Graham's Resolution Trilogy Bundle: Books 1-3 (44 page)

McCann held a toothpick in the side of his mouth. It wiggled from time to time as he chewed on it, focusing on the delicate job of stitching up the torn tissues of Graham’s leg wound. That’s when he realized he didn’t know the man’s name. He recognized him as the one who had stopped him in the street months ago and invited him up to Cascade.

He recalled again the blue-eyed girls he’d seen in the truck at the time, and a young boy, so he knew the guy would be missed. Certainly someone would come searching for him soon.

Nearly done with the last stitch, McCann left in a piece of a flexible straw to help drain out any fluids that accumulated in the wound. There would be more swelling, and almost certainly the wound would become infected. Inserting a way for the discharge to release would help the healing process by his way of thinking.
Plan ahead
, his father had always taught him.

The man already ran a fever and mumbled off and on. McCann had poured whiskey down his throat whenever an opportunity, between the mumblings, would present itself. McCann hoped the stitching pain he’d inflicted wouldn’t be remembered once the man awoke. He was used to working on cattle, after all, not men, and cows didn’t tend to hold grudges after surgery. Men held grudges and acted on them with revenge.

With the last suture tied off, McCann snipped the ends and then wiped the sweat from his own forehead. He kept everything as clean as possible. After he had cleaned himself up, he sponged off Graham’s leg and shoulder again, hoping to minimize the risk of any infection.

He covered the leg wound with several large gauze bandages, staggering them to fit the large area, and taped them down lightly so they could easily be redressed. The puncture wounds on the man’s arm needed only three small stitches. The other ones he left to heal on their own. He had cleaned the deep wounds out as well as possible.

McCann listened to his patient’s chest for any sounds of lung problems. He thought his ribs were at least bruised, if not cracked. His breathing sounded good, but large contusions already appeared. In McCann’s estimation, the man’s chest would be black and blue by morning.

He remembered when his father had been thrown from his horse not too long before his family started dying off. They’d wrapped his chest with compression bandages before he agreed to go in to see a doctor, only to find out later that wrapping suspected broken ribs was the worst thing you could do for a chest injury. Instead of helping him, the tight bands around his chest had curtailed his breathing too much, and he developed pneumonia. He went downhill from there. When the virus hit, with already damaged lungs, his father died first. So, instead of wrapping the man’s chest, McCann applied clean, icy snow wrapped in a towel, off and on, in an effort to keep the swelling down.

He stood back, figuring he had done everything he could do for the time being. Healing and fighting the infection were up to the man now.

The little house became dark and dreary as evening approached. This wasn’t how McCann had envisioned his meeting with the other survivors. He tossed his worn toothpick into the old fireplace and added another log. He knew he had an additional night of fighting off wolves and wild dogs ahead of him, trying to keep them away from the horses he had tied up in the back. To eventually be able to sleep through the night would be great;
this constant vigilance was wearing his energy reserves too thin.

McCann had just turned twenty and had lost his entire family to what he referred to as “the plague.” He had hoped to join a good group of people and now looked forward to settling down and starting over.

After watching the man’s chest rise and fall, McCann backed away. He needed some fresh air after hours of leaning over a stranger and pushing a needle and thread through his skin over and over.

He headed for the front door of the stuffy little house and peered at the truck parked in the driveway.
Maybe there’s a radio or a map in there or something that will show me where he came from.

Out of habit McCann checked his sidearm, which he kept in a holster about his waist and began to walk toward the vehicle. His pistol was one handed down from his great-great-grandfather, who’d made his living as a deputy sheriff down in south Texas in a county named Refugio. There were nicer guns to be had, but he’d learned to shoot with this one, and now the weapon felt a part of him, like his own left hand. He also had a few rifles, but the old Colt .45 served him well. The fine-looking gun had nickel plating and ivory grips, with a five-and-a-half-inch barrel.

The pistol had a twin somewhere in this world; legend had it that the gun was originally one of an identical pair. Sheriff Herd, around the time of Pancho Villa, had given them as gifts to Will Franger and McCann’s ancestor, Elmer. There were wild tales from that time, and to carry the treasure with him on this new adventure seemed fitting.

After checking around him, McCann had already absentmindedly plucked another toothpick from the supply in his pocket and chewed on it while he studied the inside of the man’s truck for any sign or clue as to where he’d had come from. The tracks left in the snow led down the street, but he didn’t think following them now would be a good idea. The need to find his camp and people would have to wait a day or two until he came to, long enough to talk to him at least. In the meantime, McCann would have to fight the boredom and the ever-persistent wolf packs after his horses.

Dalton held Addy by the hand as they stood in line for dinner. After spending the night and most of the next day with Rick’s daughter Bethany, she was ready for some downtime. Bethany, like her father, had a knack for constant conversation.

Addy scanned the crowd continually; she was looking for Clarisse, Dalton thought. The surrogate mom had promised to catch up with Addy at dinner, and he knew the little girl wanted nothing more than to share the rest of the night quietly in their own quarters. As soon as Addy had come into the tent looking for Clarisse, he’d guessed she needed rescuing from her talkative friend. Her face was drawn, and she hugged herself while nodding at Bethany’s constant jabber.

When he asked her if she would eat dinner with him, since she had neglected him lately, she’d immediately agreed and said good-bye to her exuberant friend.

“Are you looking forward to sleeping in your own tent tonight?”

“Yeah, but where is Clarisse?”

“She’ll be here, honey. Don’t worry.”

Just as Dalton began to scan the mess tent again, Clarisse appeared in the doorway. “There she is,” he assured Addy, patting her on the back.

Dalton studied Clarisse as she beamed at the crowd of people lined up for dinner. Her bright smile was unusual. Something was up. The first thing that came to mind was her and Steven embracing in the lab this morning, which he’d been forced to witness on his screen. It had made him instantly jealous, even if he had no right to be. Still, her involvement with Steven didn’t make sense. They were completely different types. She and Steven had always just acted like colleagues. Dalton had never suspected more of a relationship would develop between them.

Steven wasn’t married, but he had often dated before the world went to hell; Dalton and Rick had kidded him about all of his missed chances. Now, after the apocalypse, it was unlikely he would ever find a wife. He’d become Rick’s kids’ Uncle Steven, and lived his life as a bachelor, though when he’d first made his way to the prepper camp, he’d brought along his off-and-on girlfriend, Lydia, an equipment specialist. Unfortunately, what had always been a problem for them before the apocalypse still existed and even became amplified here in camp.

Not surprisingly, Dalton had heard through the grapevine first, then later from Rick, that Steven’s girlfriend had found “true love” a few tents over from Steven’s. She’d gone there—accidentally, on purpose—one night to make him jealous. And that was that, because Steven wasn’t jealous at all. In fact, he was happy for her and now she was stuck with her decision. Steven had never held much hope for the relationship to begin with and was happy to stop pretending love existed between the two of them.

Dalton cleared his throat and told himself that if Clarisse and Steven decided to give a relationship a go, he would be happy for them. Other than Tammy, they were the only singles left at the camp. Even though they were light-years apart in terms of compatibility, their getting together made sense. He just couldn’t make himself feel happy about the relationship.

Dalton kept his gaze on Clarisse as she scanned the room’s occupants, and when she finally caught sight of Addy, her earlier happy grin turned into a full-fledged, beautiful smile. The grandeur of her expression stunned him.
She really does love this child as her own—and God, she’s beautiful.

“Hi, Addy, I’ve missed you all day,” Clarisse said, gathering the girl into her arms to hug her tightly. “Yum,” she said, her face in Addy’s hair, “you smell like crayons and peanut butter, two of my favorite things.” She came close to Dalton, as well, to claim Addy from his grasp, and he drew in a deep breath of Clarisse’s own scent.

He wondered if she’d avoid speaking to him now because of the previous night, but she glanced right up into his eyes and said in a whisper over Addy’s head, “Dalton, we need to talk after dinner. I’ve got some big news to discuss.”

He didn’t want to hear her big news; she was going to confide in him her newfound love for Steven or some such nonsense. He would listen to her, though, even if the idea killed him.

“Okay, I’ll stop by your tent after dinner.”

“That would be perfect,” she said, then turned her full attention back to Addy, who clung to her side with the insecurity of a lonely child.

Clarisse observed the group chatting away with their friends and families. She hoped, more than anything, she would be able to keep them all healthy so they could continue to move forward in this new life they now shared. Later, at the table, Addy went with the other children to retrieve a rare cookie treat.

Clarisse watched as Kim handed Addy a huge peanut butter cookie, an action that appeared staged. Kim smiled down at Addy and smothered the girl with a hug. Addy made the best of the situation, plastering on a smile just to appease her, but was clearly uncomfortable with the woman.

Clarisse wasn’t sure if Kim did this in public to do away with any suspicion she didn’t care for the girl or if in fact she genuinely did care for Addy and this was her way of showing affection. Her efforts didn’t matter either way. What was clear was the child only tolerated the embrace.
Sometimes
, thought Clarisse,
children instinctively use shyness as self-preservation, and for good reason
.

After Addy trotted back with her prize, Clarisse asked, “Are you ready to head back to our quarters?”

“Yes! Can we go now?” Addy begged.

“You bet,” Clarisse answered, knowing the girl had had too much stimulus for one day, and they began to clean up their trays and trash to make a hasty exit.

Dalton watched them get ready to leave and tried to make eye contact with Clarisse when his six-year-old son, Hunter, ran up to Addy to give her his own cookie. He had detected Hunter eyeing the girl often, and even though she was almost a year older than him, the age difference didn’t stop the boy from being sweet on her. His son’s first heartbreak was about to happen right before his eyes because, surely, Addy was done with people for the night and wouldn’t give the boy the time of day. But to Dalton’s surprise, she turned and smiled at him shyly, accepting the offering. Then Hunter turned abruptly and fled straight for the opposite exit. Dalton smiled to himself, knowing what his son was going through.

Confused, Addy asked Clarisse a question Dalton couldn’t hear over the chatter. He could guess, though:
Why did Hunter give me his cookie?
Clarisse shrugged, but her little smile and a twinkle behind her glasses told Dalton she was as aware of Hunter’s crush on Addy as he was. What an ideal mother she was turning out to be for the girl.

~ ~ ~

Later in the evening, Dalton stopped by Clarisse’s quarters as promised. “Knock, knock,” he said outside her door flap, opening the flimsy entry. Clarisse looked surprised, maybe even a bit startled.

“Oh,” she said, a touch breathless. “You’re here already.”

“Am I too early?”

“No, no. Addy’s already down for the night, happy to be back to her familiar routine.”

Dalton felt more than a touch breathless at the sight of Clarisse. She’d obviously showered off the day’s grime. Her hair was still wet from washing but combed in long ringlets. She stood before him in only her battle dress uniform pants and a white tank top. He loved the fact that current conditions finally made wearing makeup senseless but suspected Clarisse had never made use of the stuff anyway, even when cosmetics were in fashion. She certainly never needed anything to enhance her own natural beauty.

Clarisse’s skin smelled like soap and, as if he were on a difficult military mission, Dalton’s brain yelled,
Abort!
He didn’t turn from her, though. He couldn’t; he wanted to keep on looking at her. He forced out the words, “I’m sorry. I can see I’m too early. I can come back in a few minutes.”

Clarisse blushed and turned away from him. “I’ll just, um, find my shirt.” Her BDU top hung over the end of her cot, and he reached out to retrieve it for her. She grabbed it from him and slid a slender arm through one sleeve, then the other. He watched her button the shirt up, her attention focused fully on the chore.

She spoke softly, shoving her feet into her boots. “We can walk around and talk outside, since Addy’s asleep.” She sat on the side of her cot, bending to tie her bootlaces.

Dalton only nodded, continuing to gaze at her until a blush rose from her chest to her neck and cheeks.
Damn!
He stepped back half a pace so she could reach for her army green coat.

“Let me help you,” he said, but his voice came out all wrong again. He reached for her coat and held it out for her like he had done the night before. When she turned around to face him, he again pulled her hood up. With the length of her hair hanging down one side in front, he reached in, brushing the back of his hand alongside her neck, and gently folded the length back inside the hood. “Don’t want you to catch a cold going outside with wet hair in these freezing temperatures.”

She slowly pulled away from the touch he couldn’t bring himself to break, and headed for the tent flap. He followed her out into the cold.

“Well,” she said after looking around and noticing several residents of the camp lingering after dinner, shooting the breeze in the middle of the compound. “I need to talk to you about something that’s happened,” she whispered. She didn’t want others to hear their conversation. They strolled away, the snow-covered gravel crunching under their boots.

“Dalton, I’ve—”

He cut her off with a slicing motion of his hand. He didn’t want to hear her say it. Somehow he knew that if the words came out in her voice, he’d hear them over and over. “Look,” he said. “I know you and Steven see each other, and I’m . . . happy for you. Why you guys getting together is any of my business, I don’t know, but I thought I’d let you off the hook and tell you I already know.”

He was two paces ahead of her before he realized she had stopped in her tracks.

“Dalton?”

He turned back to her. She looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“What you are talking about? I’m not
seeing
anyone. Steven? Ugh! I mean he’s a nice guy, but he’s not for me.”

Dalton berated himself for feeling relieved. Staring at her, stunned, he felt as if his lungs were empty of air.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“I, um, thought you were trying to tell me . . .”

“Why would I tell you anything like that,” she murmured, “even if it was true?” She looked completely bewildered now.

“Okay, obviously I’ve come to the wrong conclusion about this whole discussion. So, why don’t you tell me what this is all about?” His embarrassment shattered his attempt at discretion, and he almost yelled, bringing curious glances their way.

“That’s what I was trying to do, Dalton,” Clarisse answered, quietly cool now, her voice sounding as if it came from between clenched teeth.

He took a deep breath. “Please, go ahead and tell me. I’ve got other things to check on tonight before I head back to my tent.” He was furious with his inability to control his own emotions around her.

“Fine,” she said, facing him with her hands on her hips. “Here goes. I’ve created a viable vaccine for the virus that will produce good, strong antibodies. The inoculations will be ready in two weeks. Steven and I thought keeping the news a secret from the general populace until shortly before administering it would be best. The vaccination will be a series of two shots, two weeks apart.”

He stopped in his tracks this time and looked at her doubtfully. “It works this time?”

“Yes.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, I’m certain, Dalton. I’ve created strong antibodies. This is the first time I’ve replicated the procedure. The results are not an anomaly.”

“Anything else?” He should be more excited, but he had become jaded by so many failed attempts at a cure. He’d resented Clarisse spending so much time and energy on the impossible mission, and now he even resented being proven wrong. He was acting like a lunatic.

“Yes.” Her tone, though she kept it low, was taut. “This vaccine will work for the current strain. However, next year, or even later, we may be dealing with yet another variation, which will make this one ineffective, so it’s not over yet, Dalton.” She took a deep breath. “However, with the drastic decrease in population, our chance of exposure to a different strain is less likely.”

He stared at her, and this time he managed a smile; she deserved that from him. In return, she rewarded him with a brilliant return grin. He patted her on the shoulder, and they both headed back to camp from their short walk.

“Who else knows?” he asked, trying to keep their conversation going.

“Only Steven, and probably Rick. Steven was going to tell him.”

“So, the whole camp, you mean.”
If Rick knew, then so would the rest of the camp in short order.

“Oh, well.” Clarisse tossed her hands up. “When we announce the vaccine, we need to make sure we emphasize the fact the virus will mutate in the future, and this vaccine will not work on that one. Not even the current carriers will likely be immune to the next strain. There’s no way of measuring what will happen in the future. Since our community is now so small, the virus won’t spread nearly as fast, and we may never see another sign of the darn thing. Which makes it important for us to continue to quarantine ourselves from any new people we come across until we’re positive they aren’t carrying anything new.”