll never leave you,” Aunt Caroline said. “I love you too.” Three hours later, she was dead.

Chapter 7

My dreams that night were bizarrely vivid: staccato flashes of perfect memory, like images captured in the hyper-saturated flash and pop of a dying light bulb. Cyndi’s skull flying apart—pop. The gu

I woke screaming.

Ben moaned and Max sobbed. The darkness hid our faces but not our pain. A few moments later, the covers lifted, and Darla slid in beside me. Even though we were both fully clothed against the cold, I felt the edge of her ribcage digging into my side. “Shh,” she whispered, “go back to sleep.” Tangled in her arms and legs, I found I could.