'I don't quite know how to say this,' Dr. Petrie said to the National Guardsmen.
'You don't quite know how to say what?
'Well, whatever they've injected you with, it's useless. There is no way of immunizing yourself against this plague.'
The guardsmen placidly chewed gum, and said nothing. 'Have you tried to get back across the state line yet?' asked Dr. Petrie.
'Nope. This is our first turn of duty.'
Dr. Petrie stood up, and brushed down his clothes. 'Well, I'm sorry to say it's going to be your last turn of duty, as well. There is absolutely no way that you can be protected against this disease. We know it's a type of pneumonic plague, but we don't know how it's transmitted, and we don't have the remotest idea how to cure it.'
'Are you pulling my leg?' said the guardsman, frowning.
'I wish I was. I think you've been conned. They needed someone to keep law and order around' here, to stop things going completely berserk, and so they let you think that you were immune. You're not, and that's all there is to it.'
'He's joking,' said the other National Guardsman. 'Don't you take no mind of him, Cal, because he's sure as hell joking.'
'I can show you my medical papers.' He reached into his back pants pocket, and took out his ID. He held it up, and waved it.
'Don't you take one step nearer,' said the National Guardsman, raising his automatic weapon.
Even afterwards, Dr. Petrie couldn't work out what happened next. It was too quick, too illogical and too spontaneous. He didn't see David Henschel go for his rifle, but he guessed that was what happened. The guardsman suddenly swung round and fired a deafening burst of automatic fire towards the trees, and Mr. Henschel said 'Ah!' and fell to the hard ground with a heavy thud like a sack of flour. Two or three bullets caught Mrs. Henschel, and she rolled over, screaming.
Dr. Petrie, instinctively trying to protect Prickles, ducked forward and wrestled the machine-gun from the guardsman's hands. The other guardsman lifted his gun, but Dr. Petrie caught the first soldier around the neck, and pulled him up against himself as a human shield, He waved the automatic rifle in the other guardsman's direction, and snapped, 'Drop it! Drop it, and put up your hands!'
The man hesitated, and then slowly laid his weapon down on the ground. Mrs. Henschel was moaning loudly, while Adelaide bent over her, trying to see if she could help. Prickles stood by herself, still in her red dressing-gown, and howled.
'Turn around!' Dr. Petrie shouted hoarsely. 'Put your hands on your head!'
The guardsman did as he was told. Then Dr. Petrie pushed the first guardsman away from him, and ordered him to do the same. The two of them stood side by side in the road, their hands on top of their heads, and Dr. Petrie stepped forward and picked up the other automatic weapon.
'Now,' Dr. Petrie said, 'if you don't help me, I'm going to blow your heads off. Where's your first aid kit?'
One of the guardsmen said, 'I've got one right here, in my pack.'
'Put your hand in your pack slowly, lift the kit out in plain view, and lay it on the ground.'
The man did as he was told. Dr. Petrie went across and picked it up, keeping the machine-gun trained carefully on his captives. Then he backed up, and knelt down beside Mrs. Henschel. He handed the gun to Adelaide, and told her to shoot without hesitation if either guardsman moved.
Mrs. Henschel was bad. One bullet had hit her in the chest and pierced her left lung. Every time she breathed, bloody bubbles trickled from her dress. Another bullet had hit her in the ear, and the side of her head was sticky with gore. The pain was by now so intense that the poor woman had passed out.
Working as quickly as he could, he dabbed the wounds reasonably clean, and bandaged them with lint.
Prickles was standing close by, watching her father, quiet and red-eyed. She said, 'Is Mrs. Henschel dead, daddy?'
Dr. Petrie tried to smile. 'No, honey, Mrs. Henschel just hurt herself. Don't you worry — she's going to be fine.'
Prickles pointed to Mr. Henschel, curled up in a stain of blood. 'What about him? Is he going to be fine?'
Dr. Petrie sighed heavily and said, 'Mr. Henschel's gone to heaven, I'm afraid. He's dead.'
'Will he come back?' the child demanded.
Dr. Petrie stood up, and took the gun back from Adelaide. He ruffled Prickles' hair. 'No, baby, he won't come back. But wherever he's gone, I'm sure he's going to be real happy.'
'Is he an angel now? With wings?'
Adelaide looked at Leonard with sad eyes. He answered, 'Yes, I expect so. With wings.'
They cleared up their blankets and their few belongings and stowed them in the car. While Dr. Petrie kept the guardsmen covered, Adelaide dressed Pickles in a short blue dress, and sandals. She herself changed into a white T-shirt and jeans, and unpacked a green plaid shirt and white slacks for Dr. Petrie.
When they were ready to leave, Dr. Petrie went over to Mrs. Henschel. She was conscious again, and she was groaning under her breath. He knelt down beside her, and laid a hand on her forehead.
'How do you feel?' he asked her.
'Bad,' she croaked. 'Real bad.'
'Do you think you can travel?'
She coughed up blood, and tried to shake her head. 'Just leave us be,' she said hoarsely. 'You go on and leave us be.'
'Mrs. Henschel — we have to get you to a hospital, if there are any hospitals left.'
She groaned, and shook her head again. 'Just leave us. Dave'll look after me, won't you, Dave?'
Dr. Petrie bit his lip, and looked across at David Henschel's body.
'Mrs. Henschel,' he said gently, 'I can't leave you here to die.'
She coughed more blood. 'Die?' she said. 'Who said anything about dying?'
'You have to realize that you need attention. Dave — doesn't she need attention?'
He paused, and then he said, 'There — Dave says you need attention, too.'
Mrs. Henschel opened her eyes. 'Let me see him,' she said. 'Are you there, Dave? Are you there?'
She tried to raise herself, but then she started coughing, until the blood was splattering the hard ground in front of her.
'I don't feel so good,' she said. 'Just give me a minute.'
She lay back and they waited. The breeze rustled the grove of palms, and the National Guardsmen shuffled their feet uncomfortably on the roadside. The sky was clear blue, and if it hadn't been for the silence and the strange absence of traffic, you would have thought it was a day just like any other.
Later, Dr. Petrie remembered that moment more clearly than almost all others — waiting by the roadside near Palm Bay for Mrs. Henschel to die.
She went without a sound, sliding easily into death. Dr. Petrie thought she was sleeping at first, but then he saw that she had stopped breathing, and that her right hand was slowly opening like a white flower with crumpled petals.
He stood up, and walked around to face the National Guardsmen, pointing his gun straight at them. He was scruffy and unshaven, with dark rings under his eyes, and his clothes still had the creases of the suitcase on them. His hair was ruffled in the morning breeze.
'I ought to kill you,' he told the men. 'I ought to waste you here and now.'
The one who was chewing gum looked up. 'Guess that's your privilege,' he said. 'Seeing as you've got the gun.' Dr. Petrie cocked the weapon and raised the barrel. For a moment, he was almost tempted to shoot them, but the moment didn't last long. His angry bitterness of the previous night had faded with the sun, and he was beginning to see that they were all, soldiers included, tangled up in a situation they could neither control nor understand.
'Just for safety,' he said, 'I want you to walk down the road a couple of hundred yards. Then we're going to drive off.'
The other guardsman said, 'What about our guns? We ain't gonna last long without our guns. Can't you leave them behind?'
