Year One (16 page)

“It ain't so good when you're the one it went through. Coming out makes a bigger hole. Pretty sure.”

“We'll take care of it. Max.”

“I'm looking. They're not following, so I'm looking.”

She took a breath, looked into Eddie's eyes again. “I think I can help, help slow the bleeding. I've never done anything like this before.”

“Me, either.” He gripped her hand. “Probably going to hurt.”

“I don't know.”

“Let's find out.” He closed his eyes.

She didn't know what stirred in her, but it reached up and out, it quivered to help. She kept one hand gripping his, the other pressed on the exit wound. Let it flow out.

It hurt. She heard the pain, felt it, saw it black and pulsing. She opened herself to whatever rose and stirred and flowed—white and cool against the black and hot.

“Stop.” Eddie gripped her arm now, squeezed, shook. “Stop!”

She shivered back. Whatever flowed and stirred in her stilled.

“Stop,” he said again. “You look as bad as I feel. It's better. Whatever you did there, it's better. I don't feel so shaky, and it hurts—Christ knows—but it's not as bad.”

“Let me try to—”

“Lana.” Max spoke quietly, but firmly. “You can't push too hard, too fast. You need to re-gather.” He slowed the car. “There's a house—not much of one. It looks deserted. We'll try it.”

He turned in slowly, sat, waited.

“I'm going to go check it out. Lana, you come and get behind the wheel. If there's trouble, you go. I'll find you.” He turned to look at her. “I'll find you.”

She nodded, but when he got out, walked down to the house, she stayed where she was.

“No way we're leaving him,” Eddie said.

“No, we're not leaving him.”

“So, ah, hey. You guys like gods or something?”

“No.” Gently, she brushed his hair back from his face. “Witches.”

“Witches? Huh.”

Max jogged back. “Nobody here. Doesn't look like anybody's been here for a couple of weeks. It's a dump, but it'll do.”

He drove around the back, through the snow until he felt certain the car wouldn't be seen from the road.

He helped Eddie out and, when his legs buckled, picked him up
and carried him inside. Lana's first thought was the kitchen was a small nightmare of filth, garbage, bugs, and mouse droppings.

They'd deal with it.

The living room wasn't any better, nor was the bedroom Max turned into.

“Wait, don't lay him down on that. We have to keep the wound clean.” She stripped off the ratty blanket, the stained sheets. “Just wait.”

She dashed back out, dug out the sheets she'd packed, the towels. Inside, she yanked the sheets over the mattress, spread one of the towels over the bottom sheet.

“We have to get his coat and his shirt off.”

“Help him stand,” Max told her.

Between the three of them, they got him stripped down.

“Okay.” She pressed a folded washcloth to the exit wound as Max laid Eddie down. “The bleeding's nearly stopped, so that's good. Maybe there's some antiseptic or alcohol. We make sure the wounds are clean. I think they need to be closed, but I don't have enough, Max. I don't have enough to do that. I can't find that in me.”

“We'll sew him up. I'll find something.”

“Oh, man” was all Eddie could manage.

“You'll get through it.” Lana spoke briskly as she walked across a narrow hall into a disgusting bathroom. She ignored the smell, the stains—more to deal with later—and pried open the rusted medicine cabinet.

“Alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, a roll of bandages. No tape. No soap in here. The way this place looks, there may not be any anywhere in here.”

“Scissors, needles, thread,” Max called out. “Somebody sewed. A lot of scraps of material if we need them. I'll find soap.”

“I brought some if you can't. In the suitcase.”

They hunted for what they needed. Max scrubbed off a tray to set it all on. Lana washed her hands until they felt raw.

On the bed, Eddie lay quiet, the dog pressed to his side. His face shined, pale and clammy, but stayed cool to the touch. No infection, Lana thought. At least not yet.

She knew she hurt him, cleaning the wound and using the alcohol liberally until she felt, just felt, it held clean. Then she looked at the needle and thread, steeled herself.

“I've got this part.” Max touched her shoulder. “I've got this. We could all use some food when this is done.”

“I can't cook in that kitchen until it's clean and sanitized.”

“I'll do this, you start on that.”

“All right. Hang in, Eddie.”

He managed a wan smile for her, which faded when she left. “Any way we could skip this part?”

“I don't think so.”

“Figured. Don't suppose you've got a joint on you.”

“Sorry. But I'm going to put you into a trance. You may feel some, but if it works, it should be like you're floating above it.”

“You can do that?”

“I think so. It'll go faster if you trust me.”

“Dude, can't deny I'd rather have the joint, but if I don't trust you by now, my ma raised a complete asshole. Don't insult my ma.”

“Okay. Look at me. Just look at me.”

Within an hour, Max walked back to the kitchen. She'd hauled out garbage, he noted, washed up the counters, the stove top, the floor. The refrigerator door, propped open, revealed a clean if battered interior.

And she stood, hair bundled up, wearing thick, yellow rubber gloves that nearly reached her elbows as she dumped dirty water into the sink.

Love, the strong grip of it, steadied him.

“How is he?”

“Sleeping. He's going to be fine—a lot of that's thanks to you.”

Gloves and all, she all but melted into his arms. “I thought he was dead. When I saw the bullet hit him, I thought he was dead. We barely know him, but … he's part of us now. He's ours now.”

“He's ours. You could use some rest. I'll finish cleaning in here.”

“You can finish cleaning,” she agreed with alacrity and stripped off the gloves. “There was a dead mouse, still in the trap, under the sink.”

“I'll take care of it.”

“I had to. The smell…” She shuddered. “I tossed it outside, trap and all. So you can finish cleaning. I've sanitized an area and the stove—I used bleach—so I can start cooking. I've got the makings, with what we found in that car, for some soup, pretty hearty soup.”

“I thought I loved you before we left New York.”

“Thought?”

“I thought I loved you as much as a man could love, but I was wrong. Every hour, Lana, there's more.”

“I feel it.” She pressed to him again. “From you and for you. I think it's part of what keeps building inside me. It's love, Max.”

She laid her hands on his face, let herself fall into the kiss, into the love.

“I'm scared,” she told him. “So scared, and yet there's this part of me, inside me, opening and stretching, and it's not … it's not afraid.”

“We'll find our place.”

“Anywhere we're together. Well.” She drew back, smiled at him. “Maybe not here. Will you do something for me?”

“There's nothing you could ask I wouldn't do for you.”

“I should've thought of something harder, but could you go get our last bottle of wine? I could use a glass.”

Later, with her soup simmering, and the kitchen as well as the
bathroom cleaned to her specifications, Max dragged the garbage she'd heaved out the back door toward a small shed.

No point in having her walk outside, possibly see a rat or mouse or some other creature gnawing at the trash. If they needed to stay for another day, to give Eddie more recovery time, she'd likely insist on cleaning the rest of the damn dump.

He couldn't blame her.

The door of the shed squealed on bad hinges.

Max found the owner of the house.

He'd been dead at least a couple of weeks, and the vermin had found him.

No need to tell her, no need for her to see. Though he felt a pang, he heaved in the garbage, shut the door. Laying his hand on the door, he offered a blessing and a thanks for the shelter.

“Max!”

He latched the shed, turned, and smiled, as he'd heard pleasure and not alarm in her voice.

“Eddie's awake. And he's hungry! No fever, no infection.”

“I'll be right there.”

He offered up more thanks. They'd leave in the morning, and drive the rest of the way to where Eric waited.

They'd find their place, he thought again.

They'd make one.

 

SURVIVAL

Friends who set forth at our side,

Falter, are lost in the storm.

We, we only, are left!

—Matthew Arnold

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Jonah Vorhies worked nearly around the clock, using the predawn hours to slip onto the Marine Basin Marina and onto his dead partner's boat.

It made him a little sick to break into what had been Patti's, to see pieces of her scattered around the old cruiser she'd loved. But it gave him hope, and it gave him purpose.

He stowed extra blankets, medical supplies, food.

He planned for a short, direct trip across the Narrows and up the Hudson, but prepared for complications. On board he would have newborns and a woman who'd just given birth to twins. A doctor, too.

Rachel.

She, too, had given him hope when he'd believed all hope was lost. She hadn't hesitated to do all she could to ensure the health and safety of Katie and her babies.

He wondered if those new lives in the middle of so much death had also given Rachel hope and purpose.

Had made her willing, as he was, to take risks.

They'd be taking newborns, barely two days old, across a river in the dead of winter. Out of New York and the increasing violence, away from potential detainment.

But to what? None of them could be sure.

Still, when he walked through the hospital for what he knew would be the last time, he understood they had no choice.

He could see death, his curse, in so many he passed. And there were fewer staff, fewer patients than even the day before.

More of them in the morgue.

But when he stepped into Katie's room, and she looked at him with absolute trust, he knew he'd get them to safety.

Whatever the cost.

“Rachel?”

“She went to try to scavenge more supplies.”

Dressed in clothes he'd brought her, with the bag he'd packed at her feet, she stood. “Jonah, there's only one baby left in the nursery. Her mother—she was getting an emergency C-section when you delivered the twins—she died. And the nurse … she's sick. But the baby's healthy. Rachel examined her. It's been two days. She'd probably show symptoms by now if she had the virus.”

“You want to take her.”

“She doesn't have anyone.”

“Okay.”

Katie closed her eyes, opened them as a tear spilled. “Rachel said you'd say that. She's getting some supplements, but I can nurse her. I have plenty of milk.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Her mother's name was Hannah. I think she should be Hannah.”

“Pretty.” He smiled, ignoring the fear of now having three infants to save. “How are these two?”

He moved to the rolling crib where the swaddled twins slept.

“I just fed them about a half hour ago. Rachel said they're really healthy—as healthy as full-termers.”

“Let's get them bundled up. You, too.”

Jonah worked Duncan's arms into the gift-shop sweater while Katie dressed Antonia. The baby's skin, so pink and white against his fingers, seemed impossibly soft. He'd rarely worked on infants as a paramedic, but he had the training and re-swaddled Duncan in one of the blankets he'd gotten from Katie's apartment.

When he heard Rachel's footsteps—he knew her stride—the knots in his stomach released. She came in, a med bag over one arm, an infant in the other.

“Room for one more?”

“Sure. Get your coats. I've got the big guy.”

He picked up Katie's bag and took the med bag as Rachel got her own bag out of the closet.

“There's some trouble out on the streets, but it's not as bad as it's been. It won't take long to get to the marina. We're going straight out, straight into the ambulance. Both of you and the babies in the back.”

“We went on emergency power twice today,” Rachel told him. “I don't know how much longer that's going to hold. And since that news report, there's barely any staff. I never asked you where we're going. I think I never actually believed we'd have to get out by boat.”

“Only way. Even if we could get over a bridge to Manhattan—and they're blocked—we'd have to get over another to New Jersey. Patti kept her boat year-round in the Marine Basin Marina. Lived on it since her divorce, about eight years ago. Said it was cheaper than an apartment. And she loved it.”

“I went to school with a girl who lived on a houseboat.” Katie swayed with Antonia. “I went to a party on it once.”

“Straight out,” Jonah reminded them when they got to the main floor. “Straight out, straight in. A couple of those baby slings back there, best I could find. Didn't know we'd have Hannah the Hitchhiker.”

No one stopped them. Once outside, the night was eerily quiet. Katie told herself the sounds she heard in the distance were backfires, not gunfire. Backfires.

“Get two of them in slings and hold on to the third.” Jonah opened the rear doors. “I'm going to drive fast, and I may have to maneuver.”

“We'll be fine. Need help, Katie?” Rachel asked.

“No, I've got it.”

Once Katie had the sling on, the baby in it, Jonah passed her Duncan.

“Won't take long,” he said again, then closed the doors.

He got behind the wheel, touched a hand to the gun he'd strapped to his hip.

Whatever it took.

One of the babies woke and let out some fussy cries as he pulled out, but the movement soothed it, Jonah supposed. He drove fast, avoiding the expressway. He'd done a couple of test runs, and there was no getting through on major roads.

He slowed for turns when he could, but he knew the sounds he heard for what they were. He wouldn't risk having a bullet hit the ambulance or one of his passengers.

He heard the sirens, saw the flashing lights barreling toward him, and his heart thudded. But it passed at ridiculous speed, nearly sideswiping the ambulance.

Not cops, he'd seen that. Just as he'd seen, in his mind, the wreck,
the blood, the broken bones seconds before the driver lost control and flipped going around a turn.

He didn't stop. He had purpose. Only one purpose.

He swerved when a man ran into the street, tried to grab the side door. And saw death, terrible death, before an enormous wolf leaped out, clamped gleaming teeth on the man's throat. The single high-pitched scream snapped off like a light.

“Jonah.”

“We can't stop.” He flicked a glance back at Rachel. “We're nearly there.”

The ambulance squealed into the marina, bumped along beside the dock. “I moved the boat earlier tonight. A lot of them are gone, some of them are wrecked. Same deal here. Get out, straight to the boat, straight down to the cabin. It's warmer.”

Safer, he hoped.

He hit the brakes, shoved out to rush back to open the doors. He snagged bags, grabbed Duncan.

“Fast!”

He led the way through the near dark.

“There. White cabin cruiser, red lettering:
Patti's Pride
.”

He tossed bags onto the boat, then picked up Katie, got her over the side. “Take Duncan, go straight down.”

“I'll deal with the lines,” Rachel said before he could grab her. “My father had a boat—it'll be faster.”

He nodded, pulled the baby out of the sling—he'd forgotten which was which—and got on board.

“Cast off, cast off.”

Rachel unhooked the bow, jogged back to the stern. She heard footsteps running toward her, a quick cackle of laughter. She whirled, prepared to fight. But there was Jonah, an infant in one arm, a gun in his other hand.

“Back off.”

The man, his hair blowing in the wind under a pirate hat, grinned. “Avast! Just want a taste.”

“Touch her, and you'll find out what a .32 slug tastes like in your throat. Rachel.”

Quickly, she unhooked the line, boosted herself on board. She took the baby, spoke calmly. “I'll pull us out.”

She hurried to the wheel while Jonah stood, watching the man make feints toward the boat, do a jig.

“You don't need two wenches! Share the spoils, laddie! Share the spoils.”

As the boat pulled away, he feinted again, lost his balance, and tumbled off the dock. He surfaced, cackling and trying to paddle after them.

Jonah saw death in the man, but not by drowning. He turned away, went to Rachel.

“Take the baby down.”

“Do you know how to steer a boat, and in water this rough?”

“I've been out on it plenty. Patti let me drive it a couple times.”

Rachel kept her legs braced against the pitch of the boat. “Give Katie the baby. I've got the wheel, you navigate. Keep the gun handy.”

He couldn't argue, not with the way she handled the boat. “We're going across the Narrows, around the west tip, and up the Hudson.”

“All right.” As the boat pitched, she held steady. “To where?”

“Not sure yet. Let's say as far as we need to. I fueled it up, so as far as we need to.”

He went down to the cabin where Katie sat on Patti's narrow daybed, cradling two infants. He laid the third beside her.

“You've got three babies to tend to. I'm going up with Rachel, but if you need help, call out.”

“We'll be fine.”

Under his feet, the boat rocked. “Remember the ambulance ride? This may be like that.”

“We'll be fine,” she repeated.

He went back up, stood beside Rachel.

“Are they patrolling the rivers?” she asked him.

“I don't know for sure. I don't know why they would at this point, but the world's fucked-up crazy.” Icy fingers of wind slapped at his face, roughened the black water. “There might be more like that idiot back there, but in boats. We're going to want to avoid everyone, and we're going to need to push for speed if we can't avoid.”

Because he didn't like the feel of it in his hand, he put the gun back on his hip.

“I know the marina at Hoboken. My father,” she reminded him. “He kept a boat there for a few years.”

“Okay, Hoboken.”

“We can't outrun a patrol boat in this. If … I might be able to pull off somewhere, get Katie and the babies off.”

He laid a hand over hers. “It's Hoboken. Eyes on the prize.”

*   *   *

In Hoboken, Chuck packed up all the equipment he thought he could carry. He hated leaving anything behind, but had always known this day would come.

Not along with an apocalypse, but eventually.

He'd planned what would fit, but had to adjust that now, as they had Fred along.

She was totally cute.

Not the reason he'd agreed to take her along, but it didn't hurt.

He'd given what he thought of as
his ladies
time to rest. Arlys had conked out for a full twelve hours, and totally cute Red
Fred had gone lights-out—after a couple of beers—for about the same.

Hardly a wonder, if their experience in the tunnels had been even half as fricking
harrowing
as Fred described.

And he believed every word. Why wouldn't he when he'd been eavesdropping on chatter from freaked-out civilians and freaked-out military.

Plus, he'd seen some serious shit going down on the monitor from hacking into street cams.

Serious crazy-time shit.

So, since he hadn't heard anything to make him think the military—and they were pretty much running the show right now—had ID'd him or his location, he got some sleep himself.

Seemed like the time to bank it.

He'd given them all another day to chill, to pack up, and for him to keep his ear to the cyber air.

But the time had come to say good-bye to his Batcave and some pretty awesome toys.

Arlys came out of the bedroom dressed, her hair pulled back in a tail. She was really hot, Chuck thought, but she sort of felt like his sister at this point.

He couldn't even fantasize about banging her without feeling, well, the ick.

“Fred's nearly ready, too. I could help you with all this, Chuck.”

“Rather not have anybody else messing with my stuff. Just about done anyhow. We're all going to load it in our transpo. I've got to go get that. You guys could pack up some food, what's left of the beer.”

“We'll take care of it.”

“Great. I'll go get our ride.”

“Chuck, we don't know how bad it is out there. I should go with you.”

“Not to worry. I've got my way.” With a tap of his finger to his temple, he saluted. “Back in ten.”

“At least take one of the guns.”

“Nah.” He just winked and walked out.

After pressing her fingers to her eyes, Arlys dropped her hands. He'd made it this far, she thought. She'd just have to hope he kept on making it.

At least he stocked decent coffee, so she'd have one more hit before they left the odd and expansive basement. The safety of it. Safe, she thought, like a bomb shelter while the world blew itself to pieces outside the walls.

“Want one?” she asked Fred when she came out, red hair fresh and bouncy, makeup perfect.

“Chuck still has Cokes. Where is he?”

“He went to get the car. We need to pack up some food.”

“Okay.” Fred pulled out a box of Ring Dings.

“I was thinking more of basics.”

“What's the point if you don't eat the fun while you can?” She grabbed a Coke, swigging as she packed a box. “Is he taking all that?”

“Appears to be.”

“I hope he has a big car so we're not all smooshed.”

“I hope he has a car that can get us out of here.”

“Don't worry so much. We got here, right? We'll get there, too.”

“I'm feeling edgy, therefore bitchy.” Arlys grabbed some cans, wondered if anyone over the age of twelve actually ate alphabet soup besides Chuck—then reminded herself to be grateful for it.

“You're worried about Jim and everybody. I'm going to believe they got out, because we don't know they didn't. There's still good in the world, Arlys. I can feel the good just like I can feel the bad.”