The McClane Apocalypse: Book Two (14 page)

“Carry it over your shoulder like this,” he shows her as he uses the rifle’s synthetic sling to fit over his shoulder and rest on his back. She does the same. “If it gets too heavy, then let me know and I’ll carry it for you. Put your goggles down again.”

“Ok,” she answers and follows his instructions.

“Come on,” he says softly and takes her by the hand. When she doesn’t pull away, John feels like a Roman conqueror. They hike back up the trail, and he’s thankful he has a firm hold on her hand because the incline is steep, and she slips twice. John’s glad that she runs every day and stays in such good shape. If it wasn’t for that, she’d be in a heck of a lot of trouble on this trip. “If you have to talk to me now, try to tap my arm first and we’ll whisper from here on out until I can tell how safe we are.”

“Ok,” she replies with downcast eyes and pulls her hand free.

They climb down the other side of the crest until they are almost out of the dense forest. John tugs gently on her elbow and gets her to squat with him behind a massive, old elm tree.

He scans the area with the night vision binoculars he’s brought that hang around his neck but doesn’t see much. There aren’t any fires built anywhere that he sees, no lamp light, no lights on in any of the buildings, the generators having long since failed. If there are people still left in this fairly large city, then he’s not getting a visual on them.

Suddenly he catches a quick, furtive movement near a department store building’s opening and the silvery light of two flashlights. It looks to be a grocery store of some kind, and there are four men moving together as they disappear into it. A few minutes later, he catches movement again in another part of the city in front of a tall office building. It appears to be a family of one man, woman and two small children, and they only have what looks like a small lantern for light. They sprint around the side of the building and into an alley where they also vanish. This continues on for a while, this movement and hiding that people are doing in the dark like slinking rats in an alleyway. None of them appear to be too heavily armed, though, which is a comforting sign. None of them carry rifles or shotguns, but they could have a sidearm like Reagan and him. One guy looks to be sporting a baseball bat and another has a stick that could be a piece of steel or a crowbar. A stick or a piece of metal won’t stop a .223 round, but he’s still not going out in the open for a confrontation with Reagan at his side.

John knows from the map that Doc and Reagan have drawn out for him that he needs to go about four blocks west to get to the hospital for the medical supplies they need, if there is still a hospital left to loot. Many of the homes near the outskirts of the town appear abandoned, some are burned down, some still smolder. A few of the buildings, the smaller ones, are also burned out. Windows also don’t appear to be a popular aesthetic in the new world because there doesn’t seem to be a single building in this town that doesn’t have at least one window busted out. Many of the buildings also wear new tattoos in the form of graffiti. Neither the art, nor the messages are worth discussing. This just reminds him of the time immediately following the fall when he and Kelly and then Derek were sent into the fray. All of the bigger cities on the way to the farm that they had gone through looked like this: abandoned, pitch dark, desolate... deconstructed.

“We’ll go in when the sun comes up in a little bit, but let’s move closer to that hospital so we don’t have so far to walk. I want to find somewhere safer to leave the horses, too,” he whispers, and Reagan nods in accord.

A half an hour later, the horses secured in a small copse of trees near a grassy field that leads to the back of the hospital, John and Reagan go into the city. They leave behind John’s pack, and he takes hers which holds water for them, a few simple medical supplies and some protein bars. They also ditch the night vision gear and stow it safely in the saddle bags. They are about a hundred and fifty yards from the back wall of the hospital, far enough away that should the horses make any noise they won’t be heard and discovered and possibly stolen.

There is a large, wide hole cut or likely rammed from a vehicle in the chain link fence that surrounds the back of the hospital. It’s plenty big enough for them to slip through.

“Be careful,” John whispers to her and watches behind them before he goes further.

They make use of the opening in the fencing and climb through, mindful not to hook their rifles or gear on the links. They stay low, the sun coming up at their backs, as they make their way to one of the many rear entrances to the large, seven story brick and glass building. There’s an overturned ambulance in the side parking lot and many abandoned vehicles, probably from the staff or in-patient residents who never got out. Some of the hoods are up, and most have their fuel doors standing open, leading John to believe that the gas and parts have been stolen from them. A few even have broken windows and graffiti spray-painted on the sides. When they get to the rear garage door that stands wide open, John signals for Reagan to stay behind him to which she readily agrees. They move through the service area of the hospital, and they could be moving through the catacombs of an Egyptian pyramid for all the silence there is.

There are multiple security checkpoints with only one containing a guard, but he’s long since dead. A cafeteria, which was for preparing food for the patients and also which has obviously been raided, is situated off to their right; the door to the cooler even hangs open. There are two dead employees still lying in the kitchen area, but the smell is not as bad as would be expected because they have been dead for many months. John’s sure that these won’t be the only dead bodies that they encounter in this hospital-turned-morgue. He signals for her to stay behind him and stay close, and she nods in agreement.

They take the service tunnel to the medical supply area of the hospital where Reagan and Doc have said they may find meds still left in departments where other people would not know to look. There are two more dead people in the tunnel, one appears to be a doctor of Indian descent and the other is a nurse with a short, pink and red pixie hair style. Both were shot point blank to the chest. Reagan shows no sign of revulsion or fear or disgust, and she doesn’t try to scream or throw up in the corner like he’d expect most twenty-two year old women to do in such a situation. Of course, she had probably dissected dead people, and she’d been through a hell of lot so far just to stay alive in this crap world.

A sign at the end of the tunnel pointing left reads: “MAIN LOBBY” and pointing right reads: “MEDICAL OFFICES.” They head right for the offices area.

The first room they come to has a desk, computer, library wall full of books and one small window. There is a doctor behind the desk, and he’s apparently killed himself or been shot in the head by someone while sitting at his desk. Likely the first scenario played out here. As he closes the distance, he can see the discarded .38 revolver lying on the hardwood floor beside his desk. John and Kelly had seen plenty of this when it all came apart. Not everyone could deal with what the new world was going to be and felt like this was the more viable option for them. He slides the pistol with the toe of his boot under the man’s desk and out of eyesight. If the situation was different, he’d take the pistol to further increase their stockpile at the farm. But now it just seems to carry on it the stench of bad luck and death.

The next two offices are empty and look much the same: disorder, messy, papers and books on the floors, printers and computers either smashed or knocked onto the floor. They search other rooms on the same floor, but they mostly hold storage boxes full of papers and documents that they have no use for.

When they come to the end of the hall, Reagan tugs his sleeve. She points at the door and then up as if to say “let’s go up a floor.” John nods as they go up into the empty stairwell, but not before he listens for a moment. From somewhere high above, there is a window that rains a very small amount of light down into the shaft or they would be in total darkness. He’s almost regretting leaving behind the night vision goggles they’d brought with the horses. He holds his M16 out in front of him as they slink up the stairs. A noise a few flights above gives off a metallic ping and echoes down to them. A creaking hinge sounds from somewhere a floor below them where, according to the plastic sign and arrow on the wall, an underground parking deck resides. He’s not sure if it is a possible, potential danger, but it’s eerie as all get out. John has been to many remote, uninhabited destinations all over the world, but this abandoned hospital is likely one of the most terrifying places he’s ever been.

They come to a door that will give them access to the second floor. It won’t open, though, and John has a sickening feeling that these doors lock automatically when they are closed. He’s worried they might be stuck in the stairwell. He gives it a hard shove, and it finally swings inward. The door says “SERVICE PERSONNEL ONLY” on the sign, but they pass through it anyway, foregoing protocol or the appropriate badges. On the other side of it John can see what was wrong. A dead woman is lying against it, and he’d literally had to shove the door against her dead body to get it to open. She appears to have been some sort of office worker or administrative employee of the hospital as she is dressed in a navy pant suit. There is a gaping wound in the back of her skull and a clipboard full of papers a few feet from her prone body.

It’s sickening to John who had fought so hard for America and her freedom that Americans would do this to each other. These hospital employees had likely stayed on after the country had fallen apart and were only trying to help people. To be overrun and murdered by their own countrymen is a devastating truth that he doesn’t like to think about.

Once they are in the hall of the new floor, which also proves abandoned and empty, Reagan indicates right, and they go in her chosen direction. This looks to be more of a teaching facility because there are surgical suites with viewing areas. There are also more dead people. A noise startles John, and he swings the M16 toward it to the left. It proves only to be a small rat scuttling along the baseboard. Reagan sighs audibly behind him and tugs his sleeve again. She points to the next room which says Dr. Johnston, Anesthesiologist on the door. John nods and goes in first. It’s the only door that they have come across that has actually been shut, but no one is in this room, either. He closes the door behind them and locks it.

“What are we lookin’ for, boss?” he asks in a hushed tone so that he can help her find it more quickly.

“He’s an anesthesiologist, or was, so he should have a med bag or fridge or shelving full of supplies in here for emergencies or a safe with meds in it. He’s a teaching doctor, and this was a teaching hospital, so Grandpa said that they were allowed to keep supplies like that in their suites instead of ordering them up from the pharmacy. A lot of hospitals changed how they handled drugs after that big pharmacy scandal happened like ten years or so ago,” she says quietly.

“Got it,” John replies and helps her look.

He has no idea what she’s talking about, though, because ten years ago he’d been in Iraq. They search his desk, the bookshelves, cabinets and everywhere else they can think and come up with nothing.

“Damn it! There has to be something,” she complains and shakes her head in frustration.

“Then we’ve missed something or maybe he took it all with him,” he tells her and continues their search.

“No way. It would be a ton of pharmaceuticals. It’s not like he’d just be able to clean it all out and toss it in his briefcase. He’s an anesthesiologist, so he’d have a lot of vials of medicine for doping people and putting them under, that kind of thing. There’s no way he’d take it with him. Maybe he’d take a little bit for his family or something, but we should be talking like a whole pharmacy’s worth of medicine,” she explains.

It’s after another moment of investigating that John locates a very small catch in the paneled wall off to the right of the built-in bookshelves. When he pushes it, the door springs in and then swings back toward him, opening into another room. “Found it.”

Reagan’s at his side and they go in together, John first. Nobody is in this room, either, but there are a boat load of supplies for the taking. There are no windows in this room, so it’s on the dark side. The double set of windows in the doctor’s office shines a narrow ray of light in, but it’s still fairly dim. The entire shelving system full of medicines is enclosed in a cage of white, painted steel bars only big enough to poke a single finger through, and they are locked.

“That’s not very convenient,” he remarks lightly, but Reagan’s lovely face is contorted with distress.

“Crap! Now what? It’s not like we have a blow torch,” she laments. He just chuckles once at her.

John fishes in his cargo pocket for his flashlight and flicks it on. Next he takes out his lock picking kit, and within ten seconds has both cage locks disengaged. He replaces the small metal kit to his pack on his shoulder and holds the flashlight for her.

“Care to explain that?” she asks before she takes a step forward.

He returns her stare with a shake of his head and a chuff.

“Hey! The back of that tin is stamped U.S. Army if that tells you anything. Sometimes we had to “let ourselves in” to places that we weren’t exactly invited into,” he air quotes to which she narrows her eyes judiciously.

“Interesting,” she says on a frown and a nod.

He holds his flashlight more closely for her so that she can read the bottles she begins pulling from the shelves. John grabs a plastic bag with the hospital’s name on it and jams it full of the pill bottles and tiny vials of liquid that she hands him. All in all she gives him about twenty bottles and vials. He has no idea what any of them are or what they do, and he can’t even pronounce some of them but she sure can as she rattles them off under her breath.

“...corticosteroids, albuterol, propophol, phenobarbital, prednisone, morphine- good...,” her voice is childlike and light, her mind distracted by the big words and their meanings.