The McClane Apocalypse Book Eight

by Kate Morris

  “They’re coming,” Kelly tells them. “Those people in the car are running from them. Everyone get ready!”

  Simon kneels and takes precision aim toward the road, knowing the importance of his role.

  Cory lays a hand on his shoulder and says, “Good luck, brother.”

  Then he jogs away. His order is to flank them from behind where Simon will join him after he has made the first, disabling shots from the safety of his current cover. The other men on their team are doing similar maneuvers and will be working the scene on their specific orders laid out by Kelly and John in town before they left.

  A few seconds later, two, very expensive looking pick-up trucks come flying onto the scene. Men are standing in the bed, while others drive and ride in the extended cab back seats.

  “We’ll draw them in,” John says into Simon’s ear. “Be ready, Professor. This one’s gonna go down a lot faster.”

  The trucks slam to a halt about twenty yards from John and Kelly, and men immediately jump out. Another car rolls up behind in a slower fashion and parks behind the trucks.

  “We’ve got two cars coming in from the east,” K-Dog states. “They’re hanging back. We’ll take care of them from here.”

  “Roger,” John says quietly as the men approach him.

  Simon is the only trained sniper on this task force this time, so his shots must count, every single one of them. There are men stationed on the other side of the road from him, but they are not in a sniper’s point up high on a ridge like him. They will push in once it starts and take cover behind trees.

  John’s mic is left open, and Simon is able to listen in on the conversation. It does proceed more quickly this time. The men are angrier, bolder, and the one speaking seems high on some sort of drugs because his words slur and he barely makes sense. Apparently, he never got the typical lecture in school about the dangers of driving while under the influence. Perhaps that explains the erratic display of bad driving. It doesn’t, however, explain the fact that they were just chasing those people in the sedan with the intention of robbing and killing them.

  “Professor,” John says softly.

  It’s all the signal he needs. The drunken man asks, “Professor? Do I look like a fuckin’….”

  Simon takes him out first. A clean headshot fired from a simple angle with very low wind resistance. It’s a good night for this style of shooting. The sun is still setting, low glare issues. The wind is barely even moving, another good factor. No rain. No snow. Just a warm, August evening in Tennessee perfect for executing cruel men who deserve it. The man’s blood sprays his friends and the side of the McClane family’s white truck. It startles his buddies because they stand there a moment as their friend collapses on the pavement as if someone has disabled his ability to stand erect. The report comes a second later. Then they panic and start freaking out. The fighting ensues, and shots ring out from all directions.

  He shoots again, hitting a man straight through the neck. He’ll die within seconds from such a wound. John and Kelly are shooting, as well, but from behind the cover of the nearby cars where they’d parked strategically for just this purpose.

  The fight only lasts about five minutes total. Simon doesn’t even get time to join Cory and change positions. K-Dog calls in to report that they have taken out the men on the other road who were coming toward them. It’s a good victory, one they needed. The people who were attacked near Nashville and also Clarksville- probably by these very men- have been vindicated, but Simon wishes that it hadn’t had to happen this way.

  All total, they have killed another twenty-eight men. Not one survives for questioning, but they are making progress without interrogations anyway.

  Mrs. Browning found an article about the Italian man who was a car dealer being suspected of money laundering and drug dealing. It was dated two weeks before the fall of their country. He was never prosecuted for his crimes. He walked away without ever having to face those charges and decided to go into a murder and thievery ring of another kind with his friend, the senator. These men are survivors, kings of a wasteland that once used to be the greatest nation on earth. Simon has news for them. Evil despots always end their lives with their necks on a guillotine. The McClane family is about to drop the blade.

  The article listed his crimes and his current residence as being Brentwood, a very exclusive and wealthy area south of Nashville, according to Mrs. Browning. In addition, she found out for them that the senator was also living in Brentwood at the time and was a part of the same financial schemes. The two men knew each other before the fall. They were friends, business partners, and criminals even before the country crumbled and bred maniacs out of formerly normal men. These men were never normal, anything but. They were already hardened criminals and pure evil. Simon just wonders if his father ever dealt with this Senator Armstrong since he was one, too. Highly likely. And Simon’s father would’ve smelled the snake oil salesman quality of the man. He was good at sniffing out the scoundrels in D.C., which is why he tried to stay away from the city as much as possible and preferred to conduct his state’s affairs from Arizona instead.

  Dave dispatched a group of men to the town of Brentwood to see what they could covertly dig up on the leaders of the highwaymen. Simon’s not sure if they will find their lairs or if the men moved out of their homes like so many had after the country fell. They could be anywhere. John and Dave think it’s a good chance they are still living in their homes there, though, since they would not want to leave the comforts of them. Only time will tell, but Dave had explained how important it was for everyone to be careful since these men probably have scouts everywhere looking for them. They aren’t used to meeting with such resistance, and now Simon understands them very well. They are spoiled by what they’ve managed to accomplish as a team of scavengers. And that was before the apocalypse struck. Now they are living like there’s no tomorrow. Simon couldn’t possibly disagree more. The end of their tomorrows is about to come a lot sooner than they ever would’ve guessed for what they’ve done to innocent people.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Reagan

  Reagan awakens the next morning to the soft cries of her daughter, who she immediately pulls into bed with her for Charlotte’s morning feeding. Although she is anxious to get to work in the med shed, her mornings are always the quietest time alone with her daughter. The rest of the day, the family monopolizes Charlotte and Daniel’s time. They are both bound to be spoiled brats.

  John comes into their room a few minutes into her breastfeeding session and leans down to kiss her forehead, “Hey, beautiful.”

  “You’re home,” she says.

  “Yeah, we just got in. We convinced Simon to come home with us. He wanted to stay, but we stopped him. Kid was runnin’ on fumes.”

  “I know. He’s in a bad place right now,” she comments as John strips and slides into the bed beside her. Reagan openly gawks at his flat, muscular stomach and hairy chest. Then she clears her throat. John is oblivious to the effect he has on her.

  “Yeah, she left. Cory said something about Sam leaving him a note or some such about not coming around anymore.”

  “Shit,” Reagan blurts.

  “Hey, you aren’t supposed to swear in front of our little angel,” John reprimands.

  “You mean Charlie?”

  He chuckles and nuzzles into the back of her neck. His arm slipping around her waist.

  “She likes it,” he says, his smile pressing against her skin.

  “She likes it, huh? The biggest excitement in her day is the appearance of my boob.”

  “I gotta say, boss, that’s the highlight of my day, too.”

  Reagan chuckles, groans at him, and says, “Gross. And she doesn’t have the capacity to like or dislike her newly assigned nickname.”

  “I don’t know what the gross part of my comment was, but our daughter smiles when I say her nickname,” John says.

  “Probably a gas bubble,” she tells him with a smi
rk, although she doesn’t believe that. She used to. Reagan used to believe everything she studied on the subject of babies. Now that she has one of her own, she knows that a gas bubble would not produce a smile or a soft giggle from a baby. They are genuinely happy and have the capacity to express emotions.

  “My little angel doesn’t get gas.”

  Reagan snorts. “How’d it go with the mission?”

  “Good. Got rid of a small group of them, so that’s good. We also dug up more on the leaders.”

  “Derek told us some of it,” she says of her brother-in-law’s communications with John throughout the day. He seemed less frustrated about not being with them, but maybe that is just wishful hoping on her part.

  “I’ll tell you about it in the morning.”

  Reagan chuckles, “It is morning.”

  “I meant in my morning,” he says and is softly snoring against her shoulder within minutes.

  His morning will be in about six hours when he rises in the afternoon. She worries about John, and the rest of them, too. They are exhausted, sleep deprived and tense. There is so much at stake now. Everything they know and have, including their family could be taken away from them if they fail and they all know it.

  Reagan rises after Charlotte has finished and fallen back to sleep against her. She has too much to do today to linger in bed, although she’d like nothing better than to rest in the comfort of her husband’s arms with their baby tucked in next to her. The children with the Scarlet Fever are not responding well to the antibiotics now. It is as if the sickness is mutating. The situation could become very dangerous if they don’t get this figured out. Sam’s uncle was also going back to his camp to study and try to find a solution. Grandpa is making a radio call, as well to her father’s camp to talk with the team of doctors up there to see if they’ve run into this before.

  After stroking her fingers once through John’s thick blonde hair, she pulls the sheet up over him and leaves to get dressed. She places Charlotte on the carpeted floor of her closet, wrapped in a blanket like a little burrito, and then changes into clean clothing for the day. She takes her daughter quietly down the stairs to the second floor where the old antique grandfather clock chimes the three-quarter hour showing that it is nearly seven a.m. It is still dark outside since it is pouring down rain and overcast as she passes Paige’s room where the door is still closed. She needs her rest. Reagan is glad to see that she is not up yet. She’s been through so much the last six months that Reagan worries about her.

  She goes downstairs where she is greeted by Sue in the kitchen.

  “Up early,” Sue comments. “Want some tea?”

  “No, thanks,” she says. “I’m going out to get to work. Grandpa and I need to figure this out.”

  Sue is aware of the situation in town with the Scarlet Fever kids and is equally concerned.

  “Let me take her, Reagan,” her sister offers and cuddles the burrito bundle closely and even kisses her smooth forehead. “So precious.”

  “Don’t spoil her. You’ll make her obnoxious.”

  “Oh, you mean don’t make her like you? Too late. She’s got your DNA,” Sue remarks with good humor. “We’re fine. Aren’t we, Miss Charlie? Grandpa’s still in bed. Want me to send him out?”

  “No, let him sleep. I know he was up later than me last night working on this, and I was up past two.”

  Sue nods, furrows her dark brow, and leans in to kiss Reagan’s cheek. “I’ll bring you some breakfast later.”

  “Thanks,” Reagan states and dons a raincoat and black rubber barn boots.

  The dash to the shed is a sloppy one, leaving her with mud-splashed jeans. Simon is already there at the counter.

  “Damn!” Reagan curses. “I think we should start building an ark!”

  “For another apocalypse? We’ve managed that on our own. No, I think God’s turned his back on us for now.”

  “That’s a depressing thought. Thanks! Just what I needed to hear first thing in the morning.”

  Simon hangs his head and goes back to his notes. “Sorry.”

  “Why aren’t you in bed? You need to get some sleep,” Reagan reminds him. John is right. There are dark, angry circles under his blue eyes, and a gauntness about him lately.

  “Not tired. I just want to get a jump start on this. Those kids are getting sicker and sicker,” he says.

  Simon uncharacteristically makes a fist and pounds it on the table.

  “Whoa,” Reagan comments softly as she hangs her wet rain slicker.

  “Sorry, I’m just very frustrated with this,” he says.

  “Exactly why you need rest. You’re fried, little brother,” Reagan says as she draws closer to him.

  “No, I’m fine. I want to help.”

  She smiles and says, “Simon, you always help. But you’re no good to us if you’re sleep deprived and baked extra crispy.”

  “I don’t need to sleep. I’ll catch some later today,” he reiterates.

  “Suit yourself,” Reagan reluctantly complies, joins him at the counter and flips open a book.

  They work for over an hour, comparing notes and discussing therapeutic dosages and possible changes when Sue sends Huntley out with a tray of food for them. Scrambled eggs, freshly baked biscuits, and grits with bacon crumbles. It hits the spot and is a good source of fuel for brain food.

  Simon’s mood darkens with every minute. He’s so angry and frustrated, but nothing Reagan says or suggests about their studies makes him feel any better. She’s not good with people and their emotions.

  “I’m going to the restroom,” he states and shoves away from the table. “I’ll be back.”

  He leaves through the main door to the outside. Most of the men on the farm urinate outside when they are not in the house. Reagan figures it must be like male dogs marking their territory because she has never once felt the urge to go anywhere but in a closed-door proper facility.

  She looks down and notices a slip of paper that is folded in half and half again that he must’ve dropped. It piques her interest. He must have been working on this in town and took even more notes when she wasn’t with him. When she unfolds it, though, she realizes it is not medical study notations but the letter that Samantha wrote him.

  She skims it quickly, knowing he will be back soon, and feels terrible for doing it even as she does so. It is explicitly addressed to Simon, but Reagan is worried about him. Perhaps the key to whatever is bothering him lately is hidden in this message. However, as she reads, Reagan realizes this is not the kind of letter that would make his situation any better. Basically, Samantha is telling him off, telling him goodbye, and it sounds very permanent. She goes on about her feelings for him and that they have not changed but have also not ever been reciprocated. Sam writes that she needs to stay at Dave’s and not return to town, not return to the farm, and not be around Simon anymore because he is cruel and heartless to do what he has been doing and she is angry with him. Reagan wonders what this part means. Then she says at the end that she is going to give her relationship with Henry a real chance because he is a good man who loves her.

  Simon barks angrily, “What are you doing? Where’d you get that?”

  Reagan actually yelps in surprise. Then she stands as Simon yanks it from her and smashes it into the back pocket of his chinos.

  “I saw it on the ground. Sorry. I thought it was more medical notes.”

  He glares at her as if he doesn’t believe what she is saying.

  “Simon, is this recent? Is Sam not coming to the farm again, ever?”

  “No!” he states with fervor. “She’ll come back, or I’ll drag her back myself. She’s just being obstinate right now.”

  “About what? She mentioned that you aren’t being fair to her or something? What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing, this is none of your concern, Reagan,” he says, swiping a hand through his auburn hair and readjusting his eyeglasses.

  “Sam is my concern,” she informs him, her own
anger growing at his evasive answers. “She’s all of our concern. She’s a part of this family.”

  He chuffs. “Yeah? Try telling that to her!”

  “I would, but it would seem that you’ve chased her off,” she accuses.

  “Stay out of it,” he warns icily.

  “And this Henry? He loves her? Did you know that?”

  He steps back, his arms hanging at his sides. His fists clenched. Then he paces a few feet in the shed like a wild animal at a zoo longing to be free.

  “She sounds really angry with you,” Reagan prods. “Did you two have a fight or something?”

  “No. Not exactly,” he says.

  Reagan rises and walks closer to him. “Simon, what’s going on between you two? Please, talk to me. I know you won’t talk to anyone else, but can you just trust me and tell me what’s going on?”

  He shakes his head, and his blue eyes dart to the door. Reagan rushes to it, blocking his exit.

  “Reagan, don’t,” he states.

  He is a tiger, caged in and ready to maul someone. She’s guessing that someone would be Henry if he were here.

  “Just tell me. Talk to me. What the hell’s going on between you two?” she asks again. He doesn’t answer, so Reagan prods, “I know you have feelings for her. I’ve seen it…”

  “No, you don’t know what you’re talking about. And that would be wrong, so no.”

  “Having feelings for Samantha would be wrong? Why would it be wrong? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Reagan asks. Why can’t Hannah be here instead of her? She’d know what he means.

  “Just drop it.”

  “No, I’m not going to, and you aren’t leaving until you talk to me.”

  Simon stalks toward her, but Reagan stands her ground. He is feral. She can see it in his eyes. He wants to hurt something or someone.

  “Please, move. I don’t want to talk.”