by N. C. Reed
“How many women did you ignore asking you for help?” Shane was next.
“Do have some pride,” Xavier told her. “Don't grovel.” He shoved her down the steps, where Mitchell and Shane caught her.
“I guess we can let her keep the sack?” Shane looked at the other two. Emily was beyond terrified at the casualness the three men were taking this.
“How can you do this?” she sobbed.
“Same way you did,” Shane shrugged.
“Let me put this in the language of your people,” Xavier's voice was soft in her ear. “You fucked up. You're a guppy, my dear, and you tried to swim with sharks. Do you know what guppies are good for? Hm?” The whispering voice was almost musical.
God, he was terrifying.
“Food,” the word was a mere whisper. Instincts took over and she bolted, running in the only open direction, away from the three of them.
“End it, X,” Shane ordered. “We ain't got time for this.”
“Are we on a schedule then?” he asked with disdain, raising his rifle. With calculated precision he tracked the running woman, triggering a three round burst into her back that stitched her from her hip to her shoulder. With brutal casualness he stalked to where the mortally wounded woman was trying to crawl, even with her hands bound. He drew his knife as he approached her, leaning down to lift her head by her hair.
“Just think, darling,” he whispered almost lovingly. “Had you stayed in the small pond, none of this would have come to pass. Do tell your friends we said hello, won't you?”
A single stroke of a razor sharp blade put an end to one Emily Shirley of the North Alabama People's Militia.
A guppy who tried to swim with sharks, and was eaten.
***
Clay was leaning against Building One when the Cougar returned. He watched as Xavier and Mitchell dismounted, Shane carrying the vehicle around to park it. As the noise of the Cougar's engine diminished he could hear snippets of a conversation.
“ . . . say it was wasteful,” Mitchell was saying. “Should have done that from the start and saved the rounds.”
“It's not like Africa, old son,” Xavier replied easily.
“No, it's worse in a way,” Mitchell shot back. “We won't see Shorty setting his bird down full of gear anymore.” He stopped as Xavier held out a hand, having caught sight of Clay.
“Lurking in the shadows, Bossman?” he asked with a smile.
“We call it shade here in the south, Yankee,” Clay grinned slyly, and Xavier burst out laughing.
“I assume you finished,” Clay stated rather than asked.
“We're back, no?” Xavier didn't bother looking offended.
“Enjoy your lunch.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Things began to settle into a semblance of rhythm over the next three days. New people were situated, unpacked, and rested, meandering around their new home and getting to know the people they would be living and working with from then on.
Everyone settled into a bit of a pattern and the new arrivals began to get work assignments and responsibilities given out to them as their abilities were reviewed. Security training for the first class had resumed with those from Shane's group being added to the planned second class, fleshing that class out into one of similar size.
Kurtis Montana was not added to the second class. Put through a test of his physical abilities as well as his marksmanship and firearm knowledge, he passed with flying colors. As a result he was being pushed through the same course Gordy and the other boys had been given, albeit full time rather than part time as they had done. Each of the commandos would take turns educating him on various skills and getting him ready to be part of the security team.
Millie Long had already established herself as part of the Brain Trust, (Clay snorted at himself as he realized he was capitalizing Brain Trust in his head), and was settled in fine, already worked in to the radio watch and read in on their operations. It might have been Clay's imagination, but it seemed as if Deuce was paying the Asian Goth girl a lot of attention, and not all of it was strictly in the sense of getting her 'settled in'. It could also have been his imagination that Millie, in turn, was exhibiting a sort of amused fondness for the youngest male of the Sanders clan, as opposed to her normal biting wit and occasionally scathing dry humor. Either way, she was already making herself useful.
Thatcher had apologized to Patricia and the two had sat down together over a quiet cup of coffee as Clay had suggested, hashing out an equitable and agreeable solution to how they would operate the clinic. The Army physician had shown Patricia the Stryker, and the supplies within it, much to Patricia's joy. Many of the holes she had found in their medical supplies were filled by Thatcher's bonanza. But even that gold mine of supplies was not bottomless.
Thatcher had examined Deborah Webb, reviewed the history of her treatment and lack of response as well as the circumstances of her injury, and reported that it was extremely unlikely that the woman would ever wake. Even in first rate trauma center, her diagnosis would be dark.
The choices were bleak. Continue to expend precious resources on her hoping for a miracle that was unlikely to occur, or let her go and be at peace. It was a terrible choice to make and no one wanted to consider it.
It was decided that the Webb children that remained would be gathered together to hear the doctor explain the situation to them, sans Patricia. It was hoped that the fact that a genuine doctor being the one to give them the news would prevent more trouble with the Webbs, particularly John Webb. He had been on his best behavior since his attitude adjustment at the hands of Mitchell Nolan, but the loss of his mother might well change that for the worse.
The decision would have to be made by the children themselves, but the bottom line was that their resources were finite. There had to be a stopping point and they were approaching it. Worse, they had made no plans to feed someone in her condition. Normally she would have been fitted with a stomach tube for feeding, but none was available, and they lacked the specialized liquid diet such treatments called for. They could substitute mineral and vitamin laced milk, but there was a limited supply of vitamins.
Everything was limited and once it was gone, that was it. There would be no more.
***
“What are you saying?” John Webb, typically, was the first to speak.
“I'm saying that I'm sorry, but your mother is not going to recover,” Doctor Thatcher was actually gentle in speaking to them and sounded sympathetic. “Her injury was very serious, and the level of care needed for that type of injury just isn't available any more. In her condition, there would not be much we could do even in a fully functioning trauma center. Your mother's problems go beyond merely her initial injury.”
“Her body is breaking down due to lack of nourishment. Normal sustaining treatment for this kind of injury would be to place a feeding tube in the stomach and then supply nutrition in the form of a specialty liquid that would help keep her nourished and her organs strong. We lack the tubing or the dietary needs she requires. While I might be able to jury rig a tube, the likelihood of her suffering an infection from it would be very high, something that would be fatal.”
“So you're saying she's starving?” Daisy asked, looking concerned.
“Essentially, yes,” Thatcher nodded. “They have done a remarkable job with keeping her hydrated despite a lack of supplies. It is a testament to the hard work of Patricia, Kaitlin and Tandi that Mrs. Webb has made it this long, but there is no denying that she is failing.” Thatcher picked up a clipboard.
“Her blood pressure has steadily risen in the last ten days to the point that a stroke could occur at literally any time. She has had a mild fever for the past three days and it continues to slowly rise, indicating she likely has an infection somewhere in her system. Her breathing has become more labored forcing her onto the ventilator to breathe and it's possible that her respiratory system has begun shutting down, which means it won't be carrying oxygen to her org
ans, including her heart and her brain. Her oxygen saturation, or the amount of oxygen in her blood stream, is already below eighty-five, which sounds high until you realize that lower than ninety-five usually means a regimen of medication such as breathing treatments to increase the level of oxygen in the blood. She won't benefit from a breathing treatment and we lack any other type of treatment or medication for her problems.”
“So what can you do?” Samuel asked.
“We can end her suffering,” Thatcher told them. “Right now she is being kept alive only by the ventilator. Note that the ventilator can't make her body carry oxygen to her brain or heart, or anywhere else. All it can do is force her to breathe, no matter how painful to her it is or how ineffectual it is to her condition.”
“Are you saying she's in pain?” Luke asked, pale.
“It's likely but we can't know that without her being able to tell us. I can tell you that the damage to her skull is not in the area of the brain's pain receptors. In other words, any pain she is in can still be felt even if she can't respond to it. Patricia has the capability to perform an EEG, which examines electric impulses commonly called brain waves. It's a basic test for this kind of injury as well as her comatose condition, meant mostly to show reaction and function. The test was negative outside the areas of the brain that we know regulate what's commonly called 'automatic functions', such as respiration and heartbeat. Such a test can't show us if your mother is in pain, nor where she might be hurting.” She paused for a moment before dropping the last bomb.
“Clinically, your mother is brain dead,” she finished softly. “I am so sorry to have to tell you that. Recovery from this is less than unlikely.”
“So she could be suffering right this minute,” Lila had tears on her cheeks.
“I am truly sorry, but that is a distinct possibility.”
“Why ain't them Sanders told us this already?” John demanded.
“Probably because of the attitude you're displaying right now,” Nate Caudell, who had been silent until that moment, replied. “Which is why I'm in here when I'm not medical personnel.”
“John, what have you done?” Samuel asked, frowning.
“Nothing,” John muttered.
“Don't lie, boy,” Luke growled. “You was supposed to be on your better behavior. If this man feels he needs to be here because of you, that tells me you ain't been.”
“The answer to your question is probably just as Mister Caudell has told you,” Thatcher tried to get things back on track. “This is a terrible decision to have to make and she has not forced it on you due to your circumstances and also because she felt it was a call she lacked the training and experience to make.”
“And you got it?” John demanded.
“Yes,” Thatcher said simply. “I do.”
“How?”
“I'm an Army trauma surgeon,” Thatcher's tone lowered a few degrees. “I deal with this kind of injury to soldiers on a regular basis, both on the battlefield and in the hospital when on base.”
That shut John down hard.
“I don't know what problems you have with the Sanders and frankly that isn't my business,” Thatcher's voice became brisk. “However, I cannot in good conscience, knowing the facts that I have in hand, ignore the fact that your mother's condition is not going to improve and is in fact going to deteriorate. And the worse it becomes the faster it will break down. I really don't want to get too descriptive of the process as it isn't pretty. There's no point in putting you through that. Nor in your having to see it.”
“So what are you wanting us to do?” Samuel asked.
“A decision has to be made,” Thatcher told him. “Do you want your mother to continue to suffer, or allow her to go, and be at peace. Those are the only two choices we have. I regret to have to tell you that, but I can't change it.”
None of the Webbs responded to that. They began to exchange looks with each other, almost as if communicating without speaking. Eventually everyone was looking at Samuel.
“Ma always said she didn't want to be kept alive by a machine,” he said sadly. “Said it was fine so long as there was a chance, but not if it was just to say she was still alive. I don't see how we can take that decision away from her when she done made it long ago.”
“Sammy-” John instantly began to object.
“John, ain't you did enough?” Lucas sounded tired. “We can't turn around what you ain't bringing shame on us. Ain't that enough for you? You gonna stand here and argue with Ma dying, maybe hurting and can't even be helped? Time for you to grow up. Past time in fact.”
John's face reddened at the dressing down but he nodded jerkily. Samuel waited a minute before looking at Thatcher.
“I'd like for us not to be . . . I mean, if you take that thing off,” he pointed to the respirator, “how long . . . ” He didn't finish, expecting Thatcher to know what he meant.
“Within an hour and most likely much less,” she said gently.
“Will she be in any more pain than she is now?” he asked.
“No,” Thatcher shook her head. “If she's in pain now, this won't increase it any.” She didn't go any further describing how Deborah Webb would struggle to breathe for a short time as her body automatically tried to prolong her life. She could spare them that much, at least.
“Let her go,” Samuel said softly, his face marred with the pain of his decision. “Do you . . . do you think it's all right if we say goodbye before you do it?” he asked her. “I . . . I don't think we need to be here and see that. Would that be wrong of us?”
“Not at all,” Thatcher shook her head. “From what little I've heard of her, your mother would spare you any pain she could. Remember her how she was. We’ll step away and give you time.” She nodded to Caudell and they moved to the other side of the clinic where Mattie Simmons was in a bed, recovering from her own trauma.
“You handled that well, Doctor,” Nate complimented. “Especially with John. He's a hothead and prone to outbursts. Blames the Sanders for every problem he has.”
“Looks like he would be grateful they took him in,” Thatcher replied.
“Don't it?”
***
“Thank you for dealing with them,” Patricia said to Jaylyn Thatcher once the Webbs had departed. “It has been a strain to deal with John.”
“I'm surprised your brother-in-law hasn't sent him away,” the doctor mentioned. “And you're most welcome.”
“There is a committee made up of someone from each main family, and from the members of the Troy farm,” Patricia explained. “Chaired, for lack of a better word, by Leon the Elder. The idea was for each group to have a voice in serious discussions, to allow input from all concerned parties. Clay refused to continue dealing with 'civilian' problems, as he called them, noting that there were plenty of people with experience in those areas that he severely lacked. At first he was forced to do it all and it was very hard on him.”
“Would be on anyone, I'd imagine,” Thatcher nodded. “He seems to have a good command presence,” she added thoughtfully.
“I didn't think you two were getting along,” Patricia ventured carefully. Thatcher smiled.
“I needed to see how in control he was,” the doctor explained. “A group like this one, so diverse and spread out, has to have a firm hand guiding it. You have that in Clay and again in his grandfather. As long as I can have confidence that the command structure is a strong one, then I can concentrate on doing my thing and not worry about outside problems.” She looked slightly embarrassed.
“I know it's a shitty thing to do, but I learned it from an old 'War Horse' doctor, as he referred to himself. 'Jaylyn dear,' he'd say, 'if your CO isn't in charge and on top of things, then you need to be elsewhere. A doctor simply lacks the time for these trivial issues'. Of course they aren't trivial in today's circumstance, but . . . the theory is still the same. I did the same thing to Shane and he responded well. Clay responded even better so I didn't bother with Leon the Elder, as
you call him. I'm satisfied we're in as good of hands as is possible, which means that's all I can do.”
Patricia's evaluation of Jaylyn Thatcher climbed several notches at once.
“Why do you call him the Elder, by the way?”
“Well . . . ”
***
“So what happened to Bear?” Shane asked softly as he and Clay sat out front of Building Two. He had not had the opportunity to sit down and ask until now.
“We had some trouble in town,” Clay told him. “My niece made it worse. When I realized . . . ”
Clay was certain he'd done harder things than tell one comrade how another had perished. For the life of him, he couldn't recall what it was at the moment.
***
Deborah Webb breathed her last, ragged breath three hours later. Several people, not all of them Webb family members, hovered nearby, hoping and praying for a miracle, but it wasn't to be. She succumbed to her injuries just before noon after hanging on far longer than most would have thought possible with so little modern medical aid.
Ronny had prepared a grave for her next to her husband, the architect of the pain and suffering the Webb family had endured, and the group held a small wake for Deborah that evening. Condolences were extended and prayers said, and everyone did their best to ensure that the Webbs lacked for nothing and had nothing to do or worry over aside from dealing with their grief. Watchful eyes followed John Webb everywhere he went, no one really trusting him not to make trouble of some kind.
The funeral was subdued, with everyone attending the graveside service aside from those on watch. The Sanders clan had debated among themselves whether to go or not, but in the end it seemed wrong to deny the other Webb family members because of John being an ass. Thus they attended as Deborah Webb was lowered into the ground to rest beside her husband, following him in death as she had in life. It was a somber affair and broke apart without fanfare as everyone returned home aside from a few who had duties that would not wait for a day of observance for the dead.
***
“That was so terribly sad,” Lainie sighed as she collapsed on the sofa after divesting herself of the mourning style dress she had worn to the small cemetery that had been growing so much of late. Clay's inner teenage boy had no problem with Lainie lounging in the living room in her underwear even as his inner adult was agreeing with her intellectually.
