Jesse glanced away and squinted his eyes closed. Maybe? Just maybe. He sunk to his knees and turned Cory's head sideways.
The labored breathing eased.
Yeah. That was right. He was still alive. But for how long? With a bullet lodged in his brain, how could he possibly survive? It didn't really matter. Jesse would do what he could, even if that meant he had to finish the job if it came to that.
From a nearby house, he retrieved an old bath towel. He used it to wipe the blood away from Cory's forehead. Then, using his fingertips, he probed for the entrance wound, twisting his fingers up underneath the skin as if he were skinning a raptor. But the more he probed, the more it felt like the bullet had not penetrated Cory's skull. Where was it? With blood-slicked fingers, Jesse continued to search under the skin and along the ragged tear. Nothing? He peeled back a flap of skin and saw the white of bone. But, no matter what angle he examined it from, he could not find where the bullet had penetrated into the skull.
Had it bounced off the guy's thick head? He chuckled at the thought.
Lucky mother.
He stopped his probing, wiped his hands on the towel, and began mopping up the weeping blood. After the third pass over the wound with the cloth, he spotted a trickle of bright red and followed it back to the source. He applied pressure to the spot with the towel and waited.
“Hey,” he said, patting Cory on the cheek.
No response.
He forced one of Cory's eyes open, then the other. The pupils seemed the same size and responded to the change in light, so he stuck a finger in Cory's mouth and pushed the tongue out of the way, leaned over, and listened. Normal breathing, a little shallow, maybe, but sounded about right.
“Wake up,” Jesse said.
Cory remained still.
Jesse glanced at the sky. The sun was heading westward, and in about an hour or two, would make its way behind the Rockies.
“It's now or never.”
Cory continued his shallow breathing.
“Okay, fine. Then how about you wait here until I get back? Whatever you do, don't go moving or running off anywhere. Stay put, okay?”
Jesse grabbed Cory by the jacket and tried to drag him out of the yard. He was able to move him a few feet before a pain ripped up through his torso, and he was forced to let go. The pain then starting coming on in spastic waves that drove him to the ground, where he remained until those waves diminished and finally passed.
When his vision cleared, he glanced at the truck. It was clear what he had to do. He'd realized it earlier. He had to get them both out of there before those men returned with reinforcements.
With a grunt, he rolled Cory over and tied off the towel to staunch the bleeding then stood and scanned the yard. The men he'd shot lay dead on the ground nearby, but their weapons were all gone.
Cory's sword was missing, too.
“That'll probably piss you off,” Jesse said as he went to check on the first of the dead men. Balancing on his toes next to the first guy, he stared in wonderment at all the damage he had caused.
Should have run with Eve and Kate, he thought. Should. Have. Run.
It took time to take it all in, but he absorbed what he had done as best he could. The first guy had two more cartridges for the rifle on him, but nothing else. He went to examine the other bodies. On one, he found a cigarette lighter in the man's shirt pocket. Another had an empty knife sheath affixed to his belt. Neither of them possessed anything else of value.
He circled the house to the backyard and checked there, too. One man had dropped a rifle. As Jesse bent to collect the gun, he started second-guessing whether or not the men who had taken Eve and Kate ever planned on returning. He had killed half their number, and if they had so callously left their companions behind without a fight, then they might not risk coming back at all.
Why would they?
They had Eve, Kate, and everything from the truck, which were far more valuable than anything they'd left behind, including the men, apparently. No, he decided, they wouldn't risk returning, but he still wanted to be prepared for them if they did.
After collecting the rifle and baseball bat from the men in the backyard, he returned to the truck, and put the weapons inside the empty bed. He slapped his hand against the side in one more small burst of anger. He'd hoped they would have left some supplies behind. But no, everything was gone, including the scoped rifle he'd foolishly left out in the open. But, after a quick search, there were a few things he had hidden away they hadn't found. Most importantly, they'd left behind the solar battery charger he'd stashed under the back seat.
He raised the hood of the truck, connected the charger to the battery, and positioned the panel for the best angle to catch the setting sun. From under the driver's seat, he grabbed a canteen and took a long drink. The water didn't sit well in his stomach, and he let out an uncomfortable belch. He took another drink and then stuck his hand back under the seat. He smiled when it locked on the First Aid Kit.
He slammed the door shut and returned to Cory, opening the blue-boxed kit along the way.
Once he'd cleaned and dressed the wound the best he could, he tossed the bloody towel used to staunch the flow and poured water into Cory's open mouth.
Cory coughed and sputtered weakly.
“Wake up,” Jesse said.
The coughing ceased and Cory began to convulse instead. Jesse jumped to his feet, realizing his mistake.
“Sorry, man. Didn't mean to try to drown you. I'm not all that good at this,” he said, then hurried to turn Cory onto his side. Water and mucous spewed out in glistening streams, and the choking cough resumed then died off as Cory began to breath normally again.
“That didn't work out so good,” Jesse said as he rechecked the gauze he'd wrapped around Cory's head. His own shoulder began throbbing again, making it difficult to move. He craned his neck to get a peek under the dressing, but could not quite turn far enough to see. He did detect the sickly sweet odor of infection, and when he checked his forehead, it felt warm, much warmer than it should have. Just the sun, he thought. He sucked in a lungful of air and exhaling it explosively.
“Sitting on your ass don't get shit done unless you're on the toilet,” he mumbled to himself, remembering an old saying his father had often used. It seemed appropriate for the moment.
He tested his forehead again to be sure. It was quite hot. He would need to take care of himself. Before that, he needed a plan. He would need guns. Lots of guns. And a car. And—
He got up, brushed his hands off, and went to where he had left the two rifles on a utility box in the front-yard. One gun had two rounds. The other had three. Fortunately, all three rifles he had found used the same caliber rounds, .308 Winchesters. He consolidated the bullets into the least damaged gun, slung that rifle over his good shoulder, and went to do a quick check of the houses in the area.
In the fourth house, he found an unlocked door with steps behind it that led down into an undisturbed basement. He descended the first few stairs into the darkness and stopped. There was a strong odor of mold and rot, but none of the usual smells raptors made. He continued to the bottom and turned to glance up at the open doorway.
He'd felt odd climbing down the stairs, a bit woozy, a bit wobbly, somewhat off balance. But it was not enough to stop him. He shrugged it off and continued.
At the far end of the basement, light filtered in through a window mounted near the ceiling. The mullioned glass looked out on a partially filled half-round of corrugated steel pipe.
To his left was a furnace, and next to that, a hot water heater. To his right was a workbench containing a few assorted tools: wrenches, hammers, saws, clamps, and more. Each of the tools was hung on a pegboard behind the bench and outlined in blue marker. Storage shelves next to the workbench held a box of laundry soap and cleaning supplies. Another storage shelf to the right of the tool bench had a couple of cardboard boxes on it. He opened one and found it was full of glass canning jars. Useless.
But when he moved the box aside, he spotted something else that could be very useful. Leaning against an exposed wooden stud was a black metal crowbar. He took it and tested the weight. In the cramped space, with his right arm free, and his left holding the rifle, he swung the heavy metal bar. It threw him off balance, but something about swinging the hooked steel bar was fun. He took a few steps across the room, imitating a sword-fighter squaring off with an unknown assailant.
Then he froze and wondered what in the hell he was doing.
He put a hand again to his cheek.
He was hot.
Burning up, in fact.
Nodding to himself, he decided the space was safe enough to spend the night in. He'd feel better in the morning, too. And, if Cory woke up soon, he could get his own damn self down the stairs.
Before returning to the front yard to check on him, he rapped the crowbar against the hot water heater in the far corner. It returned a dull thud. Either it was full of water, or the insulation had absorbed the blow. He opened the drain valve at the bottom to check. Orange water streamed out and soon ran clear. He dipped his face into the flow and drank his fill, letting the grime covering his face wash away. The water was cool. And, while it tasted stale and slightly metallic, it had not yet gone bad. He finished by washing the blood and grime from his hands and shutting off the valve.
Then he remembered Cory. He'd left him in the front yard. He thought it strange how that had completely slipped his mind. He pinched his jaw with his hand and stretched his face.
When he returned to the yard, the man in black was still lying on the grass unconscious.
Jesse kicked him. “Come on, you. Get up. Stop napping. No sleep time for you. No sleeping on the job today, you asshole, Henderson. Wake up,” he said, thinking of his long dead rival Deputy Henderson. He kicked Cory's foot, which reacted like soft rubber by returning to its original position. Doing so seemed somehow funny, too, so he chuckled to himself and did it again.
The guy just had damn big feet. Like a clown.
Stooping, he poured water over the odd man's face. Some dribbled into the guy's mouth and caused him to cough, but not to wake. Jesse vaguely remembered doing the same thing earlier, but couldn't be sure.
“You stink,” he said, waving a hand in front of his nose. “You taking a long nap, buddy? Nappy, nappy, naptime. Wake up.”
Jesse turned a complete circle, sticking one arm out to stay balanced. Where was Hannah? Where had she run off to? He remembered she was nearby, and that he needed to tuck her into bed and read her a bedtime story. Was she upstairs already? Was she ready for bed? Had she brushed her teeth?
First, though, before he could go read to her, he needed to get this guy to hurry up and wake the hell up.
A breeze blew past. He shivered and was suddenly very cold. He patted his shoulders and rubbed. One shoulder was numb and was giving off tiny fits of pain whenever he touched it. He squatted onto his haunches and again poured a stream of water over the stranger's head. The funny looking man didn't do anything other than emit a sputtering cough. Distantly, he realized he had already done this once before, or was it twice? Thrice? That was always such a cool word, 'thrice'.
“Uh oh, better not do that again.” He bent over and slapped the man's face. “Wake, you. No time for this.” Dizzy, he fell backward and landed in the dirt on his butt. He stared at the man in black. He knew he had to do something important, but he did not know what that was. So, instead, he squatted again, bent over, braced his feet, and grabbed the collar of the man's jacket. He tugged. The stranger did not budge. He grunted and tried harder. The guy moved a few inches. Jesse then had to stop and catch his breath. He straightened and began to wobble. Thinking he might pass out, he let go and fought to stay conscious. Everything narrowed until all he could see was a faint flicker of light. He staggered toward it and toppled over.
The next thing he knew, he was in the hallway of a home, on his butt, and inching some guy backward across the floor. He scooted a few inches and tugged again, dragging the guy along. It seemed he had been doing this for hours.
Pull. Rest. Pull. Rest.
Outside, the daylight had dimmed to twilight. There was something important about that too, but he couldn't quite remember what it was. All he knew was that he had to get this strange man into the cellar before the storm came. He could smell the raging storm on the horizon. It was coming for him and would arrive soon. He hoped his family had made it to safety. He had promised he would come for them soon and would join them below to wait out the storm.
The winds were coming, growing stronger, and whipping everything around him into a frenzy of blurry motion. He could hear them blowing hard and getting louder. He closed his eyes and pulled, listening to the whooshing in his ears, hoping to get this man to safety in time.
He next found himself on the floor of a basement, looking up at the exposed floor joists above. The gray pipes weaving through the wooden beams made an intriguing pattern, going this way and that. He groaned and tilted his head to one side. Beside him was a stranger dressed all in black.
He had only one thought: Who was that guy?
-19-
FATEFUL DECISION
ANDREA COULD HAVE slept for a week. A knock on the door to her quarters quickly put an end to that silly notion. She'd worked her ass off patching up the fallen members of the white team, and it had taken two showers and a thorough scrubbing with caustic soap to clean away the bloodstains. The other stains she had washed away later, after consuming a stolen bottle of the ethyl alcohol she'd been using to sterilize her medical instruments, figuring she deserved the temporary numbness it provided.
The knock came again.
After many grumbles and curses, she stumbled to the door with the words go the hell away forming on her lips.
She opened the door.
Standing in the hallway outside was a blonde-haired woman and a little girl. Behind them stood a bull-necked man she knew as Tommy, one of Cyrus's new guards that she had spoken with briefly the day before. He was on the silver team and bucking for a spot on gold. He had the look of some Slavic brute, either ex-military, or an enforcer for a crime syndicate, perhaps both.
The blonde-haired woman appeared quite attractive. The girl was too, but she had sunken eyes and a far-off stare as if she'd seen so many horrors she'd simply gone numb to them long ago. Ain't that the truth, Dr. Blakely thought dryly. She pursed her lips, considering further and let the silence provide her question to the bull-necked man.
“He requires them checked and cleared,” Tommy said in a thick Slavic accent.
“Cleared? For his personal entertainment and enjoyment, I suppose?”
Tommy stiffened at the remark, but let the jab pass unchallenged. With a sigh, she began going through the process necessary to wall herself off from the two women emotionally. It was a pity the two would not last long, especially the blonde. Detachment came far too easily—and too quickly—to her now, and she hated herself for that.
“Okay then, one moment.” She shut the door, gathered what she needed from her quarters, and dressed. She eyed the bottle on the small table in the corner of the room.
It was—regrettably—empty.
“Bring them,” she said to Tommy as she left her quarters. She brushed past the two women and down the corridor. Strands of bright LED bulbs, once used to light Christmas trees, ran along the ceiling. The lights were utilitarian and not for celebration, and that only served to sour her already bitter mood. She paused for a moment and glanced at the two women behind her. Tommy did not seem to need to prod them forward. They moved on their own, like defeated foes. No fight was left in them, which was good. Things would go better for them. It was times like these that made her feel lucky she was as old and unattractive as she was. The uglier she made herself, the less likely one of the craven, knuckle-dragging degenerates making up most of the population here would drag her off to some dark corner and rape her. She was a tired old crone. That was what she wante
d them to think of her. But these two? She shook her head.
They were in for some bad times.
At the end of the corridor, she grabbed the handrail attached to the metal stairs leading up. Going up even one flight was becoming troublesome, and the pounding in her head did not help. But she huffed, took one agonizing step, then another, and led them all to the second floor. She stopped at the end of the hallway to open a door and flicked on the lights inside a small exam room.
She waited with her back holding the heavy door open. The young girl and woman were shoved past her and into the room. She waited until they were both inside and safe. Then, tilting her head up, she looked at Tommy. “That will be enough. You've done your job. Now, please leave us alone.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I was told to remain with them.”
Andrea moved inside the entryway, letting the door slowly close on its own, and then stopping it with her foot. She folded her arms under her sagging breasts and pushed them up. “Leave us,” she repeated. “They have been through enough crap already, and I don't want you in here leering at them during my exam.”
He flicked his tongue over his lips. “I don't mind.”
“Well, I do. Now go on. Git!”
He smirked, ignoring her, and pushed past to stand against a wall inside the room. He drew his arms behind his back and rested his shoulders against the wall.
Andrea huffed and let the door swing closed. She limped to a drawer next to a white porcelain sink and withdrew a familiar object, an object she had been using far too often as of late. She concealed it from him as she approached, shuffling feebly. When she was standing directly in front of him, she straightened and looked up into his flattened face.
He grinned.
She could tell it was a false smile.
And that smile faded when she flicked a steel scalpel up and held it under his right eye, half an inch from his cheek.
He remained perfectly still. His nostrils flared, causing his already flat nose to compact even more. She readjusted the scalpel to point under his left eyeball. Her hand was trembling so badly that if either of them sneezed, the scalpel would bury itself in his cornea.
Red Asphalt: Raptor Apocalypse Book 2 Page 14