The McClane Apocalypse: Book One (32 page)

“You alright, mini Doc?” Kelly asks and comes to stand in front of her, too. It is the push she needs to snap out of her trance-like state, and she nods slowly. “Man, you are a little shit kicker. Just like Hannah told me. You took out quite a few of those scumbags, half pint. Sharpshooter’s what you are. You can watch my back anytime.” John decides to store this in his memory about Hannah telling Kelly something about Reagan so that he can question his friend about it later.

In an unexpected turn, Reagan walks over to her dead kidnapper and kicks him in the gut.

“Fucker,” she grunts under breath.

John and Kelly look at each other and smile and nod. Yeah, she’s ok.

They leave the dead man to his woes and return together to the house where they find the rest of their group has moved into the Reynolds’s home. The three of them enter the front door without knocking; it seems a bit moot at this point. They walk right into the eat-in kitchen upon entering the home which is considerably smaller than the McClane spread. The only light is coming from multiple oil lamps and two flashlights. It’s dim at best and confusing. There is a woman who is crying hysterically. John remembers the younger brother Billy, who is now deceased, saying that his sister-in-law is named Bertie. This woman is apparently Bertie, and she is clearly distraught. Two men, one of whom is bleeding profusely from his leg or side, are holding an older gentleman back. He is also bleeding badly and is very weak but feebly trying to push past them. His sobs of anguish alert the group that this is Mr. Reynolds, and he is trying to get to his wife’s dead body lying on the front porch. John had averted his eyes from her as they ascended the stairs, but he’d heard Reagan’s sharp intake of breath at the recognition. She had said nothing, though, as they passed her.

Reagan brushes by John in a flurry, shoving her rifle into his hand whether he had wanted it or not. She rushes to Mr. Reynolds’s side. When Derek looks at John expectantly, John shakes his head and his brother understands that the youngest son is not with them because he is dead.

“Guy! Guy!” Reagan shouts above the melee to Mr. Reynolds as Guy must be his surname. “Listen to me; I’m here to help you. Let me help you. Remember me? I’m Doc McClane’s granddaughter. I’m a doctor, too. So let me help you, sir. We need him to lie down, so I can get a better look,” she demands of his two sons.

“Where’s Billy? Where is he?” Bertie cries for the dead brother. She’s hysterical so Derek gets her out of the room because she’s not making things any easier. If there’s one thing John knows from countless bad situations that he’s been in over the years, it’s that panic and hysteria can be contagious. Reagan can barely be heard above the woman’s sobbing and screams. Her emotional trauma is obvious and she’s covered in blood, but it doesn’t appear to be her own. John can hear his brother questioning the origins of that blood as he drags her away.

“Chet’s shot, too, Reagan,” the oldest brother calls out to her. “One of them sons a’ bitches shot him through the damn window. Got him in the hip.” John remembers his name is Wayne, and he looks like the full weight of the responsibility of the entire family has fallen onto his fairly broad shoulders.

“Ok, Wayne, let’s take care of your dad first, though. This bleeding is heavy. Mr. Reynolds, please lie down here, sir,” Reagan encourages the man. He finally allows his sons to help him to another room where he lies on a sofa. He is clearly defeated. John follows in their wake.

“Get me more light over here. I can’t see for shit,” she complains loudly.

“He’s been bleeding all day like that. We tried to put as much pressure on it as we could, Reagan,” Chet answers and holds his flashlight directly over his father’s stomach wound. From what John can tell, Chet is just as fair as Billy was. His blonde hair is nearly white, but he wears it long and pulled back in a ponytail about four inches below his neck. His pants leg is soaked through with blood, and he limps from his hip wound.

“Fuck, this is bad. Kelly, get my grandpa. Take Wayne. He’ll show you the way. Take a truck and hurry. Tell him to bring everything here. He’ll never make the move. It looks like bullet shrapnel’s in here, and they’re close to vital organs. Be quick!” Reagan barks. Kelly and Wayne sprint from the room, and John hears them blast through the front door. A moment later, a truck’s engine roars to life and gravel can be heard spraying violently.

“John, hold this light. I’m gonna need to irrigate this just to see what the hell we’re up against,” Reagan orders. He does as he’s told. He’s been told he’s a good nurse. When he steps closer, shining the flashlight directly into the man’s wound, he has a terrible sinking feeling. He’s seen his share of these wounds. They don’t tend to end well.

“Get me water, clean water,” Reagan says to the other brother, Chet, who flees from the room in an awkward hobble.

“I need more towels or rags or something. He’s bleeding heavily. I’ve got to get it to slow down. I think an artery’s been hit somewhere but I... can’t see what the hell I’m looking at in this light.”

“I’ll find towels and see if I can get more lighting of some kind,” Derek says from the doorway.

“Find me tweezers and alcohol, too. I can’t wait for Grandpa. This shrapnel needs cleaned out and get me a needle and strong thread,” she calls over her shoulder. She doesn’t seem frazzled or disgusted by this bloody scene.

The sister-in-law is back and has calmed considerably. She goes with Derek to fetch supplies.

“Just let me go, kid,” Mr. Reynolds whispers groggily to Reagan and places his hand over one of hers. The rise and fall of his chest is very slow. He wheezes when he talks.

“Just relax, Guy. I’m here to help you, ok?” Reagan says as she puts more pressure against his gaping wound, gently sliding her hand out from under his.

“I don’t want you to help me, young lady,” he answers with a cough. “I remember you, Reagan. You were always so smart like your grandfather. Grant an old man’s wish and don’t help me. I want to be with my wife. I want to be with my Virginia.”

Reagan doesn’t answer this. It’s unspeakable what he’s saying, but he’s clearly lost his will to live. This isn’t something John’s ever heard on the battlefield. Men usually begged the medic to fix them, sew them up, hit them with more morphine. And in the end when they knew they were gonna die, they all begged for their mothers. This gray-haired, old man with the kind blue eyes is begging for his wife. But he is a fighter; John can tell. And here he is wanting to be allowed to die, to join his beloved. John has only ever heard of a love so powerful, never actually seen it, but he is starting to understand it. He has to look away.

Derek, Chet and Bertie all return to the room at the same time. Reagan grabs the pitcher of water and starts irrigating the farmer’s wound, which earns her swearing and thrashing in return. But John can see that she has cleaned it good enough to see into it better. She presses the clean cloths against it, holding them firmly there.

“Bertie, see how I’m doing this? Good, do it,” Reagan demands the same way she does with everyone. However, it is instrumental in giving the woman something other than her dead mother-in-law and murdered, young brother-in-law to think about, and she jumps to the task. Mr. Reynolds hasn’t even asked where his missing son is. John’s not sure if Guy doesn’t realize Billy is not with them or if he has made peace with leaving this earth to join his missing family members.

“John, sterilize those tweezers for me,” Reagan commands and speed-walks from the room. Derek holds a flashlight while John pours rubbing alcohol over them and wipes them on a clean towel. Reagan finishes with cleaning her hands in their kitchen sink and hurries back into the room in a rush.

“Hold him while I dig out some of the fragments that I can see. This had to be a hollow point bullet to have done this amount of damage. If Grandpa isn’t back by the time I get some of this picked out, then I’ll try and sew this up,” Reagan says, and John and Derek rush forward to help. “Bertie, try to keep the blood mopped up around the wound as I go.”

They work as a group, and within minutes Mr. Reynolds loses consciousness. As she plucks them from his wound using the tweezers, Reagan hands the tiny fragments off to John’s outstretched hand. So far, he’s counted fourteen pieces.

“Son of a bitch, I can’t even tell where the bleeding’s coming from. If I had a clamp, I could pinch this one here. He’s got multiple bleeders in here,” Reagan notes. John sees that her forehead is sweating, so he takes a clean towel and wipes it for her. “Sterilize that needle and thread it for me. I can at least get these two, small bleeders stopped.”

Bertie goes about doing this while Derek holds a light for her. Reagan finds two stray pieces of metal deeper in the wound which re-awakens Mr. Reynolds who moans in pain. She expertly stitches what looks like two bleeding arteries or veins, and it seems to work because they stop pumping blood all over.

“Damn it, I can’t do anything else until Grandpa gets here. I need tools I don’t have. Shit!” Reagan complains with frustration edging her voice. The other brother, Chet, hobbles closer, winces and growls loudly in pain. “Derek, help her keep pressure to this. John, hold a light over here for me.” She moves a few feet away, pulls a dining chair away from the kitchen table and sits on it.

“Chet, let me look at that,” Reagan orders and uses the other bucket of water to rinse her hands and dry them on one of the towels. Chet is just standing there, not answering her, not moving. She gives him her best impatient, irritated get your ass over here look.

“Um, I’ll just wait for your grandpa,” Chet says uncomfortably. This stops Reagan in her tracks.

“What? Don’t be a moron. Drop trow and let me have a look. You’re bleeding through your pants, damn it,” Reagan berates. At least she doesn’t just do that to him. It’s enough to scare the stocky man into submission, and he slowly unbuttons and unzips his pants. Then he pushes them down, exposing a gory mess. John holds the flashlight closer while Chet sets his lantern on the hardwood floor which gives good up-lighting for Reagan.

Reagan makes quick work of cleaning his wound with the remaining bucket of water and a clean rag. Then she positions herself directly at his hip, peering close with a flashlight.

“Buckshot, huh? Did you get hit with a shotgun, Chet?” Reagan asks.

“Yeah, hit me when I tried to go out and get Mom off the front porch this morning. Sick freaks wouldn’t even let us get our mom,” Chet remembers. John can’t look at him. This is a tragedy that has happened to this family.

“I’m gonna have to take the buckshot out piece by piece. If I don’t get all of it, you’ll still be ok. Your skin will heal around it. But I need to get the deep part of this wound sewn up so the bleeding stops.” Reagan explains things thoroughly to the man in an attempt to allay his fears. He’s begun to shake. It’s understandable, and nobody will judge him. He’s been through so much in the past twenty-four hours.

“Let’s find somewhere to get him on his side so I can start this,” Reagan suggests.

“I can get a blanket and put it on the floor in here, Reagan,” Bertie suggests. For a moment, Reagan looks at John, and he simply shrugs. It’s probably the best they’ll get. This home is not equipped with the same amount of lighting as the McClane farm. John nods to Bertie who flees from the room. When she returns, she is carrying a couple of blankets as well as two pillows.

“How is he, Derek?” John asks.

“He’s out for now. He keeps coming in and out,” his brother answers him. His face is concerned for this man.

Bertie has spread the blankets and helped Chet to limp over and lie on the floor. She returns to her father-in-law to help Derek where she weeps more quietly this time.

“John, hold that flashlight right in the wound, here,” Reagan points. “I’m going to dig out some of the bb’s, then I’ll stitch him up as quick as I can.”

“Right, boss,” John answers and follows orders. She makes expedient work of cleaning and digging and wiping and digging some more. John eventually needs to sit on Chet to keep him still. His cries and moans of agony are sickening.

“Just about got it,” Reagan tells them as her steady hands move dexterously.

“Hey, they’re back!” Bertie screeches from the window near Guy’s hospital sofa. It seems like forever but only less than a half an hour or so has passed since they left to retrieve Doc.

“Reagan, you’d better get over here,” Derek hurriedly exclaims. His tone is premonitory.

Reagan ties off the stitch line and rushes to his brother’s side. John follows suit, peering over her thin shoulder. When Derek lifts his hand from the white towel; it is soaked through with blood. The pressure is no longer slowing the bleeding again.

“Damn it, lights! I’m going to have to dig around till I find where the bleeding is coming from this time and stop it again,” Reagan swears as her grandfather, Wayne and Kelly breach the living room door.

Doc moves into high gear, leaving John to wonder at his speed and agility for someone his age. He is at Reagan’s side in a flash, sets down his medical bag and kneels beside his granddaughter. What he doesn’t do is push her to the side to take over. His confidence in her is overwhelmingly obvious. He also has a much more powerful flashlight than what they’ve been trying to work with. It’s almost like having a light on and John can see more clearly.

“God, does that light help. He has internal bleeding. I stitched off the first smaller artery, here and another here,” she points with the tweezers.

“Good, good,” Doc answers.

“He’s bleeding still from a place I can’t find. What do we do?” Reagan pleads. Her raspy voice is desperate, longing.

“It’s deeper, push aside this muscle, Reagan,” Doc instructs and points with something he’s fetched from his pocket. “Good, girl. And now the deeper tissue. Good. See it now?”

John sure as heck sees it. Blood is gushing from a vein or artery or organ, he has no idea. Mr. Reynolds moans loudly. He’s wide awake now and trying to push Reagan’s hand away. The pain must be unbearable. She must be hitting nerve endings or something.