The Complete Last War Series

by Ryan Schow

  Behind this rugged façade is a man who seems to have a generous heart and a willingness to put his own life aside for the sake of saving others. And he also keeps his promises. This is perhaps one of the finest qualities a man of any age or history can embody. Case in point, he brought Hagan’s family back, as promised.

  It also seems as though he found the hospital he was looking for and returned with supplies. He’s got a face full of blood spray, though, so I know it’s come at a cost. Still, he survived, so that stands tall with me. Makes me think of him as dependable. The second best quality of a man in my book.

  “What have you got?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down to compensate for my loss of hearing.

  “No refrigeration units with blood or plasma bags, but I did get a few IV drip bags, the tubing you asked for and a grab bag of antibiotics. Ballard here was amazing, considering we think we might have found some sort of gang hideout inside the hospital.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “We almost died,” the boy named Ballard said.

  He was a cute kid, early teens, had the blonde hair his older brother didn’t have, and a more innocent look about him. He’d clearly seen some very bad things, maybe even done a few of those bad things himself. The thing about guilt is, it has a way of ripping a smile right off your face and leaving in its wake vast oceans of emptiness.

  Trust me, I know.

  “Hi Ballard,” I say, extending a hand and forcing a smile. “I’m Cincinnati, but you can call me Sin if you want. It’s a nickname, but it’s not true. I don’t sin.”

  Ballard’s cheeks get a little red, but he takes my hand, gives it a one-two shake with a light pulse of pressure, then lets go. The kid is so far out of his element right now, the uncertainty lies naked in his every nuance.

  My eyes go to the woman on the couch. She looks like she’s gone through hell and back to get here.

  “You must be Lenna,” I say. She answers with the faintest smile. “As soon as I can get all these people out of here, I can spend a little time with you, see what we need to get you back on your feet and feeling better again.”

  Her shallow smile is a clear pronunciation of pain and indignity, but that look in her eyes…God, what is that look? I quickly understand. The ring on her finger, the fear etched with permanence in her face, the haunted gaze that said she would be polite, cordial even, but not enough to let anyone inside? She’s a mamma bear in a stranger’s den and she’s both inured and vulnerable. My nose puckers and I nearly pass out.

  “What’s that smell?” I ask.

  Rider points to a pair of socks tied together on the floor.

  “Fresh onions.”

  “Why are you pointing at socks and talking about onions?” I ask.

  Rather than talking to me, he looks at Lenna and says, “Are you ready?”

  She winces, like she’s not all that thrilled and says, “Do we really have to?”

  She says this like her teeth are chattering. She says this while her eyes are loose in their sockets. I’m starting to wonder how high of a temperature she’s running. She’s not delirious yet. She’s not moaning or squirming in her own skin or whimper-crying, so I know she’s holding a full blown fever at bay, but barely.

  I rest my hand on her forehead and it’s warm. Her eyes find mine. Her mouth stays mostly closed. Her lips are parted slightly, her teeth pressed together, her skin slightly damp.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask. “Really?”

  Her face betrays a bit of her pain, but it also shows me determination. “Okay,” she says. “Hurting though. More than I want to admit.”

  I brush her hair off her forehead and say, “You’re a beautiful woman, and strong.” I smile, tilt my head sideways, relax my eyes.

  “I don’t feel either at the moment,” she admits.

  “Trust me, I get it.”

  Rider then picks up the socks, which I’m assuming have onions in them, and he slides them on her feet, snugging them up in spite of her groaning.

  “They smell so bad,” she says, to which Rider gives a slight chuckle.

  “When your fever breaks,” he tells her, “we’ll pitch them in a hole out back and dump some lye on the pile.”

  Licking her lips, which are still terribly dry and cracked, she says, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to live with my feet when this is all over. And I certainly won’t ever eat another onion as long as I live.”

  Smiling, he says, “One day you’ll thank me.”

  “Probably. But maybe not.”

  Rider pulls me aside, leans in and very quietly says, “Before I moved her, I gave her the once over, just to make sure I wasn’t compounding any permanent problems.”

  “And?”

  “No broken bones, and no internal bleeding, but there’s lots of bruising. She’s banged up pretty badly, and the ride over here wasn’t easy. We had to walk the last half mile because, well, we lost the Jeep and got a motorcycle in return.”

  “She walked?” I ask, tempering my voice more than normal.

  “Slowly, but yeah. Couldn’t stand being on the back of the bike. This one’s got iron in her veins though, if you know what I mean.”

  “We’re going to need that,” I say.

  “I’m telling you this so you can prioritize. Macy needs you more than she does right now, and if you’re going to give blood—which I’m assuming you are—then you’ve got to begin donations immediately. This will take your strength, but it might save Macy.”

  “I know,” I say. Then: “I’m just glad someone else knows, too. Thanks for being here.”

  Rider furrows his brow, steps back, then says, “Hagan and Ballard, your mom needs to rest and Mrs. McNamara here has to tend to her daughter.” To Lenna, he says, “There’s a house across the way, right next to Cincinnati’s home. If you’re okay with that, I’d like to get you guys set up there for the night. There are comfortable beds and several jugs of water.”

  She reaches out for Rider; he takes her hand. Either they bonded on this journey, or she’s not as emotionally strong as Rider let on and is looking to him as her anchor.

  “Thank you for coming for me,” she says, “for watching after my family.”

  Rider gives her hand a light squeeze and says, “I’m happy I could help.”

  Frowning, I’m realizing I was wrong. Lenna Justus is just a grateful woman who needed help looking after her and her boys. It’s the same look in Margot. And surely the same look in my own eyes as I wonder if Macy will survive the transfusion without complications.

  My mind does a quick inventory, same as it used to do when I was in the ER stacking patients. There’s Rider, Lenna, Ballard and Hagan; there’s Indigo and Margo; there’s my family of four. We started out as three. Now we total ten.

  I try to wrap my head around this—around the idea that we’re no longer just a family, but the start of a community all focused on the same thing: surviving.

  A warm smile forms on my lips, but then fades quickly as Ballard brings me the box of medical equipment and supplies he and Rider took from the hospital.

  I see the blood transfusion bags, the saline solution, the packaged tubing and needles, and the other miscellaneous items. My eyes return to the clear bags. How am I supposed to fill that thing with my own blood and not pass out, especially when I’m the only person who can really do the transfer?

  “Rider?” I ask.

  He comes over and says, “Yes?”

  “Have you ever done a blood transfusion?” I ask.

  He tilts his head ever so slightly, makes that face, then says, “I’m better with field dressings and tourniquets.”

  “You get the idea though, right?” He gives a wordless nod. “Good, because I need you to help me if I give too much blood.”

  “How much has she lost?” he asks, referring to Macy.

  “It’s not just that,” I say. “It’s her platelets. She’s clotting too slowly. If I can get enough of my blood in her, perhaps this will help with
the clotting.”

  Margot is suddenly here. I didn’t hear her come up behind me, but when she says, “How can I help?” I sort of jump a little.

  My eyes meet hers, and honestly I’m grateful for the extra people. “I need something to hang a blood bag and a plasma bag on,” I tell her. “It needs to be elevated over Macy and it needs to be relatively sturdy.”

  “I haven’t lived here in a couple of years,” Margot replies, “but let me see if I can find something in the garage, or the kitchen.”

  Upstairs, Stanton sits on the bed with Macy. When Rider and I get up there, he’s holding Macy’s hand. She looks wan next to him: fingers not curled, skin a little pale, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. I walk in with the box of medical supplies, begin mentally preparing for the donation.

  “Where do you want me for this?” Stanton asks, his eyes dancing from me to Rider.

  “Rider’s got some experience in the field. I guess he was ex-military or something. I’m going to keep him here just in case I draw too much blood and need a steady hand, so I was wondering how you’d feel about getting the boys set up at the house next to ours. Not Indigo’s friend’s house. The other one.”

  “I kind of want to be here with Macy,” he says, more weight than I’d like to admit in his words.

  “I know. I just need everyone who doesn’t have to be here out of here. I’m feeling pretty overwhelmed at this point and I still have to give blood.”

  “So am I on that list? Do you want me out, too?” he asks, his eyes apprehensive, like he’s wondering if his feelings should be hurt.

  “No,” I say, going over to where he’s at on the bed. “When you get Lenna and her family settled, I want you back here. With me. With Macy.” I pull him into a hug, kiss the top of his head, then lean down and kiss him on the mouth. “I want you as close to me as you can be as often as you can be. You’re my rock.”

  “Lately I don’t feel like anyone’s rock,” he admits, but not loud enough for Rider to hear.

  “None of us do, but we’ve made it this far. We’ve survived some things most people haven’t, so I’d say we’re doing alright.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”

  “How are you doing? Physically I mean?”

  “Better. A lot better.”

  Rider clears his throat and says, “I’ll be out in the hallway when you’re ready.”

  “Okay,” I say, not taking my eyes off my husband. To Stanton I say, “You want to run with the boys, don’t you? Rex and Rider?”

  A genial smile creeps onto his face. Hmmm. Rex and Rider are civilized brutes, warriors meant for a world like this, soldiers who aren’t afraid to look at another human being with a gun in their hand and pull the trigger. That’s not Stanton and that’s not me, even though I know it’s going to have to be.

  To their credit, guys like these protect people like us through intimidation and death. They did it for a living, overseas, and for the military. Well, Rex anyway. And I’m sure Rider has seen combat before. Judging by the way he moves, by that steely look in his eyes, the idea of war is not a foreign one. He might even like it. People like Rider and Rex, they somehow found a way to live with the past, in spite of the horrors it may have wielded upon them. They endured their former lives while looking forward to a future that may or may not mirror the horrors of the days, weeks and months before. But not Stanton.

  My husband was just a pencil-pushing suit (his words, not mine).

  It used to be that men like Stanton ruled the world while men like Rex and Rider were measured by their calm in the midst of a violent storm rather than their ability to read markets and spot solid investment opportunities. The world was on its backside now.

  Welcome to opposite land, girl.

  Looking at Stanton I’m seeing what he must be going through, how he’s feeling. Men with the occupational genius of Stanton went from being a commodity to a liability. His exact value was squat if he couldn’t hold his own in a fight. Stanton was good at adapting, and not afraid to defend his family, but he also knew when he was around the company of more capable men. More dangerous men. Just knowing him, he yearned to do what they did, move like they moved, survive without having to suffer the consequences of his actions.

  How long would it be? Would he die trying to prove himself to me? To them? To Macy?

  Guys like Rider probably slept well at night while pencil pushers like Stanton tossed and turned, and sometimes cried out in their sleep. My husband is a businessman, not a death dealer. He’d never be like Rex or Rider. He’d never be a stone cold killer.

  But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.

  “You ready?” a voice from behind jolts me from my reverie, causing me to jump for the second time in twenty minutes.

  “I am,” I say, looking at Rider, my heart clamoring wildly in my chest.

  I’m still holding Stanton’s free hand, unwilling to let go, wanting to protect him from his insecurities. I need him to know he’s loved not for what he can do, but for who he is.

  “We shouldn’t wait much longer,” Rider says.

  “I know, it’s just, I know what she needs, and I know what it’s going to do to me and I’m not exactly looking forward to it,” I say, realizing more of the ringing has left my ear.

  Reaching up, I pull off the bandage and let the small wounds breathe. It feels better already. Flexing open my jaw, plugging my nose and squeezing out an internal push, I pop my ears one last time. They don’t pop back in and I damn near drop to my knees and praise Jesus.

  “I don’t think there’s a whole lot any of us have looked forward to lately, maybe just sleep and a break from all this,” Rider replies.

  Stanton stands and says, “I’ll take the boys over to the house. Get ‘em set up. What do you want me to do about Lenna?”

  “Ask if she wants to go or stay,” I say. “If she wants to go, just make sure she’s comfortable and when I can, I’ll get to her.”

  “What if something’s wrong?” he asks.

  “I already looked her over,” Rider answers. “She’s battle tested and ready for transport.”

  “Well in that case…” Stanton says, not finishing the sentence.

  “Be careful,” I tell him and he gives me a frown, like I just said he’s breakable or something. I add: “There’s some real nut jobs out there, and I’m not just talking about Rex.”

  Both Stanton and Rider break into a humored grin, but then Stanton’s gone downstairs and it’s just me, Rider and Macy, and I’m about to lose a lot of blood.

  I’ve got most of what I need. The medical supplies box has packaged needles and syringes; it’s got single-serving alcohol prep pads in little foil packets; there are also three viaflex IV bags and the tubing for the transfer, which are exactly what I need for a saline drip.

  “How’d I do?” Rider asks.

  At the bottom of the box I find two blood transfusion bags and my heart settles. There are the two spike points and the hanger, so yes, I’ve got what I need.

  “I’m all set,” I say, looking up at him. “How are you at drawing blood?”

  “Didn’t you already ask me this?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Pretty good, if you’re talking about a using bullets. When it comes to this kind of thing though, I’m good at following instructions, not so good at knowing risks and probabilities.”

  “Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine. I probably won’t even need you. It’s just the idea of having a reasonably resourceful backup that keeps me calm.”

  “Reasonably resourceful?” he asks with a cocked brow and a smirk.

  “You know what I mean.”

  A few minutes later, Margot hauls in an old steamer stand and says, “Will this work?”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “What else can I do?” she asks.

  “Maybe help Stanton get Lenna and the boys set up across the way?” I say.

  Already my little jealous tendencies are flaring. It’
s because she’s really pretty and I’m fairly plain. My husband has never had a wandering eye, but with Margot, I’m not sure if I’m being stupid and unreasonable, or simply cautious.

  When she leaves, Rider says, “You ready?”

  I clear my head, then swab the injection point and slide the needle into my arm. The pinch has me setting my jaw and biting back the pain. Blood fills the tube. I sit back and do my very best to relax.

  “Everything okay?” Rider asks.

  “Splendid.”

  As I’m watching the blood fill the bag, I’m thinking, I can do a little more. Just in case. Then a little more after that as I look at my daughter and pray she’ll be okay.

  “That’s enough, I think,” Rider says. “You’re losing color.”

  I pull out the needle, holding a small strip of gauze over the injection point, then give the donation bag and the needle to Rider who lifts the tubing over the top of the bag to stem the backflow of blood. I place the folded square of gauze and hold it there.

  “Medical tape?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. We had tape at the school, but in the midst of everything, I’m not exactly sure where it’s at. Unbelievable. Then I remember the bandage on my ear. There was medical tape on that, holding it in place. On the nightstand nearby, the bandage sits belly up, the tape looking useable. I stand and head across the room, woozy, grab it and see if there’s enough to hold the gauze in place. For a second, my vision tunnels inward and I almost fall down. A hand takes my good arm, steadies me.

  “You need to slow down,” Rider says.

  “I know,” I say, lightly shaking his hand off my arm.

  With a little work, I get the gauze halfway fixed on my arm. Rider and I then work together to get the IV drip bag hanging in place, right alongside the hanging blood donation bag. I’ve lost too much blood. I feel it in my face, how weak and cool my body is becoming. Not that I’m going to complain with my daughter lying there shot twice and looking every bit as peaked as me.

  When the bags are side by side, the tubing is prepared and the saline drip is working alongside the blood drip, I swab Macy’s arm. This rouses her a bit. Her eyelids flutter open, but she goes back to sleep. When I insert the needle, her eyes snap open but I’m holding her down so she doesn’t kick the needle loose.