The McClane Apocalypse Book Three (3 page)

Reagan shrugs and shakes her head in
response. John is giving her that weird look again. She returns it
with a scowl.

"Parts of those states aren't even there
anymore," John adds when he's done staring at her.

"That's true. But this could be an all new
occurrence of the disease because of what's happened. Every single
symptom fits," Reagan explains. John looks strangely at her again
as she continues. "Sometimes diseases spread because of filth and
sickness. Just like cholera outbreaks or typhoid fever. But I'd
already ruled those out, of course."

"Of course," John says with a smirk.

Grandpa chuckles. What was that supposed to
mean?

"Reagan, if they both have this pneumonic
plague it says here that if it's not caught and treated within the
first twenty-four to forty-eight hours, then the disease is fatal,"
Grandpa reads.

"I know," she answers quietly. "I already
knew that part before I even went to find this book. So let's hope
I'm wrong. It's also highly contagious." She scratches her scalp
and paces a few feet.

"It also could be a variation of your
pneumonic plague," Grandpa offers, trying to be hopeful.

"Those two in there look like they have the
same symptoms as Jacob's mother, and I'd bet that it's the same
thing," John says.

Reagan's already thought of this, too, and
she nods up at him.

"Samantha, could you come out here, please?"
Grandpa requests of the gangly teen girl.

Reagan has a chance in the morning light to
get a better look at her. She's thin, not particularly tall, but
taller than Reagan. Her face reminds Reagan of one of those
Japanese anime cartoon characters. Her black hair looks like it was
cut with very dull scissors into a chin length bob. The pieces and
ends are a thousand different lengths. Her eyes are way too big for
her small face and are startlingly blue against her black hair, and
her mouth is tiny and bends up at the corners like a cupid's
bow.

"Yes, sir?" she asks passively.

The young girl looks at her feet which are
covered in short, black leather boots. She wears dirty jeans and a
blue polo shirt with a logo for Damien Riding Stables over in
Clarksville. Having just come from that crap city, Reagan can say
for certain that Damien Riding Stables is likely under new
management.

"Where did this woman come from? Is she from
the Southwest?" Grandpa asks.

Sam looks away and then at the camp set up
by her people and back to her feet. She doesn't answer.

"What about the boy?" John asks and gets the
same response from her.

"Honey, we need your help," Grandpa
says.

He's using his most soothing doctor voice
that Reagan has heard many times over the years. He'd had to use
this tone on her once when she'd been given the grade of a B in
Home Economics class which she'd been forced to take at the age of
eleven since she was nearly in high school at that point. She'd
cried and threatened the teacher, but Grandpa had explained in his
special voice about how knowing how to perform brain surgery was
more important than sewing a pillow. Reagan had sewn hers inside
out, thus the B.

"It's important that we get some information
about the boy and the woman because it will help these doctors to
help them," John assures her.

"I… I don't know, sir," Sam answers unsurely
as her eyes flit to the camping area again.

Reagan doesn't miss the look of heightening
anxiety over these new trespassers that passes between John and
Grandpa.

"How long have they been sick?" Reagan
demands. She has no time or patience for this. Her tone scares the
girl.

"I don't know that, either, ma'am. Since
I've been… with them they've both been sick," she finishes in a
rush and looks at the camp once again.

"How long have you been with them?" John
asks.

The girl is staring at the ground again and
shaking her head. John's eyes meet Reagan's, and she knows he's
getting angry but not at this waifish, innocent girl.

"Ok, it's fine. We'll figure this out
without all the details. Thanks, Samantha. You can go back in and
keep watch if you like or return to your group and get some rest,"
Grandpa says.

Sam frantically shakes her head. "No, sir.
I'd like to stay and help."

Reagan notices that she answers rather
expediently for a person with dark circles under their bright blue
eyes. Reagan is always surprised by the genius of her grandfather's
tactics with getting information from people and making them feel
comfortable enough to give it. That one interaction between him and
the girl has told them all they need to know. Sam wants nothing to
do with those people at the camp and would rather tend to sick
people who could pass their strange disease on to her than get some
much-needed rest with her traveling companions. This is going to be
a problem with the men in Reagan's family and especially her
grandfather. Suddenly, John is tense, alert, standing taller.

"Where the fuck is my kid?" comes a male
voice behind Reagan.

John snatches her behind him and puts
himself and his rifle between her and the man. Grandpa steps
forward. This is the man Reagan was so nervous about the other day.
Even behind the tinted glasses, his eyes are cold and
malevolent.

"I presume you are speaking of the boy?"
Grandpa asks.

"Yeah, Garrett's his name. Are you guys
fixin' him or what?" he asks rudely.

The man rubs at his scraggly beard. His
yellowy tinted eyeglasses are creepy and keep his gaze partially
concealed.

"Hey, pipe down. These two doctors are doing
all they can for him. You can help them by answering some of their
questions," John says.

He states this with enough force that the
guy stops advancing toward them. Reagan definitely would've
suggested the same move. She's seen what John can do when pushed.
How does John flick the switch on this personality trait within him
that turns him so instantaneously violent and hard? Reagan's not
sure she really wants to know the answer.

"Yeah, whatever, man."

"What's your name, sir?" Grandpa asks,
trying to calm him.

"Frank. My name's Frank, and Garrett's my
boy. His twin brother's out at the RV. He's worried sick about his
brother," Frank with the dirty beard explains.

He is about the same height as John but
thinner, leaner and has a malevolent demeanor about him. For a
father who is supposedly so worried for his son, he's taken over
thirty-six hours to come and check on the kid. Reagan could have
never left his side for even a moment if he belonged to her.
Garrett is so small and frail that she would've been too scared
he'd die if she left his side and wasn't with him every minute.

"Look, Frank, we're not going to lie to you.
Your boy is very ill. Can you tell us how long he's been this way?"
Grandpa asks and gets ready to notate it on the makeshift
chart.

"Um, I don't know. Like three or four weeks
or so," the man explains so clearly.

"Have you traveled from the West or
Southwest regions of our country like Arizona or Colorado?" Grandpa
inquires with more patience than Reagan knows he feels.

"What? No, man. We're from New Mexico. But
when the shit got bad, we joined up with friends in Arizona and
Ohio and headed this way. Peter's the one who said we should come
here. I didn't want to come all the way out here to the damn
boonies," Mr. Personality answers.

The last Reagan checked, New Mexico is a
part of the Southwest, but she'll have to consult her map later.
She's surprised at this man's negativity toward them. Shouldn't he
be just the least bit appreciative that they've allowed them to
stay temporarily on their farm and that they are treating his young
son?

"Have any other members of your group come
down with this sickness?" Reagan breaks into Frank's moving speech.
Immediately she can tell that he doesn't want to answer because he
plunks his hand on his hip and juts out his jaw. But he does look
her up and down in a lewd, leering way which gives her chills.
Instinctively she inches slightly closer to John.

"Answer the question, dude," John warns with
his usual quiet, deadly intent.

John's hand slides behind him and flattens
against her hip, staying her. Reagan doesn't step away from him or
out of his grasp because Frank scares her. He's more than a little
disturbing. She's had enough of dangerous men and their sinister
stares and their heinous behavior.

"Yeah, a couple," Frank answers.

"How many?" John pushes.

"Four."

Reagan hears her grandpa utter "shit" under
his breath. This situation is getting worse.

"And? What happened to them?" John pushes
again.

His questions are just as good as what
Reagan and Grandpa would've asked this man of questionable
character who has now lit a cigarette. He inhales and blows
directly toward Reagan, making two small rings of smoke.

"Answer," John grinds out.

"They died. What the fuck ya' think happened
to them?" Frank reveals rudely, showing his love of manners
again.

Reagan feels the tenseness in John and
notices the way the veins stick out on his hand that grips his
rifle. Grandpa turns to look at Reagan who is still standing
slightly to John's left. This isn't good. They could all be wiped
out by this disease.

"Were any medicines given to those who were
sick? Were you able to get them any medical help at all?" Grandpa
asks.

Kelly has joined the discussion, but Frank
is completely unaware of the hulking presence behind him just ten
feet away. His rifle is in front of him and not slung on his
shoulder, and he's eating something. His manner is more casual and
relaxed than John who looks like he would prefer to just shoot the
visitors. And after their nightmarish trip to the city, Reagan's
surprised that he hasn't already. She understands why his Army
comrades would've given him the nickname of Doctor Death.

"Yeah, we took them to urgent care. No way,
man. In case you haven't been off this farm, old man, shit's bad
out there. There ain't no doctors left," Frank says.

John's hand tightens on the rifle. Reagan
stills his hand by placing hers over his. She feels the tendons
under her palm tense and flex.

"His name is Dr. McClane to you, dirtbag,"
John warns. "Call him 'old man' again and I'll turn your head into
a Jell-O mold."

Though she knows it is not meant for her,
John's threat sends a shiver down Reagan's spine.

"Make that two Jell-O molds," Kelly repeats
nonchalantly.

He tosses his apple core to the ground and
scares the crap out of Frank who spins to see him. Frank's stunned
expression is almost comical.

"Look, sorry, man. I'm just stressed out,
ok? You know, worried about the kid and all," the creep says
complacently.

It's not a good excuse to disrespect her
grandfather who has opened up his farm to them and is providing
medical care to their sick.

Frank rambles on, "We ain't bathed or eaten
good in a long time. Can we just get some water? We filled up our
containers in a creek up the road, but the water's all gone."

"You may use the pump at the horse barn.
Someone can show you to it," Grandpa offers more kindly than anyone
else would have.

"Cool. I'll tell the others and get the
jugs," Frank says and walks away quickly to find his friends.

He had not even asked to see his son, and
this fact is not lost on any of them. Reagan even smirks.

She comments, "What a dick." Then Reagan
removes her hand from John's, but not before he glances down at her
with a look of possessiveness in his blue eyes.

"Jell-O mold?" Kelly asks with a grin.
"Seriously, bro. We gotta work on your insults. It's ok to cuss
sometimes."

John laughs loudly, and it helps to ease the
tension.

"Yeah, son. That was kind of sad. But at
least I think he got the point," Grandpa adds.

Reagan full-on grins.

"Yes, sir," John says with an embarrassed
smile. "I'll work on it."

Derek has joined their group, as well,
having come from one of the barns. John brings him up to speed
while she talks again with her grandfather on the meds and the
patients.

"All right, I guess I'll take these dipshits
to get water," Kelly offers.

"Nah, I got it, Kelly," Derek counters.

Her brother-in-law jogs toward the visitors'
campsite near the driveway, nearest the exit which they'll
hopefully soon use to leave their farm.

"I'm going in to get a drink and ditch the
night vision. Be back in a few," Kelly tells John who still stands
watch over the shed, though the danger seems to have passed.

"I don't like this, Reagan," her grandfather
says to her.

She readily agrees. "I know. This sucks even
more now."

Grandpa sighs. "The fact that these two have
had this for weeks and are still sick, not better at all isn't
good," he adds and removes his eyeglasses again to wipe the lenses
on his shirt.

"Yeah, no shit. Why didn't Peter tell us
this? And four of them already died from it? Seriously? Why the
hell did Peter even bring them here? He knows this is fatal," she
vents angrily and scuffs her shoe at an errant pebble on the
cement.

"Don't say that. There's always still hope,"
Grandpa is quick to disagree. "Don't ever give up hope, Reagan.
It's our job to keep hope alive until the end. We're the only two
people on this farm who might have any chance at all of saving
those two in there. You must not give up on them. Do you
understand?"

"Yeah, I understand. I get it, Grandpa," she
tells him with a forlorn nod. He lays a weathered hand on her
shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. She tries hard not to shirk
his touch.

"That's my girl," he tells her.