Graham's Resolution Trilogy Bundle: Books 1-3 (60 page)

“Lucy,” Clarisse called to her from outside the shower stalls. “You can change into these scrubs I’m putting on the chair here,” she said.

“Okay, Clarisse, thank you,” Lucy called back through the steam.

Clarisse had been horrified when McCann brought Lucy into camp. At first she was upset to know the shooter was coming in to stay with them, but after McCann explained what he thought the girl’s circumstances were she understood. Lucy was a small, timid thing, and Clarisse’s heart went out to her. Everyone could see for themselves that the girl was trying to cope with some nightmare, that she was clearly in shock from some remembered trauma. She’d have to get over her terror, however, or she’d never survive in this world; and they couldn’t afford her taking a life by accident.

It took a little coaxing, but after Lucy had showered and changed Clarisse was able to get the girl to tell her what had happened to her.

~ ~ ~

She was living near Spokane when the invaders captured her. They nearly killed her when she was asked to translate a few words in Arabic, and she hadn’t a clue what they were.

The hand that had clenched her hard by the back of her hair had pulled her head back to expose her throat to the sharp blade of a knife, which was meant to spill her blood. Another hand blocked the strike at the last second; a man with dark olive skin pulled the other man away. He grabbed handfuls of her striking red hair and pulled her hard against him. In broken English, he asked her if she was a virgin. She cried, knowing she might be saved, if only for a short and torturous time. She shook her head “no,” not wanting to give them the satisfaction of knowing she was.

The olive-skinned man paused for a moment and searched her face as if making a decision. He then shoved her to the ground and made her kneel before him; her hands were still tied behind her back. She had guessed he was about to take her head then and there, but instead he robed her in black from head to toe, even covering her face. Then he tied a rope around her neck and connected her to the back of his vehicle. She was made to follow on foot alongside other weeping prisoners. She suspected they were mostly young girls and their cries were only the beginning of the nightmare to come.

She’d fallen many times while bumping into other prisoners, but she somehow found the strength to stand and move rather than be dragged along the hard road. She could barely see through the slits in the head covering.

After they’d stopped later that night, she was separated from the others. She could barely walk, and they half-dragged her down a hall and brought her to what looked like an empty hotel room. She didn’t know where she was or how far they’d traveled, only that men yelled in strange languages, people screamed for mercy, and she was terrified. The smell of blood was everywhere. These men were animals in their butchery, and Lucy had no idea how long her death might be postponed; she could die at any given moment, and each second seemed like borrowed time.

Finally she was shoved into a bathroom, where she fell against a solid and unforgiving marble sink. The door was locked, and she looked for any means of escape. Finding none, she cried for a time, then eventually pulled herself up off the floor. She tore the head covering off, revealing rope burns around her neck in the mirror. She felt the burns and her tears stung her skin even more. She couldn’t stand to even look at her own reflection knowing her parents would be horrified by what had become of her. She tore herself away from the image and then drank as much cold water as she could from the faucet, cupping her hands under the wet stream again and again; she had no idea when she might be able to drink clean, fresh water again. Lucy wasn’t sure what they expected her to do. Shower? Whatever might happen next, she didn’t want to make it easy for remotely pleasant for the men.

She combed through her long hair with her fingers, braided it tight, and tied it off with a small length of fabric she had torn from the head covering. Then she had an idea as her defiance dared to build; she tore open drawers looking for anything she might defend herself with.

The marble finish left little to pull away and use as a weapon. She tried, unsuccessfully, to pull off part of the doorframe for a wedge of wood to use as a spike. The hairdryer had already been ripped from the wall. She tried kicking at the mirror, in hopes of a glass shard to fight with. She knew she might die, but she wasn’t willing to give up without a fight.

Coming up short, and with her fingers bleeding from the effort of trying to find a weapon, Lucy knew time was up as she heard someone come into the outer room. She sat on the marble floor in near defeat. Looking up in despair, she spied the shower curtain hooks. She barely had enough time to get one of them off before she heard someone opening the door. She bent open the wire, metal beads scattered the flooring, and wove the metal hook through the nape of her hair to conceal it. She hoped she might have a moment to use the makeshift weapon before her death.

The door opened. She’d learned already to not look them in the eye, but to bow to them in a subservient fashion. She would do this to stay alive for the moment.

A hand grabbed her roughly through the open door and shoved her toward the bed. She never got a chance to look at her assailant before he plunged her face down into the mattress.

The man held her with the weight of his body while he ripped the black robing from her with enough force to cut her pale skin. She suffocated under his weight as he held her down and shoved her into the mattress. Her arms flailed helplessly as she clawed to distance herself from the attacker. She screamed and fought against him, trying to crawl forward or away from him. His hands jerked her and held her down with even more force than before, causing her to lose all the breath left in her lungs. With barely enough air to scream, she turned her head to the side. She reached for the nape of her neck, groping for the metal piece—anything to fight with.

She felt his hands on her thighs. At the same time, she spied a pistol next to the bed, barely within reach. With his attention focused on trying to maneuver her legs, she took a chance. To her surprise, she frantically touched the pistol with the tips of her fingers, sliding it close enough to grasp; the cold metal felt heavy in her hands.

The man must have sensed her swift action, because his hands left her body. As she felt his weight shift, she twisted herself at the waist and fumbled while pulling back the hammer. The man barely had time to register the danger before him when she aimed blindly and fired. There was a flash, and then his heavy weight dropped onto her legs. She screamed out, not knowing yet if she’d stopped him. As the air left his lungs, she felt a wetness cover her legs. She held the gun in her hands, trembling, but he didn’t move. She braced her hands into the mattress and climbed to the head of the bed, pulling her legs out from underneath him. Blood covered her. She scrambled as far away from him as possible. Terrified, she watched him and saw no rise of his chest. She heard more screaming, chanting, and more gunfire outside. She looked through the peephole in the door. After someone passed the hotel room door, she scanned the room for something to wear. She ran for the burka, threw it over her body, and covered her head.

Lucy shook, but held the gun as she opened the door a crack and looked up and down the hallway. Through the eye slits she could see that the hall was clear. Amid screams coming from several parts of the hotel, she could also hear a wicked celebration taking place somewhere. With the hallway clear, she took a chance, opening the door and running. A sign read
exit
at the end of the hall. She opened it and scrambled into the cold stairwell, ran down the concrete steps, and flew through the hotel exit.

The cold night air shocked her. As Lucy scanned the parking lot, her eyes followed the sounds of yelling and chanting. In the near distance she could make out the shadowy figures of people gathered around a big bonfire. They were caught up in their reveling and shouting, which increased when some of the figures pointed their rifles in the air and fired. Knowing this momentary distraction might be her only chance, she bolted for the dark forest beyond the parking lot. She continued to run once she’d reached the cover of the trees. She didn’t look back.

~ ~ ~

By the time Lucy had finished telling her story she was hyperventilating on her own sobs. Clarisse clasped her shoulders gently. “Take a slow deep breath, Lucy; you’re safe now. No one will hurt you here. You don’t have to tell me more if you don’t want to, but it might help you to confide in me. No one will blame you for what you did. You had every right. I would have done the same, Lucy . . . I would have done the same.” Clarisse lowered her voice, and even though she didn’t mean for the ill-omened tone, it came out that way. “I would have
slaughtered
him, Lucy.”

Lucy whispered the admission. “I did.” She was flashing back to that moment; Clarisse had seen this before with PTSD patients. Lucy sobbed openly, and Clarisse let her cry.

“There was so . . . much . . . blood. I don’t remember what happened right after that. One minute I was standing there hearing gunfire and yelling; the next thing I knew, I was running through the woods with the black robe and head covering over me, and I ran into Dutch. I thought he was one of them at first, but he pulled me away from them and I went with him; as long as we were leaving there, I was fine. I killed that man,” she said, and Clarisse could see the conflict in Lucy’s green eyes.

“Good! He wasn’t a man, Lucy. No man would ever treat you that way. His kind are less than animals,” Clarisse said, holding her hands. “You survived, Lucy! That’s what’s important.” She embraced the girl; she was proud of her. Lucy had fought back and, unlike too many other women in her situation, she had won. Now she just needed someone to help her understand that what she had done to survive was her right as a human being.

“Lucy, you are stronger than you know. You’re a survivor, and I’ll help you get through this. You’re not alone anymore, my dear.”

Clarisse had one more question for her. She held Lucy at arm’s length, looked her in the eyes, and said, “I have to ask you this; was Dutch a perfect gentleman after he ran into you?”

Lucy laughed and wiped away her tears. “Dutch is like . . . a brother . . . or an uncle to me.” She shook her head. “He’s annoying, but yes, he was a perfect gentleman. He never touched me, but I think he knew what had happened by the way I was dressed and all the blood. He brought me hot water and clothes, but never asked me anything about it. He only wants to go north and start over. I’ll miss him, but he’s a loner . . . or
thinks
he’s a loner; I’m not so sure.”

“I know the type,” Clarisse said.

After that, she examined Lucy and, though two weeks had passed since her escape, her pale, freckled skin was still covered in bruises, cuts, and scabbed-over sores. Had the assault progressed to a rape, Clarisse would have prescribed medication to expel any forming fetus. Lucy was fortunate to have saved herself from that as well; becoming impregnated by her attacker was one more problem Clarisse didn’t want this girl to have to contend with.

After giving her a tetanus shot, she asked, “Lucy, may I take some blood? I’m assuming you’re a carrier, but I’d like to confirm my assumption. The virus is still a danger for anyone new that we meet.”

“Sure,” Lucy said.

When the examination was over, Clarisse tucked Lucy safely into the clean cot next to her where Addy often slept. They’d work on her permanent living arrangement later. Beyond that, it would be a day-by-day process to build her confidence and get her over the feeling of living in a nightmare—as much as was possible in this world.

Unfortunately Clarisse had felt, more than seen, a new and foreboding coming from Dalton earlier; she knew something more terrible was at stake. If she had to guess, it had more to do than just Lucy’s captors, and that brought a chill to every fiber of her being. She knew Dalton and what he was capable of.

“I’m sure he’ll show up tomorrow, Bang,” McCann said as he reached for the boy, still astride the mount.

“He’s never done this before,” Bang said. McCann could hear the sleepiness in his voice.

“Don’t worry, he’ll show up by morning.”

After they put Mosey away for the night, they entered the cabin to find dinner held for them and Graham waiting.

“Didn’t find him?” Graham asked.

“No. Heard a few wolves, but no sign of Sheriff.”

Bang walked headlong into Graham, and he knew it was the boy’s way of needing a hug without actually asking.

“It’s all right, Bang. McCann’s right, he’ll show up in the morning.”

McCann watched as Graham slung the boy over his shoulder and carried him into the bunkroom.
There’s an unbreakable bond between those two
, McCann thought, again realizing how much he admired the man.

McCann was starving after such a long day, and after he’d eaten the stew set out for him he went in search of more leftovers. Usually Tala left a few extra biscuits out, but he was guessing that, with all the excitement today, she hadn’t had the time. As he rummaged for more food, McCann peered inside the oven. Usually it held a hidden morsel or two and, luckily, there was newly dried venison jerky laid out on a cookie sheet.

“Ha!” he whispered in triumph at his discovery. After stealing a chunk, he heard someone behind him clear her throat.
Crap!
He turned to find Macy smirking at him. She was barefoot and in her nightclothes, her blond hair spilling down her neck. He swallowed and drank in the sight of her. After a moment, he cleared his own throat and said, “Hey, I’m starving. I was out looking for your dog, you know.”

“No sign of him?” she asked.

“Not one,” he said and leaned his hip against the counter as he looked at her. He wondered why she lingered there, leaning in the doorway. It wasn’t like her to spend time alone with him without a purpose. In fact, she had always avoided being alone with him. He wondered what might be on her mind, but he’d learned to let her have her time; she’d break the silence on her own after a while—no need to rush her, let her come to him.

Macy stared at the kitchen floor, then finally said, “I can’t sleep without him.” She moved her blue eyes up from McCann’s boots to his own brown eyes, staring back at her.

He broke the eye contact and scratched the back of his neck. He’d never been more jealous of a dog.
Hell, I’d offer to sleep at the end of her bed, but there’s no way in hell I could do that and stay sane.
“Um, what can I do, Macy?”

She stood in silence staring straight at him. There was something behind those eyes. Something he wanted her to reveal to him more than anything, especially if she needed him to listen to her thoughts and feelings.

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. Then she stopped and locked eyes with his.

A silent moment passed. “Come here,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure why he said it. It was more of a test for her, to find out what she was after . . . if she even knew herself. She seemed vulnerable, and this wasn’t Macy—not at all.

She moved one bare foot toward him, then stopped and looked down; the trance was broken as her trusting guard took its place again. She’d come to her senses. He took a deep breath, letting it out, slow and steady, shaming himself. She was gorgeous, and he secretly loved her already, but she was still only sixteen and he was twenty.

She wasn’t ready. He wanted her to come to him when the time was right. For now he would wait until she was at least eighteen. McCann took two long boot steps toward Macy and scooped her off the floor and into his arms. She didn’t resist. He did not try to push away the pleasure in how soft and pliable her thighs felt resting against his arms. He carried Macy into the bunkroom, laid her down on her bed, and covered her up to her chin with her wool blanket. “Go to sleep, Macy,” he whispered. “I’ll sleep in the living room. If Sheriff comes back, I’ll let him in.” His hands were shaking as he caressed her soft cheek with the back of his hand.

McCann strolled back into the living room and collapsed on the couch after pulling off his boots and shirt. He was happy to sleep in the living room.

~ ~ ~

The next thing he knew, someone was pounding on the cabin’s front door, and fresh early dawn seeped through the windows. McCann sat up and grabbed his rifle out of habit on his way to the door. After a quick glance, he sat the rifle down once he saw Dalton standing on the other side, waiting for entry at too early an hour, despite the sun’s rays.

“What’s up? Why so early?” McCann asked, squinting. He had a different relationship with Dalton. He liked the man, but his alliance was with Graham and even though the two men were friends, McCann wanted to preserve a distance from Dalton, not being sure that the man always had Graham’s camp’s best interests at heart. Something told him to keep this distance in the way his father had always taught him to treat a good neighbor:
Treat them kindly, be there if they need you, but don’t go overboard or man tends to take advantage of generosity over time, breaking the best of bonds.

He stood there in his jeans, shirtless, and with a bedhead when, suddenly Sheriff appeared on the porch and squirmed past Dalton’s legs and into the cabin.

“Where the hell have you been?” McCann said to the dog. He wasn’t surprised when Sheriff shot him a sideways look as if saying,
None of your business, jerk
, on his way to the bunkroom to—no doubt—find Macy.

McCann looked up at Dalton with a grim, incredulous shake of his head, and muttering things he hoped Dalton could only guess at.

“You want to talk to Graham?” McCann asked, finally opening the door to let Dalton in. Without waiting for an answer, McCann grabbed his shirt off the couch and went to wake Graham. It wasn’t normal for any of them to sleep past dawn, but the previous day had been a hard one.

McCann playfully growled at Sheriff on the end of Macy’s bed as he passed him on his way to Graham’s room. The door was usually cracked open an inch or two, and McCann pushed it open a little and whispered Graham’s name, only to find him sitting up in the darkened room, putting on his jeans. Graham nodded to him, and McCann closed the door. Still not fully awake, he returned to the kitchen as if on autopilot to start a pot of coffee.

“You guys had a long night?” Dalton asked.

“Yeah,” McCann yawned. “Bang and I were out late—looking for
Sheriff
.” He said it with an emphasis on the dog’s name, hoping to wake him with a little vengeance. “We didn’t find him,” he said as he measured the grounds into the pot.

“I know he took off after the other dogs, and Dutch hasn’t found them either,” Dalton said.

“Yeah, well, Macy had a hard time sleeping last night because she was worried about him. So, you’re here to talk about Dutch’s news?”

“Yeah, you should sit with us, too.” Dalton said.

“I intend to. That girl get looked at?” McCann asked, making conversation while he took out a few coffee cups.

“Yes. Clarisse took care of her. She was at the mess tent for dinner, and I know Clarisse had her bunk with her, so she’s in good hands.”

“That’s great. She looked pretty scared on our way to camp, but I didn’t press her for conversation,” McCann said.

“She’s been through some things, and she actually might be able to give us some information, but I think we’ll wait until Clarisse says she’s ready to talk.”

McCann guessed the minute he saw her that she’d been through some trauma. They’d all been through hell, but this lady had the look of shell shock.

“Good morning,” Graham said from the doorway. “Coffee ready yet?”

“Not quite,” McCann said as Dalton sat down at the table.

“I’m going to try and have a better day today,” Graham said, lightly touching his new stitches. “At the very least, I intend to avoid the wrong end of shotguns for a while.”

“Yeah, you and Rick both,” Dalton said. “Steven picked out pellets for a while. Said Rick whined and milked the wound as an excuse to have more than one beer at noon.”

McCann wanted them to get through this bit of cursory conversation and get down to business. He suspected Dalton was about to drop a bomb, and he wanted him to get to the point, but he remained patient as he tended to the coffee.

“We need to form a small group and go south to scout out where these invaders are,” Dalton began.

“So you believe him,” Graham guessed.

“Yeah, I do. He knows too much and has answers to all the right questions,” Dalton said.

“How many are going?” McCann asked. He wanted to get to the point. He got that they needed to see where they were with their own eyes.

“Four, maybe five. Graham, I’d like you come, but I understand if you don’t want to leave Tala right now, and your injury might slow you down. In that case, I’ll take McCann here—if you’re willing, that is.” Dalton glanced at McCann, who nodded in response. “It’s a scouting mission. We’ll get in, see what we can, and then reassess the danger to us when we get back. We leave in the morning,” Dalton said.

“I want to go, but you’re right, I might slow you guys down,” Graham said. “This concerns us all. He’s certain they’re Islamic terrorists?”

McCann brought three cups of coffee to the table, and Dalton took a sip. “He’s positive, but that’s why we’re going—to make doubly sure.”

“They really did this? They created mass genocide with a virus just so they could have our land?” McCann asked, shaking his head in disbelief that people could actually be so evil.

“What man does in the name of religion—or their perverted interpretation of it—has been going on for centuries, McCann,” Graham tried to explain. “They’re barbaric, and this is their jihad. It’s what they promised.”

“We’re taking Steven and Sam, too. We leave at first light,” Dalton said. He shot down the rest of his coffee and rose from the table.

“Is Dutch going to stick around for a few days?” Graham asked.

“I don’t know. He seemed rather excited to leave,” Dalton said. We’ll see; the guy seems to have his own way of doing things.”

McCann nodded.

“We’ll be by in the morning, kid. Be ready,” Dalton reminded him as he strolled out of the cabin.

“Well,” Graham said as he stared out the window in contemplation. “I’ve never been a violent man, but if this is true, if they are responsible for this, you better believe I will be. That’s what this has taught me: you must fight, or risk losing not only your life and others’ but freedom itself.”

“It’s just hard to wrap your mind around it all,” McCann admitted. “Why? Why would anyone do this?”

“I don’t know, McCann, but they’ve tread on the wrong soil.”