by Wimer, Kevin
Tex opened the door of the truck and got out. He told the men at the gate to get Brandy and some others to help with the wounded. The men nodded as the turned and ran deeper into the warehouse complex—out of sight within seconds. Chris took a breath as he opened the passenger side door and got out. He limped to the back of the truck—his body ached from head to toe and his ankle hurt like a son of a bitch. He looked over at Tex who began helping those that could move under their own power out of the bed of the truck. Chris quickly began doing the same. He winched with pain each time he helped someone down from the bed of the truck. He gritted his teeth as he fought through the pain to help those that needed his help.
CHAPTER 13
Chris had been led to an area within the warehouse complex that had makeshift showers. He stood in the small room that looked as if it had been hastily built with lumber and drywall and various other things scavenged from within the warehouse and god knew where else. The shower room had little creature comforts of home, but it would do. He looked at himself in a full-length mirror that hung on the back of the door. His body was battered and bruised and beat all to hell. He stared at himself in both disbelief and shock that he was still alive. He looked as if he had gone a thousand rounds with a prize fighter and lived to tell the tale. The man in the mirror was now truly a stranger to him—more so than the image of himself the day before had been. He was broken and battered more so today than he had been the day before. Chris looked at his hands that were caked in dry blood. His hands had gotten that way from helping those who had been wounded to an area that Brandy had set up for triage. The slick feeling and copper smell of blood still lingered in his mind. It was a warm sticky feeling that turned his stomach.
The heaviest of blood caked to his hands had been from a young woman who had been shot. Chris had helped her out of the bed of the truck and onto a makeshift gurney—the woman’s guts were hanging out from her stomach. The bullet had entered from the middle of her back and exited out the front leaving a gaping hole the size of a softball. Chris narrowed his eyes as the young woman’s screams echoed through his mind. She screamed and pleaded for help while looking up at him. Please don’t let me die mister. Chris felt a lump in his throat growing as he tried to swallow. Please pray for me. The young woman died within minutes after arriving at Graceland. Chris could do nothing to help her. No one could. It was a fatal wound. The sound of her voice as she pleaded not to die was on a continuous loop—echoing through his mind as he stood looking at himself in the mirror.
Chris took a breath and shuddered as he let it out. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to cry. The pain from the images that now filled his mind was far too great. He felt the tears streaming down the side of his face as his mind began to place the blame. Chris felt responsible—somehow all of this was his fault. The young woman had a look in her eyes—an all knowing and blaming look that would forever be etched into his mind. Chris balled his hands into fist. The urge to punch the wall in front of him was overwhelming. The fiery rage of anger boiled within him as images of that young woman flooded his mind. You don’t even know her name. The voice inside his head echoed. She is just a nameless face to you. The words in his mind grew louder as the fiery hot anger of blame within him shifted from that of himself to the men atop of the building. He pictured them firing down onto the convoy. The static sound of gunfire and screams rushed through his mind like a thousand volts of electricity. I’m going to kill them. He thought while looking at himself in the mirror. I’m going to kill Deacon and his group and then I’m going to kill them. I’m going to make them pay.
Chris turned away from the mirror and slowly limped to the makeshift shower stall. He reached in and turned the water on—hoping that it would get piping hot and that he would be able to get the blood that was caked to his hands and body washed off. It was nearly a minute later when the water was hot enough to get in. Chris stepped into the shower stall and stood under the hot water—allowing it to work its magic on his battered body. He leaned his head forward and placed his hands on the wall of the shower—bracing himself while trying to take some of his weight off his ankle. His mind began to race with thoughts. He was lost in those thoughts when the sound of someone knocking at the door brought him back to the land of the living and the dead.
“Yeah?”
Chris stood there with his head poking out of the shower waiting for someone to respond to him. He blinked his eyes as the seconds passed without an answer. He thought that maybe he had imagined the knock and that maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. He was beyond tired and his body hurt like a son of a bitch—anything was possible at this point. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this tired—maybe it had been after a hot afternoon of football practice while in high school. He hated summer practice but loved the game. Chris was just about to duck his head back under the water when a female voice finally answered. He knew the voice. It was Brandy.
“I am sorry to brother you,” Brandy said, “When you are done with your shower, I have a change of clothes for you.”
Chris cleared his throat and took a breath and let it out before answering.
“Okay. Thank you . . . I shouldn’t be too much longer. I’m just washing off now,” his voice echoed as he quickly soaped his body and began scrubbing the dried blood from his hands and out from underneath his fingernails.
Chris’s heart began to race as did his mind knowing that Brandy was waiting for him. The two had yet to say more than a few words to each other and that had been while Chris was helping with the wounded. He dunked his head back under the water as images of Brandy’s father began to fill his mind. He could see Carl lying on the bathroom floor with a gaping hole in the back of his head from where he had blown his brains out. He wasn’t sure how he would approach the subject with Brandy but knew it was up to him to tell her about the letter and about her father. He was dead and he wouldn’t be coming home. It was a gut-wrenching job that he had had to do as a cop. It was the knock at the door or the ring of a doorbell late at night that had caused him such anxiety. It had been his job to deliver the heartbreaking news to a family that a loved one would not be coming home. Chris would be the one to tell Brandy that her father would not be coming home. He had taken his own life so that he would not turn into one of those blood and brain thirsty creatures.
Chris’s mind began to drift further into thought when Brandy once again spoke through the door.
“Take your time and when you are done . . . I would like to examine your wounds.”
Chris pushed the thoughts of Carl Yassa from his mind as he answered.
“Yes ma’am.”
Chris quickly washed the soap from his body. He started to shut the water off, but still felt unclean. The blood that had been caked to his hands was gone but it still felt as if it was there. It was as if it had been a new layer of skin. He soaped himself up again and scrubbed his flesh harder. It felt as if he was scrubbing himself raw. The feeling of having the young woman’s blood caked to his hands wouldn’t go away. It hauntingly lingered as he stood under the piping hot water hoping that the feeling would soon fade. He knew it was a feeling that would remain with him for day’s if not months to come just as the image of the young woman pleading for him to not let her die would last until his dying days. He would carry the burden of her death with him for the rest of his life—somehow it was his fault that she was dead. Chris gritted his teeth in anger as he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He stood there for a second as the water dripped from him. Get ahold of yourself, Chris. It wasn’t your fault. At least not her death. The voice echoed as he grabbed a towel and began drying himself off.
Chris walked to where his clothes were lying on the floor. He started to put them on but stopped himself from doing so—they were covered in a grimy mess that was both blood and brain matter and god knew what else. He turned from his dirty clothes and wrapped the towel around his waist and walked towards the door. He placed a hand on the kno
b of the door and took a breath—hoping that it would help calm his nerves. He wasn’t ready for the conversation that would soon take place between him and Brandy. Come on Chris, man up and tell her. She deserves to know. She’s the reason you came here. The voice echoed through his mind like an assassin’s bullet as he opened the door and found Brandy standing in the hallway with two other men. Chris recognized one of the men. He had been standing guard at the gate. He looked at the two men and then at their weapons. He noticed that their fingers were wrapped around the trigger of their rifles and their eyes were firmly locked onto him. Chris then looked at Brandy. She held a set of clothes that were neatly folded in her hands.
“I’m not sure how well these will fit,” Brandy said as she handed Chris the set of clothes, “But at least they are clean.”
Chris took the clothes and started to turn and place them on a shelf next to the shower. He stopped and looked at Brandy. He could feel his heart ticking a beat faster—his mouth was suddenly bone dry. The words that Tex had spoken to him earlier in the day had slowly began to fill his mind. Brandy has been holding on to hope that her father would one day return. Brandy had been holding onto something that no one should have in this new world. Hope. Hope was for the fool hearted. Chris could feel a lump growing in his throat as he looked at Brandy. He quickly let his eyes wonder away from her and to the two men that stood behind her. He knew that if he stared at Brandy much longer, he would break down. He couldn’t allow himself to look weak—not in front of her or the two men.
“Thank you . . . I’m sure they will be fine,” he said, forcing himself to smile, “Should I get changed now or—”
“I think before you get dressed, I should have a look at your wounds,” Brandy said as she looked at him and then at the two guards behind her, “Ron, why don’t you and Ken go and get our guest something to eat,” turning back to Chris, “I hear Martha has made some of her famous soup and peanut butter sandwiches.”
Ron shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he cleared his throat.
“Ma’am, I have orders to stay with—”
Brandy turned and looked at Ron, her eyes were narrowed as she spoke.
“Now you have new orders,” the tone of her voice was razor sharp, “I should be done with the examination by the time you the two of you get back.”
Ron looked at Ken and then at Chris. He gave Chris a look. Chris knew what that look meant. Ron would kill him if he should lay a hand on Brandy. Chris had no intention of harming Brandy. He had no intention of harming anyone that didn’t intend to harm him. He looked at the two men as Brandy harshly cleared her throat.
“If Tex or anyone else has a problem with the way I do things,” she said while sternly looking at the two men, “Tell them to come and take it up with me. Until then, I want the two of you to go and get this man some food,” looking over her shoulder at Chris and then back at the men, “I bet it has been a while since he has eaten a hot meal.”
The two men looked at each and then at Brandy. Ron nodded his head and told her that the two of them would be back in just a few minutes. Chris watched as the two men turned and walked out of the makeshift shower room. He could hear their footsteps as they walked down the corridor. Chris turned his attention to Brandy who was now standing deeper inside the room with him. He could feel his hands becoming sweaty and his pulse had suddenly quickened. He was a bundle of nerves.
“Why don’t you have a seat over here,” Brandy said, pointing at an old plastic lawn chair sitting along the wall, “I will look over your head wound first.”
Chris nodded as he stepped over to the chair and took a seat. Brandy watched as Chris limped across the room. She could see the pain that his ankle caused him as he walked. She looked at his body and then at the bruises that dotted his exposed flesh. He looked as if he had been beaten for days on end. She wondered what horrors he must have seen out there. She wanted to ask questions about the world beyond the security fences of Graceland but decided against that—at least for now. He needed her help and she had a job to do. She would do whatever she could to help him heal.
“How did you get this bump on your head?” Brandy asked as she gently pressed around the area.
“Not sure,” Chris said as he winched in pain and thought about it for a second before answering, “It might have been from when I rolled the Jeep that I was driving . . . a group of walkers came out of nowhere. I swerved to keep from hitting them . . . but . . . I hit them. The last thing I remember is the Jeep going sideways before going end over end.”
Brandy nodded.
“So, you lost consciousness?”
Chris pictured himself in the Jeep. He remembered talking to Deacon on the radio—the cocky son of a bitch had been going on about what he and Hawkeye and the Butcher would to do to him when they caught him. Hawkeye was now dead. The bastard wasn’t going to do shit. Chris pictured the pack of walkers stepping out and into his path. The sound of glass breaking, and the crumpling of metal echoed through his mind. He could feel himself being tossed around inside the Jeep like a ragdoll.
“Yes. I blacked out,” taking a breath as the lump on his head began to throb a bit more, “The first thing that I remember when I came to . . . I was surrounded by walkers,” pausing as he looked at Brandy who was still attending to the lump on his head, “I could feel blood trickling down the side of my face . . . My head felt like someone had hit me with a sledge hammer . . . It still does.”
Brandy narrowed her eyes as she looked at the lump and then at Chris. She paused for a second and then turned to her medical bag and reached inside of it and pulled out a penlight. She turned the light on and shined it into Chris’s right eye and then into his left. Brandy was checking to see how his pupils reacted to light. Chris wanted to turn away. He wanted to hide from the bright light that was now being shined into his eyes. It felt like someone ripping his brain out from within. He began to feel sick to his stomach as the light seared through his eyes and to the back of his brain. The urge to throw up consumed him. Brandy noticed how sickly pale Chris had turned. She shut the light off and placed the penlight back into her medical bag.
“Well, the good news is . . . you are going to need stitches.”
Chris narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side.
“If that is the good news . . . I’m scared to ask what the bad news is.”
Brandy looked at Chris with concern. He had a nasty head injury that worried her. Chris could see the look of worry in Brandy’s eyes. He knew what her concerns were. He had had his bell rung—not once but twice today. It wasn’t the first time Chris had taken a nasty blow to the head. He had had a few of them from playing football.
“You have a concussion . . . a rather bad one at that. I’m guessing that it is a grade two . . . Maybe a grade three,” pausing as she took a breath and let it out, “I wish I had the means to run a CT scan or an MRI . . . but . . . given the circumstances of where we are, that isn’t feasible.”
“Okay.”
Chris knew he had a concussion. He knew it when he woke up in the Jeep and was surrounded by walkers that were reaching in and trying to make dinner out of him. His brain had felt like mush. The world around him had been a bit foggy but that feeling had seemed to fade away as time went on. He wasn’t confused. He knew he had been on the run from Deacon and his group for two days now.
“I’m going to treat you as if you have a grade two concussion. You lost consciousness. You don’t seem confused and that leads me to think it is a grade two and not a grade three.”
“And that means?”
“You will need a lot of rest. I will monitor you for the next three or four days and then re-evaluate things.”
Chris wrinkled a brow.
“Okay. What does that mean?”
“It means, for right now, no more going out into the field. You are confined to quarters,” Brandy said with her brow raised and a look that told him not to argue, “This is serious Chris,” it was the first
time she had used his name, “I don’t have the machines or the ability of modern medicine to tell me how bad of an injure you sustained. My guess is . . . it’s a bad one. I want you to rest over the next week and then we will see how you feel.”
Chris took a breath and let it out. The throbbing of his head and the urge to throw up was overwhelming. He thought about the painkillers in his bag. He wanted a handful of them and a few hours of sleep—maybe a day or two of uninterrupted sleep would be good for him. He didn’t like the idea of being confined to his quarters. He wanted to help Tex and the others. He knew Deacon would be on the hunt for him and for those that had killed Hawkeye.
“Tell me about your ankle?” Brandy asked as she bent down and lifted Chris’s foot.
Chris looked at Brandy as she pressed on the side of his ankle and began moving it around. He winched and grunted in pain. It hurt worse than it had a few hours ago. He was sure the hot shower had helped to loosen the muscles in his ankle but now they had tightened back up. He told her how he had been on the run and how he had come to an open field. The conversation was starting to head in the direction that Chris dreaded. It would soon end with the two of them talking about Brandy’s father. Carl Yassa. Chris told Brandy how he had been running towards a gas station. He was seeking shelter for the night. He was running when he tripped over a root and twisted his ankle. Brandy again moved his ankle up and down and side to side. She was trying to see if anything was broken. She looked at Chris each time she moved his ankle in a different direction. Chris gripped the side of the chair with both hands and gritted his teeth. Brandy noticed his complexion was a bit paler than it had been seconds ago. She noticed beads of sweat forming over his brow.
“I can only guess again,” Brandy said as she gently placed his foot back onto the floor, “I’m guessing that it is a bad sprain. Nothing appears to be broken,” standing up she walked over to a sink and began washing her hands, “Something could be torn . . . but again, I have no way of knowing.”