One Second After

She nodded towards the storage room. He went in, again a struggle for control. Someone had vomited on the floor. He gingerly stepped around the mess, tearing open storage cabinets; the bandage that covered his injured finger was soaked through with God knows what and finally just slipped off. Empty shipping cases of the precious liquid were scattered about, and when just about to give up, he found two cartons of twenty-four cans, grabbed them, and stepped back out.

He started for the door, hesitated, and then turned, going back to the room with the two old men. He took two six-packs and placed them on the old veteran’s lap.

“Thanks for what you once did for us, Sergeant,” he whispered.

The old man smiled and nodded. John felt a bit foolish at first but could not stop himself. He came to attention and saluted the old man, who stiffened in his chair, smiled, and returned the salute. John left him and headed to the car.

Dumping the cans onto the floor of the front seat of the car, John climbed in.

“Get us the hell out of here,” John said.

He turned away, blocking out the sight of the demented patients wandering about outside. If he stopped for them he would be pulled back into the nightmare, with Tyler stuck in the backseat in the sweltering heat.

They drove out and several minutes later were back home. “Ben, Elizabeth!” John shouted.

The two kids, soaking wet, came out of the pool, laughing, but then slowed as they saw John struggling to maneuver Tyler out of the car. Elizabeth stepped back. “Oh, Pop-pop,” and she began to cry. “You need help, sir?” Ben asked nervously. “Just get the door.”

John carried Tyler in, Jen following, and headed for Jennifer’s room, putting him down on her bed, and then stood up.

Jen pulled a chair over and was by Tyler’s side, gently brushing his cheek.

“It’s ok, Tyler. We’re home; we’re home,” she whispered.

John stepped back, suddenly feeling a terrible need to wash. Elizabeth stood in the living room, looking wide-eyed towards Jen’s room.

“Elizabeth.”

She was crying.

“It’s going to be hard, but we’ve got to handle it. I want you to go get a bucket of water. Heat it up on the grill, find some soap, some towels, then go in and help Grandma.”

Elizabeth stifled back a sob and nodded.

He was glad Jennifer was not home to have seen this.

He went into the master bathroom. He poured some water from a bucket into the sink and thoroughly washed his hands; then grimacing, the pain coursing up his arm, he doused his wound with some rubbing alcohol.

He cut a piece of old sheeting taken from the linen closet and wrapped it around the cut on his hand and went back to Jennifer’s room. “Mom, you ok?” She looked up at him and smiled. “Sure. I can handle this now, John. Thank you.”

Ben came in carrying the warm bucket, Elizabeth hesitating before coming in with a towel and soap.

“Elizabeth honey. Your Pop-pop is a proud man,” Jen said, her features serious. “I don’t think he’d want his granddaughter helping with this.”

Jen looked at John.

“And you, John, have the weakest stomach in the world. Why don’t you two go outside?”

“I’ll stay,” Ben said quietly.

All three looked at him with surprise.

“Heck, I diapered my kid brother a hundred times. I’ll help Miss Jen.”

“Good man, Ben.”

“Actually, I better go into town,” John said. “I’ll see if we can get some help up there.”

“That’s good, John.”

He hesitated and looked at Elizabeth.

“Maybe you should come along.”

“You sure, Dad?”

“It’s ok.”

She looked at him with relief and the two went to the car and got in. “Sorry, Dad, I don’t think I could have handled that. I’d of tried, though.”

“Listen, kid, I barely handled it myself. Buckle up.” She laughed softly, though still shaken. “This is a ’59 Edsel, Dad, no seat belts.”

They drove into town and he immediately felt as if he was now coming into an entirely different world.

Pete’s free barbecue was shut down, the small-town feel of an outdoor fair atmosphere gone. Two police officers, both armed with shotguns, stood outside the elementary school, a large crowd standing in line. An open fire was burning, a kettle hung over it.

There were half a dozen more cops and an equal number of firemen in a loose cordon around the town hall, police station, and firehouse. Several men were at the back of Jim Bartlett’s Volkswagen Bus, off-loading boxes. There was an assortment of bicycles, a few motorbikes, an old Harley motorcycle, a Jeep from the garage, the antique World War Two jeep, and a few old farm pickup trucks parked there as well, the doors into the firehouse open, the engines rolled out. Boxes, crates, containers filling up inside.

There was another line formed, an old military-style water tank on wheels, a guard by the side of it, the line of people carrying plastic jugs. John rolled to a stop and got out with Elizabeth.

“One gallon per person,” the guard was saying, repeating himself over and over, as John pulled Elizabeth closer in to his side and headed towards the mayor’s office.

* * *