He kept running, thirsty, hungry, almost afraid to breathe deeply enough to keep on running. Why had he stayed at Hanford so long? Why had he believed all the government assurances, jeopardized his own life and possibly the life of his future child? Yes, I’m sorry about the shortage of nursing staff on the floor....” “Think nothing of it. Say, what arrangements will be made for those patients who survive the initial trauma?” “We’re going to try and transfer some of the patients. Uh, we’re trying to evaluate that now—who will go, I mean—to the centers that specialize in transplants— Seattle, L.A., maybe Minneapolis.” “Yes, I see. Well, I’ve worked with the transplant team in Seattle and I could be of some help, I think, working with some of the patients who are sent there.” “Yes, Doctor, well, we’d all like to be transferred out of here,” he said dryly. Peter moved from patient to patient, from one set of medicated eyes to another, among those who seemed to be somewhere else. He worked most of the night, almost hypnotized by the urgency of seeing how long these people might be kept alive; the ward had become a clearinghouse to decide who would get treatment and who was hopeless, a purgatory with no one really in charge. Early the next morning he caught a brief nap in the staff room which had been converted to a supply room for extra medicines and bandages. As he crossed back through the ward, several people crowded around the TV, shouting as the reporter declared: “On the Tri-Cities evacuation, heavy traffic is moving west across Sno- qualamie Pass and Stephens Pass due to the primary easterly direction of wind patterns. Drivers are advised to choose other routes due to possible changes in the wind. Travellers are experiencing extended delays at the Canadian border. “The streets of Spokane are quiet today as the State Department of Social and Health Services has advised all families with children to evacuate the city due to high concentrations of radioactive dust blow- ing from Hanford’s N reactor through Spokane.” He decided to take a walk outside. Outside the hospital, a world he had forgotten while he was working, things had reached a state of panic. If he had just arrived from another planet, he would be convinced that the creatures inhabiting the country were cars, and the smaller beings climbing in and out of them were either what the cars ate or the providers of some service. There were vestiges of lanes of traffic, but so many abandoned cars that the moving vehicles wove back and forth like a game of bumper cars. There was directing traffic at the intersection, horns honking, people abandoning their cars, still unsure whether walking or riding would get them out of Richland faster. People wore all sizes and shapes of face masks, including ski masks, scuba equipment, and a beekeeping helmet with a nylon stocking tied around it. A large billboard at the corner read “Cancer Insurance—Call Carl, 729-3301. Let us give you a free quote.” Peter walked down Stevens to see if he could figure out which way most of the traffic was headed. He came to a grocery store that advertised “Washington Wine—Last Day for Regular Prices.” He had a vision of a loaf of French bread and cheese and realized he hadn’t eaten since the day before. Inside, people were lined up in rows that stretched down the aisles and into the bakery and meat sections with baskets full of canned and frozen food and wine. Why should he stand in line for an hour to buy a snack? These people were thinking about the next six months. He ran out of the store, trying to find a pathway in the chaos of the parking lot. He wondered about the Yakima woman who told the stories. Was she stuck in some traffic jam? When she talked about the prophet Smohalla( she said, “If the Indian let himself be taken over by the white man, he would see the day when men’s flesh would peel off in handfuls." She nodded significantly and added, “The value of prophecy is that it can be taken as a warning.” He began to run, to jog very slowly— still wearing his face mask. When he had lived in Seattle, he jogged religiously at least three miles a day. It was a way he had been able to wake himself up after little sleep. In the year that he had been at Hanford, he only ran occasionally—just to see if he remembered how. He tried running slowly, taking in very shallow breaths, moving rhythmically, trying to avoid cars and people, stretching his legs—holding the mask in place. The first gas station he ran past had a long line-up of cars at each pump—filling tanks and gas cans—for $1.90 a gallon. He kept jogging just above a walk, moving faster than any traffic. An old man stood on a corner with a laundry bag and a sign next to him that said, “Let me decontaminate your money with my special bag.” He kept running, thirsty, hungry, wondering how long he could run without tiring out, almost afraid to breathe deeply enough to keep on running. Why had he stayed at Hanford so long? Why had he believed all the government assurances, jeopardized his own life and possibly the life of his future child? He was tempted to keep on running- past the rows and rows of vehicles—to see if he could make it to the Hanford parking lot where he’d left his car. Then what would he do—join the masses of people stuck on the freeway? Would he really be better off? He headed toward the hospital through the maze of honking horns and people shouting at each other. A baby shrieked while a mother kept offering a pacifier. He spent the afternoon and evening with patients who had complications similar to the ones from the day before; now some of them were Tri-Cities residents rather than Hanford workers. After midnight, a woman who was bleeding internally told him to go home to get some sleep. As he walked back through the lobby, the news continued: "The State Department of Fisheries has confirmed reports of the total mortality of all Columbia River fish downstream of the N reactor. More on this as state officials continue to study radiation concentration levels of the water. Stay tuned for reports of secondary wind currents going west along the Columbia River gorge. “According to our medical sources, over 300,000 cancer deaths have been estimated to result from the Chernobyl explosion over the next 70 years due primarily to food contamination and water. These sources indicate the N reactor fire appears to be even worse.” Peter’s mouth tasted sour; his teeth felt like they were coated with wet velvet. He walked down to the cafeteria and found a vending machine that had soda pop left in it. Slowly he sipped some Seven-Up, resting hfe head against the back of a bench next to the vending machine. It kept pulsating through his brain, half awake, half asleep: “He would see the day when men’s flesh would peel off in handfuls.. .. ” “■D^oc! Doc! Are you okay?” Peter was jolted suddenly from a sound sleep. In front of him was the imposing presence of Jed. It was five in the morning and he had been asleep almost two hours. “The clouds have spread to Illinois now, Doc, and secondary wind plumes to Canada. I’m heading out. You can ride in my van if you want—get out while you c_a_n_. „ “Thanks, Jed. I’ll have to wait ‘cause there’s too many sick people who need help and I’m in it now. How come you’re still here?” “Hawkins died this morning, man, at 4:00. I decided to wait it out with him. I wasn ’t ready for this—no way. It’s a rough thing to sit through somebody slowly dying on you, to be the last person a guy talks to tellin’ ya you should get to someplace else and try to make something of your life.” Jed stroked his beard and smoothed back his hair, his bloodshot eyes brimming with tears. “I’m just glad I found him. At least he had a friend in the end. Do you want some coffee or something?” His voice was creeping into a higher register. He paused and took a deep breath, his voice dropping. “You look almost as bad as I do. They got some coffee up in the cafeteria and supposedly some more bottled water.” Peter and Jed lined up for coffee. Peter’s neck was stiff and his head ached. He rotated his head, slowly massaging his neck, breathing in the stale air. He kept wanting to ask if there was oxygen that could be blown in. “Remember Reeves talking about skunks? What the heck was that about?” “ It’s a Yakima story. A bunch of animals were using the skunk’s musk sack for a football. He got angry and took it back and sprayed the roots people ate to make them bitter. Now they say the skunk repT H I S CQAAAAUX IT V T H O U G H T BROUGHT TO YOU 8y< WRIGHT BROS. CYCLE WORKS 2. TM 3 ^ W ST. , G 35 ’ 18 Clinton St. Quarterly
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