by K. L. Savage
Reaper lays him down on the table, and I’m already shoving the mask over Patrick’s face. I slam the door on Sunnie, soundproofing the room. I won’t be able to think while she’s crying in my ear. “Reaper, in the fridge, grab four bags of O negative blood. You know what to do. I showed you.”
He doesn’t say a word. He takes my direction and runs to the fridge, being quick and timely. He doesn’t question me for barking orders at him. He knows he’s in my house now. With blood hooked up and on its way of transfusion, I take the scalpel. My scars come to life as I slice Patrick open.
“What do you need me to do?” Reaper asks, not hovering, but staying close enough so he can see what I’m doing. “He isn’t going to die, is he? Come on, Doc. He’s gone through too much.”
“I … I don’t know, Reaper. Just let me work. I need quiet,” I snap at him, testy and impatient as I try to look for the bleeder. I push his organs out of the way and follow where all the blood is coming from. “It’s coming from his liver.”
“His new one? Is that bad? What’s that mean? Will he need another transplant?”
“No, as long as I can find the bleed, it will be fine.” I close my eyes and let my fingers do all the work. The liver is smooth and large, round and long. I glide two fingers over it, searching for any dips and divots.
Bump.
I inch back and plug the space, watching to see if that’s the area. No more blood. “I found it. I need another goddamn doctor here, Reaper, or I need more help. Everyone here needs medical attention, and you don’t want the cops involved. So…” I grab the sutures and graph and start patching our guy together again. “Get me more fucking help. Next time, I might not be able to save someone!” Every word that leaves my mouth is dripped in anger and disrespect. I understand shit like this happens, but Reaper wants me to save everyone, and I’m only one fucking man.
“Anything you want, Doc. Anything,” he says without the same heat.
“Good,” I say as-a-matter-of-fact. When the sutures are done and Patrick’s vitals are normal, I take a breather before closing him up. “Jesus, that was too close.” I look up and notice Reaper changing out the blood bag to a new one and tossing the empty one away. “We aren’t out of the woods yet. Number one leading cause of death in a hospital is infection. We need to make sure he doesn’t clot and his wound stays clean. Everyone in contact with him has to stay clean. Post-operation infections are very common,” I state as I sew up Patrick’s abdomen. That had to have been the quickest surgery I’ve ever done. I make sure the wound is clean before applying a bandage over it, then lift my hands.
I could fucking cry in relief that I still hear the beeping of the heart monitor. “I’m going to go tell Sunnie.”
“She’s going to be pissed that you wouldn’t let her in here.”
“Too fucking bad,” I say without sympathy. When it comes to life and death situations, family always think they know better than a trained medical professional. I don’t need someone in my ear, crying and threatening me while I do my job. Plus, no one wants to see the inside of their loved one.
There’s no romance. There’s no love there. At that point, it’s just something most people wish they could unsee. If anything, I’m doing them a favor. I pop my gloves off and toss them in the trash before opening the door.
Reaper is right. Sunnie is pissed.
She charges at me, swollen eyes, wet cheeks, tangled hair, a few scratches on her arms that might need stitches, and she hits my chest with her palms. “You asshole! I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me see him. How could you?” The more she speaks, the louder she cries.
That right there is why, but we won’t get into it.
“There was so much blood. Oh God… He’s dead, isn’t he?” She wraps her arms around her stomach and falls to her knees, crying so hard I’m worried that she can’t breathe. “No! No. Please,” she begs me, as if I’m God, as if I can bring someone back from the dead. Luckily, in this case, I have good news.
“Sunnie.” I kneel in front of her, and she lifts her chin, paralyzing me with broken blue eyes that scream heartbreak. “He’s alive. We have to monitor him. I’m still giving him—Ooof!” A whoosh of breath leaves me when Sunnie slams against me, wrapping her arms around me in a bear hug. She’s still crying, but these sounds are different. These are sounds of relief.
“Tha-thank you,” she stutters through a watery voice. “Thank you so much.”
I hug her back and lean away, giving her a tight smile. “I need to be honest, okay? There are still things we need to watch for. As long as he doesn’t clot, stroke, or get an infection, we will be fine.”
“But he’s okay, right? As of now, you said—”
She starts to get frantic again, and I nod quickly to try to dry her tears. “Yes, I’m informing you of problems that may arise. May.” I repeat so it hits home that the chances aren’t likely, but there is still a possibility.
“I’m going to move him into this room. Do you want to stay with him?”
“Please,” she says.
After twenty more minutes of getting him transferred into a hospital bed in the treatment room, I switch out his blood bag, and his body is taking it in much slower.
Thank fuck, but fuck this day.
I grab my extra medical kit from the cabinet, and Reaper is at my side again, ready for action. I hope there doesn’t need to be more action. I don’t think the club can handle it right now. Before I head up the steps to take in the wreckage, I stare at Sunnie who is holding Patrick’s hand and crying into his palm, shoulders shaking as she presses kisses along his inner wrist.
To have love through pain is the strongest kind of love there is.
Happy to have saved one person, I hurry up the steps and open the basement door. I still hear groans of pain, and there is a smell of fire coming from somewhere too. My boots crunch against the glass as I walk through the kitchen. Pictures have fallen, frames are broken, lamps; everything is destroyed by hundreds of bullets.
“Reaper,” Sarah’s trembling tone comes from the hall to the right, and she’s holding Maizey tight against her.
“Doll.” Reaper launches toward his family and engulfs them with his giant arms.
My goal is to head outside where most of the injured are, but one sweep in the main house just to be safe can’t hurt. I check behind the old bar and gasp when I see Dawn. She’s huddled in the corner, hands tight on her belly, and breathing fast. There isn’t a mark on her, but she’s sweating and breathing quickly as if she’s in pain.
Where the fuck is Skirt?
By the tightening of her stomach and the water on the floor, Dawn is in labor. An entire month early. Fuck. I lay my medical kit down and squat to her level. “Dawn, how long have you been having contractions?”
“I don’t … know!” she roars as another contraction hits. “Feels like forever!” She grips her stomach and bangs her head against the wall behind her.
I count to see how long I have before I need to deliver a baby. I haven’t done that since med school, and I’m a little nervous about it. I won’t tell her that. The last thing she needs is the only doctor around to panic.
“Where is Skirt?” she asks with big watery eyes. “I need him. I can’t do this without him. Doc, I’m scared. It’s too soon.”
“It’s going to be fine. You’re going to be okay. Your contractions are far enough apart that we don’t have to worry about the baby coming right now. Do not move from this spot. I’ll be back. I’ll find Skirt, okay?”
She nods, and tears fall from the corners of her eyes. Sweat runs down her neck and pools in the collar of her shirt.
God, today is a shit show.
I hurry toward the dented front door, passing the dead bodies of Candy and Jasmine. My boots thud against the porch, and I look around to see most of the guys patched up thanks to Juliette. I’m so glad she can help me, or who knows how many guys would have lost too much blood.
Poodle has blood running down his forehead, sitting o
n the ground, his hand against his head, but he seems fine. Juliette is with Tool, and from the looks of it, sewing up his arm and leg. I’m trying to take inventory to make sure everyone is alive.
Who is left? Knives, Tongue, Skirt, Tank, Braveheart, Slingshot, Badge, and Bullseye.
“Come on,” I say with impatience as I slide my eyes over the front of the house. There, by the gate, I see a figure crawling toward the house. “Fuck. Braveheart!” I jump down the steps and spring toward him, but Poodle screaming has me stopping quick. I slide against the desert floor, swinging my arms to stop myself from falling.
“Ellie! Ellie, where is she? Ellie?” he calls out for his daughter. “Tool, she was right next to me; did you see her? Where’s Melissa? Melissa!” His voice breaks as he shouts for help. He stands on shaky legs, tripping over his feet as he takes his next steps. “Ellie!” I can hear the torment in his throat, the fear clutching his chest. “Lady, come on girl, where are you?” His hands press against the side of his head. “Where the fuck is everyone?” he yells, his voice echoing all around me.
I turn my head and see Braveheart. He manages to stand, and he seems unscathed. No injuries. He’s covered in sand and a few cactus needles are impaled in his arms, but other than that, no bullet wounds.
“Melissa!” Poodle screams again when there is no answer. “Ellie!”
“Listen, Braveheart. There are members unaccounted for. I need your help in finding them. Okay? Can you do that?”
“Yes, yeah, I can. I’m fine.” He brushes off his plain black shirt and tugs on his cut. “I can do it.”
“Good. Go. And figure out where the fuck—” A loud explosion shakes under my feet.
When I look to the left, there is smoke and flames licking the sky, Poodle is screaming, and somewhere in the distance I hear a dog barking. Please, let it be Lady, Yeti, or Tyrant.
Shit, and Chaos.
So many animals and people to keep track of.
“Skirt!” Poodle sprints toward where the fire is coming from, and that lets me know one thing.
Dawn might be delivering this baby alone because if Skirt is in the house, with an explosion like that, there’s no way he’s alive.
I’m not the praying type, but whoever is listening, fucking help us.
There’s smoke coming from the inside of the compound. I slam on the brakes, and the car skids to a stop, fishtailing from the momentum still carrying me forward. Dust and burnt rubber swallow the car in a cloud. My arms throb, and the pain causes everything to slant in my vision. My left hand trembles as I tug on the door handle. I bump the door shut with my hip, hold my hands to my chest, and run down the dirt road.
Rocks stab my feet. The flimsy hospital gown rubs against my legs, and the dry air evaporates the water in my eyes and replaces it with sand instead. A sharp sting and a loosening feeling comes from my left arm. When I look, blood appears against the bandage, telling me another stitch has popped.
Eric might not be able to stitch me up because of what is going on here. It was selfish of me to leave the hospital, but I needed to know if my friends were okay.
If Eric would be okay.
My toes dig into the dirt when I come to a stop and peer through the iron gates to see what’s going on. What I see has my pain forgotten. The smoke is black, and Eric is yelling at Poodle as he carries Melissa into the house. Her hair is flowing in the smoky wind, and her body is limp. Skirt’s house is in flames, and there is a murderous scream coming from inside of the clubhouse.
It’s a sound I’ll never be able to forget.
Eric whips his head to the clubhouse when the scream reaches him. Eric runs his fingers through his hair, cursing and looking back at Skirt’s house. He makes a decision and gives the burning building his back while he jumps on the porch and runs inside.
With a gulp, I turn my body and step between the iron bars. I bite my lips and spread my arms like an eagle. My flesh, muscle, blood, and bone press against the self-inflicted cut. My skin is going to tear, and I’m going to lose the small amount of life I’ve gained.
My breasts smash against the metal, roughly rubbing against my nipples. I grunt when the bottom half of my body won’t come through the gate. I tug, pull, but nothing. Wrapping my fingers around the rods, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and immediately hold back a shout of agony as I use my strength to pull myself up and out.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
My stitches pop one by one until I let go of the iron gate. I want to scream from the gasoline fuming my veins, scorching me from the inside out. The tips of my fingers tingle, and raindrops of blood fall onto the ground. As I put one foot in front of the other, I leave a trail behind.
Wetness drips against my stomach, and that’s when I see that the blood is making my gown stick to me. I see Juliette tend to Knives. One of his legs is torn to freaking shreds from the bullets. No one notices me. I’m a ghost because everyone’s focus is on someone else. A bark sounds from my left, startling me. It’s Lady, and her beautiful white hair is patchy with red.
Blood.
She runs toward the flames, barking at the raging beast of a blaze engulfing the sky. If it gets any bigger, the entire compound could go up in flames. Someone’s in there. I decide to go the back way in hopes no one will see me. As I jog around the house, the stillness on this side of the fortress is spine-tingling and fear-inducing. I can smell the smoke and feel the heat of the fire threatening to bubble my skin, but the screams are drowned out from the guttural growl and animalistic roar of the flame.
“Someone! Please, help me!”
I can’t figure out where the voice is coming from.
“Joanna? Oh, thank God.”
“Mary!” I exclaim when the realization hits me. “Mary, oh my God, are you okay? Where are you?” I squeeze my eyes shut when a wave of debilitating pain hits me. I have to keep going. It’s all I can do.
She doesn’t answer me back.
Cold dread soaks into me, and I head in the direction where I thought I heard her. The sky is painted charcoal gray, and the sun is hidden behind the veil of soot. It’s eerie. Darkness has cast it’s shadow, defeating the strength of the day.
I inhale a sharp breath when wood creaks, and a loud bang follows next. Half of the roof has caved in on Skirt’s house now, but I can’t leave Mary. She’s my friend too. “Mary? Talk to me.” The terrain is rockier near Skirt’s house, and my feet are hating me for trudging through the rocks and cactuses.
“Jo,” her small voice sounds like it’s right next to me.
The wind blows a few embers from the fire by my face, pieces of wood, ash, and possibly Skirt. Something wraps around my ankle, and I scream, jerking my leg away, but that’s when I see Mary. She’s laying on her stomach, and her leg is trapped under a chunk of wood. It looks like a beam. It’s charred at the end.
I cover my mouth when I realize she isn’t trapped under the wood, but pierced by it. “Mary…” I kneel on the ground, and the hard clay of the desert rubs against my knees.
“Wha—what are you doing here?” she asks with a tired smile on her face. Her skin has lost its color, and she’s lost a lot of blood. Not enough to kill her, but enough to make her feel weak. Her classic red lipstick is smeared across her lips, and she’s holding her hands against her thigh. “Aren’t you in the looney bin now?” she teases as her eyes drop to my arms. “Bitch, you should have talked to me.” She coughs, and the sudden jerk of her body must have tugged against her wound because she grips her thigh until her knuckles turn white.
“I didn’t talk to anyone. Mary,” I say her name on an unconfident breath. “I can’t take this out. I have to go get help.”
“No, don’t go. Please. I’ve been here forever.”
“I don’t have the strength to carry you, Mary. My arms are injured, and my stitches are pulling loose. I’ll go get Doc, okay? I promise.” I lay my hand on her good leg and squeeze her ankle.
“You look like shit f
or someone about to go see Doc,” she kids, reminding me she knows about my crush on him.
“That’s what happens when you escape the hospital. Crazy seems to morph and take over all the pretty features,” I try to joke with her, but it falls flat when I see the blood ooze from the inside of her thigh. “I’m going to go get help. Just please, keep breathing. We’ve been through too much,” I say, clearing the lump from my throat. “We aren’t going to let a damn piece of wood stop our streak.”
“You get me out of here! I’m never hanging with those cut-sluts again. I don’t know what I was thinking,” she cries.
“You were doing what made you feel better, Mary. Just like I was.” I show her my arms, the blood seeping through the bandages. I turn my head over my shoulder when I hear a few shouts and screams, breaking the moment between me and Mary. A white blob gets closer and whines. It’s Yeti. He’s next to me, soot all over his white fur, and his tongue is out as he pants heavily. I rub my hand down his back, and my palm touches something wet. Turning my hand over, red shines on what’s left of the sun peeking through the smoke.
And the blood isn’t coming from Yeti.
“Hey, boy. Stay here with Mary, okay? I have to go get help. Stay,” I repeat, standing slowly so I don’t fall over from how dizzy I am. Yeti whines and lays down, propping his chin on the front of his paw as he stares at Mary.
“Don’t forget about me.”
“I hot-wired a car for you. I’d never forget you,” I say earnestly, then press my arms to my chest again to try to keep pressure on my wounds. I hurry away, heading toward the smoke and heat. Instinctively, my eyes sting from the instantaneous threat of being burnt. I hold my breath and run through the smoke, looking for someone, anyone to help me when I hear someone crying out for help in Skirt’s burning house.
I can’t ignore it.
He’s been ignored too many times.
I look around to see if there is anyone else coming, someone like Bullseye, Reaper, or Tool, but there’s no one. I won’t leave Skirt. I don’t care if I can hardly walk, think, or am bleeding out of my stitches. These men deserve the risk because they are the reward. They saved me, saved my friends, and someone has to save them.