by Ryan Schow
Above them, drones were everywhere. Gunfire peppered the air, air that smelled of smoke and seawater.
“You’re good to go, Lt.,” she said over the noise. Steadying himself, Jagger opened fire, and for the next nine hours they went to work protecting the base and each other.
By the end of the day, his arms were loose and weak and his back was a twist of painful knots. Camila said, “When we’re alone tonight, I’m going to rub your back.”
“Normally I’d say no,” Jagger said, “but right about now, I’d let you do just about whatever you wanted. Problem is, we’re not going to be alone, not in the middle of this.”
When they were finally relieved of duty and they had a short travel window, the two of them boarded a bus heading off base. They crossed the JFK Memorial Causeway and pulled into a boat storage facility next to an O’Reilly auto parts store they were told was converted into makeshift barracks. The cots were lined up tight, half of them filled with snoring soldiers, maybe more.
“Grab some shut-eye, we’ll come get you when we need you,” they were told.
To their escort, Jagger said, “Anyone got an open line?”
“Follow me.”
Jagger looked at Camila and she said, “I’ll save you one.”
He was led to a table serving as on-site HQ, then offered an open line. He dialed the number, waited as it rang, then heard a frantic voice on the other end.
“Jagger?”
“Hey baby, it’s me.”
“Oh, thank God!” Lenna said. “What’s going on?”
“You heard about it?” he asked. Of course she heard about it. An attack like the one they were enduring would certainly make the news.
“Heard about it?” she asked, the line cutting in and out. “We’re living it! I barely even got the boys home without getting killed!”
“Wait, what?” he asked, struggling to hear her. “Did you just say someone was killed?”
“No, Jagger,” she said, the line clearing. “I said we were almost killed.”
“How?” he asked, nearly speechless.
“They didn’t tell you?” she asked. “Do you even know what’s going on here?”
“No, I don’t,” he said. “Are Hagan and Ballard okay? Are they safe?”
“San Francisco is under attack!” she said, the line dipping and dropping off before coming back strong. “I don’t know what’s happening, only that the Financial District is getting bombed to smithereens!”
“Who’s bombing you?” he asked, hysterical.
“Jagger?” she said.
“I’m here,” he said, sticking a finger in his ear and turning away from the rows of cots filled with sleeping men and women.
“Jagger? Are you there?” she asked, the digital interference of the line drowning her voice, distorting it.
“I’m here,” he said a little louder, ignoring a few wayward glances.
“I thought I lost you,” she said frantic, the clarity returning. “When are you coming home? We need you here!”
“Babe, we’re under attack here, too. We’ve been at it for the last eighteen hours. It’s leveled off though. We’re praying the worst is over.”
“Well it isn’t over for us!” she cried, the sound of fresh tears hitting her eyes before static overtook the conversation.
“Lenna?” Nothing. “Lenna!” Then the sound of an empty line. “Dammit!” he said, hanging up the phone.
“Bad reception?”
His eyes went to an old geezer behind the bank of phones. His hound dog eyes held no secrets, nor did they convey the stress of this situation. Jagger wondered if the man even understand what was happening here.
“Did you know San Francisco is under attack?” he said on a harsh whisper.
Those big, wet eyes didn’t blink.
“Well?”
Making a face, rolling his jaw, he said, “So is L.A., San Diego and Sacramento if California is your concern.”
“It is!”
“You didn’t ask about Arizona, Texas, or Florida.”
Jagger glared at him like he’d lost his mind. The geezer blinked once, twice, then dug a pinking finger in his ear like he had no concept of the danger they might still be in. He pulled the pinking finger out, then inspected it.
“I only asked about California because that’s where my family’s at,” he said.
“Reports are coming in,” the man offered.
“And?” Jagger all but growled.
“They’re saying the drones are autonomous, that this is Armageddon.”
Chapter Two
“She’s losing too much blood,” I hear myself saying. Macy’s shirt is red and wet. I peel it back, stare at the blood-soaked bandage. It’s clear the blood is clotting, but it’s not clotting fast enough. I check her pulse. It’s too low.
Measuring the blood loss, suddenly concerned about her platelet count, I start to consider a blood transfusion. She’s type-A, as am I, but I don’t have a blood bag. Or saline. Or even drip lines or an IV needle. If she doesn’t start improving, I’ll have to consider her situation critical. By then it might be too late.
“Rider, you’re going to Hagan’s right now, yes?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
“Do you know where a nearby hospital is?”
“No,” he replies.
“I do,” Hagan says, chiming in. “There’s one on Cherry Street, but half of it is blown up.”
“We can stop by there anyway,” Rider tells me.
“How familiar are you with medical equipment and supplies?” I ask.
“Very.”
“Were you in the medical field?” I ask.
“Yes, and no,” he says, shifting on his feet. He looks at Indigo and she looks back, clearly out of her depth. “I’m more battlefield trained than anything.”
“What’s your history?” I ask, suddenly curious.
“Classified.”
“Military?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“So if I tell you I need a saline bag, type A blood, a drip tube and an IV needle for a blood transfusion, you’d know what to get?”
“I would. But I don’t know if I’ll find what you’re looking for in a hospital that’s half destroyed. And I can’t imagine there being fresh blood on site, or even available for that matter. With the power out, refrigeration will be a thing of the past.”
“We have to try.”
“I can see what they have. I’m assuming you’ll need clamps and a filter.”
“Everything if you can,” I tell him. “A stand too, if you can find one.”
“What about bags?”
“Those I need for sure. Macy and I have the same blood type, so I’ll be the donor if you can’t find fresh blood. But you need the saline solution, too.”
Just then Macy opens her eyes and says, “Mom?” She blinks twice slowly, looks up and Rider and then Indigo, then licks her dry lips. I can see she’s chewing on the pain, that it’s about to get worse. “I can’t feel my arm.”
“I know, sweetheart,” I say, brushing her hair back. She’s a bit warm, maybe the start of a fever. To Indigo, I say, “Do you have any Tylenol?”
“You need it now?”
“Not yet. I just need to know if you have some.”
“Why can’t I take it now?” Macy asks. She’s bit peaked, and slightly delirious by the drunken sound of her. “Everything hurts.”
“Your blood isn’t clotting fast enough,” I explain. “And Tylenol is a blood thinner. So until we can get some of my blood into you, and get you clotting properly, we’ll have to wait.”
The concern of infection and the onset of a fever now sits front and center on my mind. I want to scream at them to go, but inside I battle to keep it together.
“I need you to go,” I tell Rider. “Now. And grab everything else you can think of when you’re out there.”
“Will do,” he says. “And good luck.”
Macy’s eyes are heavy. Her pulse
is weak. She looks up at me, eyelids bobbing open and shut, slowly, and she says, “Am I going to die?”
Leaning down, lovingly cupping her cheek, I say, “No baby, you’re going to be just fine.”
But when I look up into Rider’s eyes, he sees the panic, my uncertainty, and most of all a sort of desperation I know I’m failing to hide. Looking back down, I see her eyelids dipping and then she’s out again.
“I’ll get you what you need,” Rider says, more solemn. Then to Hagan, “Let’s go, kid.”
When they’re finally gone and I hear the Jeep’s engine turn over and catch, the start of a million possible reactions to a possible blood transfusion set in.
If she has an allergic reaction to the transfusion, we’re talking shortness of breath, wheezing, red welts, the flushing of her skin—or even the high-pitched sounds of stridor. It’s also possible she could have an anaphylactic reaction, the signs of which are also flushing of the skin, shortness of breath and wheezing. Unique to this reaction is low blood pressure, the struggle to breathe, cramps, tightening of the chest and localized swelling.
That’s my biggest concern right now.
“I can see what you’re doing,” Stanton says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I knew he was there, but lately he’s become a bit of a wallflower. “You need to stop. You need to trust she’ll be okay.”
I find comfort in his face, in his steady eyes. “She’s our baby, Stanton,” I say a little too loudly due to my traumatized ear drum. Stanton nods slowly, and I know he’s feeling the same concern. Still, I feel better knowing he’s here.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
“A cold compress. Something to lower her temperature.” To Indigo, I say, “Do you have a thermometer?”
“My dad does,” she says, disappearing upstairs. Rex follows her up there and I don’t even want to think about him. About them. If there even is a them.
God, that’s so not an issue right now!
Stanton returns with a wash cloth that’s slightly damp and cool. I mop the sweat from her brow, place the cloth over her forehead. Her breathing changes, but she doesn’t wake.
“Do you mind if I head outside and water the hole?”
“You talking about taking a pee break?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Stanton says, not an ounce of humor in his eyes.
“You’re fine,” I say, trying to keep my voice low despite my hearing issues.
The whole idea of having no running water, meaning no toilets or functioning bathrooms, is depressing enough without all of this to contend with. My beautiful husband kisses me on top of my head, then hurries out the back door to do his business out back.
It’s then that I think about my injured eardrum. I realize I heard Stanton speaking more clearly than before; he didn’t sound close, but he wasn’t a hollow murmur that sounded miles away either.
Regarding my ear, most of the ringing seems to have passed. There’s still some pain, but it’s not as much as I expected. Maybe it’s not ruptured after all. I focus on it more intently. The ache isn’t deep inside my ear as much as it’s a sharp external stinging. This has me considering the signs of perforation, signs that aren’t present: a deep and nauseous pain, loss of balance, sustained hearing loss, itching, headache.
There was blood though, wasn’t there?
Turning to Atlanta, who’s sitting at the kitchen table looking lost and so small in all of this, I say, “Atlanta, sweetheart, will you come have a look at my ear?”
With a weak smile, she gets up, comes over and says, “What am I looking for?”
I draw my hair back, then turn my ear toward her and say, “Just tell me what you see on the outside, first.”
“Lots of little cuts,” she replies. This has me breathing easier. Could the gunshot sound in my ear have traumatized the ear drum, but not perforated it?
“What does it look like?” I ask.
She takes the compress from Macy’s head without asking and dabs the side of my ear and the skin around it. She shows me the cloth and all the little blood smears on it.
“So it’s cut on the outside?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Atlanta nods.
“Thank you,” I say.
Smiling, she hands me the compress. I take it from her, setting the clean side back on Macy’s forehead.
Before she leaves, I say, “How bad?”
The little blonde pixie leans down, draws back my hair, uses a fingernail to scratch and dig something out of the skin near my ear.
I feel whatever it is pull loose.
She shows me a tiny scrap of plaster. Can it be? Atlanta and I survived a hail of gunfire while tucked into a small alcove across from the school. This had to be shrapnel from that fight. Rolling the shard between my fingers, I realize this is what peppered the side of my face.
“How many little cuts?” I ask, looking up at her.
“About five. No, six. They’re not that bad, though. And they’re mostly around your ear.”
“Thanks again,” I say, my relief palpable.
All that tightness in my chest suddenly loosens. With this new set of information, I tell myself I no longer have to worry about myself, that I should focus solely on my daughter.
“before you sit back down,” I ask, “can you bring me a tissue?”
She returns right away with one. Upstairs I hear the squeak and squeal of the wooden floor, which I know from living in the old lady’s house below Gunner back in Anza Vista, are the sounds of people walking around. The way I hear drawers opening and closing, I realize the bathroom must be above us.
Rolling a square of toilet tissue into a funnel, I gently ease it into my ear canal, worrying this might cause a spike of pain but praying it doesn’t. There’s no pain. When I remove it, the tissue is clean and now I’m convinced my ear will be just fine.
“What are you looking for?” Atlanta asks.
“White or yellow discharge. Or blood. It indicates a perforated eardrum.”
“Is that what you think happened?”
“When my hearing went, I started to panic. Then I was afraid of tinnitus—”
“What’s that?”
“Phantom sounds in your ear. Like running water or what it sounds like when air escapes.”
“That’s part of that? Like what happens when you get a—”
“Perforated ear drum, yes,” I explain, finishing the girl’s sentence. “That and pain deep inside the ear canal, vertigo and sometimes nausea.”
“So you’re okay then?” she asks. “You have none of that?
“I think I’ll be okay,” I say and watch the relief flood into her face. I suddenly understand why she’s asking. She feels guilty. Like she’s to blame. “This wasn’t your fault, Atlanta. Even if something is wrong. Even if my ear drum had burst, that wouldn’t be on you.”
“I shot near your ear,” she says.
“Because you had to. Do you realize if you hadn’t, maybe neither of us would be here right now? We were lucky. If not for you, and Hagan…”
Atlanta looks away, pale, perfectly still. She’s still stuck on the memories of the school massacre. I don’t blame her. I am, too. My heart aches for the girl, for what she’s been forced to endure, for all the tragedies yet to come.
“Is she going to be alright?” Atlanta finally asks, her eyes locked on Macy.
“I don’t know,” I admit, taking my daughter’s wrist again and counting her pulse. She’d been shot twice inside the school. She’d gone after the shooter after he’d mowed down dozens of men, women and children.
God, what was she thinking?!
Indigo comes down the stairs, quiet as a mouse yet wasting no time. “I couldn’t find it at first,” she says, handing me the thermometer.
“Thanks,” I say.
I open Macy’s mouth, gently slide the thermometer under her tongue, then close it again and hold her chin in place. I know I should do it rectally for a more accurate reading, but not in this environment
, and not on this couch.
The reading comes back: 103.1º.
“She’s running a fever,” I say, dread coursing through me. I pull back the bandage on her chest, see the seeping wound, wonder again why it’s not clotting. She was never a fast healer when she was young, but she never had clotting issues either.
The fear of infection settles over me and I try to calm myself. I examine her shoulder wound, see the same thing: clotting on the edges of the wound, but not nearly enough to stem the still constant flow.
“Do you have any more towels?” I ask Indigo. Rex comes down the stairs, his face weary not only from exhaustion, but from the drain of emotion.
“I do,” she says. “I’ll grab some water, too.”
Rex sits down next to me, puts his hand on my arm and says, “When all hell was breaking loose, she froze, so I pushed her.” He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then: “We were under fire, everyone in the foyer was dying, and I smacked her. I tried to shake her out of her daze. I told her to get it together.”
“It’s not your fault, Rex,” I say, a picture of this springing to mind. “You probably saved her life.”
Beside me, I feel him swipe away a tear. Looking up, seeing his damp eyes, I say, “She’s going to be okay. She’ll pull through.”
“Do you really believe that?” he asks, another tear rolling off his eyelid and drifting down his cheek.
“If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t be able to do this.”
“What if we don’t find the blood, and you can’t do a transfusion?” he asks, the concern laid bare in his eyes. “What then?”
I can’t bring myself to say it, because that’s the fear that’s chewing at my insides, my sanity, everything solid and stable within me.
“She’ll be fine, Rex.”
The sad thing is, he’s looking at me knowing I don’t really believe this. Deep down, I realize I’m preparing myself for the worst, for the honest-to-God notion that I just might lose my little girl.
Chapter Three
When Rider headed out the front door, he bounded down the steps and onto the street where the Jeep was parked. Looking at Hagan, he said, “Keys?”
The boy fished the key from his pocket, tossed it to Rider. They both got in the Jeep. Rider stuck the key in the ignition, gave it a twist. The engine turned slowly, sluggishly, failing to catch. He let off the key, then turned it again, working the gas pedal the right way, tapping it lightly so the engine wouldn’t flood. It finally caught and coughed to life.
