Graham's Resolution Trilogy Bundle: Books 1-3 (64 page)

“Hey kid, stay awake. We’re almost there,” Dutch said, patting his cheek.

McCann kept nodding off. His left shoulder hurt like hell with the tiniest of movements and yet he couldn’t stay awake. He tried to take a steady, deep breath through the pain, but it was excruciating. He looked down at Dalton’s unconscious face in his lap and checked his neck for a pulse again.

“He’s still hanging in there, buddy,” Dutch told him.

McCann could see Dalton’s lower lip had turned blue since the last time he’d looked, and he was ghostly pale. “We gotta radio ahead. Clarisse will need time to get things together. He needs blood—now.”

Dutch looked at the boy. “Buddy, we’re going as fast as we can.”

McCann shook his head, lifted Dalton’s hand with his right hand, and showed him Dalton’s fingernails. “See that? See how his nail bed is blue, just like his lips? He’s going into shock. His pulse is weaker, and he’s going to die of heart failure before we even get him there.” McCann leaned back. It was excruciating to even talk or think. Then he had an idea.
He needs adrenaline to constrict his blood vessels. That’ll slow the bleeding. What do we have with adrenaline?

“Do we . . . do we have an EpiPen in that kit?”

“He’s not having an allergic reaction,” Dutch said, looking at McCann as if he’d lost his mind.

“It’s basically adrenaline. It’ll buy him some time,” McCann struggled to say. Dutch rummaged around the kit and finally produced a paper-wrapped stick with
EpiPen
labeled on the side.

“Give me that.” McCann reached for the stick, tore the paper off with his teeth, and bit the cap off. He then plunged the needle into Dalton’s thigh. He reached again for Dalton’s pulse, then leaned backward into the seat, trying to cope with his own pain. He felt the thrumming pulse pick up its cadence.

“It’s better, but it won’t last for long. I’m telling you, we need to call ahead and have her get everything ready.” McCann stared Dutch in the eyes, and then focused on Sam’s gaze in the rearview mirror, looking back at him. “He won’t make it, Sam. He needs every advantage. You either bring him to Clarisse dead or prepare her now to save his life.”

“Do it. Take the risk,” Sam said to Dutch.

“You sure, man? They’ll be monitoring everything for sure now,” Dutch said.

Sam nodded. “Tell her we’re about fifteen minutes out.”

McCann leaned back, satisfied he’d made them listen to reason. His eyelids closed as he heard the chatter of Rick’s voice and succumbed to sleep as Dutch relayed their horrific news.

“No, don’t. I want to do it alone. He was
my
brother,” Rick said as Reuben and Mark approached him at the edge of the forest line, where one large madrone tree stood separate from the others. He watched as their shadows retreated.

It was already dusk, with the remnants of shadow light cast behind him. Rick brushed the sweat from his brow and continued to dig his friend’s grave. Steven lay in a blanket-covered mound to the right of the hole.

Rick caught glimpses of him each time he came up with another shovel load, until finally he knew the opening was deep enough. He stopped and grabbed the end of the shovel handle with both hands and leaned his weight onto it in a sudden surge of horrendous grief. He cried, and tears mixed with the dirt of a loved-one’s grave. “Goddammit, you couldn’t fucking duck?” he yelled at Steven. Great sobs followed. “You shit! I loved you, man!”

It was dark now. All lingering light had vanished and somewhere in his mind, he knew it was crazy to talk to himself and argue with dead Steven, but he did it anyway. He climbed out of the grave and continued ranting as he tugged the blanket-wrapped corpse.

“You just had to go and get yourself killed. Who the hell is going to put up with my shit now? You careless bastard.” He dragged him, head first, over to the hole and jumped back inside. “It’s up to me to bury your ass.” He broke down again.
“Goddamn you!”
Great wracking sobs burst from Rick as he clenched Steven’s body and buried his face in its side.

After the wave of grief passed, he wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I’ll get them, buddy. I promise you, man.” He hefted Steven into the grave and lowered him down to the cool, soft, loamy earth below in the pitch dark of night. He turned on a small flashlight and opened the blanket to look at his friend one last time, with a perfect hole blown through his forehead; Rick turned away briefly and spit dirt out of his mouth. He pulled off the chain of dog tags from around Steven’s neck while bent over in the grave. A line of snot threatened to descend, and he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand and managed to rip one of the metal tags off the ring. Then he crouched down and removed one of Steven’s tags, replacing that one with one of his own. He pulled the dog tags down to Steven’s chest and slipped the metal under his shirt. He put Steven’s on his own chain and patted it down.

“I will never forget you, man,” Rick said before refolding the blanket over his face. Taking in a deep breath as an attempt to swallow the sorrow, Rick’s voice broke as he said, “Shit, this sucks.” Then he climbed out of the hole one last time.

“Good-bye, Steven. You were more a brother to me than anyone. I’ll miss you.” He gasped for another deep breath as he took up the shovel again and spilled the soil in, slowly at first, and then it became a war. He knew he had to bury him and get it over with, or he’d completely lose his mind in grief then and there. Over and over the soil found its place in the hole once again. With the moon high overhead, Rick finally finished and mounded what was left over. He knelt and smoothed out the dirt with his hands, crumbling larger soil clods into tiny particles. He leaned back on his heels with his dirt-crusted hands laid out on his thighs.

“God, please accept my friend here. He can be a total asshole at times, but he’s a good man. I also ask that you help us annihilate these fuckers. In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.” He got to his feet and picked up his shovel. “Rest, buddy,” he said, and in the dark of night, he headed slowly toward the light beckoning from camp.

“McCann, McCann.” Graham patted his cheek and lifted up one of his eyelids. “Son,” he called to him again.

“Give him some more time. He’s dreaming,” someone else said, but the voice trailed away.

It’s true, he dreamed. He dreamed a nightmare, only it was a memory now.

Again, he stood against the wall where Steven had shoved him out of the line of fire. It sounded like a war. A war where someone invited a bear and no one knew which side he was on. McCann found a good-sized rock on the ground near his position against the wall. It filled his palm and the weight of it was perfect. He pulled away from the building and chucked it hard as hell in the direction of the bear, hitting it squarely in the back of the head. The bear pulled up from Dalton, but then another man jumped out and fired in their direction. Steven shoved McCann down to the ground, and when McCann moved he felt only Steven’s dead weight atop him. Steven was dead.

He sat up and turned him over. Steven was caught with his blue eyes open wide, still staring at the horror they found themselves in. He pushed Steven’s lids closed, and anger surged up within him. He charged forward and . . .

“McCann, wake up, buddy,” Graham said again and pushed on his right shoulder. “You’ve got to wake up, son.”

“I’m here,” McCann said with a heavy voice. He couldn’t yet open his eyes. He left the nightmare behind for now and felt Graham trying to lift his head a little.

“Come on buddy, wake up,” Graham demanded again.

“Why?” McCann said. He wasn’t ready to face the world. He didn’t want to dream that dream again, but somehow he thought he might be able to change the outcome if he went back into it.

“Because Clarisse said so, and believe me, it’s better I wake you than if she does,” Graham said.

McCann huffed; it felt like tiny anvils were holding his eyelids down.

“I just can’t open them. I’m tired, man. Come back later,” McCann murmured.

“Here, take a sip.” Graham held a cup of water up to McCann’s lips, and then he was able to finally flutter his eyes open a little sliver. As he sat up he flexed the wrong muscles in his left shoulder and pain shot through him.

“Damn, that hurts,” McCann complained.

“Don’t move your arm; I’ll help,” Graham said. He slid his arm around McCann’s chest and supported his shoulder to pull him up into a sitting position as McCann used his right arm to maneuver his weight upward.

“That hurts like hell,” he said and looked at his shoulder for the first time. It was all bandaged up.

“What the hell happened?” McCann asked.

Graham regarded him while he straightened his covers. “What do you remember?”

McCann shook his head, trying to clear away the grogginess. “I was shot. Dalton was attacked by a bear, and Steven—Steven’s dead because of me.” His voice cracked, and he looked away from Graham.

“That’s not the way Sam and Dutch tell it,” Graham said.

“If I hadn’t . . . if I hadn’t thrown the rock at the bear, Steven wouldn’t have had to push me down. He’d be alive,” McCann said. He couldn’t hold back a sob.

“McCann,” Graham lowered his voice. “Sam said the bear only turned away from Dalton when you used the rock. They shot the damn thing several times without even getting his attention. Dalton would be dead had you not intervened.”

“Dalton made it?” McCann looked up at him with watery eyes.

“Yeah, he did, and it looks like you were right. The epinephrine saved his life, McCann. He nearly bled to death.”

McCann wiped away his tears and took a deep breath. “Okay. I must have passed out after that.” He shook his head, trying to make sense of it all.

“You did. When you guys showed up, we were all ready to do what was needed and we got Dalton into surgery right away. Unfortunately, Macy found you in the backseat with blood all over you. She’s pretty freaked out. She stayed with you until we took you into surgery too, then she disappeared.”

“Shit. Where is she?” McCann said, starting to move.

“It’s okay; I found her in the woods. She’s just scared,” Graham said.

McCann nodded, knowing that he must have been a horrific sight for Macy to see. Then he remembered with urgency why they should all be afraid.

“Wait. How long has it been? How long have I been here?”

“One night. It’s the next day,” Graham told him.

“Have you guys heard anything from the invaders?”

“Not yet. We’re monitoring all communications. We’ve moved everyone here to the prepper camp until we figure out what kind of threat they are. Safety in numbers.”

McCann nodded. “What about the horses?”

“They’re all here. Dutch and I took a truck over last night and packed up almost everything,” Graham said. “You’re good. Bullet went right through. You only needed a minor repair. Clarisse said that after she cleaned out the wound, she packed it with gauze. We’ll need to change that out every day, but it should heal up well on its own. You were lucky.”

“Okay, I need to see Macy. Can you send her to me?”

Graham shook his head. “She won’t come, McCann. I tried already. She needs some time; she thought you were dead.”

McCann got his first good look at Graham, who looked like death warmed over. “Have you even slept, Graham? You look awful.”

“I’ve been right here the whole time since you came out of surgery. I tell you, it would have killed me if you hadn’t made it,” Graham admitted.

“I’m fine, Graham. You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. How’s Rick taking Steven’s death?”

Graham looked out the plastic window of the tent and then down at the ground before he answered. “He buried him last night, by himself. He wouldn’t let anyone help. We’re going to have a ceremony for him later today. You know, I almost feel sorry for those bastards,” Graham said. The vengeful lowered tone of his voice reverberated in McCann’s spine, giving him chills, because Graham rarely showed hatred. He hadn’t thought the man was capable of feeling it, but now he knew differently.

“Scumbags,” McCann said. “And you know there are no words to describe how evil these jihad extremists are . . . what they’ve done.”

“Perhaps that’s it. They’re so low beyond humanity, no name for one of their kind should ever be uttered,” Graham said.

“Well, until we wipe them clean from the earth, we’ll have to refer to them as something. My father called them the Malefic Nation. It means people of harm and destruction.”

“I can’t think of a more fitting definition, for lack of anything better, and yet it’s still not low enough,” Graham said.

McCann slid his legs off the bed. “Can you hand me my pants?”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Graham asked.

McCann flashed a mischievous smile. “I need to clean up and then find Macy. She’s not getting away from me that easily.”

Graham chuckled and handed McCann a set of clothes. “I brought you some clean ones. We had to burn the others. You were soaked in your own blood, Dalton’s blood . . . and the bear’s, I think.”

McCann lifted the sheet and clamped it back down to his side. Then a sudden horror struck him. “Wait. No. Who cleaned me up?”

Graham shrugged. “I don’t know. I assume Clarisse did. She and Lucy did most of the medical work.”

“Awe, man!” McCann said when he looked under his sheet again and realized he was buck naked.