42
The tanker flight was diverted elsewhere. Back in the trailer the next morning, Keene listened with Mitch, Colby, and Dan while the major talked on the line with somebody in El Paso.
“Look, we’ve got half of California coming in off the interstate this morning. I need food, I need doctors, and I need medical supplies. But I can’t have anything flown in, because until I’ve got something to refuel them with, nothing that brings any of it can get out again. . . . Base facilities? What are you talking about, base facilities? There aren’t any base facilities. They got wiped out yesterday. What planet have you been on? We’re having to dig ourselves holes in the ground here.”
He listened a while longer, then replaced the receiver and looked at the four who were waiting. “All I can tell you is that this isn’t the only area that got pounded. It’s still going on in some places. Everywhere’s a mess. They said they’ll do what they can. We might be able to get a supply through by road from a depot I’ve located in California. What else do you want me to say?”
It seemed there was nothing more to be done, probably for the rest of that day. The group vacated the space they had been using in one of the previously prepared shelters, and Mitch detailed Legermount and three troopers to begin constructing one of their own. He outlined a plan for a rectangular pit five feet deep, the excavated material being used for sandbags to build up the sides, with a roof of alloy beams and corrugated steel sheet from some wreckage nearby, topped with four feet of sand. With that task under way, he left for a tour of the center, accompanied by Dan and the two other men to see what else was happening and if they could be of help. Thousands of people were beginning to appear now, jammed into their own vehicles or brought in by emergency trucks, many others walking. There simply weren’t the facilities or staff to take care of the horrendous numbers of injured; trucks stacked with bodies left regularly for the mass graves that had been bulldozed behind a hill a mile or so from the center.
The entire center had become a maze of workings and diggings along one side of the airfield, made by human moles burrowing into the soil. Keene tried to put in his share of pickaxing and shoveling, but it was hard to match the pace of younger men at the peak of fitness and training, especially since his legs had stiffened since yesterday. The dust choked, even through a wetted handkerchief tied around his mouth. His lips had swollen and dried, and his tongue was painful where he had bitten it in the crash, making speaking and eating difficult. His face felt like one throbbing, open sore, and he could no longer bear the touch of trying to wipe off the perspiration.
Halfway through the morning, meteorites and gravel began falling again. There were no big detonations like the one that had gouged away part of I-10 the day before, but a steady rain continued of missiles thumping into soil or impacting on rocks and metal with bangs like rifle bullets. People were hit, though surprisingly infrequently. But they had no choice but to press on. Those who weren’t actually digging or roofing stayed under cover, making whatever excursions they had to as quick dashes from one shelter to another. In a depression a short distance from the main area, a crew in hard hats and Army flak jackets began erecting a derrick to drill for water. Meanwhile, three sandbagged trucks loaded with drums were sent to see what could be recovered from the ruined water tower serving the area.
By the middle of the day, Keene was realizing that more than the years and his sedentary lifestyle were slowing him down. He found himself alternately sweating and shivering, and once or twice almost keeled over from dizzy fits; but he settled to a rhythm and drove himself doggedly, resolved not to become an additional burden to the others. When the roof was completed, a scavenging party went away to see what they could find to make the new abode more habitable. At this, Mitch’s men turned out to be quite accomplished, coming back with a forklift pallet and some boards for flooring, assorted pieces of tarp, several sticks of furniture, and even a mechanic’s inspection lamp with good batteries. Finally, they were able to flop down and rest. Keene lowered himself gratefully onto a strip of foam rubber laid on the pallet, which had been set aside for him and another of the men who was also feverish, and another hit on the knee by a ricocheting rock. At last, he could just lie back, let his whole body go limp, and abandon himself to the exhaustion that had been building for days. . . .