by Ryan Schow
“What are you looking for?” she asked, her voice raspy, unused.
“Internal bleeding, anything broken, anything cut. I need your permission, though, because this sort of thing makes me uncomfortable.”
“Why?”
“You’re a stranger, I’m a stranger, and these are seriously screwed up times.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” she said. Then: “You have my permission.”
He lifted her shirt, realized she wasn’t wearing a bra, then stopped at the base of her breasts. He looked up at her and she nodded. Taking a deep breath, not wanting to have to do this but feeling obligated because he understood the perils of the journey ahead, he slowly lifted her shirt all the way up, checking for bruising or broken clavicles. When he was satisfied there was nothing wrong with her except for a smattering of bruises, he pulled her shirt down immediately and tried not to turn red, even though he felt his cheeks go up in flames.
She wore thin sweats, the kind you sleep in. Fortunately the pant legs were loose enough to slide high up her thighs. The last thing he wanted was to have to take down her pants.
“My tan wore off,” she joked.
“How long ago?” he asked, smiling at her jovial nature in spite of this unfolding nightmare.
“About a gazillion years ago.”
He laughed, then said, “How old are you?”
“Younger than I feel,” she said.
“How old is Hagan?”
“Seventeen. I was a bit too flirty as a teen. Got myself two babies early on.”
“They’re good kids,” he said, looking at the various cuts and abrasions on her legs, specifically her shins. The rest of her legs were bruised pretty badly, with nicks and cuts here and there, but as far as he could tell, there were no broken bones.
Reaching up, he pulled her shirt up her stomach then slowly went through each rib with the insides of his hand asking if she felt any pain.
There was some bright pain on her right side. She thought she might have a broken rib, but he said it was probably just bruised. He moved to her pelvis, put his palms on either side of her hips and gently applied pressure, rolling from left to right.
“Hurt?” he asked.
“Beyond the pressure, no.”
He then checked her fingers, arms and shoulders with no complaint. When he got to her neck, he asked her to move it gently, to let him know if there was any pain. She said her neck was stiff, but that it didn’t feel injured.
“I’m going to help you turn over. I need to look at your back.” He rolled her over about the time the boys were coming up. Ballard and Hagan suddenly appeared with the onions, a bread knife and two bottles of water.
“What are you doing?” Hagan asked, alarmed.
“Checking for injuries before moving her,” Rider said, his voice calm, as if this was all perfectly normal.
“It’s okay, honey,” Lenna said.
Rider pulled up the back of her shirt to a collection of bruises on and around her spine. He went through them, applying small amounts of pressure to each one to see if he could distinguish between sore and injured.
So far nothing seemed injured, even though the sight of her back sent a charge of sympathy pain right down his spine.
Rider then checked her calves and hamstrings, not expecting to find much. Everything seemed in working order.
When she was on her back again, Ballard was standing over him, his energy reckless, concerned, prepared to strike with the knife.
Rider slid a hand under her knee pit, asked her to bend her leg—which she did—then he slowly pushed the bent knee sideways.
She groaned, then said, “Sore, not injured.”
He repeated the stretch with the other side to the same result. When they were done, he started to take her socks off.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Going to break that fever you have.” Then, to Ballard: “I’m ready for the onion now.” The boy gave him the onion but not the knife. Looking up at the kid, he said, “It’s not going to cut itself.”
Reluctantly he handed Rider the knife. He promptly cut several thick slices of onion, tucking equal amounts into each sock which he then set aside.
“I need you to see if you can get on your hands and knees. We’re going to have to crawl out of here, or I may have to drag you. Your back is pretty beat up, though, so dragging you is bound to make matters a lot worse.”
“I’ll try,” she said. By now she was sweating heavily. Rolling over onto her belly, she managed to get to her hands and knees.
“You ready?” he said.
“I think I might be sick,” she said.
“If you have to throw up, that’s okay. We can wait for however long it takes.”
She nodded, swallowed hard, then said, “Lead the way.”
“Hagan, Ballard, see if any of these houses have a twin sized mattress, a four by eight sheet of plywood and some rope. I’m going to need two lengths of it and it has to be strong.”
“We can all go out together,” Hagan said.
“It’ll take us longer. That’s why I want you doing this now. We don’t know how long it’ll take to find these things, but we need them.”
“We have mattresses in our room,” Ballard said. “We’ll have to throw them out the window, though.”
“That’s fine. In fact that’s good. Toss out a sheet, too, if you’ve got a clean one. Your mom can rest on it while we find what we need. And grab anything else you find useful.”
“Like what?” Ballard asked.
“Little things. Like Band-Aids, hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic creams, aspirin, water filters. Stuff like that.”
“I know what to look for,” Hagan said.
“Perfect,” Rider replied. “Once we leave, we’re not coming back here.”
“What about Dad?” Ballard asked, looking at Hagan with sheer panic in his eyes.
“We’ll leave him a note,” Hagan said.
The boys got moving; he and Lenna slowly worked their way through the rubble. It was not easy for Lenna, especially with the fever, but she did well.
Inside the foyer, close to the front door, she ended up throwing up. He held her hair back, and didn’t say anything about the smell, or the several splashes that got on his arm.
When she was done, he asked how she felt and she said, “Better, except for this splitting headache.” Her eyes were watery, her nose running and she had a fresh misting of perspiration mapping her forehead.
When they finally made it out of the house, Lenna took a breath of fresh air and laid down on the mattress one of the boys had thrown out the second floor window. She used the sheet to clean herself up.
“If you feel up to riding with me on the bike, you can, but the mattress is for you, if you want it.”
“Whichever you prefer,” she said.
“Let’s see what the boys come up with first, then we can decide.”
“I must look like hell,” she said.
“Not at all.”
Just then the boys appeared from the side of a house four homes down with a fresh four by eight sheet of plywood and what looked like a pair of wakeboard ropes.
Perfect.
Over the next twenty minutes, Rider placed the mattress on the plywood, used one long rope to bind the mattress to the plywood, then the other to hook it to the motorcycle. They shored up the slack and moved Lenna to the back.
“Ballard, I want you on the bike with me, and Hagan you’re on the mattress with your mom.”
From the saddlebag on the side of the motorcycle, Rider pulled out two handguns, checked the chambers and the magazines then tossed them to Hagan and said, “Don’t be afraid to shoot if it comes to that.”
Lenna had that concerned look in her eye, to which Rider said, “We ran into a spot of trouble on the way here. Lost our Jeep and more than half our ammo.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Hagan answered under
his breath.
Rider studied the boy for a second longer than he should have, long enough to see the ghosts floating through his eyes. When all this chaos passed, the kid was going to need a friend to confide in, and possibly some serious therapy.
“Can I sit on the mattress with them?” Ballard asked.
“Too much weight,” Rider answered, knowing the boy hadn’t taken to him even an ounce. “I’m concerned about the degradation of the plywood. Hopefully it’ll hold to the hospital.”
“What about the note to Dad?” Hagan asked.
Ballard drew a panicked breath, then headed back inside the house without a word. He returned a few minutes later with a pencil and a half burnt sheet of paper.
“What do we say?” he asked.
“Just give him this address and let him know you guys went there.”
Rider gave Ballard Indigo’s address and the nearest cross streets. The kid wrote it all down. Then, just in case, Rider gave a second address: the college on Hayes and Ashbury.
He said, “Put an asterisk on that one.”
He looked up at Rider, paused, then did what he was asked. When the boy was done, he put the note just inside the front door where his father would see it, then hurried back to the bike and mattress set-up.
When Lenna was on the bed and situated as best as possible, Rider asked, “Did you guys find anything of use other than the wood and ropes?”
“We didn’t look,” Ballard admitted.
Rider frowned, then shook it off and said, “Well let’s see what we can find at the hospital. In the mean time, I’m going to need those feet of yours.”
She frowned, then pushed them forward. Rider knelt down and slipped on the first sock. When the onion slices hit her bare feet, she jumped and gave a scratchy yelp, then said, “Why exactly are you doing this?”
“Draws the fever out.”
“Isn’t that some sort of old wives tale?” she asked.
“Tell me when your fever breaks,” he said. “And no, it’s not an old wife thing. It’s an in-the-field-thing.”
“You ex-military?” she asked.
“Something like that,” he replied with a half grin and a wink.
On the motorcycle, with Ballard in a helmet and secure, Rider kicked the engine to life, put the bike in first gear then eased out the clutch. The plywood and mattress resisted at first, but then the wood broke loose and trailed right along, the front end lifting just enough to keep it from digging into the asphalt.
It was a decent plan, but the wood wouldn’t last long with the weight on it. Rider hoped it was enough to get them to the hospital. He also prayed they wouldn’t be ambushed again. Not with two kids and a sick lady in tow.
Chapter Sixty-One
Leaving Cincinnati to attend to Macy, Rex and Indigo stepped outside into the cool, evening air. The city wasn’t as bad as it used to be (the wet smoke, the acrid stench of things burning), but it wasn’t back on its feet either. On the horizon, behind a haze of burning oranges and deeps reds, was a sunset so striking and so arresting, it almost made Rex forget the kind of beating civilization was taking.
“You want to take the long way?” Indigo asked. Rex nodded his head, speechless. She looked at him and said, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, even though he didn’t feel like it. “Actually no.”
She reached for his hand, slid her fingers into his, made him look over at her. Their eyes met and he felt the physical weight of their connection.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, a softness in his voice, a sudden awareness. “Has anyone ever told you that?” He gave a hollow laugh, one that sounded empty and so very, very sad. “Of course they have.”
“Just my dad,” she admitted, unable to hold his eyes. “He used to tell me I was his angel. If he saw me now, if he knew the things I’d done, he would never say that again.”
He felt his eyes clear. His focus found her, stayed on her.
“Did you have a boyfriend, before all this?”
“I’m not…I’m not like other girls, Rex. I never was. It wasn’t because I was anti-social or anything, I guess it’s just because…well, I don’t like people very much.”
That he understood.
They walked hand-in-hand through the neighborhood, heading toward the end of the street where they could round the block and come in on the backside of the house, Dirt Alley.
“Why don’t you like people?” he finally asked.
He felt her body move up against his, surprised at how unavailable she had been until their kiss.
Ah…that kiss.
“I like the way you smell,” he said when she didn’t answer. It wasn’t perfume, or even her skin or clothes. It was her hair. She smelled earthy, grounded.
“What do I smell like?” she asked, tilting her chin to look up at him.
“You smell like you need love, like you need someone to walk this road with you, like you are prepared to do this, but not alone.”
“And what does that smell like?” she asked, suddenly curious.
“Old laundry,” he joked.
She laughed at his lame joke, then stopped and looked up at him. He stepped in front of her, took her other hand. He met her inquisitive eyes with a face full of need. She waited for him, and he hesitated, but only slightly. Leaning forward, he paused an inch from her lips, then moved the rest of the way in for the kiss. It was short but electric, soft yet wanting, slow but impossibly, indelibly perfect.
“Why did you do that?” she asked, pulling him into a hug. Her face was turned into him, her body willingly pressed against his.
“I feel the way you act,” he said. “And the things you say…we’re more alike than you may think.”
She came out of their embrace, did not take his hand as she started back to her house. Whatever changed in her, it was obvious, startling even.
“You don’t even know me,” she finally said, a brittle edge to her words.
“Don’t you find that sad?” he asked, catching up. She smiled, but it was forced. “You didn’t answer me about having a boyfriend before all this.”
“I’ve never been with a boy before,” she admitted, looking down at her feet.
“How is this possible?”
He suddenly felt bad for taking her kiss for granted, for judging her before. If he was putting the pieces of her together, he saw pictures of her father in their home, but not her mother. She was a daddy’s girl, but no one else’s girl. Her father was her life. No other family, no friends, no one to hold her, to tell her she was his world. No one to kiss her and look at her the way he was looking at her right then.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked, stopping short. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He took her hand and said, “I just…in this day and age…someone like you—”
“Jeez, spit it out!” she said, slapping his arm half joking, half serious.
“I think that might have been the moment.”
“What moment?”
He took a deep breath and knew exactly what he wanted to say. “When you like a person, you decide to like them more. To open your heart to them. Your soul. Before you fall in love with someone, you have the feeling that you want to love them. That they’re worthy. And it makes you want to be worthy of their love. I think maybe, I think I might’ve just had that feeling, with you.”
She wiggled her hand out of his and said, “I told you not to fall in love with me.”
“I’m not in love with you, dummy,” he said. “I only said I was willing to let myself fall in love with you.”
“Well close the door,” she said with a frown.
“What?” he stammered. She turned and started back the other way. “Where are you going?”
“Home!” she said.
He broke into a jog, caught up with her. Grabbing her arm, he stopped her long enough to block her path. “You think that was easy for me to say that?”
“I’m sure it’s not th
e first time,” she said, lips pursed, arms crossed.
“It is the first time!”
“I’m not the girl for you,” she said. “You’re just having a moment.”
“How I feel or don’t feel isn’t your decision. You can tell me you don’t want me, and that’s your—”
“I don’t want you!”
“Liar.”
“I don’t,” she said, softer, her eyes getting that soft shine of tears.
In a voice that betrayed his pain, a voice that shook with the sting of rejection, he said, “Why not?”
Looking away, she began to cry. He counter-moved, stood in front of her again. She pushed him back, then turned again, putting a hand over her face as her body bent to some unknown weakness.
“Tell me,” he said, so soft and tender he was afraid she wouldn’t hear him.
“If I…” she started to say with wet eyes. He knew she was about to say something difficult, something incredibly personal, so he let her have the space she needed. “If I let myself fall in love with you, I’m afraid I’ll…forget my father. I’m already having a hard time remembering what he sounded like, or how safe I felt with him.”
“Did he…?”
“I don’t know,” she answered right away. Then: “I think maybe…I think I should forget him. But if I do, that means I’ve given up hope. That’s why I need to stay here, in case he’s alive, in case he comes back. But you’re leaving, so I can’t let myself feel…how I want to feel about you.”
“You can,” he pleaded. “You must.”
Looking up at him, eyes shimmering in the light of the dying sun, she said, “And why is that?”
“Because I need that from you.”
“There are other survivors. Prettier girls. Less screwed up girls who are not so…violent.”
“You were mesmerizing back there,” he said. “At the school. And at the Walgreen’s.”
“There’s nothing mesmerizing about me. Or us. Or any of this!”