Aftershock: A Collection of Survivors Tales Read Online Free PDF Page A

and shook her head.
    “No Samuel. You are not done yet.”
    All at once I was yanked back into my body and I became aware of three men kneeling over my supine body. One was applying pressure to the wound on my chest while the other clumsily attempted CPR. I coughed once and sprayed them with blood. Only the one that had his hands on my chest did not turn away repulsed.
    As I gasped for air I heard one of them say, “Hit ‘em! He’s turnin’! I told you he was gonna turn!”
    “Not yet,” the other replied, “Way too soon. We keep him alive as long as we can. When he turns, we’ll deal with it then.”
    But I did not “turn”. They brought me to the last physician in the area. His home was littered with the sick and dying. He examined my stab wound and pronounced me the luckiest man on the face of the earth. Apparently, the knife was not very big and missed every major artery. It did not do much tissue damage either according to the good doctor. He casted my wrist with some drywall plaster and gave me three ibuprofen. He said he would be back to check on me shortly. I watched from a gurney in the hallway as he and two nurses moved from patient to patient with a lightning efficiency that was awe inspiring. Every so often they would stop at a “bed” and motion to three large men sitting on a couch. I noticed two of the men that had brought me here, but did not recognize the third. They would move toward the patient and gently carry him or her outside. There would be a short crack and a soft whistle of air and the three would come back inside and sit on the couch. In the evening, we could smell the pleasant aroma of a campfire, though with a not so pleasant odor underneath that I either did not know or just refused to admit was what human flesh smells like when it burns.
    I stayed there for three weeks. All the while, I was watched. First with caution, then with curiosity, finally with blatant incredulity. Not one who had been brought in with a bite mark had lasted more than three days before my large friends would take him for a final walk. The doctor began to wean me off the pain medication he had “prescribed” though I suspect it more to do with dwindling supply than the possibility of my growing an addiction. As my head cleared from the opiates the new reality began to set in. As I lay, convalescing on the doctor’s couch, I had believed that I had made peace with God for what had happened. My mind no longer numbed, I realized this was not true. Each morning I would grow to hate the Lord more for what he had taken from me. I was spared news of what was going on outside the walls of the doctor’s home. At the time I had no idea that the entire world had gone to Hell and I wallowed, selfishly like a child, in my own pity. I ate little and spoke not at all, merely sat and scowled and cursed God under my breath. My three large friends began to question my sanity. I heard them arguing with the doctor one evening as to how to handle me. I understood the doctor’s medical curiosity in his voice, and the fear and anger of the others’ in theirs. That night as I lay dozing, I heard the three guards discussing amongst themselves what might need to be done and how to do it. It did not sound like the clean, humane ending I had seen them deal to all the others.
    Later, as the others slept, I penned a brief letter of thanks to the doctor, helped myself to a few provisions from the cupboard, donned a pair of jeans and a sweater from the pile of clothes near the door, and slipped quietly into the back yard. The gentleman on guard duty sat dozing in a rocking chair on the front porch, some sort of Rambo-looking assault rifle in his lap. I had no idea where I was going. I did not care. I even argued with myself as to why I left. I wanted to die. My grief over losing my wife and my anger at God were only continuing to grow at this point. I set it in my mind to return to my church. And burn it to the ground. After that I