The McClane Apocalypse: Book Two (10 page)

“Let’s not talk about Army crap tonight, ok? Whatcha’ hungry for, skinny-minny?” he asks and the twinkle returns to his dark eyes as quickly as it had disappeared.

John Harrison is apparently more of a killer than she’d ever given him credit for being, more than he wanted to admit to her. He just doesn’t seem like he has it in him to be cold-blooded enough to be lethal. That night at the Reynolds was chaotic for Reagan. She couldn’t tell who was shooting whom on the ground, and she hadn’t seen John at all until he’d found her in the barn with her captor who Kelly had ended up killing. The time they went to the suburbs and helped those women and children in the condominium community when he and his brother had killed those scumbag creeps, she had no idea who did what because she wasn’t right there with them either time.

Reagan shrugs noncommittally at his request for dinner to which he stands again, tilts his head to the side and frowns.

“Reagan, you ate an apple and a half a sandwich the whole day. I know ‘cuz I ate the other half, remember, plus mine? You must be starving. Let me heat up the potato and... whatever jar. And you are gonna eat, boss,” he demands. How annoying. Does he even know how annoying he is? All she wants to do is crawl into that bed and sleep.

John stands directly beside her while he places the jar on the stove to heat it and removes the lid which gives off the tell-tale pop from the canning process. For a man who has ridden twelve hours, the last few in pouring rain, John smells unusually good like spicy deodorant and leather. Reagan glances from her position without him seeing her and notices a wider scar than his others on his lower back which disappears under the band of his boxer-briefs. The muscles of his back and shoulder flex and roll and ripple with the movement of his big body as he stokes the fire. It’s not something Reagan wants to think about. She doesn’t want to think about his beautiful, slick skin or the dark, tanned color of it from working on the farm shirtless like all the men do. She doesn’t want to think about the thickness of his wrists and how the veins in his forearms stand out like the rivulets of rain water against the single window of the cabin. She also doesn’t want to think of his unruly, wavy hair that has become more bleached out on top from the sun, giving him a SoCal surfer look. He unfolds the top of the tin-foil and also places the cornbread on the flat cooktop. Reagan jumps when she feels his hand on her hair.

“Your hair is still pretty wet. Here, give me that towel and I’ll do it,” he says and takes the towel from her.

She’s way too tired to argue and allows him to rub some more of the dampness from her curly locks. His hands squeeze more firmly at her hair, which will indeed dry it more quickly, reminding Reagan of John’s strength. It’s strangely comforting to her right now for some reason that she’s too tired to puzzle out in her mind.

“My gun!” Reagan says in a panic, pushing back the blanket from her legs as she realizes that her thigh pistol is not strapped there in its normal place. She remembers setting it over by the cabinet when she was undressing.

“It’s ok, boss. You’re safe,” he says to calm her and looks down at her leg where she has it raised, her heel on the edge of her chair. “Whoa, Reagan, that’s a heck of a bruise you got there.”

Reagan glances down at the baseball-sized bruise on her inner thigh and frowns at it. “It’s from the holster for my pistol rubbing at it all day in the saddle.” When she blinks up at him sleepily, he looks briefly from her face to the bruise and scowls. “It’ll be fine. It’s just a bruise.”

“I don’t know. That looks kind of bad, boss. You need to just take it easy tonight. You can relax and let me take care of you,” he states with a protectiveness that makes Reagan uncomfortable. She chooses not to argue further, though. She does, however, send him a frown.

John continues to dry her hair, and she continues to not care because of pure and simple exhaustion that is taking over her body in delicious waves of fatigue. It’s been a damn long time since she’s been this tired.

“Let’s eat so you can get some sleep. I think we should go in before dawn and check it out. We got lucky leaving this morning ‘cuz it’s a full moon tonight, so it will still be nice and bright tomorrow morning before the sun rises- that is, if the rain lets up. The moon will make it easier for us to see and get around in the city. If it’s safe, we’ll go through with it. If I don’t think it is, then we won’t,” he yammers on. Reagan could care less, but her stomach is starting to register the smells of Grams’s cooking.

“I’ll get the dishes,” she tells him and rises, careful not to lose her blanket. In the supply cabinet, she finds a few bowls, silverware and mugs. She balances it all and barely manages not to trip over the blanket on the return trip to the card table.

“Great, this all smells good. Not surprising, huh?” he asks as he puts the cornbread on the table still wrapped in the foil packaging. “Don’t burn yourself; that’s hot.”

He uses the towel that she’d given him to dry off earlier to lift the jar of hot food from the stove. It seems strange watching him serve her food. It is usually the other way around in their home where the women prepared it and did most of the serving of things that couldn’t be passed around the table. He fills their mugs with water from the pump and adds in packets of vitamin-infused minerals and flavoring that he’s taken from his backpack.

“These will keep us going and hopefully keep us from getting sick. We used to use them in the field. Don’t taste all that hot but I guess the Army wasn’t too worried about our delicate palates,” he jests and she half grins at him as she takes a tentative sip, then wrinkles her nose. “Your grandpa had them out in the med shed. I don’t know where he got half the stuff he’s got.”

“Who knows? He’s like that. He was always ordering weird stuff in the mail from different companies. Sue and I used to think he was losin’ it or something, but I guess we were the dumb asses,” Reagan admits and takes the proffered plate from John. “I don’t know if he thought something like this would happen, or if he just felt like he needed added protection at the farm. I’m glad he was thinking outside the norm. All that shit is probably going to help to keep everyone at the farm safe, so that’s the only thing that matters.”

“Yeah, he was sayin’ the other day that he and one of his doctor friends at your college figured this was coming a long time ago when our country let the North Koreans have nukes. Guess they would pow-wow and talk about it. They ordered things together and discussed what they’d need if anything ever happened. I never would’ve thought smart doctor types like them would be into end-times prepping, but hey, what do I know? What did he say his name was- Gru? Cruise?”

“Krue, his name was Dr. Krue,” she corrects him, clears her throat and glares into the cornbread half suspended to her mouth. She can’t bring herself to take a bite. John continues on, not picking up on her change in mood.

“Yeah, that’s right, Dr. Krue. Seems like those two had it all figured out. Said his friend was a survivor of a civil war in his own country before he came to America. He told Doc that he could see the same thing comin’ again and that the two of them would have meetings and plan and prepare. Did you ever meet him or run into him at school?” John asks.

Reagan can’t answer. Her mind is back to that night, and she sees her grandfather’s best friend lying in a pool of his own blood, bludgeoned to death by the same thugs who tried to rape and kill her. This time, though, the panic attack isn’t there. It’s just a dull melancholy that sweeps over her like great ripples, and she stares off into the distance remembering his dear face, his kindness, his silly quirks. When she looks at John again, he has also stopped eating, and there is realization written all over his chiseled features.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Sorry.”

She shakes her head at him, lowers her gaze and forces herself to take another bite of the delicious cornbread which now tastes like sawdust that she has to swallow. He picks up the conversation again and talks about tomorrow’s strategy for moving in and shows her some new hand signals so that they can communicate non-verbally when they need to. And eventually the memory fades away and her stomach re-awakens enough to resume eating. Perhaps John has purposely diverted her attention, but she’s appreciative that she doesn’t have to think about dear Dr. Krue anymore tonight.

“We’ll leave before dawn, ok? Hit the hospital first and then move into the city for some... shopping,” he jokes, and Reagan half grins at him. His gaze holds hers, and there is so much understanding there that she has to look away quickly. She doesn’t want his pity.

“Um... fine,” she agrees with a curt nod. She sets her cornbread on her plate because it’s too difficult to swallow with the lump of nightmares lodged in her throat.

“Remember, this is halt,” he tells her, holding up his fist. He goes on to review some of the other hand signals, and she forgets about her bad memories. “You feel ready?”

“Yeah, I’m ready. I’ll be fine. I’ll remember the hand signals,” she informs him

“I have no doubts, whiz kid,” he tells her with a lopsided grin that shows his damn dimple again.

Reagan eats a small portion of the potatoes with green beans and ham and an even smaller piece of the cornbread. When John tries to give her more of the cornbread, she stops him.

“I’m full,” she protests.

He scowls and reprimands, “You know I think Grams might be right. Of course she’s right about most things, I’m learning. You do need to eat more.”

“I am going to eat more. I’m going to eat my cookie... and then I’m going to eat yours, too,” she teases and grins sheepishly at him. Boy, she is more tired than she thought. John barks off a loud laugh, his mouth still full of cornbread and then chokes.

“Out-played again. I suppose that’s my life story when it comes to you,” he says when he’s done choking. His dark eyes twinkle with brazen intent which makes her look away.

And she isn’t kidding entirely because she does eat his cookie, but she gives him the rest of the cornbread and the potato dish which he inhales with relish. He grins wickedly at her the rest of the meal, which makes her uneasy and would probably make her even more so if she wasn’t so high on exhaustion. The bridge of his nose has a slight sunburn, and he has a sprinkling of freckles on his cheeks that she’d not noticed before. They both carry the dishes to the sink where it is almost impossible to see because the sun has finally set, and they have not bothered to light the hurricane lamps. The fire in the stove is the only light they have needed so far to illuminate the small space. They rinse the dishes using the antique pump to get water into the sink. It is icy cold because it’s coming straight out of the ground, but at least it cleans the dishes for them to be used again. Her hands brush his as she tries to wedge them under the water.

“Just dry them, boss. Let me get my hands in this water, not you. Your little fingers are still frozen solid,” he offers kindly, making Reagan feel nervous. But she does as he says and they finish quickly.

“I’ll get the sheets and blankets for the bed,” Reagan suggests and drags her blanket along with her back to the cabinet and the tub she’d hauled out earlier. John is at her side, takes the load from her, and they pull the sheets across the single, solitary bed with the new mattress that she and Grandpa brought up in the spring. Next come the pillows and blankets while she still struggles to keep hers around herself.

“How did you two get these supplies here on horseback?” he asks as he checks their clothing on the line.

Reagan yawns widely then explains, “We didn’t. We drove here in the truck. There’s a road, an oil well access road, that you can come off the main drag onto, and it’ll eventually get you here. But it’s barely passable. We had to stop quite a few times and move fallen trees. Got stuck in ruts a couple times, too. It’s pretty bad.”

“Hm, yeah that wouldn’t work. Not with this wet season. We would’ve got stuck for sure. It’s best we took the horses, but I’m not gonna feel my butt for a month,” he jokes, and she gives a short chuff in agreement.

“The clothes are still wet, even the ones from our bags- except for one of my t-shirts which you can have. You’d better get out of your wet underclothes so that they can dry before we leave in the morning. We’ll have to just sleep in what we’ve got on,” he informs her nervously. Reagan shifts from foot to foot.

“I’m not gonna look. As enticing as you may be, I’m not exactly fired up for that right now. There’s still a lot I need to do tonight, and that liniment is calling my name,” he jokes with a laugh. “Unless, of course, you’re up for that, then I might be able to force myself.”

“Shut up. Just turn around before I decide to stab you after all,” she threatens him, and he just chuckles again. Reagan has to clear her mind of the idea of rubbing cream anywhere into John’s tanned skin.

He turns back to the line and brings over a shirt that is warmed from the glowing fire in the stove, handing it across the bed to her- along with something else. Immediately, John turns his back to her and hikes his drawers again, which is comical to Reagan, and she has to hold in a laugh. The something else she sees wrapped in the shirt is a pair of her panties that are thankfully dry. The idea of John touching them makes her blush scarlet for some bizarre reason. But it all feels quite heavenly and dry as she slides out of the wet and the cold and into the tee and panties that envelop her in warmth from the fire.

“Ok, I’m dressed,” she informs him as she tosses the blanket on the bed and hangs her wet bra and panties on the line. The lace of her bra looks gossamer backlit by the fire that he’s added another split log to, and it casts patterned shadows around the room.

“Unfortunately,” John quips and laughs once.

“Why do you say crap like that all the time? You know I don’t think it’s funny,” she argues and squints her eyes meanly at him.

“I wasn’t trying to be. Trust me, I’d much rather me being wearing that shirt than you,” he says and the look in his hooded gaze tells her that he’s actually serious. But she’s not sure if he just wants his warm, dry shirt or that he’d like her to not being wearing any clothes. He is so hard for her to understand.