She didn’t know. Only one thing seemed certain at that moment.
The life she knew and cherished was gone for good.
32
Two floors above, Marla Hollis sat alone in a small anteroom outside one of the hospital’s rarefied private suites, typing furiously on her iPad. Even though the door to the hall was closed, the muffled sounds of ongoing chaos seeped into the little room.
She wanted to blame the noise for the trouble she was having writing her articles. For the last half hour, she’d been stuck in an unusual and unfamiliar rhythm. She would type a few lines, review them, curse under her breath, then delete everything and start over.
She’d never had this much trouble laying down the words before, but then her writing had never been so closely scrutinized. Over the years, a few of her articles had stirred some national notice, but nothing that hadn’t been smothered by the next day’s headlines. Now that she had the attention of millions, she found herself second-guessing every syllable.
It astonished her that a simple blog could have such a polarizing effect. People on both sides of the nuclear issue were coming forth in hordes; the environmentalists regarded her as a saint while the corporates implied her writing ran the gamut from exaggeration to outright lying. A few people attacked Corwin directly, stopping just short of calling him a traitor. Marla found it incomprehensible that he could be viewed as anything but a hero.
The door to the suite opened and Harlan Phillips stepped out. Despite his age and recent heart trouble, he was still an imposing figure, with a lush wave of steel gray hair. He moved smoothly, with the kind of grace that seemed to be evidence of an athletic youth. He was dressed in slippers, lounge pants, and a wrinkled hospital shirt; Marla saw a leather glasses case peeking out of the shirt’s breast pocket.
Marla just about jumped out of her seat when she saw him, and he responded by first putting a finger to his lips, then holding the hand up flat.
“Please, keep your voice low,” he said, gently closing the door. “She’s finally asleep.”
“Is she okay?”
“She had to be sedated.”
“But beyond that. What’s happening?”
Phillips shrugged. “I… I just don’t know what, um… how much I should—”
“Harlan, I’m not going to write about it. I’m asking these questions because she’s always been good to me in her position. I like her, and I care about her. I assure you this is entirely off the record.”
The big man nodded. “Well, she’s hanging in there. They don’t think she absorbed enough radiation to do any lasting damage.”
“I assume she’s in a private suite for the obvious reason?”
“I don’t want anyone seeing her like this.” He looked at Marla squarely. “I’m really trusting you with—”
“I won’t say a word about it. Not one word.”
“Thank you. I wish I could be so trusting of the other reporters running around this place. None of them will want to cover something boring like the incredible amount of heroism she’s exhibited today. She stayed in her office until the last possible minute, held her own against two of the most powerful men in the state, and put her very life on the line to help locate three wayward residents. But will anyone write about that? Probably not. Instead, they’ll focus on her current state of mind, because that’s juicier. I guess you know what she was like when they brought her in here.”
“Delirious?”
“Completely out of her mind. It’ll be hard enough to keep that quiet.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“She was screaming like a lunatic. Screaming for Emilio, over and over.”
“Have they found him?”
Phillips shook his head. “No, and they’ve still got people out there looking. People who shouldn’t be out there.”
“How bad is it now?” she asked. Then her own hand came up. “Before you answer, know that this is information I’ll want to release.”
“Well…” He took a deep breath. “From what I’m told, the levels are about a hundred and thirty times higher than that which is considered safe.”
“Holy shit.”
“But that’s not the worst of it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know how radioactive decay works, right?”
Marla nodded. “The energy stored in the nucleus of an unstable atom diminishes as the atom sheds radioactive material, usually in the form of particles or rays.”
“And considering the nasty elements that blew out of that reactor — primarily uranium, plutonium, and cesium — do you know how long the decay process will take?”
“I haven’t really given it much—” Then the numbers started flowing through her head. “Oh, God.”
“Uh-huh. We’re talking thirty, maybe forty years before anyone can live here again. We can’t even go back and get our possessions. Everything’s going to be untouchable for ages.”
In a whisper—“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“Does anyone know yet? Any of the residents?”
“No. I’m going to tell them as soon as possible. As soon as, um…” His eyes filled with tears and he took a deep, hitching breath. “Oh, man, what a day.” He shook his head, then looked at the ceiling and opened his eyes wide. “As soon as I figure out how to tell them, I will.”
Marla put a hand on his arm. “Let it out, Harlan. It’s okay. I was holding it in all day, too, and it was killing me.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“You just had heart surgery.”
“I’m fine.”
“Please tell me you’re not taking up your official duties again,” Marla said. “There’s no way—”
His hand came back up. “I’m not, I’m not. I’m covering for Sarah on some small stuff, but others are picking up the slack for now.”
Marla studied him a moment before deciding he was telling the truth.
“Y’know,” Phillips went on, “I did two tours in Vietnam and one in Korea, and I was in New York City on 9/11 because I had to see an eye specialist that day, so I helped out with emergency services.”
“I know. I know about all of that.”
“And yet — and I’ve really given this some thought — what happened here today might be worse than any of it.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t see an end to it. With those wars, you knew they wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later one side would gain enough of an advantage to force an endgame and shut it down. And with September 11, you knew we’d clean up the mess, rebuild, and go after the bastards responsible. Even if you didn’t know when, or how long it would take.
“But with this, everything is unclear. Everything. Whose children or grandchildren will have birth defects? Who’s going to develop cancer five years from now, or ten, or fifteen? How many people are going to kill themselves over this? And those who summon the strength to build a new routine and go on, they’ll still live with the constant fear that something might go haywire and they’ll wake up one morning with a dead eye or a tremor in their hands.
“And if and when that happens, the person’s first thought will be: Is this because of the nuke-plant accident? It’s a puzzle with no solution. And what about our town? When will the cleanup begin, assuming that there is one? Who will pay for it? How long will it take? And who’ll want to live here afterward? What about the lawsuits? How many, and how much, and how long will they be dragged out? Who will and won’t live long enough to see some kind of compensation?
“And the big one: how does a person start their life over, from scratch, after leaving everything behind?” He shook his head. “That’s why this is the worst — because in one way or another, we’ll be trapped in this nightmare for the rest of our damn lives.”