The McClane Apocalypse: Book One (15 page)

As they pass the second floor landing, John notices a large, bumped out bay window with a cushioned bench attached at the bottom. The entire day is gone. It’s dark outside again. Has he really spent the whole day in Hannah’s bedroom? To prove a point, his stomach growls loudly.

“I’ll send Kelly up with a supper tray for you, dear,” Mary tells him as they cross through the third floor attic door that leads up one more flight to Reagan’s bedroom. His stomach was louder than he thought.

To call it a bedroom is quite the understatement. She literally has the entire third floor attic space. He remembers waking in this room this morning when it was still dark and feeling highly unsettled. For a soldier to awaken in unfamiliar surroundings, it’s not the most comforting sensation. It took him back to a time when he’d awakened in a Syrian terrorist prison camp. Not something he likes remembering. While there isn’t a bathroom, there is still enough room for a queen size bed, a large walk-in closet, a desk area covered with medical journals and a computer, two tall dressers, a wall of mirrors and a lounge area complete with stuffed chairs, a sofa, two stands and an entertainment system. How the smallest person in the house, with the exception of the children, got the biggest room he has no idea.

Maryanne walks into the closet and comes back a moment later with a thick, pink blanket. John has already placed Reagan on her white, four poster bed where she is passed out from total exhaustion and, more likely, blood loss. Her grandmother covers her and removes Reagan’s dirty sneakers, shaking her head. When she tosses them onto the floor, dust actually plumes off of them. She strokes her hand along Reagan’s curly hairline and smiles, the lines at the corners of Maryanne’s eyes deepen.

“My little Reagan. Always a fighter, this one,” she boasts and bends to plant a kiss on the sleeping girl’s forehead. There’s no shame or embarrassment in her tone, and John can’t help but be moved by the unguarded love he sees in Grams’s eyes when she straightens. There is also a great sadness there.

“Nothing like family,” Grams says. John smiles at her.

“I should check her pulse, probably,” John says to her uncertainly. It was so much simpler when the doc had been there. Grams pats his hand reassuringly.

“You’ll be just fine. I’m off to heat you some dinner.” And with that, Grams leaves Reagan in his care.

He carefully takes Reagan’s pulse, not once, but twice just to be sure he got it right. There is a ladder-back chair like the one in Hannah’s room, except it’s been painted white, standing in front of Reagan’s desk, so he brings it over by the bed. It creaks when he sits in it; he hopes it isn’t about to give out underneath him as it looks about a hundred years old. This time alone with her gives him time to study Reagan and their surroundings while she sleeps. Her blonde curls are so tight that in places they seem frizzy. But when he reaches out to touch one, John discovers they are quite soft, silky. His fingertips just graze the satiny skin of her neck, and she flinches, moans in her sleep. She has shifted slightly, which pushes her white nightgown off her right shoulder, baring it. There is a deep, four inch scar visible and two smaller, shallower scars that cover her shoulder and upper chest area and disappear beneath the gown. He wonders what other scars she bears under that dress. Do they match the ones on her face and shoulder?

Her room is a strange mix of grunge, indie-rock band posters, white lace, gross posters of internal organs and how they work like you’d see in a doctor’s office, a few old stuffed animals, a scratched and worn guitar and a life-size skeleton, which he hopes is plastic. The bed is covered with a white bedspread embroidered with little pink flowers- no doubt her grandmother’s decorating choice. Hanging on the wall near her bed is a hand-stitched, yellowing quilt, probably a family heirloom. The walls are mostly painted white with the exception of the living room area which is gray. She’s not one for a lot of color. Paintings of flowers in pale colors with black lettered poetry superimposed over them hang scattered around the room. When he looks closer at one near the bed, John sees that the artist’s signature is none other than Sue McClane. He never knew she painted. Derek certainly hadn’t told him. Then again when he was around his brother they were usually shooting at Muslim terrorists. On her nightstand is some light reading on infectious diseases. Gross again. Her room is strange, eclectic and frenzied, just like her.

“Grub, dude,” Kelly announces a while later as he makes his entrance as silently as is possible for him. John snatches his hand back from her hair as if he’s been caught stealing and then feels stupid for doing so.

“Thought you might like some company,” Kelly adds as John directs him to the living area where he places the food tray on the large center stand. There are two plates full to heaping with mashed potatoes, gravy, thick slices of ham, green beans, homemade bread, jam and strawberries with shortcakes for dessert. He’s also carried a pitcher of cold milk with him. John hasn’t had cold milk with his dinner since he was about seven.

“This isn’t even right, man,” John comments on the spread before them. “Have you slept, Kelly?” John asks, concerned for his friend.

“Not much. Couldn’t sleep last night. Had both the kids in with me in the basement and let me tell you, they are a couple of snorers. But I kept getting up to check on Derek. Plus, it’s weird sleeping with a roof over my head, ya’ know? I grabbed a nap earlier out in the hammock. Didn’t even know I nodded off till Em came and woke me. She likes all the animals here, ran all day chasing chickens and watching the horses. I’ll probably crash like a log with the kids tonight, though.”

“Why’d you carry me all the way up here yesterday? Could’ve just dumped me on the floor somewhere,” John asks.

“They didn’t want you anywhere you might hear your brother... well, you know, yelling and stuff,” Kelly explains.

John grimaces and nods. “How’s Derek doing?”

“Real good, John, real good. Doc says he’ll come through just fine,” Kelly informs him.

Without formalities the men dig in like ravenous cavemen. Slurping, slopping, guttural and unabashed appreciation of the food takes place until it’s all gone, down to the very last strawberry. They both lean back and put their hands on their stomachs. They even drink their milk.

“How do they do this?” Kelly asks him as he belches in quiet male appreciation.

“No idea, man. They seem to be the only people surviving all the crap that’s going on out there. It’s like it didn’t even touch this place,” John answers with equal confusion. “Better check on her again.”

Kelly follows him and stands watch at the foot of the bed as John takes her pulse again and lays a hand against her cheek.

“She’s still kind of cold. Freakin’ me out a little, but the doc said it’s normal. Still... I don’t know,” he tells Kelly.

“Do you want me to get him?”

“No, he said if she stays cool to the touch that I could lay beside her to warm her up, but I don’t know about that. Seems kinda’ weird, ya’ know?” John shrugs and looks at Kelly.

“Hey, man, if he said to do it, then you should just do it,” Kelly answers. This is Kelly. He is simple and to the point. He doesn’t mince his words, what little you can get out of him. There is right and there is wrong. There is no such thing as a gray area with Sergeant Kelly Alexander. “I could get Sue to come up and lay with her, but nobody can get her to leave Derek’s side. Hannah’s busy with Grams and the kids with getting them ready for bed. And I’m helping milk cows in half an hour. Yeah, you heard me,” Kelly says with a frown and then a chuckle.

“Yeah, well I’ll wait a little while longer and if she’s still cold, then I’ll do it. But it still feels... wrong or something,” John reasons and stretches his arms over his head. His back aches from sitting watch for hours on end with Derek and now Reagan, and his shoulder muscles are still screaming from carrying Derek.

“I’ll take that stuff back down to the kitchen. Don’t wanna’ cross Grams,” he chuckles and gathers the tray, cups and milk pitcher, making his way back out of the attic. He ducks in the door frame.

John crosses the room to stand at the window most near her bed, taking note of the Remington 700 sniper rifle in a .308 cartridge that is perched in the corner with a Leupold scope attached to it. Well, that sure as heck doesn’t go with the white, lacy curtains. There is a small balcony off of a set of French style doors in the center of the room. He imagines her standing on it with the rifle raised, surveying the property. The McClanes aren’t as cut off from the atrocities of the world as it had first seemed.

Reagan moans in her sleep and catches John’s attention with a visible shiver. No time like the present, he supposes. He perches on the side of the bed opposite of her and removes his Army issue boots. Taking great care to not jostle the bed and awaken her, he slides in beside her under the blanket. At least he has on clean clothes finally. Sue loaned him a clean shirt of Derek’s that she had at the farm, and he wears one of the only two pairs of jeans he’d stashed in his sack.

John lay there quietly staring at the ceiling feeling like an incompetent ass and filled with a ridiculous amount of apprehension. She goes on breathing steadily and stays asleep. He scoots an inch closer, sliding his arm under her pillow. It bumps something hard and cold, and he pulls it out. It’s a four inch dagger in a carved, metal sheath. On a hunch he checks under his own pillow and finds a .38 snub nose pistol. He puts it back. Then, he rolls back to his side, wrapping an arm around her midsection. Reagan instantly stiffens, but after a minute or so she seems to relax.

John watches her as she sleeps. Her eyelids flutter, and he takes in her long lashes, the line of her small, narrow nose, the arch of her thick brows. He can feel her body temperature rising, so he takes her pulse again measuring it by his watch. It’s steady and strong. She’s simply exhausted and sleeping so quietly that periodically he feels for her pulse just to check if she’s alive. But an hour later without warning, she whimpers and then whimpers again as if afraid. Is she having a bad dream?

“Stop,” she grumbles to herself. “Stop it, please.” Her mumbling becomes incoherent but goes on for a few minutes. Reagan begins to sweat, her hairline becoming damp. Her right arm thrashes wildly against her side. Then her legs follow suit, scissoring under the blanket. Her heartbeat has accelerated to the point that it’s actually scaring John. She’s clearly in distress as both of her hands come up to her throat as if she’s trying to pry invisible fingers from it. Curling her fingers around those phantom hands, she whimpers again and gags as if she’s being choked.

“Hey, it’s ok. It’s just John. You’re safe. Reagan, it’s John; you’re safe,” he whispers into her hair. He doesn’t know why it seems important to tell her she’s safe, but it is. He has absolutely zero experience with this sort of thing. He never had sisters growing up; it has always just been him and Derek. Girlfriends had been few and far between, being a career military man. He repeats the mantra again, trying to assuage her. It earns him a soft sigh. She calms down as fast she’d started. Good sign.

“...safe... John,” she mumbles a few moments later. A very good sign as she breathes deeply again, falling back to sleep without her demons chasing her.

Reagan rolls onto her side, facing him and pushes her leg in between his own. Something sharp is poking painfully into his thigh and, after feeling around in the dark, John figures out what it is. He peeks under the pink blanket and sees that her gown has ridden up to her thighs, revealing the .45 still strapped there. He decides that it’s best to grin and bear it for now and joins her in a few minutes of sleep before he’s up again on watch, pacing the room, pacing the balcony, pacing.

Chapter Eight

Sue

“Rise and shine, sleepy head,” Sue announces as she enters Reagan’s bedroom. The three flight climb had been a pain in the rear and caused a pulling in her burdened groin muscles, but she’d wanted the time alone with her tempestuous sister. Still in bed at eight in the morning is not something that Reagan McClane does often, so Sue has to take full advantage of it.

John had come down two hours ago to report how well she seemed to be doing. They hadn’t really needed the report, though. Grandpa had checked on her twice in the middle of the night and had said he found them both asleep. John had fallen asleep on the balcony with his head crooked sideways. His neck is going to be sore today. But the other time, he’d found Reagan fast asleep on John’s chest, who was also dead out. Grandpa had smiled and gone on about Reagan’s stats which nobody really understood other than that she was doing well. Funny that Grandpa didn’t find it alarming to discover his granddaughter in bed with a virtual stranger, but these are strange times.

Her sister yawns, stretches and immediately winces at her fresh stitches which she’s just pushed too far too soon. Typical Reagan behavior.

“What time is it?” she asks groggily as she scratches her head and sits up.

“It’s almost eight,” Sue answers and sets the tray of breakfast foods on the bed beside Reagan.

“I need to get up... there’s stuff to do. I don’t have time to eat,” Reagan protests stubbornly.

“Relax, wild woman. Grams has the guys taking care of your chores. Kelly milked the cows this morning and last night. Said he thought it was kind of cool. Strange, a big guy like that thinking milking a cow is cool,” she explains as she unfolds the silverware from the linen napkin and hands the fork to Reagan. “The kids are fitting in really well, too. Cory likes feeding the pigs and helping with the milking. Em is crazy about the chickens just like Arianna. They’re all just about done with everything. Grams has got them all scrubbing up in the mudroom and laying down the no farm shoes in this house rule.” Sue laughs and Reagan rolls her eyes.

“How’s Derek?” her sister asks soberly.

“Thanks to you, he’s gonna live,” Sue tells hers. Tears well in her eyes for the hundredth time in the last three days. She lets them fall unashamedly. This is the reason she wanted the alone time.