The McClane Apocalypse: Book One (12 page)

“I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re more... I don’t know, adept than most people in a kitchen. Definitely more adept than me,” he mocks himself.

“Not if you count opening a can of soup,” Cory teases with a snort.

“Thanks, bro,” Kelly comes back at him.

“Or MRI’s,” Em adds. It’s a tease; it’s a blessed thing to hear.

“Oh man. Thanks, sis. And it’s MRE’s, silly. You guys are hard on your old brother,” Kelly joins in quickly. It seems like he’s trying to keep Em engaged.

“What’s an MRE?” Hannah asks while she’s stirring potatoes on the cooktop. The breeze from the open windows causes the loose strands of her hair to tickle her neck. It’s going to be hot today. The warmth of the newly risen sun is heating her face through the wide widow.

“An MRE is a Meal Ready to Eat. It’s basically space food that the Army gives you. It’s disgusting. Powdered, dehydrated type stuff that you just add water to. Nothing like this fine cuisine,” Kelly tells them. Grams chuckles.

“Mm, it sounds really good,” Hannah chimes in sarcastically. “Didn’t you like them, Em?”

“Eww, no way! Kelly made us eat them on the trip here. I must’ve eaten like six packs. They are di-sgus-ting!”

“Well, when you’re hungry, you’re hungry,” Kelly says lightly.

“I hope I’m never that hungry again!” Cory adds.

“Well, you won’t be hungry here, that’s for sure. Between me and Grams, we could feed an army. And soon, we’ll give you guys some chores to do each day. Our garden is a lot to keep up with. And then there are the cows to milk and the chickens to feed. There’s always something that needs done around here,” Hannah tells the kids, knowing they will be excited about these chores. What is it about kids and farms?

“Really? I could probably help with the chickens!” Em says eagerly.

“Oh good. That’s my job and I don’t care much for
one
of them. We’ve got a nasty old rooster out there, who’s got it in for me. I think he purposely trips me, too, because he knows I can’t see or something. Nasty old bird! We don’t like each other real well if you know what I mean,” Hannah tells the young girl. It’s all true. She loves all of her chickens and their soft, silky feathers, but not that rooster! And the baby peeps are always adorable and so tiny.

“Chickens and cows, huh? Hey, that sounds pretty cool, Em. Maybe we’ll go out later today and see what that’s all about,” Kelly tells his sister. Hannah wonders how many MRE’s he and John went without to feed these kids.

“Alright, now let’s take our plates over to Mary, ok guys?” Kelly charges his siblings. Hannah appreciates that he is teaching them good manners. There is enough to do without cleaning up after one another.

“Here,” Hannah extends a hand toward the garbage bowl on the back counter, “this is where we scrape our plates, and then we can feed the scraps to the chickens and pigs.”

“Nothin’ goes to waste around here!” Grams adds.

“Yep, that’s...,” Hannah stops as she feels the sudden close proximity of Kelly against her front as he sets his plate in the sink. He probably doesn’t realize that her sense of touch and proximity is more heightened than most people. Without thinking, Hanna reaches out about six or seven inches and makes contact with his chest, flattening her palm there. He startles, but remains still. His chest is very deeply grooved with muscle. She allows her hand to travel up to his shoulder, which is way up there.

“It’s how she can tell about you. She’s pretty good about not running into us; she can feel spatially or whatever some such nonsense Herb’s always talking. I just think she’s touched is all,” Grams informs Kelly as if she’s quoting from her own brand of medical journal. Hannah doesn’t believe in being “touched.” She’s just gotten used to using her other senses that most people take for granted.

“Oh... um, sure,” Kelly answers nervously, and his body stiffens under Hannah’s touch. Grams is from southern Louisiana, so she’s always saying someone is touched when she really means psychic or something. Hannah doesn’t have time for such silliness. Her world deals in the senses, what she can perceive, feel, hear or smell.

“You’re taller than everyone else here,” Hannah explains. “Wider, too, I think.” Her hand smoothens over his shoulder blade to his face, which is covered in a thick beard. Her brow furrows as his jaw flexes.

Reading her confusion, Kelly explains his appearance, “Ranger. They don’t say much to Special Forces. We kinda’ do our own thing. And sometimes it just helps us to blend in a little more. But this thing sure does get old when it’s long and scraggly like this.” He says, clearly embarrassed by his haggard appearance. Grams is always one for neat appearances, especially on men, so she says she’ll hook him right up with what he needs for a shave. Kelly takes Hannah’s hand into his giant one and places it back down at her side.

“Thank you. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable,” Hannah says quickly, too quickly, and turns away.

“No, ma’am. Just don’t want you to cut yourself on stubble,” he says on a half chuckle.

“Oh,” she whispers breathily. “I think your beard is fine.”

“I’m gonna check the progress with Derek and see if I can’t get John to come and eat, take a break. Thanks again for the good food, ladies,” Kelly tells them.

“I’ll take the kids outside to look around and you take your time,” Hannah says and quickly scoots around Kelly, bumping into the island. That’s weird. She hasn’t bumped into anything in forever, and here she’s done it twice in the same day. It must be all the stress. “...and a shower!” she tosses over her shoulder with a laugh.

Chapter Seven

John

“What? Why are you staring at my shoes?” Reagan barks at him. It’s her usual tone which he’s almost becoming used to. Almost.

“Sorry,” John mumbles and tries to focus his attention back on Derek. It’s been over an hour since the doc had hooked the two patients up to the homemade transfusion line he’d rigged. John had thought he was gonna puke when Doc stuck Reagan with the long needle. She’d barely flinched.

He
had
been staring at her shoes. It was better than looking at the rubber hose thing with red blood moving through it. She’d changed into presumably one of Hannah’s nightgowns since this is her room they are all in. It is a long, white dress that gives the crazy girl a falsely angelic appearance. But she still wears her dirty Converse sneakers. And black socks. It just looked funny and had drawn John’s attention, but now she is calling him out on it. He has never seen a girl dress the way she seems to. There isn’t anything feminine about her clothing or any forethought put into her appearance. Why is it that she is the one who looks silly but had made him feel like an idiot with just a few words? Why the heck does he even care what she thinks?

“Reagan, be nice. Sometimes, young lady...,” Doctor McClane scolds. But John can see that it doesn’t reach the man’s eyes. The depth of emotion that Mr. McClane feels for his granddaughters is apparent to anyone who took two seconds to look. There is fierce protectiveness that lurks behind the older man’s blue eyes when he looks at Reagan. And more than a lot of professional respect for her abilities as a doctor.

“It’s ok, sir. I’m just thankful that she’s doing this, Doctor McClane,” John says with great reverence. She is literally saving his brother’s life, and he’ll be forever indebted to her. Whether he wants to be or not.

“No, no need for the Doctor McClane and Mr. McClane stuff. Just call me Herb or Doc, I guess. It’s what most folks call me. Can’t be the town doctor for thirty-eight years and not come to be known as Doc,” he tells John.

“Yes, sir,” John answers. He observes as Doc McClane moves around the room with great efficiency, checking Derek’s pulse from time to time, taking Reagan’s temperature and checking her pulse, as well.

“John, did you and Derek meet up with my son, Robert? We’ve been worried about him. The last I spoke with him he said he was going to try to get to you two,” Doc asks.

“Uh... no, sir. We weren’t able to connect with him. He was sent to the Northwest. I think they were going to try and get him into Seattle with his men,” John tells him solemnly. It has been over a month since they had any contact with him. It isn’t the best, most uplifting news, and John doesn’t want to be the one to relay it. Reagan is also paying rapt attention to this discussion.

“The north, eh? When did you reach him last?” Doc asks. He’s tenacious. But, then again, it’s his son.

“It’s been awhile, sir,” John answers.

“What’s awhile?” Reagan demands assertively but won’t hold John’s gaze.

“Over a month, sir,” he answers her grandfather who nods grimly. What John doesn’t want to say is that he knows their caravan was attacked by criminals once they hit the city. They hadn’t even had the time to set up a perimeter. It was assumed after the first week of no communication with them that there were no survivors. Neither of them probes the issue further as they both remain silent for a short time.

“I think we’re out of the allergic reaction time frame. Whatcha’ think, Grandpa?” Reagan asks.

“Yes, I think you’re right,” he agrees. It sounds like good news to John. Her grandfather has a quiet, methodical manner that John finds comforting. His granddaughter on the other hand is a hyper spaz.

Sue had said some things to John last night when he’d come downstairs after his knock-out sleep. He’d started looking for and panicking about Derek. But Sue had reassured him that Derek was in good hands. Two doctors in the house aren’t just fortuitous but Divine Intervention as far as she was concerned. John had asked her who the other doctor was and she’d told him about Reagan being some kind of weird, super genius, whiz kid. She would’ve started her surgical residency at Nashville General in the fall if this all hadn’t started. Strange that the first time he’d met her she’d been about to shoot him dead with a gun bigger than her. John was stymied to say the least. He’d barely made it out of high school. The only skills he has are sniping some terrorist or communist dictator from a thousand yards or interrogating a prisoner or setting up a demo charge. He was the demolitions specialist in his unit, but his talents in the military ranged far and wide and mostly all had to do with killing people. It was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do, serve his country and mostly blow crap up. He guesses that one of Reagan’s other talents is also shooting at people.

John listens in as the two docs do their doctor talk; he can’t follow most of it. Plasma this, hemostolic that, whatever any of it means he just hopes it translates to something positive for his brother.

“If you’ll excuse me for a minute, gotta use the loo. The old prostate’s not what it used to be, kids,” Doc informs them to which he earns a groan from his granddaughter.

“Thanks for telling us. Gross!” she complains. She resumes glaring at John as soon as her grandfather disappears into Hannah’s bathroom. Her eyes are more guarded, wary of John after her grandfather leaves.

“Look, I just wanna say thank you for...” John starts.

“Save it. I’m a doctor. Saving lives is what I am supposed to do,” she says with a roll of her eyes, which he’s noticed are green.

“No, you didn’t have to give him your own blood. I don’t remember ever seeing any doctors do that in real life before,” he says lightly.

“Yeah well, it’s the least I could do. I mean I did almost shoot you two. My whiny ass sister wouldn’t have let me live that one down,” Reagan tells him as she fiddles with the IV line. She doesn’t want to make eye contact all of a sudden, and John can tell that she’s uncomfortable with any sort of praise for her kind act.

“I’m kinda’ glad you didn’t, too. This is really something, though. Your sister told me about you helping with the surgery stuff, too, and with Cory,” he says with a grin and scratches at the scraggly beard on his chin. The shower he’d taken had felt great, but the shaggy hair and beard he sports sure don’t.

“Send me a Christmas card,” she smarts off. This is not going anywhere. She’s hard to pin a compliment on. John runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

“What’s up with the grizzly bear look?” she asks brusquely.

“Oh, this?” John asks pointing to the beard. She nods. “It’s ‘cuz I was Special Ops overseas deployed. Anyone who’s in Special Ops grows one. Helps us blend in with the natives a little better.” He nods and raises his eyebrows at her, trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t work.

“So how come Derek doesn’t have one?”

“He wasn’t deployed to Syria. He’s usually sent somewhere cushy,” John jokes as all military men do with each other. There are no “cushy” deployments, not even for officers like Derek. Hasn’t been anything cushy in years. She frowns at him.

“It’s hard on her when he’s gone. She’s been a freagin’ wreck since the shit hit,” she swears. She swears like a sailor. She coulda’ been Special Ops, John thinks ironically.

“Yeah, I can imagine,” he answers her as Doc comes out of the bathroom.

John watches as her grandfather checks her and Derek once again and then sits in a chair that has been placed by the bed. It’s been a little over an hour since they began. Time moves miserably slow as John watches a slow trickle of blood being transfused into his brother.

Derek stirs once, twice and begins to thrash in his sleep. He starts to shake and it’s not the same kind of shaking that he’d been doing earlier.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” John asks in fear.

Before any of them can do a thing, Derek’s arm with the IV flings in a wide arc which yanks Reagan’s IV clean out. She screams, a blood curdling sound. A spray of blood from her arm hits the wall, the white curtains and her sister’s white nightgown. She immediately grabs at her arm, and John sees blood leaking out between her thin fingers.

“Dammit, hold him, John! Don’t let him fall off that bed,” Doc yells as he’s trying to stop the blood loss from Derek’s IV, which is still attached. Blood is pouring out onto the hardwood floor at an alarming rate. Her grandfather manages to pinch the IV tubing to stop the blood, but John can tell this is bad.

Herb fluidly pulls out the needle and covers Derek’s arm with a tiny piece of cotton followed by white medical tape. “Hold pressure here, John,” Doc orders to which John complies.