Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (29 page)

As all four are piled into the bed of a pickup they slump back with relief, shivering and huddling together, weeping, clinging to each other. The pickup flashes its brights as a signal, and then bumps down the curb to the street and away to HQ.
 

Bill and I are trudging heavily to the next house when a two-ton truck, painted in brown and green camo, full of National Guardsmen, squeals to a noisy stop. The rear gate slams open, and young, fresh-faced Guardsmen disgorge and spread out. A middle-aged man emerges from the passenger side of the cab, sees Bill and me, and makes a beeline for us.
 

“Lieutenant Brian Markson,” he announces, warily eyeing Utah, who is standing at my side. “National Guard. You boys part of the recovery effort?”

Bill and I exchange glances. No shit, bro. We’re both filthy, obviously exhausted, wearing work gloves and headlamps and face masks—hours ago someone handed us proper surgical face masks, the sort surgeons wear, and I got rid of my bandana. So…what else would we be?
 

Neither of us answers. We’re too damned tired.

The lieutenant doesn’t seem to notice our lack of response, or else he assumes it’s an affirmative. “We’ll take over from here, gentlemen. You looked peaked. Hit the HQ and get some grub, there’s a food station set up.”

Yeah, I know—I helped set it up. Back when it was still broad daylight and it didn’t hurt to be awake.
 

“Which way is it?” I ask. “I’m not from around here, and I’m so tired I can’t remember.”
 

Bill nudges me with an elbow, grunts and gestures—the klieg lights around the HQ are visible from here, a clear beacon.

“Oh. Right.” I try to laugh it off, but nothing’s funny anymore. I try to take a step, but I trip and almost fall.
 

Bill’s massive hand closes around my elbow, and he keeps me upright.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

I get another grunt in reply. Dude is seriously taking taciturn to a whole new level, in that he has literally not spoken a single word in something like six hours. But he’s a workhorse, tireless, and powerful. A good man to have at your side in this kind of situation. Or any, really, except those that might require even a minimal level of verbosity.
 

It’s not far from where we are to the HQ, a mile at most, maybe a mile and a half. But getting there feels like running a marathon, each step requiring concentration and determination, and the distance never seems to get any shorter. Even Bill seems to be dragging, his big, heavy feet plodding even more loudly against the asphalt of the road. We’re almost out of the residential area. Passing between the ruins of two houses, which have already been cleared. Or so we thought.
 

Bill halts abruptly and flings his huge arm against my chest, barring my way. He holds a finger to his lips, cocks his head, listening. I strain to hear. It’s not silent, not by a long shot. The ’dozer groans and beeps in the distance, voices shout, rubble and wreckage crunches and grinds. But I hear it, too. A nearly inaudible mewling sound. A little girl, maybe, buried somewhere.
 

Despite our fatigue, we strain, trying to locate where the sound is coming from.
 

“Hello?” I call out. “We hear you. Where are you?”
 

The mewling gets louder, but there are no words. Just…louder whimpers. My gut sinks. Utah goes into a mad barking frenzy again, the high sharp bark she uses when she’s trying to communicate something. She trots to a pile of wreckage, the ruins of an outbuilding of some kind, a barn or a shed. Tin and wood and old bricks, all jumbled together in a jagged heap. The sound is coming from deep inside the pile. Bill, suddenly energized, attacks the rubble with renewed zeal, tossing bricks and two-by-fours aside like so many handfuls of confetti. Utah is barking like crazy and I go to work beside Bill, and soon we have the top of the heap exposed, the start of a hole. The mewling is louder, now. I angle my headlamp, shine my flashlight down the hole. This was a sizable structure—the heap of rubble is a good twenty or thirty feet across, piled some eight or ten feet high. I’m up on top, peering down. The LED beam slides across a little leg. A scrap of blue fabric. A jelly shoe, the kind little girls have worn for decades.
 

“Hey there, honey,” I call down, trying to sound comforting. Not my strongest suit, being tender and comforting. “I’m coming down, okay?”

A low, coughing moan echoes in response. I tug my face mask into place against the swirling dust and examine the hole. Decent sized pocket created by the way the wreckage fell, just enough space for a little body. I won’t fit, but I’ve got to find a way to get down there. I grip the edges of the opening, a jagged two-by-four, some cinderblocks, a scrap of tin roof, and lower myself down carefully. My feet touch something relatively solid, and I slowly let my weight down, making sure the heap won’t shift or give. I have to crouch, as the space is maybe four feet high and less than three feet across. By a sheer miracle of luck, the tiny space protected this little girl. She’s young. Five? Six? Fine blond hair, matted with blood, pale skin. Blue sundress with white flowers on it. Torn, dirty, bloody. One foot bare, one foot with a pink jelly shoe on. She’s curled up, pinned under a slab of tin roof, the whole weight on her right arm and part of her right leg.
 

She’s facing me. Curled oddly.

I crouch and shuffle closer to her, and brush the hair out of her eyes. Blue eyes, terrified, agonized, weak. Fluttering. Searching me.
 

“Hey, I’m Lock. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?”

“Unnnhhh.” She blinks hard, a tear trickles out. “Stuck….” She’s so weak she can barely get the word out.

“I know. But I’m gonna get you free, okay? You’ll be okay.” I examine her more closely, looking closely at the rubble pinning her. “Can you wiggle your toes and fingers okay?”
 

She moves her fingers, and I watch her toes. No damage to her spine that I can see. I’m worried if I shift the pieces pinning the girl, the whole pile will shift with it. Burying us both, maybe. But she’s fading fast so I have no choice.

I yell up to Bill who’s standing at the opening looking down, helpless. With tacit understanding, I know he will stay there to assist any way he can. Not much for him to do, yet, though. This hole barely accommodates me.

I crouch over the girl, put my back against the tin, widen my stance, angle my toes out, rock back on my heels, spine straight—like I’m going to do a deadlift.
 

PUSH.

The heap on my back groans and grinds. It shifts slightly…but holds. The girl moans in agony as the weight eases off her, and she tries to move, but she’s too weak. She can’t move, and I can’t hold the pile and grab her at the same time. I can’t hold this for long, it’s hundreds of pounds, probably more. I try to reach and stretch, while keeping the load steady on my back. Teeth clenched, I grunt as I manage to snag her sleeve, and get a grip on the fabric. I tug and, at the same time, push up as hard as I can to further reduce the load off her. She seems to understand what I’m trying to do, and using all her strength, she wiggles, scrabbles, crying, her right arm limp and mangled. God, my throat clenches. She’s so little. But she’s moving. Inch by inch.

“That’s it, honey. A little more. Just a few more inches, okay? You can make it.” I’m shaking with the effort of maintaining my stance and supporting the rubble. I hurt like hell.
 

She’s got something clutched to her chest, but I can’t see what it is. It looks like something she’s protecting. I’m close to giving out, but then the girl is finally out far enough. I sink slowly to my knees, letting the load settle. I’m gasping for air, and the sweat is pouring off me in the darkness. But I can’t allow myself to rest for long.
 

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of here.”
 

I scoop her up in my arms, mindful of her injuries. She wiggles in my hold. “Miss Molly!”
 

I glance down to where she’d been lying, and instead of what I expect to see—a doll or stuffed animal or something—there’s a tiny ball of fur, a little calico kitten. Jesus. Cats. Fucking hate cats. But the girl is whining, reaching, and I need to get her out of here.
 

“I’ll get Miss Molly,” I promise the girl. “But I need to get you out of here right now. You need to see a doctor, okay? You’re gonna go see my friend, Mr. Bill, okay?”
 

She nods weakly against my chest, going limp now that she’s assured I’ll rescue her kitten, too. Bill is at the hole opening, reaching down with both hands. He wraps his big paws around the little girl’s waist and lifts her free. I hear and feel his weight sliding slowly down the pile outside. I scoop the kitten in my hands—still warm, thank god. It’s shaking, curled into a tight ball, but she doesn’t fight me, lets me set her outside the hole so I can climb free myself, and then I descend the heap with the kitten tucked under my arm.
 

Bill has the girl in his arms. She’s tinier than belief can credit, especially in Bill’s burly, brawny embrace. She’s blinking, fighting to stay conscious. There’s blood caked on her temple, and I’m worried about a concussion, or worse.
 

“Hey, look who I have.” I lift the kitten in front of the girl’s face. “Miss Molly, safe and sound.”
 

“Molly…” Shit, her voice is so weak. So weak. My gut is twisting. I glance at Bill, whose expression is tight, pinched.
 

“What’s your name, honey? Can you stay awake and tell me?” I nod at Bill, and we move as fast as we dare toward the klieg lights.
 

“T-Tori,” she murmurs.
 

“We’ve got doctors real close, okay? I just need you to keep your eyes open for me. Just stay awake a little longer. Can you do that for me?”

“I’m tired.”
 

“I know. You’ll get to rest soon, I promise. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be just fine.”

“Hurts.” She says this with tears in her eyes. “It hurts lots.”
 

“I know, sweetie. We’ll fix that, too.”
 

Bill is nearly running, now. Long strides across lawns and parking lots, and over parking pylons and between heaps of rubble. I keep pace, and keep a running dialogue with the girl, asking questions, trying to keep her talking but only getting weak, monosyllabic answers. The kitten is curled in the crook of my arm like a tiny, furry football.
 

And then we’re on the main road, Bill, Utah, and me, crossing the street, jogging toward the welter of activity and the glare of lights that is the HQ. There are half a dozen tents, now. Generators clatter with the rumble of diesel motors. Voices shout, orders are called out. It’s controlled pandemonium. There are moans of pain. People in camo, civilians in jeans and T-shirts, nurses in scrubs, doctors in aprons.

Utah peels away from me, finds my truck where it’s parked in the grass, hops up into the bed, curls up, head on her paws, and falls asleep immediately. She’s earned it, that dog has.
 

It takes me less than ten seconds to find Niall in the midst of the madness. Her hair is tied back in a thick braid, but many wisps have escaped to paste against her cheek and temple. She’s still wearing her cut-off jean shorts, the ends frayed into white strings and the orange tank top she’d been wearing when she stumbled into the gas station. At some point she found or was given a pair of white Keds. Once-white Keds, that is. They’re now filthy from the churned-up grass and dirt under foot, and stained reddish-brown. She’s got an apron on, the kind line cooks wear, looped over her neck and tied around her waist. It’s covered in red, layers of shades of red ranging from dark old rust to bright new crimson. Her forearms are stained red, as well. Her hands are clean, but I see she’s pulling a new pair of rubber gloves from her back pocket, snapping them on with expert, experienced speed. She’s bending over a table, speaking in low, quick tones to the paramedic beside her. They’re hovering over an older man with white hair. He’s bleeding from the stomach, and a gash to his thigh.
 

Niall presses a wadded-up bed sheet against the man’s stomach, and the white cloth quickly soaks up the gore and turns red. The paramedic is suturing the man’s thigh wound with unbelievable speed. Niall pulls the sheet away, tosses it to the ground at her feet. The paramedic jabs an ampoule into the patient’s uninjured thigh, quieting his screams of pain. I’d barely registered the screams, honestly. There’s so much noise, so many cries of pain and groans of agony that one more sound didn’t register.

But now it does.

And it’s gut-wrenching.
 

We move through the crowd, dodging people.
 

A paramedic stops us. “Over there. There’s an open table.” He points to the other side of the tent.
 

We get the girl onto the table and lay her down carefully. The paramedic is already at work, shining a penlight into her eyes, examining her head wound, her leg, her arm. He raises a hand without looking away from the girl.
 

“ASSIST!” he shouts, and another man, this one dressed in the camo of a National Guard corpsman, jogs over.

We’re shoved aside, Bill and I, as the medics go to work.

Neither of us seems inclined to move away. We just watch as the two men converse while dressing wounds, spitting medical terminology and orders at each other, working in practiced concert. Someone appears beside the table with an IV line and a bag of clear fluid. The corpsman inserts the needle in Tori’s left arm, tapes it in place, holds the bag up, but seems to need both hands, looking around for someone to take the bag. I step in, take the bag, hold it up, and the corpsman goes back to working on Tori’s right leg.
 

“She’s lost too much blood,” the paramedic says.
 

I want to argue, but don’t.
 

I just hold the bag and meet Tori’s glazed gaze. “Tori, honey. How old is Miss Molly?”