Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel

by May, L M

  Gemma didn't have time to feel relief. Or to wonder what the night squad was, or why they were running away.

  The leader turned and pointed his gun at Christopher's head.

  Gemma jerked to her feet, exposing herself.

  She aimed at the man's head, her finger already on the trigger.

  Too late she saw movement to her left as she fired.

  Her ears rang as a second shot cracked through the air.

  She dropped to the ground, taking cover.

  She didn't realize she'd been hit until she felt the warmth spilling down her belly.

  Then the pain hit her.

  27

  “Gemma?” Christopher roared, lurching unsteadily to his feet.

  He stepped over the body of his attacker. He hoped the bastard was dead.

  The man let out a groan, one hand reaching out to close around Christopher's ankle. The other hand going for the gun on the ground.

  Christopher kicked him away with a savage growl. Ignoring the pain that ripped through his belly, he scooped up the gun.

  Doubled over, he stumbled toward the place where he'd seen Gemma go down.

  Why didn't she run when he told her to? Now was not the time to be playing hero for crying out loud.

  “Over here.” Gemma's voice was weak. Feeble. But damn, it was good to hear it.

  Christopher eased himself over the brick wall. A spasm seized his gut as he lowered himself down beside her, dropping the gun to the ground.

  Gemma's back was against the wall. She was curled up in a ball, hugging her knees to her chest. Her head rested on her arms.

  “Gemma?” Christopher gently drew her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear.

  “I'm okay.” Gemma raised her head. The blood had drained from her face, giving her skin an ashy-gray pallor.

  “No. You're not,” Christopher said softly, the blood rushing through his ears.

  Alarmed at the dark stain spreading across her shirt, he tried to lift it to see how bad the damage was.

  Gemma's center tightened as she tried to twist away from him.

  “Let me see.”

  “No.”

  “God damn it, Gemma,” Christopher growled, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

  “You're just trying to cop a perv,” Gemma said, but he could hear the smile in her tone which infuriated the hell out of him. She never knew when to stop.

  Not knowing what else to do, Christopher pulled his shirt over his head. He wadded it up into a ball, and pressed it to the side of her body where the blood seemed to be heaviest.

  “No – here.” Gemma's cold, clammy hand closed over his, the whites of her eyes glowing in the moonlight.

  Christopher sucked in a breath, telling himself not to panic as Gemma's warm blood pumped through his fingers. He adjusted the shirt, pressing down.

  The bullet had hit the side of her torso, between her ribcage and her hipbone. What vital organs were hidden there? The kidney? The spleen? What if it had pierced her lungs? No, there would be blood coming out of her mouth, wouldn't there?

  It could have hit an artery – there was so much blood.

  “Tell the truth–” Gemma's voice was weak, raspy, and he leaned closer to hear her.

  Gemma stared at his chest, her eyes glazing over. “You have been working out, haven't you?”

  “Yeah.” Christopher kept his tone light. She was obviously terrified. “You never know when you might have some hot babe checking you out.”

  Gemma chuckled, but it quickly became a cough. Her smile crumpled, became a grimace. Her hands gripped her belly.

  Was that blood on her mouth?

  Christopher wiped it away with his finger.

  Gemma met his eye. “Bit my lip when I hit the ground. Damn, it hurt,” she grabbed his hand before he could pull away, holding his finger to her bottom lip. “Still hurts.”

  “Your – your lip hurts?” Christopher couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice. The woman was beyond figuring out. She had just gotten shot and she was complaining about her lip?

  “And the bullet?” he asked.

  “What bullet?” Gemma's eyes widened, but her shaky smile quickly gave her away and she knew it. “Nope. Didn't feel a thing.”

  Her mouth closed over the tip of his finger, her teeth pressing into his skin as she bit back the pain, a fresh shudder running through her body.

  The overwhelming urge of desire that ripped through Christopher shocked him to his core.

  She looked so fragile, so vulnerable. What the hell was wrong with him?

  “Aren't you going to kiss it better?” Gemma's eyes were large and round.

  He wanted to do a lot more than kiss it better. As he leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to Gemma's lips, it suddenly hit him that he could lose her.

  With the salty tang of Gemma's blood on his lips, insight filled him. Home wasn't just his family. It was all the memories it held, and Gemma played a very large part in them.

  Hadn't he searched the streets – the aisles in the store – whenever he was in town? Hoping to catch a glimpse of her?

  And every time he drove past the school, he found his eyes roaming the grounds before he realized what he was doing.

  And now he might have gotten her killed; he should have realized something was wrong as they passed through the eerily quiet streets.

  “I'm sorry,” Christopher said.

  “Sorry?” Gemma looked confused.

  “This is all my fault.”

  “How the hell is this your fault?” Gemma winced at the force of her words.

  “I should have insisted we wait until morning.”

  “You're an idiot.” Gemma tried to thump him, but her hand just landed on his chest and stayed there. She was a lot weaker than she was letting on.

  “I know,” Christopher said. She was absolutely right.

  “Since when have I listened to you?” Gemma asked. “I was the one who wanted to keep going.”

  “I could have stopped you.”

  “You think?”

  “Point taken,” Christopher said, alarmed by how weak her voice had grown. How pale her face was. “Now be quiet. Save your strength while I figure out what the hell to do.”

  “You still don't get it, do you Christopher?”

  “Get what?”

  “I don't need to be saved. I never needed to be saved.”

  Now it was Christopher's turn to be confused, but before he could ask what she meant, Gemma took a deep shuddery breath, and her eyes drooped closed.

  He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temple. He had no idea what to do. But he had to keep her awake, conscious, until he figured it out.

  He could empty out the trailer. Put her in it. Would there be anyone at the hospital?

  “Christopher?”

  “Mmm?” he murmured, his throat thick with emotion.

  “There's someone else who needs you.”

  Christopher frowned, not entirely sure he liked where this was going.

  “Your son. CJ. He needs you.”

  “I'm going to empty out the trailer,” Christopher said softly. His throat ached and his voice was thick and raspy.

  He had to find help. And this was not a conversation he wanted to be having. Not here, not now – not like this.

  “Listen to me, damn it.” Gemma winced, her eyes rolling back in her head.

  “Gemma?” he didn't even try to keep the panic out of his voice.

  “Still here,” Gemma said, then a moment later, more vehemently, “Promise me you'll be a father to CJ. He already lost his mother. There is no one else–”

  “You're not going to die,” Christopher cut her off fiercely.

  “Didn't say I was,” Gemma said.

  “Fine – if I promise – will you quit talking?” He'd do anything to shut her up – even the effort of talking was taking an obvious toll on her.

  “What?” Gemma rasped. “You aren't going to deny he's your son?
”

  “Everything all right?” a voice called out.

  Christopher's first thought was relief that he didn't have to answer.

  The relief was quickly replaced by fear.

  He craned his neck over the wall. There was a bright flashlight beam shining over the scattered contents of the trailer. He hadn't even heard them approaching.

  There were three men and a woman.

  The man holding the flashlight was wearing a uniform, but Christopher had no idea if that even meant anything anymore.

  “We're over here,” Gemma called weakly.

  Christopher tried to hush her, but it was too late. The flashlight was already moving their way.

  “Whoever they are,” Gemma's fingers tightened on his hand, “they scared the others away.”

  * * *

  It didn't really cross Gemma's mind that she could die. Not at first. The pain wasn't all that bad, though she suspected she'd gone into shock.

  But when the world started to fade around her she was suddenly terrified. Not of dying itself, exactly. Her senses were too numb to feel that sort of fear.

  She didn't really believe in any particular religion, but deep down she did believe there was some sort of higher power. Some sort of after. It wasn't something she could explain in words exactly. It was more of a feeling – a sense – buried deep inside her. That there was something bigger than herself; bigger than humanity. It seemed impossible that there wouldn't be: that someone could just cease to exist – it was too hard to get her head around.

  When her father died, she worried about him. Where he was. If she would ever see him again.

  She often felt his comforting presence, especially in those early days. The sensation was so strong that if she closed her eyes, she could smell him sitting beside her; leather and grass and fresh earth, and underlying it was a spicy tang – a scent that was peculiar to her father.

  And sometimes – sometimes she would pretend he was really there. Spill her worries to him. And occasionally, he even answered, telling her what she already knew.

  There were those that believed these ghostly visitations were nothing more than fancy – a sort of whimsical memory. Others believed them to be something more – that they couldn't just be explained away by science.

  But it hadn't been until her mother died that Gemma was sure there was an after. As she'd held her mother's scrawny hand, her haggard face had seemed to soften. And when her mother opened her eyes, lucid for the first time in days, the look on her face had taken Gemma's breath away.

  No longer did she see the woman who'd been broken by the death of her husband, and the men who'd come after; instead she saw the woman her mother had been when her father was alive.

  It was the smile on her mother's face – a smile that spoke of the hereafter – that convinced her.

  The way she spoke her father's name on her last and final breath. The peaceful calm that oozed from her, and the smile still curling the corners of her lips as she left Gemma alone in the world.

  As a bright light shone down on her, Gemma detected a hint of Old Spice in the air.

  “Gemma?”

  The voice was familiar, but she had trouble focusing. Could feel herself fading in and out, in and out, the dark void beckoning her into its embrace.

  “Gemma. Honey?”

  More urgent this time.

  Gemma opened her eyes, squinting against the brightness.

  A dark shape hovered over her, silhouetted by the light.

  Beside it was another shape, this one more feminine.

  Gemma felt Christopher scoop her up, his scent so familiar and comforting. She turned her face into his warm chest, away from the bright beam of the flashlight.

  She was glad she made Christopher promise to take responsibility for his son. She wasn't entirely sure she hadn't taken advantage of the moment – from the look on Christopher's face he was convinced she was dying.

  But she was made of stronger stuff than that – and the pain really hadn't been all that bad. She knew she hadn't lost enough blood to kill her.

  She was starting to feel cold, which meant her body had stopped regulating her temperature. Her heart was still steady even if it was weak.

  Not one given to panic, Gemma calmly analyzed her situation as the night squad panicked at the sight of so much blood.

  When CJ split his head open last year the amount of blood pouring out scared her and Caroline, but the doctor had reassured them, saying that it always looked like there was more blood than there really was.

  Turned out the doctor was wrong – the amount of blood Gemma had lost was a lot more than it looked.

  When Gemma briefly regained consciousness, she was in a bed in a dimly lit room, a blood-filled tube connecting her and Christopher. Just another way that they fit; they had the same blood type.

  Christopher smiled at her through the foggy haze that was her world, his face strained and tired and badly bruised. A small, busy-looking woman bustled around the room.

  Gemma had time to note that she wasn't going to reach home by night's end after all, then the darkness took her back into its welcoming fold.

  She drifted in and out, the dull ache in her side pulling her from her sleep. She vaguely remembered talking to the woman she'd seen earlier.

  The next time she woke she was more alert. Christopher was asleep in the chair beside her, his head cocked at an awkward angle.

  She wasn't in a hospital like she'd first assumed, but in someone's home.

  A female officer was standing at the foot of the bed, talking with Martha Stewart – the woman who was both her doctor, and her host.

  “You're awake,” Martha said, her plump cheeks curving as her face broke into a friendly smile. She was an attractive Indian woman with dark, wavy hair. She had a small red bindi on her forehead, and wore a modern version of the traditional sari in deep maroon tones with golden threads woven through it.

  Martha placed a reassuring hand on Gemma's arm, squeezing softly. “Georgia here wants to speak to you about the thugs who shot you if you're up to it.”

  Gemma nodded, and started to pull herself into a sitting position, stopping when she felt a sharp stab of pain. She felt the bandage on her belly shift as she moved and glanced down.

  She was wearing an oversized dark blue t-shirt, and there was a pale cotton blanket draped over her.

  Pushing the blanket down, Gemma lifted the shirt.

  The thick white bandage covered most of the left side of her stomach, and stretched around behind her back.

  “How bad was it?” Gemma asked, her words slurring slightly. She still felt groggy and strange. “I think I already asked you that before, didn't I?”

  “It's not unusual to feel disorientated,” Martha assured her. “You were lucky. The bullet missed your kidney by about an inch, and your artery by a little less than that.”

  Gemma's tongue was thick and swollen. “When will I be able to go home?”

  The idea of cycling – or even walking – the forty miles to town made her want to weep. She didn't think there was a single part of her that didn't ache.

  Christopher stirred, his eyes heavy with sleep. “Tomorrow morning if we're lucky,” he said, stretching his neck. “One of the men in the night squad is trying to organize a car. They were planning on heading over that way in the next few days anyway.”

  “Really? No more riding?” Gemma brightened. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

  28

  Christopher couldn't take his eyes off Gemma. Even through the darkest hours of the morning he kept jerking awake, torn from the tormented landscapes of his broken dreams.

  The need to hold her in his arms was overpowering, a physical ache that left him feeling empty and barren.

  He'd been so sure he was going to lose her, and frustration and anger warred inside him; the world they now faced made him feel useless and ill-prepared.

  Never before had he known such fear.

  He couldn't imag
ine living in a world where Gemma didn't exist.

  The events after the night squad arrived were a blur of activity, his memory of them disconnected and fragmented. He remembered the woman – Vicky – and one of the men trying to pull Gemma away from him. The way he wouldn't let go.

  He remembered carefully laying Gemma's bleeding body in the trailer, pushing through the pain that racked him. And the way someone had to steady him.

  Then there was the long stumble to the doctor's house. He felt Gemma's pain every time they went over a bump. Every time they had to stop suddenly when they heard a noise.

  Roger – the one with the flashlight – had walked ahead. Vicky had stuck close to his side, steadying him when he stumbled and talking nonstop when he just wanted to concentrate on Gemma.

  He vaguely recalled asking Vicky questions. About the night squad patrolling the streets. If she knew what things were like back home. But he couldn't remember a word she said.

  Christopher refused to leave Gemma's side as the doctor removed the bullet, but at some stage he passed out. He woke in a chair, Martha Stewart's worried face leaning over him.

  Then she dropped a bombshell. Gemma would die without a blood transfusion.

  Christopher immediately volunteered.

  The doctor shook her head, insisting he was too weak. That it was too risky; they had no idea what Gemma's blood type was and no way of finding out fast enough to save her.

  “I'm O negative,” Christopher growled, sensing the doctor had already given up on Gemma. Besides, he didn't want anyone's blood in her but his, not when they couldn't test it.

  He shoved his arm in front of the small Indian woman. When she hesitated, Christopher grabbed the tourniquet out of her hand and used his teeth to strap it to his arm. He would have jammed the needle in himself if she refused.

  At one stage Gemma had grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him toward her – hissing at him to remember his promise – but for the life of him, he couldn't remember when that was.

  “Christopher?”

  Christopher opened his eyes, pulled from his thoughts. He was glad to see they were finally alone. Until he saw the look on Gemma's face. It was a look he knew well.