REDEMPTION TRAIL

The air in the disaster shelter had become much more palatable since Chellaina managed to get the emergency life support system operating. Despite its age, the bulky piece of World War Five equipment worked without a flaw; the air was fresh and rich, the temperature was regulated at a comfortable 82øF, and a reasonable amount of humidity had been added to the dry, dusty air. In addition to basic life support functions, the environmental unit's compact, yet powerful, nuclear reactor produced enough surplus power for lighting, power tools, cooking, and whatnot.
Chellaina had set-up the emergency life support system in the main shelter room, not far from Fenton's unconscious body. Since the huge piece of equipment was self-propelled, she had little problem moving it away from the ruins of the storeroom and was even able to use it as a walker, of sorts. She had already activated its emergency homing beacon, a device that was designed to signal rescue parties, and had the emergency radio turned up just high enough to be heard over the subtle hum of the reactor. To her dismay, the receiver continued to pour out the same dull buzz that they had heard on television before they made their descent to the shelter.
Chellaina also found several utility lights, which were stored in a compartment at the rear of the unit. Once the lights were set-up, they revealed the true nature of the damage to the disaster shelter. There were several, gaping cracks in the shelter's thick walls, some of which were at least six inches in width. The wall of one of the store rooms was severely damaged and the other had completely toppled into rubble. There were several cracks running across the floor, and the nuclear-hardened hatch that allowed access to the outside world appeared to be hopelessly jammed. Dust and debris was everywhere.
The greatest damage to the shelter, however, was the roof; several layers of concrete had fallen from most of the ceiling, leaving a rough, stony texture precariously supported by bent reenforcement bars. There was one place in particular, where a successive layer of concrete had begun to sag and was in danger of collapse. The state of the shelter, however, was of no particular concern to Chellaina; she was busy tending to her husband's injuries.
The General was still in the same position that he acquired during the accident; Chellaina had made no effort to move him and, frankly, doubted that she would even have the strength to do so, should the need arise. She had prepared a pillow, made from old military uniforms, but was reluctant to slide it under his head until she could determine the exact extent of his injuries.
Chellaina was somewhat disappointed by the state of the drugs that had been stored in her medical case for nearly a century; all of them were grossly outdated and some of them had long since congealed into a jelly-like substance. The intravenous field drugs she had hoped to use, which in many cases could literally force a patient into one state of consciousness or another, had hardened and crystallized. Only the simplest of compounds, such as cleansing alcohol, was in a usable state. Chellaina used the alcohol to clean Fenton's wound as she spoke with a gentle tear in her eye.
"I don't know if you can hear me, FennyI just don't know."
It had been quite some time since the disaster and the blood at the surface of the wound had already hardened, trapping dust and small grains of concrete that begged to invite infection. She cleaned as much of the dirt out as she could, then drew a quick breath when she uncovered a tiny patch of bare skull in the center of the wound.
"It doesn't look very good, Fenny."
She turned to her medical case, which was opened nearby, then set down the alcohol and sponge. She reached for her laser scalpel, but stopped short of picking it up.
"Oh, dear. It's been so long."
Her weathered eyes carefully looked across the vast array of instruments and supplies that filled her case as the unending sound of the emergency radio buzzed in the background. A subtle hint of relief came to her face as her eyes landed upon a field X-ray kit. She reached for the small pack, which was about the size of a large pocket calculator.
"I remember this."
She carefully opened the pack, which contained a film carrier and a small X-ray gun about the size of a matchbook. She picked up each item and thoroughly examined them as, piece by piece, it all started coming back to her.
It did not take long for Chellaina to remember how to use the field X-ray kit; she had used it countless times in her youth to look for broken bones, lodged bullets, and carnivorous robotic insects. She set the pack down in her case, then, with an uneasy degree of confidence, turned to Fenton with the film carrier and gun in hand.
"This won't hurt, Fenny, I'm just going to take your picture."
She held the film carrier against the back of The General's neck, being sure to cover the base of the skull, then positioned the X-ray gun in front of his throat. Using the kit required a certain knack; the gun had to be positioned exactly parallel to the film carrier before the gun would fire. She spent several minutes trying to get the proper alignment between the two devices when, finally, a ready light on the gun came on. Chellaina pushed a button on the gun; there was a short hum, then a tiny motor on the film carrier pushed out a 3 X 5 sheet of self- developing film.
Chellaina removed the exposed film from the carrier which, as yet, did not have a picture on it, and set it down in her case.
"I hope it's still good after all these years."
With some degree of confidence built up, Chellaina decided to get an X-ray of The General's skull while the neck X-ray was developing.
Fenton's head was lying in a precarious position; it was tilted downward somewhat because of the bulky helmet mounting collar on his spacesuit. The awkward position, however, worked to his wife's advantage; she had just enough room to slide the film carrier under his head without disturbing what might prove to be a broken neck or a fractured skull. After some fiddling with the gun position, Chellaina got the ready light, fired the gun, and the film carrier ejected an undeveloped X- ray.
"There," she spoke to her unconscious husband in a soft, gentle voice, "That wasn't so badwas it."
She set the undeveloped film down in her case, then picked up the neck X-ray, which was almost fully developed. A tear trickled down her cheek as a fragile smile came to her face. All the vertebras in his neck seemed to be in place and none of them were cracked. One of the vertebras, however, was much darker than the others; her smile grew as her eyes focused on the artificial vertebra. She slowly shook her head.
"I forgot all about that, Fenny." She drew a light, happy sniffle as she ran her hand over the photograph, "I did such good work back then."
She took a moment to recall as much detail about that eighteen-hour operation as possible, though most of those memories were hidden by the ages. After admiring the talent and well-earned reputation of her youth, she set down the photograph then picked up the X-ray of The General's skull.
Chellaina studied the X-ray for quite some time as she searched for hair-line cracks in her patient's skull. Like the neck, there was no sign of any fractures.
"It's just like they say, Fenny; hard- headed generals don't die easy."
She set the X-ray down in her case, then picked up the make-shift pillow that she had prepared earlier. She spoke gently to Fenton as she carefully lifted his head and slid the pillow underneath him.
"You're doing good so far, Fenny. You can have your pillow now."
She positioned his head as comfortably as possible, then kissed him tenderly on the cheek.
"I sure hope you can hear me, FennyI need someone to talk to." She paused to glance at the life support equipment, whose receiver was still buzzing and hissing with the same, unintelligible signal. After listening to the strange sound for a moment or two, she returned her attention to Fenton.
"I've done good, Fenny." She nodded her assurance, "You would be proud of me."
She patted him gently on the cheek, then turned her attention to the wound on the side of his head.
After examining the wound for quite some time, Chellaina decided that there was little alternative other than closing it surgically. She thought about how long it had been since she used a scalpel; she swallowed hard, then turned her attention to her medical case.
Chellaina felt uneasy as she slowly picked up the laser scalpel. She carefully examined the pen-like device and its assortment of controls; it was the kind of device that could be as deadly as it was life-saving. She wondered if it still worked, and if her aged, feeble hands could still hold it steady.
It was all coming back to her; she looked at the X-ray of the skull, then set a small dial on the back of the laser to limit the depth of the cut to about an eighth of an inch. She slid a tiny switch on the side of the scalpel, then a faint, narrow beam of green light projected out of the end.
"Goodthe alignment beam still works."
Chellaina gathered up a scrap of her hanging, tattered clothes, then brought the scalpel next to the material. After positioning the alignment beam, she pressed a trigger on the side of the device; the faint, green beam suddenly changed to an intense red as the cloth began to smoke ever-so-slightly.
Chellaina tested the scalpel, and her skills, by carving a small smiley face in the scrap of material. Several tiny patches of cloth fell away as she formed the eyes and mouth of the smiley face. When she was done, she had a surprisingly accurate rendition of the age-old icon. She smiled as her confidence grew; she thought that, perhaps her hobby of crocheting helped keep her hands nimble enough to use a scalpel. She turned her attention to The General and his wound.
"I hope you can hear me, Fenny, but I hope you can't feel anything; my anesthetics went bad and I don't have anything for pain. You'll just have to be strong."
She leaned over the wound, then carefully aligned the faint, green beam on the jagged, crushed edges of the wound. She drew a deep breath and held it, then pressed the trigger.
The damaged flesh sizzled and smoked somewhat as Chellaina carefully drew the bright red beam over the mangled area of flesh. Bit by bit, small pieces of useless, dead flesh fell away from the wound, exposing just a little more of the skull underneath. About half-way through the procedure, Chellaina released the trigger, took another deep breath, then resumed the cut.
It hardly took any time to rid the wound of dead flesh, though it seemed like an eternity to Chellaina. When the last cut was made, she turned off her scalpel, then carefully inspected her work.
"Almost done, Fenny."
Chellaina smiled and nodded her approval when she saw that the edges of the wound were marked by sharp, clean cuts, and that all the unhealthy flesh had been removed. She guessed that the wound could be properly closed with about four or five stitches.
She set the scalpel down in her case, then picked up a pair of surgical gloves and a small sterilized package containing suture and an assortment of needles. She donned the gloves, opened the package of suture, then returned her attention to the wound.
The shelter was quiet, except for the buzzing of the emergency radio, as Chellaina carefully closed the wound. The first stitch proved to be the most difficult; it wasn't her best work, but it would certainly suffice. By the time she completed the second stitch, she had regained some of her familiarity with the art and was much more pleased with its appearance. She continued with the third and fourth stitch.
Abruptly, the monotonous buzz of the emergency radio ceased; all was quiet except for the subtle hum of the reactor. Chellaina paused for a brief moment to glance at the life support system.
"Oh, dear. I hope it didn't quit."
She saw no smoke coming from the machine, or any other obvious signs of danger; she returned her attention to the fifth and final stitch.
The final stitch went rather smoothly; Chellaina cut the last piece of suture then set it and the needle in her case. She removed her surgical gloves, let out a sigh of relief, then turned to her husband. She laid a frail hand on the side of his face as she gently spoke to him.
"That's all I can do for you, Fenny." She shook her head, "No matter how advanced medicine gets, we still can't fix a bump on the head."
She bent down and gave him a gentle kiss.
"Now it all depends on you and the Almighty."
Suddenly, and without warning, the emergency radio began to emit a harsh series of squeals and moans. Chellaina drew a quick breath as she snapped her head toward the life support system and its radio; she had never heard anything so strange and ominous in all her life. An uneasiness crept over her as she listened to the strange series of sounds for nearly a minute. Then, almost as suddenly as it started, it came to an abrupt end.
She looked down at her fallen hero, "I think something's wrong with the"
The sound returned. Again, Chellaina looked to the life support system. An uneasiness crept across her face as she listened; the sound was very similar to the sound she had heard a moment or two earlier, but it seemed to be more distant and marked by a different tonal quality. Shortly thereafter, silence returned, only to be broken again by the original sound; almost as if it were some kind of conversation.
Chellaina drew a quick breath and brought an uneasy hand up to her mouth as she listened to the exchange. The more she listened, the more it seemed like a conversation in a foreign languageexcept the sounds were nothing like anything a human could produce.
"Fenny," she whispered, "Something is wrongvery wrong." Her frightened eyes briefly glanced at the radio, then returned to Fenton. "Please wake up, FennyI hear strange voices!"
A third voice briefly came into the arena; it sounded similar to the first two voices, but was slightly marred by the sound of noisy equipment in the background. The third voice was short-lived, then the channel returned to an exchange between the first two voices. The strange, unearthly series of sounds persisted indefinitely.
Chellaina's fear drove her closer to The General's unconscious body. She held close to her fallen hero as she spoke in a frightened whisper.
"I don't think they're people like us, Fenny. Something wicked is about... Please wake up."

The strange voices continued as the miserable, lonely hours passed at a painfully slow pace. Chellaina sat there among the ruins, clutching her husband's unconscious body as she listened to each and every unintelligible word. She hoped and prayed that Fenton would wake up soon and tell her that nothing was wrongthat they would be alright. Though, in the chambers of her own mind, she was dead certain that something very wicked had taken placeand that nothing in their quiet little world of Theti would ever be the same again.