The McClane Apocalypse Book Three (28 page)

"Looks like a good spot," Kelly says as they
pull onto the gravel lot.

He drives around back and puts the truck in
park. There is a fairly good copse of trees to their immediate
right and around the back of the property, as well. The old white
building stands empty, the large delivery doors wide open. Doc's
practice is nearly visible through the trees and overgrown
shrubbery to their east.

An owl hoot-hoots and then screeches, the
sound coming from the feed mill. It sends a chill of uneasiness
down his spine. But John knows that she's probably just hunting a
midnight snack of mouse or rat or some other type of rodent taking
advantage of the lack of humans out and about in the feed mill
nowadays. They are likely all looting and feeding off of the
leftover ground corn and oats and birdseed still in the weathered
building behind them.

"Ready, bro?" Kelly inquires and John gives
a firm nod.

"Let's roll," he says.

They both exit the pick-up, shut their doors
as silently as possible and move toward the trees. Kelly stashes
the keys in his pocket. Their rifles are equipped with the
silencers again to prevent drawing attraction should they need
them. John's is slung over his back. He carries the short barrel
shotgun—care of Doc—down in front of him. John highly doubts
they'll need any of their weapons. Other than the one slightly
illuminated home, this town seems vacant, like a deserted ghost
town from a movie set in the old west.

He taps Kelly's shoulder and whispers,
"Reagan said there's a side entrance. Should be straight
ahead."

Kelly nods as they move out of the cover of
the tree line and onto the blacktopped parking lot of Doc's former
practice. It's a small, gray or white building with a darkly
shingled roof. Kelly indicates that he'll go forward to the side
entrance and John signals to his right that he'll come in from the
front. This is likely being overly cautious but, then again, erring
on the side of overly cautious lately isn't such a bad idea.

John creeps to the side wall of the
structure and peeks around front. No movement. No people. He rushes
forward, jumps over the railing that encircles the small front
porch. Doc has incorporated a covered porch system similar to the
one at his farmhouse into the pleasing aesthetic of his office. A
white plastic railing goes nearly all the way around. It gives the
practice a quaint, homey feel. There are even three white rockers
there, but one has been knocked over and now lies on its side. John
wonders how many of Doc's patients have sat in these rockers while
waiting to be called in for their children's stitches or
school-season flu and cold bugs or vaccinations. This would've made
them feel comfortable, at ease.

A wave of righteous angers ripples through
John when he glimpses the wide front picture window of Doc's
practice. It's been broken, busted into a dozen sharp edges by
someone either throwing something heavy through it or from gunfire.
He eases through the unlocked, open front door and swings left and
then right. He's in the waiting room where it appears to have taken
on mortar fire, though that is highly unlikely. There are papers
strewn everywhere, tables and chairs overturned, the reception area
trashed, computers behind the desk lying on the ground. This is a
damn shame. He's glad Doc didn't come with them. This would break
the man's heart.

John clears the waiting room, the reception
area, two patient exam rooms and meets Kelly in the hall.

"All clear," John provides. "What's back
there?"

"Same. Exam rooms, his office, x-ray room,
lab, pill closet. All clear," Kelly confirms.

"Doc said he would've left the ultrasound
machine in the x-ray room. Let's check it out," John supplies and
they move together again.

They both flick on their flashlights to see
better and push their goggles back to the tops of their heads. The
x-ray room is also a mess, but it's not so chaotic that they can't
make sense of the remaining equipment. There is an exam table,
computers, a digital film developer, two metal carts—one knocked
over—a plastic skeleton as well as a poster of which hangs askew on
the wall, a telescopic camera for taking the pictures which has
wires and tubing coming out of it and two lead-filled vests to
protect the patient against x-rays not needed to their abdominal
area. There is also a small stepstool and a padded stool on rolling
wheels where Doc or his x-ray technician had probably sat many
times. Unfortunately, it is now sticking halfway through the broken
window separating the x-ray area from the small room where the
technician would've stood and manipulated the computer to shoot
pictures of a patient's bones.

Kelly calls, "Think I found it, bro."

John joins him in the center of the room and
examines the case that his friend holds open. He remembers seeing
one of these once in a field hospital. This is definitely what they
need. And it's also fortunate because it can't weigh more than
eight or ten pounds.

"Good job, man," John praises and shuts the
case and locks the snaps into place.

"Guess the dope-heads didn't care too much
about an x-ray," Kelly comments.

John smirks. "Yeah, guess not."

"Wait, where's the wand thingy?" Kelly asks.
"Open that back up, dude."

"What do you mean?" John asks as he sets the
case on the exam table and flips it open again.

"Look, there's no wand. There's supposed to
be a thing that transmits the frequency or whatever. It's supposed
to plug in back here. See?"

"How did you know this?" John asks.

"I remember when my stepmom had to get an
ultrasound when she was pregnant with Em. Dad was out of town for
work and she was on bed rest. So me and Cory took her since I was
home on leave. I'm positive it's missing something. There should be
a wand with a cord attached to it that plugs in. How else would
this thing work?"

"Right. Ok, well it's gotta be somewhere
around here. Let's fan out and find it," John complies.

"It looks like a microphone," Kelly offers
and John nods.

They search everywhere but come up with
nothing. Even after rifling drawers, Doc's office, the pill
closet—which is completely wiped out—they still don't find the
attachment.

"Shit. This thing is useless without it,
John," Kelly says twenty minutes later where they've ended up back
in the x-ray room again.

"Crap!" John says and kicks the toe of his
boot against the exam table's leg.

"Hey, half pint said something about an
urgent care facility in this town. Maybe they've got one," Kelly
says, referring to Reagan.

"Yeah, she did," John agrees. Now they have
to find that place, too. "Let me radio back to the farm and see
what they can tell us for a location on that place."

Regrettably, the urgent care building is
nearly on the other side of town, which means more moving around
and a longer night for both of them.

They decide to take the truck again and
manage to find the stat care without too much difficulty. Kelly
successfully weaves around abandoned cars, a dumpster rolled into
the street, and debris and garbage which is piled up on some of the
roads as if people still thought that they were going to get
curbside service. John spies three more homes and one apartment
complex where there is a faint light in one or two windows. As they
come closer to Center Street where the medical building should be,
a pale orange glow in the distance becomes more visible. Orange
glows don't light themselves, and John tightens his grip on the
shotgun.

Bulldozers and dump trucks wait for their
owners to return to the job site off to John's left in a new
housing development. It's overgrown, muddy and the foreman's
trailer has sunk three inches into the slushy ground. A cement
truck is parked near the curb, the slide still extended, a pile of
hardened concrete on the ground behind it. The glow from the fire
rests beyond this unfinished suburban development. It could be
squatters taking up residence in one of these expensive homes,
though some of them are still under construction, their framing not
even completed.

They spot the stat care, but instead drive
past it to go behind a twenty-four hour Laundromat housed in a
strip mall. It's a narrow alley that opens on both ends. There is a
pizza shop next to the laundry washing and dry-cleaning building
where Kelly pulls the truck alongside the brick wall. It no longer
wafts the delicious scents of mouth-watering pepperoni and Italian
spices into the air. A rat scurries in front of John and disappears
under the pizza shop's dumpster.

Kelly takes lead and they skirt around the
plaza and jog toward the medical building. A strident bellow comes
from the general direction of the fire a few hundred yards away.
Two more shouts from different voices reverberate through the low
lying valley. John's sure that he and Kelly haven't been spotted.
It's too dark to see them without the iridescent radiance of
streetlamps and the fluorescent lighting from building windows
spilling out into the street.

The rear door to the clinic stands ajar, so
they make good use of it and slip inside. Kelly sweeps left and
John takes point. This medical facility is in the same sad shape as
Doc's practice. It has been looted and vandalized nearly beyond
recognition. Once they ascertain that the building is clear, Kelly
splits to search for the missing piece of medical equipment while
John spies on the fire and possible people through a nearby window
in an exam room using his binoculars. He has a more direct view of
them than he had from the truck and the alley.

Upon further observation, he can see a
fairly large group of people, perhaps twenty or more. There are
three pick-up trucks, two mini-vans, an RV and four or five pop up
campers set up and open. What he doesn't see is children, but that
wouldn't be unusual this late at night. As a matter of fact, John's
not sure why any of them would be awake at this hour. It's nearly
three a.m.

Kelly comes back to him after a short time
and announces the good news of finding the wand for the
machine.

"Looks like it'll fit," John notices.

"Gonna have to," Kelly states simply.
"What's up out there?"

"Not sure yet," John says quietly and hands
his friend the binoculars. "Strange that they aren't asleep at this
hour."

"Yeah, maybe. Or maybe they're trying to
keep watch. Why would they be set up out there when they could just
use those houses?"

"Passing through?" John suggests.

"Could be," Kelly concurs as he returns the
binoculars to John. "Wanna' check it out?"

John weighs this decision heavily before
turning away from the window. "No. Let's get back. There's a lot at
stake if we don't make it back. They're counting on us and if we
don't show, then Derek'll be coming for us."

"Yep. Let's roll, brother," Kelly says and
turns.

Three short bursts of automatic gunfire
sounds off from the direction of the firelight and voices, and they
both swing back to the window. The screaming of women echoes in the
dark night. Another short burst followed by the blast of a shotgun
also descends on them from the area of the makeshift
campgrounds.

"Son of a bitch," Kelly says under his
breath.

Now they have no choice but to get involved.
If innocent people, especially women need their help, then it's
their obligation to offer it. Without pause, he nods to Kelly, gets
one in return and they move. John trots through the med center, out
the front door and down the short street using the half-built homes
as cover. Kelly's on his heels.

As they close in on the camp, one of the
pick-up truck peels out, spraying gravel. The driver is shot
straightaway through the rear window. It looks to be a headshot.
His vehicle careens into a tall stack of plywood meant for building
the outer walls of these homes. John can hear shouting but cannot
make out the words. Two men yell raucously. Some of the women have
resorted to sobbing and crying. He and Kelly move closer still and
take cover in the last house on the street, one of the few that
seems nearly completed. Letting themselves in through the front
door, it's immediately clear that the home is empty. They ascend
the stairs to the second floor and separate, both taking a position
at a bedroom window to spy down upon the campers.

"…bastard got what he deserved!" shouts one
of the men.

The light of the campfire—what John can now
make out as multiple campfires—provides a source by which he can
see them more clearly. He pushes back his goggles again and
silently monitors the situation. He'd rather not get into a
firefight tonight since Doc is waiting on this medical equipment.
He'd also like to not get shot tonight if it's possible.

Each group down below him has their own
campfire, tents, backpacks, food supplies and vehicles set up in
their own self-assigned areas. He still hasn't seen children.
Surely there aren't any with this large group or they'd be awake
and crying over the gunfire. The people all seem to know each other
and are likely traveling in a long caravan. John decides on quiet
observation for the time being.

"Hell yeah, he did. Trying to steal our
food," one of the women interjects and snorts derisively.

"He made a pass at my wife yesterday,"
another man comments.

"He did the same to me," a petite woman says
and wraps an arm around the first man.

A man in khakis, loafers and a button down,
short-sleeved shirt comes out from behind one of the pop-up
campers. He states with anger, "That is the last time we let an
outsider join up with us. No more. It didn't work out the last time
we did it, and it sure as hell didn't this time. No more."

They all call out in agreement or nod.

"Get his gun," another man beckons to a
person who is searching the dead man's truck. "We could always use
more guns."