The goggles made it easier to see. Four men had been tackled, gagged and hogtied. They were lying in a row near the corner of the house. There was sometimes a fifth, the Keanes had said, and a woman—maybe six months pregnant. Paige saw her leaning heavily on the door, dressed in an oversized nightgown, coughing violently and holding her belly.
One of the members of the unit stepped up to the woman. Paige heard his heavy footsteps on the porch. He held out his hand. “Come out of the smoke,” he said gently. Morty’s voice. “You’re safe.”
Paige clutched at the switch at her throat, activating her communicator but even before she turned it on, the knife that the woman had been holding at her back was moving forward. “Morty—knife!” Paige yelled and he probably could hear her without the earpiece. His massive body moved quickly—unbelievably quick but the woman was so close to him. Paige groaned in horror as the knife sliced across his outstretched hand, heading straight for his belly. Morty brought the end of his rifle up, knocking the blade aside. He grabbed the woman by the scruff of her neck and herded her off the porch in front of him.
“First team, collapse the house.” Lieutenant Pembroke’s voice was low, controlled and oddly disembodied coming through her earpiece but it widened Paige’s focus. She looked around quickly, made sure no one was sneaking up on her. Not that she really believed there was much chance of that happening but it gave her something to do—something to focus on other than the fact her friends were taking on armed crooks to make life better for some strangers.
When she turned back, three night-camouflaged soldiers were slipping in through the front of the house, three in through the side. She held her breath for what felt like a very long time.
“All clear.” She sighed tremulously when she heard Rick’s sure, deep voice through the earpiece. Paige put the safety on her weapon, stowed it and waited for the casualties to be brought to her.
She put her emotions aside as she triaged her patients. The bad guys’ eyes were puffy and leaking tears because of the gas. Other members of the platoon were already drizzling water over their faces. Behind the gags, their prisoners were swearing up a storm. The pregnant woman was flailing violently against her bonds. She obviously wasn’t injured but Paige kept an eye on her. Morty walked in next. He leaned his assault rifle against a tree and pulled off his black helmet. His blond hair was a bright exclamation point above his black face paint.
“Hey, Paige,” he said quietly. “Thanks.”
She looked down and saw that he was holding out his hand to her. Shining her flashlight on it, she saw that the back of his leather glove was sliced open and blood was seeping through the tear.
“Second team, sentries to the road.” Lieutenant Pembroke’s voice came through her earpiece and, around her, gas lanterns came to life so she could work.
Like the others, she switched off her communication link.
Paige looked up when another soldier entered the little clearing. Rick. His eyes watched her from behind a mask of black face paint. There was a jagged tear in his sleeve. The fabric was spotty with blood. Every nerve ending screamed at her to run to him...to take care of him and to hell with the others. She drove her fingernails into her palms to maintain her focus. “How bad is it?” she asked him firmly.
“Not bad. Caught it on some glass. I can wait.”
She saw his eyes harden, willing her to keep it together and do her job. She did.
“Give them some oxygen if they want it,” Paige said, nodding toward the prisoners. “And make sure she gets some whether she wants it or not.” She turned back to Morty. “You’re first,” Paige said quietly and led him over to an upended stump. She grabbed a pair of scissors and started cutting his glove away.
“Aw come on, doc,” he whined. “That’s my favorite pair.”
“You mean they were your favorite pair,” Paige shot back. She spread the cut fabric away from the back of his hand then away from his fingers. “And stop whining. You sound like a girl.”
“Turn you on, doc?” Morty grinned.
“You wish,” she teased then pressed a gauze square to his hand. “More light,” she said and two lanterns were quickly raised over her head. “Hmm,” she breathed as she eased the gauze back and took a close look. “Sliced clean through the skin. But no deeper than that. Lucky thing you’ve got a thick hide, Morty,” Paige said as she filled a syringe with local anesthetic and injected it. She disinfected the cut and threaded her curved needle.
A man’s heavy arm slid around her from behind, anchoring itself reassuringly around her shoulders.
“Communication devices mean we don’t need to shout, Corporal Wynn,” Lieutenant Pembroke spoke quietly behind her. He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze then released her. “Remember that next time before you make us all deaf.”
Paige grinned crookedly and set her needle into Morty’s skin.
“Nice catch, Corporal. You did good,” the lieutenant added and stepped away.
“Thank you, sir.” Paige started stitching Morty’s wound. When she was finished, she gave him a tetanus shot then checked on the prisoners. Their crimes were the usual ones you found in unreclamated areas—extortion, theft, assault. They were less than happy to see her. Well, what they could see of her through their swollen eyes. Other than the fading after-effects of acrid smoke, bad teeth and one case of rickets, they were in good shape. Members of the platoon hauled them off to the transport truck which had been re-made into a prisoner transport.
Paige stepped up to the pregnant woman next. Private Abrams was standing guard over her. He’d taped an oxygen mask to her face. “Remove her gag,” Page instructed Private Abrams.
“Bitch,” the woman shrieked when the mask and tape were removed.
“So they tell me,” Paige deadpanned. “How far along are you?”
“I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’.”
Paige leaned back on her heels and crossed her arms over her chest. “Forty one percent of all babies born in unreclamated areas die before they reach age seven. The reason is medical care—before and after the baby is born,” she said evenly, holding the woman’s dark gaze with hers. “I am the only health care your baby has ever seen so you better answer my questions or so help me when this baby is born I’m going to tell him what an idiot his mother is.”
The woman blinked.
Paige took a closer look at her. She was maybe in her early twenties with sallow skin...nothing that a good vitamin cocktail and a couple extra hundred calories a day wouldn’t fix.
“Six and a half months,” the woman finally admitted grudgingly.
Paige handed her the oxygen mask then felt her abdomen. “Keep that on. It’ll help the baby breathe better.” Paige located the fetal heartbeat and checked her watch. The baby was undersized and felt more like twenty-six weeks than thirty. But the heartbeat was good and she felt the baby move when she pressed. “Baby’s healthy,” Paige pronounced evenly. “I’ll give you and the baby another check-up after daybreak.” Paige looked up at Private Abrams who seemed to have been put in charge of the prisoner. “Keep her separated from the others. I don’t want her jostled around.”
“Sure thing, doc,” he said. Carefully, he lifted the woman to her feet and walked her toward the transport.
Paige snapped off her sterile gloves and pulled on a fresh pair before turning to Rick. She tore open his sleeve without a second thought.
“Easy, doc,” Rick whispered, leaning over her and grinning. “Your hands are shaking. You’re making me nervous.” The other members of the unit were packing up and moving off to the transports. They were well out of earshot.
Paige’s mouth thinned. She wanted to say she was in control, not affected by the fact it was Rick who was injured but she wasn’t and she held onto his arm fiercely. She stared at the small, clotted tear in his skin and lost herself in his warmth, his solid, muscular presence.
“Paige, we need you to keep it together,” Rick murmured gently and she sighed when she felt h
is breath on her forehead. “I need you to.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “You start bawling over me like a girl and I’ll think I’m a goner.”
As he’d hoped, Paige smiled. She inhaled deliberately, straightened her back, grabbed a lantern and handed it to him.
“Hold this,” she said and started swabbing his wound.
In the end, Rick had been right. He was okay. The wound was superficial, needing nothing more than cleaning and a butterfly bandage. When she was finished, Paige stepped away from him deliberately and didn’t look back as she packed up her gear.
Their unit hit one more compound that night, taking eight men out of that one. No one else in their platoon sustained any injuries.
After, Sergeant Miles, Paige and a small guard of soldiers stole up on the Keanes’ farmhouse. When the all-clear was sounded, Rick knocked on the front door. Sam Keane opened it, rifle in hand. He balked when he saw Rick’s hulking form, clad head to toe in black and holding an assault rifle at the ready. Gulping, Sam lowered the tip of his gun.
“Don’t let yourself be surprised like that,” Rick reprimanded him gently and shouldered his way inside.
Paige followed, dressed in gray-green fatigues, a standard-issue cap and carrying a field medical kit over her shoulder.
“Um...good morning,” Sam grumbled and set his rifle down beside the door. “Say, Paige, that outfit come with shorts?” he asked saucily.
“I’m gonna break you in two,” Rick growled quietly but continued moving through the first floor of the house, checking doors and shutting curtains. “He’s in here.”
Paige followed the sound of Rick’s voice to a room off the kitchen, set up with a makeshift bed. “Hey, Paige,” Flint squinted against the light and greeted her happily. He dragged himself up into a sitting position while she knelt and checked his IV and the drainage shunt she’d put in his leg. From behind her, she heard Missus Keane’s voice.
“You two want some breakfast?” she asked. “From the look of you, I’d say you’ve already put in some work today.”
“Yes, but let’s keep that our little secret, Missus Keane,” Rick replied warmly. He slung his weapon, bent to her to quickly return her hug then sat down at the kitchen table to wait while Paige finished checking Flint. “Just the tea, thanks, Missus Keane. We’re a little pressed for time.”
“I notice you’re not jumping around and peeking out of windows this morning,” Sam commented dryly as he sat down across from him.
Rick shot him a hard look. “It’s taken care of.”
Sam and his mother exchanged a look then glanced at the curtained windows.
“Brought some company this time did you?” she said and made a soft sound of approval. “So we’re being considered for reclamation then?”
“Yes,” Rick answered with quiet honesty. “But we’ve got a lot of work to do before we’re ready to sit down and talk.”
“Well you just tell us when, young man, and we and the town council will be ready. In the meantime, we’ll keep our mouths shut.”
“Thank you, Missus Keane. We’ll...” Rick’s mouth snapped shut when his earpiece came to life.
“One unknown approaching by wagon.”
A glance in Paige’s direction showed him she was standing and turning toward him. Her hand was on her holster. Chances were good the person coming down the road was a friendly. By 22GW, it was mostly the bad guys who had access to gasoline and diesel this far away from reclamated areas. One lone farmer going about his business wasn’t anything to get worked up about. But Rick hadn’t lasted this long in recon being unprepared.
He stood soundlessly and motioned for Paige to come out into the kitchen. Reaching in, he turned off the gas lamp and shut the door, hiding away the injured Flint and the outside medical care he was getting. He tucked Paige in behind the basement door and took up a position in the darkened stairwell in the front room.
“One unknown turning down the drive.”
Rick took the safety off his rifle and waited for the knock on the door.
When it came, Sam answered.
“Hey, Sam. You’re up early. Listen, I wanted to drop something off. A fellow down at the market was selling this tonic. Said it would cure anything and...oh! Hello, Flora.”
The man’s voice warmed considerably.
“Sorry for dropping by unannounced but...say...is that a fresh pot of tea I smell?”
“Thank you for coming by, Gregory,” Flora Keane said brightly. A little too brightly. She was obviously a woman not used to lying. “But with Flint so sick and all, we’re—”
“Oh, I know. Probably busier than a one-armed paper hanger.” The man named Gregory laughed at his own joke. No one else did. He fell silent. “Um, something wrong, Flora?”
Rick sighed resignedly and rushed down the stairs.
Gregory was probably in his fifties, thin, with graying hair and a missing front tooth. His coveralls were worn but clean. He jumped back and yelped when he saw Rick’s massive form, cloaked in black from head to toe, rush him and aim a powerful rifle at his chest.
Rick kicked the door shut. “Turn,” he barked. “Put your hands on your head.” He felt Paige come out of the kitchen. Saw, out of the corner of his eye, the tip of her revolver aimed at the man who was gulping and shaking.
In an instant, Rick was on him, pinning his hands in place and shoving his shoulders into the door. He slung his weapon, kicked the man’s legs apart and frisked him quickly. He released him and stepped back.
“Um, Rick,” Flora spoke up hesitantly. “This is Gregory Alton. Our mayor.”
Rick recognized the name from the petition the town had submitted and held out his hand. “Gregory,” he said evenly but his intense eyes never wavered.
“Um, hello. I guess,” the older man said hesitantly and took Rick’s hand. “So either they’ve brought back Trick or Treating—or we’re being considered for reclamation.”
“Gregory, you can’t tell anyone they’re here,” Flora insisted gravely. She took Gregory’s elbow and led him into the kitchen, poured him a cup of tea and made him sit down. “This young lady here’s taking care of Flint.”
Gregory looked up at Paige as she walked back into the kitchen, putting her revolver back in its holster.
“Is he gonna be okay?” Gregory asked.
“Yes,” Paige answered with calm surety. She held out her hand and Gregory, his hand shaking, gave her the bottle of tonic. She sniffed it. “Pour this down the drain,” she ordered curtly. “It’s turpentine.” She was familiar with quack medicines like this. She’d attended her share of autopsies because of them. She opened the door to Flint’s makeshift bedroom and grinned wryly when she saw him tucking a rifle beneath his mattress.
“All down you to, beautiful,” Flint spoke up happily. He sat up expectantly when she walked in and re-lit the gas lamp. “You and those lovely little hands of yours,” he murmured hotly.
Paige rolled her eyes and finished taking his vitals.
“Don’t listen to him, Paige,” Sam said as he strolled in and crouched by his brother’s head. “He’s out of his mind with fever. Now me,” he added rakishly. “I’ve got great hands.” He pitched his voice so it wouldn’t carry beyond the small room which, now that she looked around, looked like it normally served as Missus Keane’s pantry.
“Twins, Paige,” Flint murmured hotly, stroking her arm with the back of his finger then leaning against the wall. “Once you’ve gone twin, you’ll never go back.”
“You two should take this act on the road,” she complained but couldn’t help grinning at their audacity.
“Time’s running low, Corporal,” Rick muttered angrily from his position just outside. He switched on his communicator. “Unknown is friendly.” Paige heard his voice in stereo—coming from his mouth, and strangely disembodied and coming from her earpiece. “ETA to departure is...” He looked down at Paige meaningfully.
“Five minutes,” she answered and injected more antibiotic into
saline bags.
“ETA to departure is five minutes. Over.” Rick released the button on his communicator and stood in the doorway, glaring at the Keane brothers, his assault rifle resting in his hands.
When they returned to their camp, Rick and Paige found an MP transport convoy waiting. The Lieutenant had radioed back to the base south of Jacksonville. The base would send another convoy tomorrow morning for prisoner transport and each morning after that for as long as they were needed.
They’d brought a fresh supply of gasoline for the unit’s vehicles, enough to last them three weeks at least, and fresh provisions.
When the prisoners were gone, the unit bedded down for a few hours of sack time. Paige used the time to get lunch started. She couldn’t sleep and she knew Morty’s hand, when he woke up, would be stiff and sore. He’d be in no shape to cook for a couple of days. Besides, working with food cleared her head and gave her an opportunity to think through how badly she’d handled that morning’s triage. She’d let her emotions get in the way. Her affection for the sergeant overshadowed her judgment.
By the time lunch was in the oven, the camp was waking up and she’d got her head back on straight.
Morty was the first to wander over. His bandaged hand was tucked across his chest in a protective gesture. She tossed him a bottle of painkillers she’d been keeping for him in the cargo pocket of her fatigue pants. “Take two now. Repeat to a maximum of four times a day.”
“Thanks, doc,” he murmured, grabbed a cup of water then sniffed the air. “Hey, is that...?” Morty glared down at her. “Son of a...you made pizza?”
“Uh huh,” Paige answered, opening the oven and checking the progress of the first batch.
“Oh man. Now they’re gonna say they like your cooking better than mine.”
Paige looked up at him sympathetically, patted his massive arm and had him sit down at the table, which was already set for lunch. “Our little secret, Morty. They don’t have to know it was me.” She piled some orange-and-spinach salad on his plate, filled his glass with milk, gave him a quick hug and went back to check on her pizzas.
Gwen Campbell - [Love from the Ashes 02] Page 6
