by Chris Pike
Dillon turned away. For some reason, he had no problem staring her down in the courtroom, but here, after their intimate romp, he couldn’t think of anything to say other than, “Maybe we need to talk about last night?”
“About what?”
“Like what we did.”
Holly made a face. “It still hurts a little. Do you want to look at it.”
“What?” Dillon asked. He put the mug down on the table.
“My arm. It still hurts. Do you want to look at it?”
Hmm, well, if she wanted to act like nothing had happened, he’d go along with it.
“Sure. Let me wash my hands first.” Dillon got up from the table. “Is the water still working?”
“Pressure’s not too good.”
“Better than none at all,” Dillon said as he turned on the faucet, wetting his hands. He washed his hands thoroughly, working up a good lather from the pumper soap. He took his time, making sure his fingernails were clean, then washed the back of his hands and up past his wrists. Holding his hands up like a surgeon, he rinsed them under the water for a long time, then repeated the procedure.
Holly watched him, thinking it was overkill until she remembered he had been trained as a medic.
“Can you get me a couple of clean hand towels, hydrogen peroxide, and cotton balls from the bathroom?” Dillon asked. “Check the shelves opposite the mirror.”
Holly nodded, walking away.
A knock at the front door sounded, and before Dillon could open his mouth and tell Holly not to open the door, she had already swung the door open. As usual, Buster sauntered up to the door, eager to check out the company. He stood by Holly’s side, tail wagging.
Dillon stayed in the kitchen, out of sight of the front door. He was pressed up against the wall and his hand automatically reached for his Glock. Shit. He forgot to put it on. His gaze darted around the kitchen, remembering he kept an extra Glock in a hollowed out cookbook. He grabbed it and checked to make sure it was loaded.
Holly opened the door. “Can I help you?”
The disheveled woman standing on the porch didn’t say anything. Instead, she pivoted to the side. An expression which Holly didn’t understand crept across the woman’s face. Holly felt immediate empathy for the woman, and—
A man jumped out of the bushes and in two long strides he rushed the porch and barreled through the door.
Buster started barking rapidly, throaty and low. The man flashed a knife and pushed Holly to the side.
“You do as I say and nobody gets hurt.”
The words were met by a more impressive male voice. “You do as I say and you get to live.”
Chapter 17
Dillon appeared in the hallway, holding his Glock with the barrel pointed directly at the man.
At the sight of his owner, Buster’s bravado appeared also and he took a step toward the intruder, growling ominously.
“Get back, Holly,” Dillon ordered.
Holly’s eyes drifted from the intruder to Dillon as she slowly backed away.
The intruder stood frozen, his eyes glassy, his clothes unkempt and stained. He looked like he hadn’t shaved or bathed in days.
“If you want to live, drop your knife and leave,” Dillon ordered. “If you come back, all you’ll get is a chest full of brass.” When the intruder didn’t say or do anything, Dillon yelled, “Now!”
The knife clanged to the floor and the guy abruptly turned and ran out the door.
Dillon went to the door and watched the man run down the street, the woman following behind.
“What was that about?” Holly asked. She walked up to Dillon and stood next to him. She craned her head looking at the street, trying to see.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to open the door to strangers?”
“Well, yes, but since you were here I—”
“You thought you were safe.”
“Yes,” Holly’s eyes darted from Dillon to the floor then back up to Dillon.
“You weren’t.” Dillon’s tone was gruff. “This is exactly what I meant when I said society as we know it has ended. It’s only day one after the EMP and these people can sniff out weakness faster than a hound dog can sniff out a fox. They will do whatever they can to take what is ours. You can never let your guard down. Ever. Do you understand?”
Holly nodded.
“And as far as you are concerned,” Dillon admonished, aiming his attention at Buster, “that was lame. Some guard dog you are. Waiting until you knew I was here then you started acting brave. Big help you were!”
Buster lowered his head, his ears flopping down on his face. He slunk behind the sofa, sensing his owner’s dissatisfaction.
“Excitement is over. Let me take a look at your arm,” Dillon said.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Dillon untied the bandage on Holly’s arm he had carefully wrapped the day before. Holding it by an edge, he tossed it in the garbage. He gently pressed the skin around the ugly-looking cut and checked for any red streaks indicating infection. He debated whether or not to suture it.
“Do you want me to put a couple of stitches in it?” Dillon asked.
“I don’t know.”
“It will heal faster if I do.”
“Will it hurt?”
“You’ll feel a little pinch. I’ll be gentle, I promise.” Using hydrogen peroxide, Dillon sterilized the cut and also the sewing needle and thread. Getting ready, he told Holly to turn her head and look the other way. “Pretend you’re a pioneer woman,” Dillon said.
“I’d rather not. I like the comforts of the 21st century.”
Dillon began the delicate task, but he might as well have been sticking a needle through leather. Her porcelain skin had the texture of hide.
Holly winced each time the needle pricked her skin and when Dillon brought up the string, she could feel it threading through her.
“You finished yet?” Holly asked through clenched teeth.
“One more suture and you’re good to go,” Dillon said. He snipped the thread and tied it off. “Want to see my masterpiece?”
Holly turned her head and took a quick glance at her throbbing arm. It looked like it had been through a meat grinder. Dried blood stuck to the wispy hairs covering her black and blue swollen arm.
“Pink?” Holly said incredulously. “You used pink thread?” The pink thread Dillon used stood out like a prima ballerina in a wrestling ring.
“Yeah,” Dillon said. “What’s wrong with pink? I thought you’d like it.”
“I guess nothing. I was expecting black or something.”
“I was all out of camo thread,” he deadpanned. He got up from the table, went to the sink, and disinfected the needle. “Keep it clean, change the bandage every day, and in ten days you can take out the sutures.”
“What? Me? Why? Where are you going?”
“In about thirty minutes, I’m heading to New Orleans to find my daughter. I’ll be gone a while.”
“Using what as transportation?”
“A mountain bike,” Dillon said. “I bought two right before Amy died. One for me and one for her. This will be the first time I’ve used them.”
Holly wasn’t exactly sure what she was supposed to say to that. I’m sorry didn’t sound sufficient, and it wasn’t like Dillon was fishing for sympathy. It was more of a matter-of-fact statement, so Holly decided not to say anything about it. Instead, she said, “And what am I supposed to do?”
“Stay here and take care of Buster.”
“I will not.” Holly pushed back from the chair and stood up, indignant at the thought of being a dog sitter.
“It’s the best alternative for you and Buster. I’ve already thought it through. I can’t take Buster, you can’t walk to your house in the burbs, so the best thing for you to do is to stay here. There’s food and water, plus Larry and Louise are right next door if you need anything.”
“I don’t know Larry and Louise.”
“Larry knows you.
He helped me get you in the house last night.”
Holly thought about that a moment. “I’m still not staying.”
“Have a plan B?”
“As a matter of fact I do. I’ll come with you.”
The look on Dillon’s face said it all. That was one scenario he hadn’t planned on. She’d slow him down, and riding a bike for hundreds of miles wasn’t for the faint of heart or one who was out of shape. Dillon wasn’t sure the last time Holly had ever done any manual labor or saw the inside of a gym, not that she was out of shape. She was more runway model worthy, what with her being tall and slender. He wasn’t sure she could even shoot a gun without dropping it, or be able to handle the recoil. He decided the best course of action was the take the high road and not point out her lack of arm strength.
“You can’t,” Dillon finally said. “Your body has been through a tremendous ordeal. When I carried you here yesterday…”
Holly gave him an odd look.
“That’s right, I carried you here all the way from the courthouse. You were unconscious the entire time.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize. Uh, thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” Dillon took a step closer to Holly. “You need to rest and let your body heal.”
“I feel fine. I’ll ride with you, and I won’t slow you down.”
“I don’t think you’re up to a 300 mile bike ride.”
“Who said anything about using a bike the whole way?”
Now that piqued Dillon’s interest.
Chapter 18
At daybreak, Ryan, Cassie, and James woke to a humid sea breeze. A white egret flew overhead, flapping wings on a silent updraft. Several buzzards circled what was left of the disintegrated plane, while more took up residence in a lone tree battered by shrapnel from the crash.
“We should have seen planes by now,” James said.
“I know,” Ryan replied. “Something odd must be going on because I haven’t seen any jet trails in the sky.”
The three survivors shared a meager breakfast of a granola bar and a pack of peanuts, washing it down with a can of Coke. Cassie said she was saving her other food and water for the trip.
Ryan instructed James and Cassie to rummage through the remains of the plane and look for anything that might be useful.
“Like what?” James asked.
“Water, a jacket, food. Hats, especially hats.” Ryan squinted at the morning sun. “It looks like it’s going to be a scorcher today. Check any backpacks or briefcases you find. I’ve already looted what was left of the galley. If you find any water bottles, regardless if it has been opened, take it. And don’t throw it away after the water is gone.”
“Why?” James asked.
“If we run out of water, we can fill it with whatever water we find, set it in the sun, and let the sun’s rays disinfect it,” Ryan explained.
“Never heard of that,” James said.
“It works.”
After gathering what they could, Cassie hoisted her backpack over her shoulders. She had packed the blanket she had slept in, found a hat, an extra shirt, and shoes that didn’t match, which didn’t matter because fashion really wasn’t a worry of hers right now.
Ryan still had on a good pair of hiking boots, a pair of jeans he’d had on for several days, a shirt, and a thin jacket. James was in his business suit, white shirt, and black Oxford lace-up shoes. Not exactly good for hiking. On the other hand, he hadn’t planned on any hiking. At least he was in fairly good shape. His wife had seen to it that after his heart attack two years previous, he lost the weight the doctor said to, kept to his diet, and exercised daily. As of the moment, he was glad his wife had nagged him into adopting better habits.
Ryan stepped out of the plane and took a glance around. From the position of the morning sun he surmised they needed to walk in a northerly direction where I-10 should be. Running east to west, the busily traveled interstate should have other roads feeding into it. He vaguely remembered the southern part of Louisiana being dotted with farmland of sugarcane and cotton, so it shouldn’t take too long before they came to a farmhouse or a fish camp. There, they could call the authorities to let them know they had survived.
“Come on,” Ryan said. “Let’s go before it gets too hot. I want to make it to shade before noon.
The three weary travelers set out, unsure how long it would take to find civilization or another friendly face they could trust. As they walked single file, their thoughts on their loved ones, they had no idea the shit storm they were about to walk into. The life they knew, the conveniences of a modern life which kept them comfortable, gave them information at the touch of a button, transported them in an air-conditioned car while listening to their favorite radio station would only be a distant memory soon.
The world they were entering was an unexpected world, one that would test their strengths and would require them to make difficult, life-altering decisions. Alliances would be made, friends lost, and the answers to their innermost questions would be found.
Chapter 19
“What are you talking about?” Dillon asked.
“I own a ranch about a hundred and fifty miles from here, and,” Holly said, pausing for emphasis, “we’ve got horses. You could take a horse the rest of the way to New Orleans.”
Dillon only had to ponder that about a short second before he asked, “Where is your ranch?”
“Near the city of Hemphill, Sabine County. It’s not too far from the Louisiana border. By car, it’s a short drive. Maybe ninety minutes. By bike, I don’t know. Maybe a couple of days.”
Dillon pondered how long a ninety minute car ride would be. “I’m guessing it would be about as long as the MS 150. Ever done that?”
“Race for the Cure.”
“No. I think I’ll rename it to Race for the Living.” Dillon swung around. “We still have the problem of Buster.” He put a hand to his head, thinking. “If he came with us do you think—”
“I’d be happy to look after him at the ranch.”
“Thanks. One problem solved about a hundred more to go. What about food at your ranch?”
“The normal stuff that doesn’t go bad. Canned goods, flour, spices, pasta. I got some peaches and tomatoes some neighbors canned for me. Those are still good. There are pecan trees too, and in a couple of months the pecans will be ripe.”
“That’s good to know. What about water?”
“We have a couple of wells. One is really old that was dug a long time ago. The other one uses an electric pump.”
“Hmm.” Dillon scratched the stubble on his chin. “The electric one won’t do us any good. Does the old one still have water in it?”
“Actually it does.”
“What about a windmill to pump the water, and a storage tank?”
“Those haven’t been used in years. You won’t believe this but the old well is inside the house.”
“No shit!” Dillon exclaimed. “Inside the house?” Flabbergasted wouldn’t do justice to his thought. “What’s a well doing inside your house?”
“When my parents bought the place the only logical place to build a house was where the old farmhouse was. The only problem was that the well was where they wanted to extend the house. After consulting with an architect, they decided to incorporate the well into the add-on.
“Actually, it’s quite beautiful and serene. It’s in the sitting area that links the old house to the add-on. My dad put a Plexiglas cover on it because he didn’t want the cat falling into it, or a mouse, because that would foul the water.”
“Good idea,” Dillon said, “not to mention the cat wouldn’t like to be in there either.”
Holly laughed. “You can look through the Plexiglas and see the water at the bottom.”
“That’s impressive,” Dillon commented. “Does it still have a bucket and pulley system?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can rig something up. What about the water quality?”
“Excellent,” Dillon said. “We need to get you packed for a two day bike trip.” He studied what she had on. “And I think you need to change out of my shirt.”
Dillon’s gaze dropped to Holly’s upper thighs where his button down shirt she was wearing came to. A woman wearing a man’s button down shirt that barely covered her ass was the sexiest thing known to man.
“What do you suggest?” Holly asked. “My pant suit is beyond repair.”
Dillon couldn’t agree more, especially since he had ripped it off. “You’re about the same size as my wife was. You can wear something of hers.”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t feel right wearing something of hers,” Holly said.
“If you had known her, you wouldn’t be worrying about that. She was a down-to-Earth type of person. You would have liked her.”
“I’m sure I would have. You must have had a good marriage.”
Dillon nodded. “Don’t worry, there’s a bunch of stuff that still has the tags on. She was a thrifty shopper. Check the closet in the master bedroom. Wash up or whatever you need to do and pack a bag of clothes. If you need anything personal take that. I’ll pack a bigger bag for you. We leave in an hour.”
While Dillon rushed around the house packing a bag for Holly, Buster mirrored every step Dillon took, sensing the excitement in the air. Dillon’s routine was well known to Buster since Dillon never deviated from the daily routine: the alarm trilled at 5:30 a.m., next was the shower, coffee, breakfast, then out the door by 6:30. Buster spent his days lazing around the house and when he got bored he wiggled through the doggie door leading to the backyard, and if the weather was good he’d find a sunny spot for more loafing.
Squirrels were a problem, and every once in a while if the squirrel wasn’t paying any attention, Buster stealthily crawled closer and bam! The squirrel would be dispatched.
Holding the limp squirrel in his mouth, some long-forgotten instinct guided Buster to his next action which was to bury the squirrel, caching it for later consumption.
