The McClane Apocalypse: Book Two (9 page)

“Come on, Hannah. We’ll talk about this...”

“It’s ok, Kelly. You don’t have to walk me back. I can get there on my own,” she says with uneasiness about her. He grasps her hand in his own.

“I don’t think so. I’ll walk you back to the house,” he tells her as he leads her from the barn.

“Kelly, dude, John just called in a few minutes ago. Said they’re about halfway there. Just wanted to let us know they’re ok,” his brother explains in rapid fire and tags along with them.

“Thank goodness,” Hannah breathes out on a sigh of relief.

“He said he’ll check in with you tonight, Kelly, ‘cuz he said he won’t get in till really late to that hunting cabin,” Cory says as they come to the back porch.

“Thanks, Cory,” Kelly says as the first, low, far off roll of thunder comes reverberating across the valley.

“Shoot, I’d better run back and help Derek get those last few bales of hay stacked in the cow barn,” Cory says and trots off with teenage energy.

“Here you are, Hannah. Step up,” Kelly tells her and urges her onto the first stair. It makes her almost at shoulder level with him. She tries to pull her hand free, but for some reason Kelly can’t release it. And she won’t turn to look at him.

“Thank you, I can get inside by myself,” Hannah informs him still without turning, but he doesn’t release her. Kelly rubs the back of her hand twice with his thumb and finally lets her go. She still doesn’t look at him as she goes slowly up the last four stairs and into the house. Kelly’s hand suddenly feels very empty, and it’s not a feeling he likes.

Chapter Six

Reagan

At 6:20 in the evening a raging storm sets in on them, which is even worse than the sporadic sleet from earlier. They are forced to ride the last two hours through blinding, stinging sheets of rain and thunder, which spooks the horses and makes them fidgety; and lightning, which makes Reagan fidgety. John trails no more than ten yards behind her at all times as he has all day. He had also insisted on being the one to have the extra gelding tied to his horse even though she could’ve done it herself. There were times during their trek that she was slightly unsure if they were going the right way because so much of the trail has become overgrown with summer foliage, prickly bushes and fallen trees. Some of the winds blow so hard through the forest that she is knocked off balance a few times but manages not to fall off. Between the cloud cover, the rain and the wind, it’s nearly dark, making it a rough go through the densest part of the woods where the hidden hunting cabin awaits them at the end of their trip. And by the time they reach the small, concealed, wooden structure they are both drenched to the bone, and her fingers are frozen solid. The summer’s rains and good weather have contributed to the cabin becoming even more hidden with overgrowth and vegetation than when she and Grandpa had visited it in the spring.

“Over here,” she calls above the noise to John. After he trots up beside her, they both dismount, and Reagan shows him around to the side of the building to a lean-to with an overhead roof that is covered in vines. “This was supposed to be for ATV’s, but it makes a good cover for the horses.”

“Go inside. I’ll take care of them,” John shouts to her once they are all under the roof line.

“I’ve got it. It’ll go faster if I help,” she argues and begins untacking her own horse. Her fingers barely function from being so cold.

They take the gear into the cabin to dry out, including the saddles and blankets. They’ve brought three cans of grain each for the horses which they’ll pour into small feed troughs and hope they don’t kick the hell out of each other fighting for more than their fair shares. The horses look as exhausted as they do, though, so Reagan thinks they’ll just happily eat and pass out from fatigue like she will instead of hurting one another. They will each get another can tomorrow evening with the rest of the hay when they come back from the city. If anything waylays them from returning on time to the farm, they’ll have extra grain for another day. Fourteen hours straight of trail riding through the dense forests of Tennessee is no treat for anyone, and she feels like the horses look.

John hangs the rope-netted hay sacks from hooks in the ceiling for the horses, and Reagan brings over two buckets of water from the outdoor pump. She and Grandpa had brought a few provisions they might need for the care of the animals while at the cabin, the buckets included. And right now she’s so grateful they’d done so because it would’ve made this long day even longer had they needed to work on getting it all set up tonight after that ride. John fastens the wooden gate to the enclosed, makeshift stable before they go inside.

It’s a very rustic, typical hunting cabin with just the bare essentials for a short stay while taking out the big buck whitetails of the area. There’s a small wood-burning stove with a flat, cast-iron top plate for cooking, a double door metal cabinet, one window, a card table and four chairs and one bed. There are no fancy accommodations here, no reservations taken and no in-ground pool and sauna. But luckily there is a set of clean sheets and blankets in a plastic tub in the metal cabinet. In another container, dry towels await them. However, the air inside the cabin is damp and cold.

“I’ll build a fire. Thank God this place can’t be seen from the city ‘cuz I’m freezing my butt off, and you’re soaked through. We’re gonna need this fire,” he talks to himself.

Reagan busies herself with dragging out the tubs of linens while John gets the fire roaring in the stove in five minutes flat. He’s the fastest fire builder she’s ever witnessed. Of course, the military men in the house were efficient and effective with getting things done.

“The temperature must’ve dropped thirty degrees with that rain,” John says and starts removing his wet clothing and hanging them on the clothes line that stretches across the small room. Reagan would answer but her teeth are chattering too hard. “Won’t need showers tonight,” John reflects.

She pulls out the towels and tosses one to him while she uses the first one to start on her hair. Taking up a stance in front of the wood-burning stove, the open door allowing even more heat into the cabin, Reagan bends over and rings out and then rubs her long curls to get them to dry. John goes back to the packs and digs out their radio.

“Yellow tail one to black bear actual, over,” he talks into the transmitter. After a minute, he repeats his message and waits.

“Black bear actual, we got you loud and clear, over.” It’s Derek answering the call.

“We’re chillin’ like villains,” John says seriously to which Reagan gives him a perplexed look.

“Keep it high and dry, brother, over,” Derek radios back.

“Aye aye, Captain Major,” John says in a lower register. There’s no immediate response, and Reagan figures they’ve lost the transmission or something has interrupted it.

“Don’t be a dick,” comes Derek’s irritated, wry answer.

“Roger that, over and out,” John answers while laughing. At least John doesn’t just get on her nerves.

“What was that all about? Chilling and aye aye?” Reagan asks once he’s stowed the radio again.

“Chillin’ means we’re where we are supposed to be and done moving for the night. And the Captain thing? Ari called him that the other day, remember? He’s a Major, Reagan. Being a Captain is lower than a Major, so I was just messin’ with him. It was an insult,” he explains to which she snickers air through her nose and furrows her brow at him.

He is so weird. How can he find time to make jokes right now? They are frozen, soaked through and about to go into what could potentially be enemy territory tomorrow and also potentially die. Probably because he is a hell of a lot more used to these sorts of situations than she is.

“You need to get out of those clothes, Reagan. You’ll get sick,” John warns as if she doesn’t know the repercussions of being cold and wet. She just frowns and turns farther away from him. He’s making a lot of noise, rummaging through their bags and clanging things around. “You ok, boss?”

“Ye... yes,” her teeth chattering impedes her answer.

“No, you’re not! You’re frozen,” John says testily and spins her around to face him.

He’s only wearing underwear and his bronzed, damp skin. Reagan’s eyes nearly pop out of her head, and she jumps back a step and trips over a chair. John snakes a hand around her upper arm, preventing her from falling like the klutz she is. When she rights herself again, she shirks off his arm and peers up at him warily.

“Hey, it’s ok. I was just wet. That’s why I took off my clothes. Come on, you need to get undressed, too,” he pleads patiently as if he’s talking to Ari or Justin. Reagan doesn’t answer but crosses her arms over her chest and continues to shiver while he stares her down.

“I’m fine. I’ll dry out by the fire,” she tells him with a sniffle.

“That’s ridiculous, Reagan. You’re gonna’ get sick. I need you to be in top shape tomorrow watching my back in the city. If you get sick, we’re gonna be stuck out here for a whole lot more days than you’ll like,” he reminds her which is enough to make her relent. The idea of spending one or two days alone with John is bad enough without being here longer.

Finally, when she can’t take any more of the staring or the shivering, she gives in and nods. “Fine, I’ll change.”

“Good, I’ll get the rest of our things unpacked. I’ll find you dry clothes, alright?” he offers kindly and goes to the other side of the room where their wet packs lay discarded.

Reagan takes a blanket from the storage bin and hangs it over the line so that she can undress on the other side with some tiny modicum of privacy from his eyes, though he shows no sign of trying to peek while he crouches and unpacks everything.

“Looks like the food’s all dry. That’s good news. Our clothes are a little damp. These packs kept our crap dryer than I would’ve thought for all the stinkin’ rain we rode through. Think we can hang our clothes up and they’ll dry the rest of the way real quick. Unfortunately, there’s nothing dry enough for you to wear,” he says as he comes back toward the clothes line.

“Stay back! Don’t come over here,” Reagan screeches.

“I’m not looking, boss,” he says as he purposely averts his eyes and hangs their damp clothing on the line.

“I don’t have anything on,” she informs him as she eyes him cautiously. “Well, not exactly, but close to nothing.” Why does she feel the need to explain this? She still wears her bra and panties, but it is none of his business.

“Just wrap that blanket around yourself and come sit right here in front of the fire. That’ll dry you out,” he tells her casually and goes back to the bags.

Reagan snatches the blanket down and wraps herself in the thick tartan wool. Then she hobbles awkwardly over to the chair that he’s placed directly in front of the stove. Carefully so as not to drop her blanket, she continues to rub with already-fatigued muscles at her damp hair with the towel.

“I think I’d rather shoot those horses and walk back home than get back on one and ever ride it again,” he says honestly as he stands and rubs his lower back muscles.

His comment almost makes Reagan laugh, but she does smile. He squats again and rummages some more, his baggy briefs hanging crookedly on his hips. They dip lower as he stands again. Not bothering to right them, they reveal a patch of his buttock, which is thickly muscled. She tells herself that she notices it only from a doctor’s point of view.

Suddenly, he laughs loudly. “Grams must’ve put this sore muscle cream in here. Unless I can rub it on my hind end, then I’d say it’s useless. Wanna’ help me with that job?”

Reagan just snorts at him in answer.

“Or maybe I should rub some on you, huh?” he adds mischievously.

“You even try and I’ll stab you,” she returns with menace. John just chuckles at her, which pisses her off. Why is he never serious? And why the hell does he just laugh at her when she is so often being serious?

“I believe that you would, firecracker,” he says and turns away again, but not before Reagan notices a mischievous dimple on his left cheek.

She silently observes as he takes out plastic containers and four large jars, all containing food for them packaged by Grams and Hannah. Her teeth are still rattling.

“Ok, looks like we’ve got cornbread, vegetable soup, or something that looks like that, and potatoes with green beans and ham- I think. Hm, not sure what this one is. Maybe some kind of soup? Also one that looks like beef stew or something. That all sounds better than anything I ever ate in the field. Some other... ooh, cookies!” he says with excitement.

How can he think about food? And how come he isn’t frozen solid like her when all he wears is his baggy ass boxer-briefs?

“What did you eat in the field? You mean like on a mission or something?” she asks, genuinely wanting to know. She is certainly no military history expert, and his life was so different than hers that she can’t help but find it interesting.

“Oh, we had the usual morsels like MRE’s, sports drinks to stay hydrated- especially in the desert, anything packaged that could withstand temperatures or bad weather. It was all pretty bad, though. Nothing like this food Grams and Hannie packed us,” he informs her.

“Sounds shitty,” Reagan concludes on her own. He chuckles at her- or at her language- she’s not sure which.

“Yeah, I guess it was. But we really weren’t thinking about what we had to eat at the time. When we were out in the field, food was the last thing on our minds,” he tells her as he takes more items out of the bag.

After reflecting on this, she probes, “What was?”

“Hm?” he asks, obviously not paying much attention to her question.

“What was on your minds then, if not food?” Reagan clarifies as her eyes dance furtively around on his body, looking at scars and muscle.

“Staying alive, succeeding in our mission, finding bad-guys, that sort of thing,” he says pointedly.

He turns more toward her, and Reagan is caught staring at his flat stomach. She clears her voice and decides to look at the fire instead, but her eyes travel back to his broad shoulders briefly.

“Did... did you kill a lot of people while you were in the Army?” she asks. John’s shoulders droop momentarily, and his blue eyes, that are normally full of merriment, turn hard before he looks away. Well, if she wanted an answer there it was.