The McClane Apocalypse: Book One (35 page)

“That’s good, I suppose. If there could be anything good about any of it,” she remarks sadly. Her hands float and skim about his chest.

“Hey now, you’d better not start anything like that,” Derek warns and finally stops keeping watch with the binoculars. At least she finally got his attention. Sue allows her hands to travel south. But Derek stops them both with one of his.

“What’s wrong?” Sue asks.

“It’s too soon, Sue. You know that. It hasn’t been six weeks, remember? That’s what your old doctor used to always say with the other two babies,” Derek says. Sue comes around to his front, keeping her arms still around him, and leans up for a sweet kiss.

“I think it’s been close enough, sir,” Sue says and gives him a small salute which he returns with a lopsided smile. “After you get about fourteen hours of sleep, of course.”

“I don’t think I’m going to need quite that much sleep. As a matter of fact, maybe when you get the rugrat up for his middle of the night feeding I’ll have slept long enough,” he tells her.

“Hm, sounds promising,” Sue says slyly.

“Could be,” he promises and kisses her long and thoroughly.

“Let’s go down so I can help with dinner and Isaac and get the kids inside to wash up. We’re eating early so you guys can go get some sleep,” Sue explains.

“Yeah and I’d better check on John. That stab wound was pretty deep; they might have trouble holding him still,” Derek says. His concern for his brother is written all over his face. They go back to the fray, the noise, the chaos, the madness- their family.

Chapter Eighteen

Reagan

Blood, blood and more damned blood. It’s all she’s seen for so many sickening months. If she’d wanted to intern in an E.R. she wouldn’t have seen so much blood. She’s sewn more stitches in the past months than she might have if she’d finished a surgical residency. Well, maybe not that much, but it is still a lot. And this one is particularly rough.

“Argh,” John groans in pain. The knife had sunk deep, deeper than he’d said originally. There are literally layers of muscle that need stitched. His fist clenches and unclenches from time to time from pain.

“Easy, son,” Grandpa croons gently. They’d given John two Demerol pills to control some of the pain, but it isn’t like a numbing shot. With Derek, herself and Sue’s baby birth, the pain meds are getting low, and the pain shots are gone. The Demerol will help but not for this part. The pills will knock him out cold in about an hour and he’ll feel much better tomorrow. But not for this.

“Derek, hold him more still, please,” Grandpa pleads. “She needs precision with these stitches. I know, I know, John. There’s a lot of nerve endings in there. But if she doesn’t get this exactly sewn up neatly, you’ll have improper pulling and tugging and could lose some of your muscle function.”

“Yes, sir,” they both answer in unison.

They are in the new and improved med shed that Grandpa has been working to get set up. Reagan has been helping him with the project. They moved a small sterilized mattress in and put it on top of the stainless steel, adjustable bed. Setting the equipment up in a more usable way and making layout changes had all happened in the timespan of about a week. Now it is just as good as any hospital emergency room, minus the more helpful supplies like morphine, anesthesia and, most importantly, nurses. There is even a canister of compressed oxygen with a small amount left in the case they might use it. Clean surgical gowns for herself and Grandpa, latex gloves, gauze pads, alcohol, and sanitized sheets covering the bed are just a few of the supplies they have. Grandpa had brought it all from his practice along with everything else.

“He’s going to need a round of antibiotics. There are plenty of vials of broad spectrum antibiotics in the fridge over there. I think that’s the route we should go. We hit it in one dose, it’s in him and it’ll last for twenty-one days,” Reagan says aloud, seeking her grandfather’s approval or his differing opinion.

“Agreed, Dr. McClane,” Grandpa jokes. “Very good decision. It will cover whatever else he comes into contact with for the next three weeks. Let’s just hope you don’t really need it for that, though, son.”

“I’d like him to have a tetanus shot, as well, but we don’t have any,” Reagan laments.

“It’s cool, we get vac’d every few years for that,” John says through gritted teeth

“Oh good,” Grandpa says almost cheerily.

Derek is practically sitting on John to keep him still. He wipes John’s sweaty forehead. The pain must be horrific. Reagan knows the feeling well. She can sympathize. Stitches suck.

“Good thing you didn’t eat first, brother. You might’ve chucked it here in this nice clean room,” Derek tries to lighten the mood. It doesn’t work as John groans again.

“Her stitches are very precise and neat, John. It’s her tiny hands. These gnarled old claws aren’t what they used to be for that kind of work. You’ll barely have a scar there a year from now,” Grandpa offers kindly.

“Doesn’t matter,” John mutters. “Once you’ve been in a Turkish prison, you aint gonna win a beauty contest, sir.” Plus, her grandpa is lying. His stitch-work is just as neat as hers.

But John’s comment surprises Reagan. She’s never allowed herself to really look at John with or without his shirt on for more than a second, not even when they’d gone swimming. She prefers not to make a lot of eye contact with people. It is easier to just look at the ground or what she usually does- walk away. Does he have his fair share of scars, too? And she sure doesn’t have time to think about it now, either. She’s just about finished when Kelly ducks through the door. His hair is still dripping from his shower, and he wears clean clothing. At least he isn’t bringing in germs.

“One more minute, John. I’m almost done,” she offers quietly.

“Good, yep, tie off, good,” Grandpa coaches slowly over her shoulder. She’d done this sort of thing at the university med clinic alongside some of the teaching doctors in the surgical wing whom she’d befriended. But her work at the hospital had been mostly in research and specimen slides. Lately she’s had quite a lot of practice on Cory, Derek, their neighbors, John and, of course, herself during her flight from the university. “Re-sanitize, that’s it and cover, perfect, sweetie. That’s my girl.”

“Grandpa,” Reagan admonishes with embarrassment under her breath.

“That’s better than any field medic I’ve ever seen, little Doc,” Derek praises. “You’re getting pretty good at this, kiddo.”

“Shut it,” Reagan says. “I’d rather not have the experience if you know what I mean.” She leaves John to wash up at the stainless steel sink, dry her hands and remove her gown. Grandpa follows suit after administering the shot of antibiotics into John’s hip.

“You hanging in there, bro?” Derek asks.

“Yeah, I’m good. Glad she’s done,” John answers weakly, his words slur ever so slightly.

“Demerol’s finally kicking in. That’s good,” Reagan says as she comes around the bed to stand in front of him. He’s moved more onto his side than his stomach and winces as she lifts his arm just slightly to get a better angle on his wrist for a pulse. “Sorry,” she mumbles quietly.

“No prob, boss. Just trying to get some sympathy,” he whispers. She frowns.

“Pulse is still strong,” she says to her grandfather. Reagan tentatively presses her hand to John’s forehead. He looks right into her eyes, his blue ones are serious- probably the Demerol because he’s never serious. “Uh, no sign of fever, he’s cool to the touch.”

Reagan flips her stethoscope over her head and presses the cool metal to John’s bare chest, which she sees is covered in tiny criss-crossings of white scars. She clears her throat and listens to his heartbeat, which is steady and strong. Just like him. Where the hell had that come from? She must still be tired from last night.

“Still in a lot of pain?” she asks him.

“Not as much, just tired,” he answers groggily.

“Alright, I think he’s good...” she starts.

“Really? You think I’m good, boss?” he interrupts with a wicked grin.

“What? No! I mean... he’s good to move. Back to the house I mean!” she stammers out.

“Yes, I agree. We need to get him in the house before he passes out right here on this table. Then we’ll never get him moved. No offense, John, but you outweigh us. Might be funny to watch my little Reagan try to carry you, though,” Grandpa jokes. He and Derek laugh, but John is in a fuzz of meds that are quickly kicking in. Kelly steps into the room to help.

“You guys are just a bunch of comedians aren’t you?” Reagan chides. She bundles the messy, cotton gauze pads and bloody rags into a ball and collects her and Grandpa’s gloves, too. Grandpa holds a small paper bag open for her, and they stuff all of it inside to be burned later. Derek and Kelly put an arm under John’s shoulders and help him from the room. When they are gone, Reagan strips the linens from the bed and puts them in a second paper bag.

“I’ll sterilize the equipment we used. Can’t afford a new pack every time we have a patient anymore,” Grandpa tells her and she nods in agreement.

“I’ll take these linens to Sue to launder. Hopefully we won’t need to keep doing this. Getting old,” Reagan reflects.

“I’m not so sure about that. Seems the times we live in now are going to require it. Best to always be conservative about what and how we use the supplies we do have in here,” Grandpa says as he begins putting the metal tools they’ve used in a silver tray to be sterilized in the house with boiling water.

“Right, I agree. Hopefully I’ll find more in the city. We can’t be too careful. I forgot in all the commotion over John’s shoulder to ask how Chet is doing,” she says.

“He’ll recover just fine thanks to you. That boy used to be sweet on you if I remember right,” he teases playfully. But Reagan only snorts a reply. Chet Reynolds is the last thing on her mind. She’s known him since she’d come to live at the farm. He is probably about ten years older than her or so if she remembers correctly. But she had about as much use for him as she had for learning how to make butter or a biscuit from Grams. She believes her grandfather to be a great flatterer and exaggerator. Why would Chet have ever had an inkling of interest in a bookworm like her? Reagan is incredulous, to say the least.

“He might have some competition now, though,” Grandpa says.

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Reagan asks innocently.

“I’m just saying that I think that young pup you just sewed back together might give Chet Reynolds a run for his money,” he says with a mischievous grin.

“Well, they can both piss off. I don’t have time for crap like that,” Reagan says as she feels a warm blush come over her cheeks. This is not a topic she wants to discuss, not now, not in her past, not ever.

“Oh, you just might someday, young lady. I was just like you when I was your age. But then I met your grandmother and that was it,” he tells her.

“Well, I’m never gonna have a “that was it” moment, let me tell you. Besides, most men are idiots. Present company excluded of course, Grandpa,” she explains and leans against the counter, watching him work. It reminds her of when she was young and hanging on his elbow at his practice.

“Of course,” he concurs. “I’m just saying maybe you ought not sell that John fellow short. He’d keep you safe long after I’m gone. I’m ready.” He turns to her with the tray, and they leave the med shed.

“Don’t worry, Grandpa. You’re not going anywhere anytime soon. And I can take care of myself, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. I’d just rather nothing like that ever happened to you again, sweetpea. That young man looks like he’s seen a battle or two, as well. Just like you. Poor man is covered in scars. I’ve heard about some of those Turkish prisons. Kelly told me that he rescued John out of that prison. I even watched a documentary on the television once about the G.I.’s that made it out of them. Wasn’t a pleasant show to watch. Lot of good soldiers were tortured to death in those prisons. And they didn’t offer any quarter to any of our female soldiers, either. Nasty bastards. He might be someone you could talk to, Reagan. I know you don’t want to talk to any of us about what...”

“Grandpa, stop. That is never gonna happen. Just... don’t,” Reagan pleads with her grandfather.

“I just worry about you, honey,” he tells her and lays a hand for a brief second on her slim shoulder.

“Well, you don’t need to. I’m fine.” Reagan tries not to flinch from her grandfather’s touch. He’d always been a touchy person with her and her sisters. They’d always run into his arms for hugs and kisses. Now she can hardly tolerate his light touch on her shoulder.

“And I meant what I said last night about Guy. I wasn’t just saying that because his family was there. I know you. You would’ve been one of the best doctors in the country someday, Reagan. I know in my heart and with my experience that you did all you could,” he consoles her gently.

“Maybe,” Reagan returns with self-doubt.

“No, honey, you did. When I left med school, I worked for a few years at Boston Mass General and let me tell you, that was no picnic. Gun-shot wounds, knifings, I saw it all there in their ER. Every morbid thing that a person could do to another person. That’s what made me want to just open up a small practice here. I knew there had to be some good, redeeming qualities left in the human spirit,” he explains as they stroll slowly back to the house. It’s the only time Reagan walks slowly- when she’s walking with her grandpa. He is never in a hurry to do anything. Sometimes she wished she’d inherited some of his calm, quiet demeanor.

“And did you?” she asks him.

“Yep, I sure did. Got to birth babies, heal people’s sick family members, got to really learn the people in this community. And I saw some bad, but mostly I saw the good again,” he tells her as they come to the back porch. He stops walking and turns to look directly at Reagan. “What I was getting at is that I saw a lot of men die from gun-shot wounds in that damned E.R., and I know that you did everything right with what you had to work with on Guy. He was my friend and we’ll miss him, but you did nothing wrong. Frankly, I think he was just holding on till he knew the rest of his family was gonna be safe. You don’t let this change you, ya’ hear? You’ll be a fine doctor still. Besides, you probably don’t have much of a choice; it’s in the blood.”