Survival Instinct (Book 5): Social Instinct

by Stittle, Kristal

  “How long until the babies are born?” Shawn asked her.

  “Eleven months.”

  A few members of their group didn’t believe her, but she assured them that she was telling the truth. They now had only as many horses to ride as they did people, and they still had to watch out for the horses trying to mate late. This potential problem resolved itself somewhat.

  “Son of a bitch!” Axel screamed as they hauled him into the barn, blood pouring out of his gut. A robbery had finally gone terribly wrong as Shawn had suspected one would, and a bullet was now lodged somewhere within Axel.

  Shawn had Onida act as his nurse, while the others stayed outside in defensive positions. Mikey had blown away the shooter and probably some others. They didn’t know how many were left, or if they had been followed. Apparently the people around here knew what to do about bandits, and knew to lay their trap immediately after a stick-up was reported. The bandits shouldn’t have lingered in the area, but they had no way of knowing that.

  “Are you hurt?” Shawn asked Onida as he stripped off Axel’s shirt.

  “No, all the blood is his.”

  The horses snorted in their stalls, displeased with the smell. The barn was proving itself to be an excellent place for them to have made camp, and hopefully would continue to do so, until at least they had dealt with Axel’s problem. Mikey hadn’t yet returned, presumably having spent more bullets holding back their attackers, and then run off in some other direction to make it harder for them to find this place.

  Axel howled as Shawn inspected the wound, trying to wash it out with well water from the pump.

  “No exit wound. The bullet’s still in there somewhere,” Shawn reported.

  “Can you get it out?” Onida wondered.

  “With what? My fingers? Besides, I don’t know where it is.”

  “Can’t you just follow the hole?” Onida tried to use her hands and fingers to mime an example of reaching straight down into the wound, while Axel cried and wriggled on the floor in front of her.

  “The bullet might not be there,” Shawn tried to explain. “It could’ve curved along its path into his body due to the resistance of muscles and organs, or maybe it bounced off a bone. Depending on where it ended up, his own body might have pushed it somewhere, or even all the jostling around you guys did with him by carrying him back. I have no way of knowing where the bullet is.”

  “Jesus,” Axel whined as he listened to all of this. “Get it out of me, man, it hurts so much!”

  Shawn sighed. He tried to find the bullet by moving his hands all over Axel’s torso to see if it could be felt just beneath the skin somewhere.

  “Stop moving,” he repeatedly hissed at Axel as he worked. Overhead, Mask watched from the barn’s rafters, pacing back and forth as though trying to find a better viewing angle.

  When the bullet was not located, Shawn washed his hands a second time and then stuck one of his fingers into the wound. Axel screamed, but Shawn ignored it, merely shaking his head as he withdrew the appendage.

  “I couldn’t feel it. There’s no way to find the bullet without an x-ray.”

  “Maybe… maybe just leave it in then,” Axel panted. “You know, and my body will just push it out when it’s ready. Like a splinter. It’ll just come out on its own.” He was clearly delirious.

  “Can he survive with the bullet inside of him?”

  Shawn shrugged. “It’s not impossible. It would be a lot better if we had antibiotics, because it’s likely to give him an infection.”

  In the end, it wasn’t the bullet still lodged in his body that killed Axel, but the blood he lost. They couldn’t tell how badly he was bleeding internally, and even if they could, they could do nothing about it. Axel was being buried outside the barn when Mikey finally returned, limping on a twisted ankle but otherwise all right.

  It wasn’t terribly long after they had left Axel behind beneath the dirt, that they were hit by a storm the likes of which none of them had ever experienced before. A tornado ripped through the area, throwing dirt and debris every which way. They managed to avoid getting hit by it directly, but it was a near miss. None of them got away without at minimum some sort of superficial wound, mostly because the small church in which they had been forced to shelter had plenty of stained-glass windows to smash out. Only a single piece of glass remained hanging from one window like a jagged blue tooth. Some of the horses had been cut up fairly badly, needing stitches. One of the pregnant horses miscarried, induced most likely by fear.

  Not knowing where they were in relation to tornado alley, they headed west in the hopes of moving away from any more cyclones. This was an unfortunate mistake. They ended up spending a god awful amount of the summer trying to find their way back out of a desert they had mistakenly wandered into. Everyone survived, horses, raccoon, and dog included, but they were all rail-thin and crisped by the sun by the time they returned to greener pastures and better foraging.

  “This is why I didn’t want to stay north for the winter,” Helen had grumbled a thousand times. “Same hunger, only you freeze instead of burn.” They all got sick of hearing it and just learned to ignore her.

  They stuck to the green fields for a long time after that, recovering from their misadventure. They foraged and hunted and held up travellers, eventually getting back up to a somewhat healthy weight. By then, Onida had learned to handle the revolver she had been given, as well as a compound bow they had stolen. She often went hunting with Shawn, who taught her everything he knew. She couldn’t help but feel a little proud that she was the only one he would allow to accompany him on a hunt. But even after their many months together, Onida still couldn’t be certain of Shawn’s motives at any given moment. The only thing she truly understood about him was his fear of wolves, which, she had learned, also included coyotes, to a lesser extent.

  “I’ve never seen the ocean,” Mikey admitted one lovely night while they camped out beneath a clear sky, absolutely loaded with stars. There wasn’t even a moon to dim the shine of those small points of light, and every time Onida moved away from the fire to pee or check on the horses, she was amazed all over again.

  “Really? Never?” Dom was honestly surprised by this fact.

  “I haven’t seen one either,” Anita added. “I’ve always lived in the middle somewhere. Even with you guys, we’ve never travelled far enough in one direction to reach an ocean.”

  “I’ve only seen the Arctic Sea,” Onida decided to mention, for no particular reason. She was happily rubbing Mask’s back and belly as he wriggled around on the dirt beside her.

  “That’s not a proper ocean,” Julian told her. “Too much ice.”

  There wasn’t really that much in the summer, at least not during the one in which she had seen it, but Onida didn’t bother to correct him.

  “That settles it then,” Dom slapped his hands against his thighs. “We’re going to go find us an ocean. I mean, it’s a big body of water ain’t it? People like to live next to water, so there should be some good opportunities for us.”

  And just like that, they began to head south-east again the next morning, in the search of an ocean.

  26: Misha

  9 Days After the Bombing

  The puppies had been born safely within the cramped nesting upon the cart. Misha had stayed up all night with Trigger, making sure she had enough clean water and that there were no complications. He also had to monitor the rising floodwaters. By the time morning came, it had nearly reached the level they had camped out on. The others were moving what gear they could up to the offices. Misha continued to sit on the cart, watching Trigger suckle her pups and making sure there were no follow-up issues.

  “What are you going to name them?” Sherlock asked. He was not helping to move anything because no one wanted him to. Instead, he sat on the stairs, high enough to watch what Misha was doing.

  “I’m going to wait until they’re a little older before I name them,” Misha told him. He wanted to make sure t
he puppies were healthy and were going to survive before he gave them names. For now, he mentally separated them by gender and colouring.

  “What are the sexes?” Sherlock asked next.

  “Two males, three females.”

  “And do you know which dog is the father?”

  “I’m not certain.” He had been guessing that it was either Guard or Stock, and definitely knew it wasn’t Barrel because he was too low in the pack hierarchy, but now he wasn’t so sure. The variety of colours in the coats was making him think that it could have actually been Bullet who had done the deed. It didn’t seem possible, given that Bullet tended to spend every minute by Misha’s side.

  Not during meals, Misha reminded himself. All the dogs but Rifle were kept out of the community centre during meal times. They weren’t let in until afterward to lick up the scraps. There was no reason it couldn’t have happened then, even if it seemed to Misha that Bullet always waited patiently at the door for him. He would have to wait until the pups got bigger to say for certain, when they were no longer floppy little blobs. Both Guard and Stock had very different builds from the other dogs, and if either of those presented in the pups at all, Misha would know.

  “Water’s still rising,” Crichton called out. He had gone over to the stairs leading down to the door to check. “It’s started to slop over onto this level.”

  Misha raised his head and could see that he was right. The light coming through the high windows was weak and grey, but Misha was at an angle to the water that caused it to shine. It was lapping over the edge of the floor, growing a puddle.

  Everything that had been put down on the marble slabs had already been moved up to the offices. Only the supplies they had gathered on the cart remained. The items that could be moved, which excluded the planted vegetables, were being brought up as well.

  “Ki-Nam, do you think you could let my dogs out the next time you’re up there?” Misha asked as the man came back down the stairs to get another load.

  “I can do it,” Sherlock volunteered, jumping up onto his feet. He disappeared up the stairs before Misha could tell him that he would rather have anyone else do it.

  The dogs all came rushing down the steps, creating their own flood of fur. Misha had shut them up in an office once he was certain that Trigger was giving birth, as he wanted them completely out of the way. Now, they wanted to find Misha, but instead were greeted by the new scent of babies. They gathered around the cart and sniffed at it. Trigger growled at Powder, the one dog tall enough to stick her head over the side, and then again at Spring when she hopped up onto the driver’s board.

  “Go on. Leave her be.” Misha made shooing gestures at the two dogs, but Trigger’s growling had actually been enough to keep Powder back and to make Spring hop back down onto the floor.

  Rifle was the last one down the stairs; he hadn’t run like the others. He stopped and sniffed in the direction of the cart before he reached the bottom, then turned around and went to lie down on the landing. Misha could just see his nose and the tips of his paws from where he sat on the cart. He had felt especially bad closing the door on the German shepherd, and wondered if Rifle was upset with him for doing so.

  It wasn’t much longer before the entire floor was covered in water. Misha could hear his dogs moving around in it, the shallow pond splashing around their feet. The horses had different opinions about the water. Thumper seemed to enjoy kicking at it, sending sprays out ahead of him, whereas Potato had a rather sullen look. Perhaps he knew that the water was likely to keep rising, and that Thumper wasn’t going to be able to enjoy it for much longer. If the water got too high, the horses would have to climb the stairs, which would be no easy task given the relation of hoof size to step width. The tight landing might also cause some difficulty.

  “How are the puppies?” Crichton asked, standing in water that was already ankle deep. He was grabbing the last of the supplies that they could move off the cart. The wood they had left in the dance studio had likely already floated away.

  “Healthy, as near as I can tell. Trigger seems to be doing all right too.”

  “I once had a dog who whelped. If you think Trigger will let me near, would you like me to take a look at them?”

  The offer surprised Misha. He wasn’t used to hearing Crichton mention anything about his life before the Day. He had never before mentioned having owned a dog at any point in his life. In Misha’s mind, he had always been on some military base, barking orders, or at a mercenary compound, doing the same. While it should have been obvious that Crichton would have had some sort of life outside of that, it had never occurred to Misha. He felt his face flush with embarrassment, but hid it by turning toward Trigger.

  “I have a feeling she’s not going to let anyone near but me right now, but we can certainly try later.” Even Misha had to be careful with Trigger and her pups. She hadn’t growled or nipped at him, but when he was checking over the puppies for any obvious developmental issues and confirming their genders, she had constantly licked his hands, as if trying to passive-aggressively tell him to put her pup down.

  “Here, why don’t you carry this upstairs and stretch your legs a bit?” Crichton held out the pack he had picked up off the cart. “I’ll watch her and call you if anything seems amiss.”

  Misha did have to pee. “All right. Thanks.”

  He hopped down into the water, his feet immediately becoming soaked through his boots. When he carried the pack up the steps, he stopped to sit with Rifle for a bit on the landing.

  “I’m sorry, bratishka,” he whispered into the dog’s fur as he scratched his ears and gave him a gentle, if not somewhat awkward, hug. “You know why I had to do it, right?”

  Rifle groaned and rolled to one side so that Misha could scratch his belly, which caused Rifle’s tail to thump against the landing.

  He could have stayed there the rest of the day, but he told Crichton he’d take the pack upstairs and he still had to piss, so he had to get back up. Rifle didn’t seem to mind.

  When Misha turned, he found Sherlock watching him from the very top of the stairs.

  “What?” Misha asked, thinking he must want or need something.

  “Nothing.” Sherlock shook his head and turned away, disappearing into the shadowy hallway. Misha found it strange that Sherlock was walking around without a light, although his own solar charged lantern wasn’t being used much. He had to turn it on sparingly, given there was no way to recharge it until the storm passed.

  Carrying the pack up, Misha went through the first open door where the supplies were being stored. There were windows in there, and the gear was stashed as far from them as possible, just in case the glass broke. Watching the rain lash against the panes, Misha could see why the others worried when they chose to move everything in there. Misha tried not to worry about it; Crichton knew what he was doing. But it was hard not to worry about the water. What if it kept rising? What if it reached the next level, the offices, then what would they do? There were no more stairs to climb. They’d have to break a window and swim. How could he carry the pups in that event? Could the horses swim well enough to survive? Could his dogs? Could he?

  Misha flinched when a cold nose brushed his hand. He looked down to find Bullet’s pale eyes staring up at him. Bullet never worried about the future. Misha wished he could be more like him.

  Heading all the way to the end of the hall, Misha found a restroom. The toilets didn’t work anymore, but he had had to pass through two doors to get inside, so it was a good place to take a piss without the smell infecting the whole building. Someone else had already had the same idea, Misha realized, spying their urine in the bowl. Misha realized he could have just relieved himself in the floodwaters, but he had already made his choice.

  Stepping back out into the hallway afterward, Misha wondered where Sherlock had gone. He had come down this way, but Misha hadn’t gone past him. Was he in one of the offices with the closed doors? Angela was in one of them, getting some shut
eye, so maybe Sherlock was doing the same. Because of the incident with Rifle, Misha felt better knowing where the transgender stranger was at all times. On his way back to the staircase, he searched in offices for him, but only succeeded in disturbing Angela. There was a second hallway that branched off the first; maybe he had gone down that way? There wasn’t anything there other than the dead elevators. Misha checked anyway, but still had no luck.

  “Have you seen Sherlock?” Misha asked Crichton once he was downstairs and in the water again.

  “How recently?” Crichton wondered.

  Misha shrugged and didn’t bother to answer. It had only been a few minutes.

  They heard a large splash, and both of them quickly turned to see where it had come from. It was Guard. He had wandered over near the entrance steps and hadn’t realized that there was a drop beneath the surface. The big dog spluttered and thrashed until he found his footing, pulling himself out of the water, soaking wet. That’s when Misha spotted Sherlock, not far away, looking around behind the teller windows. A tension he hadn’t noticed building up in his shoulders loosened.

  Misha climbed up onto the cart’s driving board and sat near Trigger. Bullet stayed nearby, but one by one, the other dogs began to go upstairs. They were no longer entertained by the water. The horses weren’t either, but they didn’t have much of a choice. They stood near the cart, the closest thing to home at the moment, and whinnied in complaint whenever Trigger growled at them. Crichton retreated upstairs, and so did Ki-Nam and Harry, having explored what they could on the main level. They were trying to find everything that could be burned in order to start boiling some water. A wooden flagpole removed from the wall appeared to be all that they had found.

  The water had risen to about mid-shin height, Misha noticed when Sherlock came back from around the teller windows. The doors prevented the large debris from coming in, and the bank no longer contained anything for the water to pick up. The silt got through, however. The water was a muddy swirl, and Misha knew why Guard hadn’t been able to see the steps. From his perch on the driving board, he couldn’t even make out the pattern of the marble floor.