Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel (24 page)

“You're awake,” Martha said, her plump cheeks curving as her face broke into a friendly smile. She was an attractive Indian woman with dark, wavy hair. She had a small red bindi on her forehead, and wore a modern version of the traditional sari in deep maroon tones with golden threads woven through it.

Martha placed a reassuring hand on Gemma's arm, squeezing softly. “Georgia here wants to speak to you about the thugs who shot you if you're up to it.”

Gemma nodded, and started to pull herself into a sitting position, stopping when she felt a sharp stab of pain. She felt the bandage on her belly shift as she moved and glanced down.

She was wearing an oversized dark blue t-shirt, and there was a pale cotton blanket draped over her.

Pushing the blanket down, Gemma lifted the shirt.

The thick white bandage covered most of the left side of her stomach, and stretched around behind her back.

“How bad was it?” Gemma asked, her words slurring slightly. She still felt groggy and strange. “I think I already asked you that before, didn't I?”

“It's not unusual to feel disorientated,” Martha assured her. “You were lucky. The bullet missed your kidney by about an inch, and your artery by a little less than that.”

Gemma's tongue was thick and swollen. “When will I be able to go home?”

The idea of cycling – or even walking – the forty miles to town made her want to weep. She didn't think there was a single part of her that didn't ache.

Christopher stirred, his eyes heavy with sleep. “Tomorrow morning if we're lucky,” he said, stretching his neck. “One of the men in the night squad is trying to organize a car. They were planning on heading over that way in the next few days anyway.”

“Really? No more riding?” Gemma brightened. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

28

Christopher couldn't take his eyes off Gemma. Even through the darkest hours of the morning he kept jerking awake, torn from the tormented landscapes of his broken dreams.

The need to hold her in his arms was overpowering, a physical ache that left him feeling empty and barren.

He'd been so sure he was going to lose her, and frustration and anger warred inside him; the world they now faced made him feel useless and ill-prepared.

Never before had he known such fear.

He couldn't imagine living in a world where Gemma didn't exist.

The events after the night squad arrived were a blur of activity, his memory of them disconnected and fragmented. He remembered the woman – Vicky – and one of the men trying to pull Gemma away from him. The way he wouldn't let go.

He remembered carefully laying Gemma's bleeding body in the trailer, pushing through the pain that racked him. And the way someone had to steady him.

Then there was the long stumble to the doctor's house. He felt Gemma's pain every time they went over a bump. Every time they had to stop suddenly when they heard a noise.

Roger – the one with the flashlight – had walked ahead. Vicky had stuck close to his side, steadying him when he stumbled and talking nonstop when he just wanted to concentrate on Gemma.

He vaguely recalled asking Vicky questions. About the night squad patrolling the streets. If she knew what things were like back home. But he couldn't remember a word she said.

Christopher refused to leave Gemma's side as the doctor removed the bullet, but at some stage he passed out. He woke in a chair, Martha Stewart's worried face leaning over him.

Then she dropped a bombshell. Gemma would die without a blood transfusion.

Christopher immediately volunteered.

The doctor shook her head, insisting he was too weak. That it was too risky; they had no idea what Gemma's blood type was and no way of finding out fast enough to save her.

“I'm O negative,” Christopher growled, sensing the doctor had already given up on Gemma. Besides, he didn't want anyone's blood in her but his, not when they couldn't test it.

He shoved his arm in front of the small Indian woman. When she hesitated, Christopher grabbed the tourniquet out of her hand and used his teeth to strap it to his arm. He would have jammed the needle in himself if she refused.

At one stage Gemma had grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him toward her – hissing at him to remember his promise – but for the life of him, he couldn't remember when that was.

“Christopher?”

Christopher opened his eyes, pulled from his thoughts. He was glad to see they were finally alone. Until he saw the look on Gemma's face. It was a look he knew well.

He was tempted to feign sleep – but it was too late now. She knew he was awake.

The circles under Gemma's eyes were darker than ever, but her face was no longer the ghastly shade of gray it had been before the transfusion.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he said hoarsely, hoping to steer her away from whatever it was that had put that steely glint in her lovely green eyes.

“You should know I'm tougher than that by now,” Gemma said. “And stop trying to change the subject.”

“I didn't know there was a subject,” Christopher said.

“You
will
still keep your promise, won't you?” Gemma searched his face. “The fact I didn't die doesn't change anything.”

He tried to keep his expression neutral. “You should get some sleep.”

“You can't just run away from this.”

“I'm not running away from anything,” Christopher said. “Besides – you're going to be fine. You heard the doctor.”

“I can't believe you.” Gemma's face twisted as she tried to pull herself up, anger flashing through the pain in her eyes. “You really haven't changed. You're nothing but a pampered little rich boy who never had to take responsibility for anyone but himself.”

That hurt. “You really don't know when to stop, do you?” Christopher got to his feet, but quickly realized he wasn't going anywhere. His head swam, and his vision fuzzed over.

“Fine – you want to have this out,” he growled, the blood pumping to his head. “Let's do it.”

Gemma looked suddenly wary. But she'd pushed him too far this time; his mind was in turmoil. All the years of hope and frustration, anger and regret, had taken him over.

There was no stopping the torrent that wanted to be unleashed. Words he'd spoken to no one. It had all bottled up inside him and demanded release.

“The first time Melinda thought she was pregnant, I was over the moon. I told anyone who'd listen I was going to be a father. Couldn't wipe the grin off my face for weeks.” Christopher hated the sympathy he could see in Gemma's face, but he couldn't stop the words spewing from his mouth. They just kept pouring forth.

“The sixth time,” he finished a few minutes later, his anger almost spent, “I painted the nursery for a child that never existed. Melinda insisted. You think I would have learned my lesson by then. But she was so damned sure.
Every
time. And every time I hoped it was true. Imagined holding my child in my arms even as I worried I was going to come home and find Melinda on the bathroom floor in tears.

“And then there were the weeks after – when she found out she wasn't pregnant after all.” Christopher shuddered as the memories converged on him. “It nearly broke her. But in the end it was our marriage that broke.”

“And now you have what you always wanted,” Gemma said softly, reaching for him.

“You don't understand,” Christopher spat as he pulled away. “CJ can't be mine because I'm sterile. Shooting blanks. Half a freakin' man. All those years – putting back the pieces every time – and it was my fault.”

“You're right – I don't understand,” Gemma said. “What you went through...” she trailed off, finally at a loss for words.

“I don't want your sympathy,” Christopher muttered. “I just want you to let it alone.”

Gemma flared again. “No. It's you who doesn't understand. Caroline wouldn't lie about something like this.”

“Didn't you hear a word I just said?”

“Where's my bag?” Gemma said.

Christopher's head spun at the sudden turn in topic. It wasn't like Gemma to just drop things like this.

“I don't know,” Christopher muttered, glad for the reprieve. After tomorrow, they would go their separate ways. Never would he have to have this conversation again. The idea that Gemma would look at him the way Melinda had in those final days – like he was half a man ... Christopher's heart tightened painfully. Shouldn't he be glad to be finished with her? The damn woman irritated him at every turn.

So why the hell was he missing her already? Just the thought they'd go their separate ways caused the same dull ache it had all those years ago.

Christopher clenched his jaw so painfully it hurt. Somehow she'd wormed her way into his heart again. How the hell had he not noticed?

When had a simple attraction to a beautiful women from his past turned into something more?

“What the hell are you doing?” Christopher shot to his feet.

“I need my bag,” Gemma said stubbornly.

“Just – just lie down. I'll get it.”

“Did you ever get tested?” Gemma asked softly before he could reach the door.

Christopher glared at her. She hadn't dropped it after all. He stormed out of the room, in half a mind never to return.

“Christopher?”

“I thought you wanted your bag.” Christopher rested his head on the wall outside the room, feeling suddenly drained.

“It's in here. On the other side of the bed.” He heard a grunting sound, then, “Don't worry, I'll get it.”

“Stay where you are.” Christopher ran his hand through his hair, trying to get a grip on his emotions. No one had the power to make him as angry as she did.

Without looking at Gemma, he returned to the room, collected the bag, and dumped it on the bed.

He turned to go again.

“Wait,” Gemma said.

“I need some fresh air.”

“You know I'll just follow you, right?”

“Damn it, Gemma, you're going to rip your stitches open at this rate.”

“Just sit.” Pain flashed across Gemma's face, and she clutched at her belly.

“Gemma?” He was by her side in an instant. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Just hurts.”

“Do you want me to get the doctor?”

“No.” Gemma's face twisted again, and she paused a moment before speaking. “I want you to sit down.”

“I'll stand,” Christopher said as Gemma tried to unzip the front pocket.

“Here, let me,” Christopher scowled, grabbing the bag, and when he saw the look in her eye he realized that's exactly what she wanted.

The woman was incorrigible, using her pain to get what she wanted.

“Did you get tested?” Gemma asked again as he fumbled with the zipper.

“No,” Christopher snapped.

“What? Worried about your fragile manhood – your damned stupid ego?”

“Melinda had twins a few months ago,” Christopher flared. “It had to be me.”

“How long–” Gemma broke off as a cough racked her body. Her hand went to her stomach as she curled herself into a fetal position. When she looked at him again, her eyes were shining with pain.

Christopher felt his stomach lurch. Why couldn't it have been him that got shot? If only he wasn't so nervous around guns. He should have been carrying the rifle. He should have protected her.

Gemma pointed at the bag, her chin jutting forward stubbornly.

Christopher reached into the pocket, a half-smile curling his lip when he saw the smudged smiley face.

Behind it was the photograph of CJ.

His hands curled into fists. Damn woman was taking advantage of her injuries. God help him if she found out how he felt about her.

“Just look at it,” Gemma pleaded. “Please.”

Christopher sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes to steel himself. She wasn't letting this go anytime soon.

He looked down at the photo of CJ, but this time – before he could draw his eyes away – he found himself caught by the cheeky sparkle in the boy's eyes. Eyes that were so much like his own.

Swallowing hard, Christopher took in the thick head of dark hair, and the way it stuck up slightly at the crown. The boy had the same quirky smile he'd smiled in photographs at that age.

It was true. There
was
a strong resemblance.

Was it possible? After all these years? He'd convinced himself he would never be a father.

Christopher shook his head, pulling his eyes away from CJ when Gemma's voice broke into his thoughts. Something strange, something unknown, was flaring inside him.

“What?” Christopher said. All the fight had gone out of him.

“I said how long did it take Melinda to get pregnant when she remarried.”

Christopher shrugged, his eyes drawn back to the photograph. “I don't know. Nearly two years I guess.”

“Doesn't that strike you as odd – considering she was so desperate to have a child?”

“I suppose,” Christopher admitted grudgingly as CJ stared up at him.

“So it could have been her. Melinda could have had fertility treatment ... IVF ... there's so much they can do now.” Gemma's tone was soft.

“I want to see him,” Christopher said gruffly. Maybe CJ was his – maybe he wasn't. But there was no way he could turn his back on the boy now.

Gemma took his hand, her eyes shining brightly, but this time it wasn't with pain. There was also a bit of a smug look on her face, and he decided to wipe it away with a kiss that left her gasping for air.