Aftershock

by Jill Sorenson

  Hadn’t she suffered enough?

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” Owen said.

  “By stanching the blood flow, you saved his life,” Lauren said. “That was smart.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Owen thought she was staying positive for Cadence’s benefit. He doubted Don would survive the wound, so Owen’s T-shirt tourniquet made no difference.

  Keeping his palm pressed to his pectoral muscle, he slipped outside, avoiding Cadence’s tearful gaze. If someone had told him a week ago that he’d rather cut off his skin than hurt a little girl’s feelings, he’d have laughed in their face. But the last few days had changed him, brought him a step closer to the man he wanted to be.

  Still, he was no hero. Although Garrett needed him—assuming he was still alive—Owen hesitated. He stared into the dark, reluctant to go on a suicide mission. His nerves were jangled, his feet glued to the ground.

  If the situations were reversed, he knew Garrett wouldn’t leave him hanging. Chickening out was not an option. So he removed the hammer from his belt loop and receded into the darkness once again, ready to fight.

  * * *

  GARRETT CURSED UNDER his breath as Jeb lit up the cavern with gunfire.

  One of the bullets struck the wall above his hiding place. Debris rained down on the ground near him and concrete dust tickled his nose. He didn’t dare inhale for fear of choking on the cloud.

  Jeb had fired twice in the opposite direction. Garrett didn’t think it was a coincidence. Don and Owen must have done something to draw his attention.

  In the ensuing chaos, Garrett couldn’t make sense of what was happening. Both of his comrades might be lying dead or bleeding. He needed to find an opportunity to escape so he could help them.

  Swallowing hard, he listened for movement. Either Jeb had bad aim, or he didn’t know where Garrett was. Banking on the latter, he edged out from underneath the car and took a quick glance around it.

  Jeb kept his gun raised as he scanned the immediate area. Mickey had opened the passenger door of the truck. He looked groggy.

  “Follow me,” Jeb ordered Mickey. “Not too close, though.”

  Garrett ducked back down, his blood pumping with adrenaline. Jeb was going to come after him. He couldn’t hide and hope for the best. Figuring it was do-or-die, Garrett burst from behind the blackened car and made a run for it. He sprinted toward the next vehicle, abandoning stealth in favor of speed.

  Sure enough, Jeb spotted him and opened fire. The car’s front windshield exploded, sending a waterfall of glass across the broken asphalt. Now that he’d been seen, Garrett had no choice but to keep going. He headed toward the east wall and ran away from the RV, keeping his head as low as possible.

  Garrett had made a grievous error in underestimating Jeb. He might be stupid enough to get drunk, crash into parked cars and waste water, but he was stingy with his bullets. He also didn’t let down his guard.

  While Garrett weaved through the shadows, crouching behind any object that would provide cover, Jeb followed close behind, stalking him with the patience of an experienced hunter.

  This motherfucker had probably grown up in backwoods Alabama. Garrett had known plenty of military men like him. They could chew through swamp grass, wrestle gators and shoot the balls off a squirrel at a hundred yards.

  Mickey’s footsteps echoed in the distance. Jeb’s approach was silent.

  Garrett skirted around another car, almost losing his balance as his boot slipped in a large puddle of blood. It looked bad, but not as bad as a dead body. There was a chance that Owen and Don had made it back to the RV.

  The shadows shifted, edging closer.

  Cursing silently, Garrett darted behind another vehicle, aware that he was leaving bloody footprints in his wake. He was also sweating, his body emanating fear and nervous energy. Jeb might be able to smell him.

  In another few strides, his back was literally against the wall. He’d arrived at the pile of rubble where they’d buried the dead.

  Garrett considered circling around and attempting another ambush. But Jeb would be ready for it this time. So would Mickey.

  Working quietly, he removed some of the rocks from the tarp. Before he could rethink the decision, he crawled in among the dead bodies, making a space next to Mrs. Engle. He tried not to identify any specific parts. Grimacing, he covered himself up and waited.

  He didn’t know how he endured it. Minutes felt like hours. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Every shallow inhale felt like death creeping into his lungs. The burned corpses had smelled awful when fresh. Now, the stench was unbearable.

  Garrett suffered from a lack of oxygen, and an overabundance of imagination. He thought he could hear maggot activity. The soft squish of decomposition sent chills down his spine. His cheek was pressed against exposed bone, his hands buried in gore. If he had to hide here for much longer, he’d go crazy.

  He couldn’t think about Lauren. No. In a place like this, recalling a woman’s taste and scent was impossible. A sacrilege.

  In a dark corner of his mind, he was aware of Jeb’s voice. Garrett couldn’t make out his exact words, but he noted that the conversation wasn’t whispered or low pitched. They didn’t know Garrett was nearby.

  Soon, the sound faded.

  Garrett stayed still for as long as possible before he crawled out of the makeshift grave, bits of rotten flesh clinging to him. There was no sign of Jeb or Mickey. He replaced the rocks on the tarp, trying not to vomit.

  “Wait until you try to climb again, hero!” Jeb’s shout echoed across the cavern. “I’ll be watching you.”

  The taunt came from the north end, so Garrett knew Jeb couldn’t see him. Ignoring it, he beat a silent retreat toward the motor home. The lights inside the RV and triage tent created a soft glow in the middle of the cavern. Garrett was so focused on getting to safety that he almost jumped out of his skin when a figure rose up from the shadows.

  Owen stepped forward, his hammer raised. When he recognized Garrett, he lowered the weapon slowly, covering his nose with the crook of his arm.

  “Fuck,” he choked. “You stink.”

  “Where’s Don?”

  “In the tent with Lauren,” he said, gesturing with the hammer. “He’s in bad shape.”

  “What happened?”

  “We tried to run away, and...he got shot.”

  Garrett struggled against a wave of guilt. This was his fault. He’d gotten his crowbar caught on the bumper and miscalculated his opponent. His plan had been faulty, his intelligence flawed and his execution a disaster.

  “Where were you?” Owen asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said curtly, removing his sweatshirt. Using a clean edge of fabric, he wiped away some of the grime as they walked back to camp.

  Owen had also taken off his jacket and shirt. Jailhouse tattoos covered his lean torso. White Pride was written in Old English lettering in an arch over his stomach. There was a burning cross on his upper chest.

  Garrett shook his head at the sight, feeling numb. They were a couple of miscreants. Owen just broadcast his flaws, while Garrett hid his deep inside.

  “Do you think they’ll come after us?” Owen asked.

  “Hopefully not tonight.”

  As they approached the RV, a muffled cry of pain rang out. It was Penny. They exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

  “Is anyone in there with
her?” Garrett asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, go help her.”

  “Me?”

  “Who else?”

  Owen contemplated the door of the RV, gulping with trepidation. Garrett suspected that he was more intimidated by women in labor than men with guns. “Okay,” he said anyway, preparing to go inside.

  Garrett thought about telling him to put a shirt on first, but he had more important issues to deal with. Don might be dead or dying. He continued toward the triage tent, determined to face the consequences of his actions.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LAUREN DIDN’T THINK she could save Don.

  His wound was life-threatening, and he’d lost a critical amount of blood. Almost half his supply, by her estimate.

  She applied tourniquets above and below Owen’s makeshift binding while Cadence fetched a crate to prop his foot on, elevating the injury. Lauren put an oxygen tube in him and attached a large IV in his arm for rapid fluid intake.

  Unfortunately, she was low on fluids. Five hundred milliliters of lactated Ringer’s went quickly. She had several bags of normal saline, but not enough to replace his total blood loss.

  Pushing that problem aside for now, she focused on his leg. A wound this serious would require surgery, and she was no surgeon. Working carefully, she untied the T-shirt, which was soaked red. The hemorrhage was under control because of the tourniquets. Don’s heart rate had also slowed dramatically, which helped matters. Unconsciousness was the body’s way of conserving resources.

  Leaving a tourniquet in place for more than a short time could be fatal. Lauren had to employ another method to stop the bleeding. Taking a deep breath, she cut away the fabric of his trousers and examined the injury.

  The bullet had entered the back of his thigh and come out the front. An exit wound wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Gunshot trauma created a very destructive path, leaving destroyed tissue and broken bones inside.

  In Don’s case, the majority of the internal damage involved the femoral artery. It appeared nicked, rather than severed, and she didn’t feel any fractures.

  The femoral artery was almost as important as the carotid, so Lauren couldn’t put a Band-Aid on it and hope for a miracle. She couldn’t close off the blood flow or let it spill freely. Cauterizing the wound wasn’t an option, and repairing the artery was a complicated procedure. She didn’t have the equipment or the expertise.

  Without fluid replacement, he wouldn’t live anyway.

  “Can you fix it?” Cadence asked, her eyes pleading.

  Normally, Lauren didn’t like having relatives or loved ones in her workspace. They got in the way, asked distracting questions and slowed her down. This situation was different, because Lauren had no one else to help her.

  “I’ll try,” she promised, searching through her medical kit. She’d have to apply a pressure dressing to replace the tourniquets. The procedure wouldn’t save him, but it was a start. And she had to do something.

  While she was gathering the supplies she needed, Garrett appeared at the front of the tent, startling her.

  He was filthy. His face was streaked with what appeared to be a mixture of blood and charcoal. The unpleasant odor of singed flesh clung to him. His eyes were dull, as if he’d been to hell and back. Although he bore an uncanny resemblance to a corpse, he was clearly alive, maybe even unharmed.

  Lauren hadn’t realized until now that she’d assumed he was dead. She’d been completely focused on Don, refusing to consider Garrett’s fate. The sight of him made her eyes water and her knees turn to jelly.

  He’d made it.

  Cadence gave him a curious glance. “You smell like my dog after he rolls around in the garbage.”

  The corner of his mouth tipped up a little. “How’s your grandpa?”

  “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Now his eyes were watery, brimming with emotion. He looked away for a moment, taking a ragged breath. When he’d pulled himself together, he turned to Lauren. “I’m type O, if you need a donor.”

  She blinked at this unexpected news. “O negative?”

  “Yeah. I’ve given blood before. Lots of times.”

  Lauren’s mind raced with possibilities. Could she perform a basic transfusion with the supplies she already had? Maybe she could cache the blood in the empty IV-fluid bags, and then transfer them to Don as soon as they were full.

  First, she had to bandage his leg. If she couldn’t stop the bleeding, there was no reason to do a transfusion. The donor sample would flow right out and be wasted.

  After packing the wound with wet/dry gauze, she wrapped the bandage material around his leg, winding it tight. It was very likely that Don would lose the leg no matter what she did. But she had to sacrifice the limb to save his life. When she was finished with the pressure dressing, she removed the tourniquets, praying for success. To her amazement, the technique seemed to be working. The bandage held.

  So far, so good.

  “Lie down next to him,” she told Garrett.

  He reclined on the floor of the tent. Grabbing an antiseptic wipe, she passed it to him. “Clean the crook of your arm,” she said, rising to collect the empty fluid bags and an IV kit with an eighteen-gauge needle. She also needed sodium nitrate. The anticoagulant had other uses, so she had some on hand.

  After Garrett scrubbed his arm, she knelt beside him, tying off the vein. Again, she noted that he had great blood pressure. Uncapping the needle, she pressed down on the ropey vein, puncturing it easily. He made a quiet hiss of discomfort. She attached the empty IV bag and released the tourniquet, watching the tube turn red.

  Satisfied with her work, she secured the IV with tape so it wouldn’t get dislodged. When the bag was full, she cut off the flow from Garrett’s IV. Before transferring the blood to Don, she mixed in the sodium nitrate. This additive would keep the blood from clotting inside the vein, but had no adverse effects.

  She hooked the full bag to Don and attached another empty bag to Garrett. For several minutes, she monitored Don’s vital signs. He didn’t regain consciousness, but he seemed to be having a positive reaction.

  “How are you?” she asked Garrett, who would have to give a lot more blood.

  “Fine,” he said, closing his eyes. “Walk in the park.”

  Compared to whatever he’d done earlier, it probably was. Lauren hadn’t sorted through her feelings about the dangerous venture. She’d been furious with him for leaving, terrified when he hadn’t come back.

  His sudden reappearance didn’t ease her anxiety. Obviously, the plan had gone awry. They’d gained nothing in the raid, and almost lost Don.

  They could still lose Don.

  “When will he wake up?” Cadence asked.

  “I don’t know,” Lauren replied. She’d never performed a blood transfusion on the fly before. It just wasn’t done. Estimating his recovery time was impossible. “He might sleep for a few days, like Sam.”

  Cadence frowned at Sam, who was wasting away slowly. “Maybe you should give him some blood, too.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea.

  Garrett pumped his fist to make the blood come faster. “I’ve got plenty.”

  Cadence held Don’s hand for a moment before returning her attention to Garrett. “I miss my dad,” she whispered.

  “I miss mine, too.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “We just don’t see each other anymore.”
/>   Lauren adjusted the IV drip, thinking of her own father. She didn’t want to disturb Cadence by mentioning his death.

  “Your dad is Don’s son?” Garrett asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a police officer.”

  “Get out of town. Where at?”

  “Irvine Meadows.”

  “That sounds like a nice place to live.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “It is.”

  Cadence had been managing the trauma well, so far. She’d stayed upbeat. Having Penny and Don around seemed to help her cope. Although she spoke of her mother often, the girl hadn’t mentioned her dad until now. Lauren assumed that Cadence’s father was white, like Don. Maybe Garrett reminded her of him.

  Exchanging a glance with Lauren, he stretched out his right arm. Cadence curled up next to him and buried her face in his T-shirt, which wasn’t half as dirty as his jeans. He didn’t tell her not to cry. He just gave her his shoulder and held her tight.

  Lauren tore her gaze away, blinking the moisture from her eyes. Again, she wondered if Garrett had kids. He’d been kind to Cadence, but he didn’t give the impression of an experienced parent. Her heart rejected the notion. She couldn’t picture him as a doting family man, betraying his wife and children.

  It hurt too much to imagine.

  * * *

  PENNY WANTED TO DIE.

  Before she left, Lauren had set the stage for childbirth. She’d placed a plastic barrier on the bed and covered it with a sheet. Then she’d given Penny something for the pain and promised she’d be okay.

  When Owen dragged in Don from the shadows, Lauren took him to the triage tent. Cadence had followed close behind, crying her eyes out.

  Penny was on her own. In labor. Terrified.

  The contractions were coming faster, less than five minutes apart. Lauren had told her not to worry. As soon as her body was ready, she’d feel a strong urge to push. What Penny felt now was a strong urge to vomit.

  Another contraction ripped through her, making her writhe in discomfort. Each one lasted longer, and hurt more. She clenched her hands into fists and let out a strangled cry as it passed. At this rate, she’d be delirious by the time the baby came.