Aftershock

by Jill Sorenson

  To her dismay, Garrett quickly lost the upper hand. He doubled over with a wince, and then sidestepped to avoid another blow. She saw that his left arm was taped, and he appeared to be favoring his right.

  Lauren had to act now. If she didn’t, Mickey might win. When he took another swing at Garrett, she stepped in, smacking him over the head with the baseball bat. He swayed on his feet, did a clumsy pirouette and crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

  Well. She finished that, didn’t she?

  Garrett didn’t seem pleased with her interference. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “Helping,” she said, giving him a withering look. Duh.

  “I could have handled it. You were supposed to stay in the RV.”

  “Oh, shut up.” She tossed aside the baseball bat, her hands shaking. He was already wounded. If she’d obeyed his orders, Mickey might have finished him off. She swallowed hard, disturbed by the thought. Her knees felt rubbery, so she knelt to inspect Owen. The cut on his calf needed stitches, but it wouldn’t cripple him.

  “Here,” Garrett said, passing her a roll of duct tape.

  As she reached out to take it, their gazes connected. He knew she was rattled; she saw the concern in his eyes. “Where’s Jeb?”

  “Over there,” Garrett said, indicating the north side.

  “Is he coming back?”

  “He could try. He’d have to crawl, though.”

  She frowned in disapproval, wrapping duct tape around Owen’s leg as a temporary fix. “What happened to your arm?”

  “It can wait,” he said curtly. “Let’s tie up Mickey before he comes to.”

  Although he’d planned to restrain the prisoners with rope, Lauren did the honors with duct tape to save time.

  “He’ll be able to bite through that,” Garrett said.

  “If he wakes up.”

  “You don’t think he will?”

  She evaluated his condition, deliberating. Mickey had been dealt several blows to the head, and he’d sustained multiple lacerations in the tar pit. If they left him like this, bound and unconscious, he might die. “I should bandage the deeper cuts.”

  “It’s your call,” Garrett said, his mouth thin. “I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.”

  His lack of empathy didn’t surprise her. Garrett had a soldier’s mind-set. He’d been trained to show no mercy.

  The medical field was different. Professional ethics decreed that she treat every patient with diligence and respect. A decorated war hero and a despicable criminal should receive the same level of care, in theory. Her personal feelings were irrelevant. But would keeping Mickey alive put the rest of them in danger?

  This man had tried to rape her. She wanted him to pay for his actions. In a court of law, preferably.

  Saying nothing, she used duct tape to bandage the worst of his cuts. The tar that covered his skin would help stopper the shallow lacerations. While she was fixing him up, Garrett retrieved a bike chain and padlock from their cache of supplies. Wrapping one end of the chain around a car axle, he encircled Mickey’s neck with the other. Leaving him room to breathe—barely—he secured the padlock and put the key in his pocket.

  It was barbaric, but effective. There was no way Mickey could get free. Owen and Garrett exchanged a hard smile over his ingenuity.

  Lauren was struck by a sense of kinship between them, along with a disturbing similarity she didn’t want to examine. Yesterday, Garrett had seemed hostile toward Owen, or indifferent. Now they were like...blood brothers. These violent acts had brought them closer.

  She felt uneasy about their camaraderie. As a woman of peace, she’d always championed civility and restraint. None of the men she knew used brute strength to succeed. Michael hadn’t even played sports for fear of injuring his hands. He’d worked tirelessly to save lives, but never lifted a finger outside the hospital.

  Garrett and Owen looked like a pair of ruffians in comparison. They were filthy, and bloody, and unrefined.

  They’d probably enjoy watching Mickey die.

  Garrett had claimed he wasn’t much different from the convicts. Owen was a convict. They both had tragic pasts, and were well versed in fisticuffs. What else did they have in common?

  She rose to her feet and followed them away, unsettled. Maybe she was a classist snob, prejudiced against blue-collar men. But she had the sinking suspicion that she was missing something.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IT WAS GETTING crowded in the triage tent.

  Sam was still unconscious, his lean cheeks sunken, but Don looked much better this morning. He was awake and alert. “The more the merrier,” he said, watching as Lauren took care of the new admits.

  Don was glad to see them alive, not happy they were injured.

  She treated Owen first. After giving him some oral painkillers, she numbed the affected area with a local anesthetic. Then she cleaned the cut with saline and closed the edges with a short row of sutures. His other lacerations appeared minor, so she left them alone.

  Unlike Owen, Garrett had a serious injury. When she saw what was under the duct tape, she sucked in a sharp breath. “This is a gunshot wound.”

  He arched a brow. “Is it?”

  She wanted to scold him for not telling her sooner, but she held her tongue. Despite his tough-guy sarcasm, he was hurt and it showed. His face paled as she cut off his shirtsleeve and peeled away the soaked fabric.

  Relief spilled over her, because the wound was superficial. The exit and entrance sites were small, and the trajectory went straight through the muscle. “I think you were hit by a piece of shrapnel, not a bullet.”

  He glanced down at his arm, lifting it to get a better look. The simple motion made him grimace in pain. “It felt like a fucking bus.”

  Although the wound had bled profusely, and damaged some subcutaneous tissue, it didn’t need aggressive treatment. Many gunshot injuries were bandaged and allowed to heal without major surgery or flesh debridement.

  Following this conservative approach, she injected him with lidocaine and irrigated the area thoroughly before applying a dressing. The injury would give him a lot of discomfort, but it wasn’t life threatening, and he’d make a full recovery.

  He was lucky to be alive. After hearing the gunshots, she’d been frozen with fear, half convinced he was dead. She didn’t want to relive those dark moments. Since Mrs. Engle died, she’d been terrified to bury anyone else. She couldn’t handle the emotional toll.

  Lauren wasn’t used to caring this much. Her job was to transport patients as quickly as possible. She always moved on before she could get attached. The ambulance had to get to the next scene, and the next, and the next.

  Now she was stuck in an ongoing emergency, and she couldn’t escape her feelings. This motley crew of survivors—Garrett especially—had stolen her heart. She didn’t know how to deal with the unwanted affection, or how to evaluate what was real. Maybe the danger and trauma had heightened her senses and created a false bond. She felt so vulnerable.

  While Lauren wrapped gauze around Garrett’s upper arm, Owen updated Don about the morning’s events.

  “How many bullets do you think Jeb has left?” Don asked.

  “I don’t know,” Garrett replied, “but I’m pretty sure I dislocated one of his kneecaps. It’ll be hard for him to sneak up and take shots at climbers.”

  “You can’t climb with one arm,” Lauren pointed out.

  “I can climb,”
Owen said. “I have an idea for breaking through, too.”

  “What’s that?” Garrett asked.

  “My dad used to always complain about something called spall. It happened when he was doing heavy torch work. The garage floor would get really hot, he’d hose it down and the concrete would flake away.”

  “The heat weakened it?”

  “I think it was the combination of heat and water.”

  “We don’t have water,” she said.

  “Anything wet will do the trick. Radiator fluid, windshield cleaner. Even piss.” He gave Lauren an apologetic glance for his rude suggestion. As if she cared.

  Garrett nodded, seeming impressed by Owen’s logic. The young criminal wasn’t as stupid as he looked.

  She secured the bandage, not bothering to voice her strongest concern. They still needed drinking water to survive. Owen couldn’t climb without Garrett’s help, and their injuries would slow them down. They were all exhausted.

  “How do your arms feel?” Garrett asked.

  “Not bad,” Owen said.

  Lauren rolled her eyes at the obvious lie. “You should rest.”

  “We don’t have time to rest.”

  “No, you only have time to die,” she snapped. “You’ve been in a hurry to do that from day one.”

  “She’s right,” Don said, finally backing her up. “It’s foolish to rush.”

  “You could lose your leg if we wait.”

  “Better my leg than his life,” he replied, jerking his chin at Owen.

  “Without food and water, we’ll all die.”

  Don dragged a hand down his haggard face. She had barely enough morphine to keep him from suffering, but he hadn’t complained. He was tough as nails, stoic and sweet. “I hid a few cans in Cady’s suitcase.”

  Garrett’s jaw tightened and he glanced away, torn by Don’s confession. Lauren knew exactly how he felt. Her stomach ached from hunger, but it sickened her to contemplate using supplies that a grandfather had set aside for a child.

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the tent. They listened to the faint sound of Sam’s breathing, which served to punctuate the gravity of the situation. It was far too easy to imagine a slow, helpless mass death.

  Outside, a gentle thrumming began. Not another aftershock. Something less ominous.

  Owen scrambled to his feet, ducking through the tent flap. She went after him, and Garrett followed close behind. Owen ran toward the climbing rope and lowered the dummy from the ceiling to the ground. He stood underneath the crevice, holding out his palms. “It’s raining!”

  Although Lauren recognized the patter of raindrops, she almost couldn’t credit her ears. Heart racing, she rushed to Owen’s side and touched his upturned hands. They were wet. More drops fell from above, moistening her hair. When she looked up, her mouth open in wonder, rain splashed her face.

  The elements that had trapped them inside so cruelly worked to their favor now. Rain coursed down the sloped angles outside, pouring through the cracks and crevices at the top of the collapsed freeway.

  “It’s raining,” Owen repeated, as if he couldn’t believe it.

  She threw her arms around him, laughing in delight. “It’s raining!” He hugged her back, laughing along with her. Tears of hope rushed into her eyes. If it continued to rain, they could gather and store drinking water. And, judging by the number of drops she’d already felt, it wasn’t just raining. It was pouring.

  Releasing Owen, she turned to Garrett, her heart in her throat. He was just watching them, enjoying the moment. She wanted to give him a big kiss on the mouth, but she limited herself to another friendly hug. His body felt warm and strong against hers. All trespasses were forgotten. They were going to live!

  Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she let him go. His eyes lingered on her face, and she got the impression that he was committing the image to memory. A sad smile played on his lips, as if the sight pained him.

  “We need clean containers,” he said, glancing toward the RV. “Anything that hasn’t been used to store chemicals.”

  They raced around crazily, collecting receptacles of all sorts. There were dozens of empty cans and bottles scattered about. Owen used a knife to convert them into open cups. The RV yielded two plastic buckets, several large storage bins and a collection of pots and pans. Mother Nature did the rest.

  At the upper corner of the structure, there was a rift that worked as a rain gutter. Water traveled along it and spilled over the edge, onto the ground. They placed the empty containers beneath it and watched them fill up.

  By noon, they’d collected several gallons of water. If it continued to rain like this, they might have to worry about flooding, rather than dehydration.

  Leaving a large bucket to gather more, she took some water back to the RV to boil. Cadence was in high spirits, but Penny looked tired.

  “How’s Cruz?” she asked.

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “And eating?”

  “Yes,” she said, sighing. “Every hour, it seems.”

  Lauren wasn’t sure if that was cause for concern. She’d been told that newborns should nurse frequently in the first few days.

  She checked the supplies, her own stomach growling. They had one last soda, and a small amount of peanut butter and jam. Before she’d even decided to ask Cadence about the extra food, the girl brought it to her.

  “My grandpa forgot about these,” she said, handing her a can of Spam and stewed tomatoes.

  Lauren accepted the offerings with reverence. Right now, a can of protein was worth more to her than a brick of gold. She also knew that Cadence was sharing the food by choice. “You’re a treasure,” she said, dropping a kiss on her forehead.

  The girl wrinkled her nose. “I don’t even like Spam.”

  Laughing, Lauren ruffled her hair. She boiled more water and found a box of penne pasta that had been overlooked before because there was no way to cook it. She made a hearty soup with the Spam, tomatoes and pasta. For the first time in days, there was enough food and water to go around. Everyone drank and ate their fill.

  The meal reenergized the group, and the rain offered a much-needed respite, but it also put a damper on Garrett’s escape plans. Owen couldn’t operate the cutting torch in a deluge. Now they had no choice but to wait.

  Over the next few hours, Lauren and Cadence collected as much water as possible, transferring it from containers to storage bins. For dinner, she cooked rice with peanut butter. She was glad they wouldn’t go to bed hungry again. The previous night, she didn’t think Garrett had slept at all.

  She made a last visit to the triage tent and gave Don the final dose of morphine. Tomorrow, she’d have to manage his pain with Tylenol. Cadence wanted to sleep in the back of the semi again, which was fine with Lauren. She tucked her in and locked the door, telling her to honk the horn if she needed anything.

  Lauren gathered a handful of toiletries and a roomy sweatshirt with the intention of washing before bed. The excess rainwater was just pouring onto the cavern floor. She could stand under the stream and get clean.

  Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she cast a hesitant glance toward the front of the RV. Garrett was sitting in a lawn chair next to Owen. They were resting, but alert. She wondered if they planned to keep watch all night.

  “Can I borrow a flashlight?” she asked.

  He handed her the camp lantern. “Where are you going?”

  “To rinse off in the rainwater.”r />
  His eyes traveled down her body. He made a noncommittal sound, pulling his gaze away. The waterspout wasn’t visible from the RV, but it was within screaming distance. She didn’t have to worry about Jeb sneaking up on her.

  “You should come,” she said. “Your clothes are covered with infectious waste, and you have open wounds. It’s a health risk.”

  He straightened, glancing down at his filthy pants. They had blood and grime on them. On rare occasions, contact with dead bodies could spread diseases like hepatitis. Even so, he seemed reluctant to get clean.

  “You’re contaminating your hands every time you unzip your jeans,” she pointed out.

  His mouth went slack with understanding. She’d finally found something that scared him: the idea of corpse germs on his manly parts.

  Owen scooted his chair a little bit farther away.

  “I’ll wash up after you’re finished,” Garrett said.

  “How will you manage, with one arm? You need help.”

  Scowling, Garrett rose to his feet. He moved slowly to avoid jostling his arm. She’d already offered him more painkillers, and a sling, both of which he’d declined. His reluctance to let her wash him wasn’t surprising. Although he tolerated pain well, he was a poor patient, borderline noncompliant.

  If he was trying to avoid sexual temptation, he needn’t have worried. He was injured. Seduction was the last thing on her mind.

  Not that she didn’t want him anymore. Assuming they were rescued, and he worked out his relationship issues, she’d be interested in dating him.

  Lauren wondered what would have happened if she’d met Garrett while she was still engaged. Would she have noticed him in the same way, and felt the same irresistible pull? She couldn’t imagine not feeling it.

  Then again, trauma brought people together in odd ways. Under less extreme circumstances, she might not have found Garrett so fascinating. Maybe the draw between them was just intense sexual chemistry combined with the fear of dying.

  Troubled by her thoughts, she searched the supplies for a change of clothes for Garrett. The dummy’s coveralls looked large enough to fit him. Grabbing them, and a wool blanket, she gestured for him to follow her.