Aftershock (17 page)

“Don’t move,” Lauren said to Cadence, focusing her attention on
the driver’s-side window. She flinched as a series of small explosions lit up
the cavern. Mickey ran into one of the traps and let out a bloodcurdling
scream.

Jeb didn’t pause to help his fallen comrade. He turned and went
the opposite direction, gun raised.

She clenched her hand into a fist, biting its edge. This wasn’t
part of the plan. Garrett had told her that Jeb and Mickey would be choking on
acid fumes, disoriented. Jeb didn’t look disoriented. He looked pissed off.

After Jeb moved out of her line of sight, Owen emerged from his
hiding place. He wasn’t supposed to approach until Garrett subdued the
prisoners, but clearly they were improvising at this point. Mickey thrashed on
the ground, struggling to free himself from the tar. Covered in black goo, he
rose to his knees and yanked a large shard of glass from the pit. He gripped it
like a dagger, ready to attack.

Owen crept closer, holding up his hammer. His face was pale in
the flickering light, and his stance appeared hesitant. The tar pit was between
cars, so Owen couldn’t see Mickey. He didn’t know what danger awaited him.

“Damn,” Lauren whispered, glancing around the RV. She had to do
something. She had to warn him.

Don’s baseball bat rested on the passenger seat. Picking it up,
she strode toward the door and unlocked it.

“What are you doing?” Cadence asked.

“I have to help Owen,” she said. “Lock this door as soon as I
go out.”

“No,” Cadence wailed. “Don’t go out there!”

Lauren glanced at Penny, who gave a short nod of cooperation.
She’d take care of Cadence, and lock the door, if necessary.

Taking a deep breath, she rushed outside and ran toward the
pit. Three gunshots rang out in the distance, sending a chill up her spine.

Oh God. Not Garrett. Please, not Garrett.

Spurred by the sound, Owen advanced on Mickey, swinging his
hammer. Mickey ducked to avoid the blow. The hammer struck the hubcap and
bounced back, leaping from Owen’s surprised hands.

Mickey took advantage of the misstep by stabbing Owen’s calf
with the glass shard. Lauren screamed at the sight.

Although Owen stumbled sideways, yelping in pain, he didn’t
lose his balance. He was also quick to retaliate, delivering a roundhouse kick
to Mickey’s chin. His head crashed into the car door and he collapsed
facedown.

Lauren came forward, her hands clenched around the bat handle.
Owen made a gesture for her to stay back. Mickey wasn’t done fighting. When Owen
tried to kick again, Mickey reached out to grab his ankle. With a rough jerk, he
pulled Owen off his feet. He fell against the side of the car and slid down,
into the pit.

They rolled together in a tangle of glass and tar and flying
fists. Although Owen landed several hard punches, Mickey had a weight advantage.
He ended up on top of Owen, straddling his waist. He snatched up another piece
of glass and pressed it to Owen’s throat.

Lauren rushed forward, intent on braining Mickey with the bat.
He looked up at her the second before she struck.

“Drop it or I’ll kill him,” he said, grimacing. His teeth were
covered in blood.

She wavered, bat hovering over her shoulder. Garrett snuck up
behind Mickey, signaling her to comply. Mickey couldn’t see him. Trying not to
give away Garrett’s presence, she retreated and lowered the bat.

Mickey kept his eyes on her as he sat upright. The bandage on
his face was askew, revealing his ruined nose. His breathing sounded labored. He
removed the glass from Owen’s throat and held it up, rising to his feet.

In a flurry of motion, Garrett grabbed Mickey by the wrist and
wrenched his arm behind his back, forcing him to release the weapon. Then he
slammed Mickey’s head against the passenger window. The glass cracked in a
spiderweb formation. A thin line of blood dribbled from Mickey’s scalp into his
eyes.

Owen scrambled upright, touching the cut at his throat. His
skin was nicked, his boot splashed red.

Mickey twisted out of Garrett’s grip and whirled to face him.
He drew back his fist, punching Garrett in the stomach.

To her dismay, Garrett quickly lost the upper hand. He doubled
over with a wince, and then sidestepped to avoid another blow. She saw that his
left arm was taped, and he appeared to be favoring his right.

Lauren had to act now. If she didn’t, Mickey might win. When he
took another swing at Garrett, she stepped in, smacking him over the head with
the baseball bat. He swayed on his feet, did a clumsy pirouette and crumpled to
the ground, unconscious.

Well. She finished that, didn’t she?

Garrett didn’t seem pleased with her interference. “What the
hell are you doing out here?”

“Helping,” she said, giving him a withering look.
Duh.

“I could have handled it. You were supposed to stay in the
RV.”

“Oh, shut up.” She tossed aside the baseball bat, her hands
shaking. He was already wounded. If she’d obeyed his orders, Mickey might have
finished him off. She swallowed hard, disturbed by the thought. Her knees felt
rubbery, so she knelt to inspect Owen. The cut on his calf needed stitches, but
it wouldn’t cripple him.

“Here,” Garrett said, passing her a roll of duct tape.

As she reached out to take it, their gazes connected. He knew
she was rattled; she saw the concern in his eyes. “Where’s Jeb?”

“Over there,” Garrett said, indicating the north side.

“Is he coming back?”

“He could try. He’d have to crawl, though.”

She frowned in disapproval, wrapping duct tape around Owen’s
leg as a temporary fix. “What happened to your arm?”

“It can wait,” he said curtly. “Let’s tie up Mickey before he
comes to.”

Although he’d planned to restrain the prisoners with rope,
Lauren did the honors with duct tape to save time.

“He’ll be able to bite through that,” Garrett said.

“If he wakes up.”

“You don’t think he will?”

She evaluated his condition, deliberating. Mickey had been
dealt several blows to the head, and he’d sustained multiple lacerations in the
tar pit. If they left him like this, bound and unconscious, he might die. “I
should bandage the deeper cuts.”

“It’s your call,” Garrett said, his mouth thin. “I wouldn’t
piss on him if he was on fire.”

His lack of empathy didn’t surprise her. Garrett had a
soldier’s mind-set. He’d been trained to show no mercy.

The medical field was different. Professional ethics decreed
that she treat every patient with diligence and respect. A decorated war hero
and a despicable criminal should receive the same level of care, in theory. Her
personal feelings were irrelevant. But would keeping Mickey alive put the rest
of them in danger?

This man had tried to rape her. She wanted him to pay for his
actions. In a court of law, preferably.

Saying nothing, she used duct tape to bandage the worst of his
cuts. The tar that covered his skin would help stopper the shallow lacerations.
While she was fixing him up, Garrett retrieved a bike chain and padlock from
their cache of supplies. Wrapping one end of the chain around a car axle, he
encircled Mickey’s neck with the other. Leaving him room to breathe—barely—he
secured the padlock and put the key in his pocket.

It was barbaric, but effective. There was no way Mickey could
get free. Owen and Garrett exchanged a hard smile over his ingenuity.

Lauren was struck by a sense of kinship between them, along
with a disturbing similarity she didn’t want to examine. Yesterday, Garrett had
seemed hostile toward Owen, or indifferent. Now they were like...blood brothers.
These violent acts had brought them closer.

She felt uneasy about their camaraderie. As a woman of peace,
she’d always championed civility and restraint. None of the men she knew used
brute strength to succeed. Michael hadn’t even played sports for fear of
injuring his hands. He’d worked tirelessly to save lives, but never lifted a
finger outside the hospital.

Garrett and Owen looked like a pair of ruffians in comparison.
They were filthy, and bloody, and unrefined.

They’d probably enjoy watching Mickey die.

Garrett had claimed he wasn’t much different from the convicts.
Owen
was
a convict. They both had tragic pasts, and
were well versed in fisticuffs. What else did they have in common?

She rose to her feet and followed them away, unsettled. Maybe
she was a classist snob, prejudiced against blue-collar men. But she had the
sinking suspicion that she was missing something.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I
T
WAS
GETTING
crowded in the
triage tent.

Sam was still unconscious, his lean cheeks sunken, but Don
looked much better this morning. He was awake and alert. “The more the merrier,”
he said, watching as Lauren took care of the new admits.

Don was glad to see them alive, not happy they were
injured.

She treated Owen first. After giving him some oral painkillers,
she numbed the affected area with a local anesthetic. Then she cleaned the cut
with saline and closed the edges with a short row of sutures. His other
lacerations appeared minor, so she left them alone.

Unlike Owen, Garrett had a serious injury. When she saw what
was under the duct tape, she sucked in a sharp breath. “This is a gunshot
wound.”

He arched a brow. “Is it?”

She wanted to scold him for not telling her sooner, but she
held her tongue. Despite his tough-guy sarcasm, he was hurt and it showed. His
face paled as she cut off his shirtsleeve and peeled away the soaked fabric.

Relief spilled over her, because the wound was superficial. The
exit and entrance sites were small, and the trajectory went straight through the
muscle. “I think you were hit by a piece of shrapnel, not a bullet.”

He glanced down at his arm, lifting it to get a better look.
The simple motion made him grimace in pain. “It felt like a fucking bus.”

Although the wound had bled profusely, and damaged some
subcutaneous tissue, it didn’t need aggressive treatment. Many gunshot injuries
were bandaged and allowed to heal without major surgery or flesh
debridement.

Following this conservative approach, she injected him with
lidocaine and irrigated the area thoroughly before applying a dressing. The
injury would give him a lot of discomfort, but it wasn’t life threatening, and
he’d make a full recovery.

He was lucky to be alive. After hearing the gunshots, she’d
been frozen with fear, half convinced he was dead. She didn’t want to relive
those dark moments. Since Mrs. Engle died, she’d been terrified to bury anyone
else. She couldn’t handle the emotional toll.

Lauren wasn’t used to caring this much. Her job was to
transport patients as quickly as possible. She always moved on before she could
get attached. The ambulance had to get to the next scene, and the next, and the
next.

Now she was stuck in an ongoing emergency, and she couldn’t
escape her feelings. This motley crew of survivors—Garrett especially—had stolen
her heart. She didn’t know how to deal with the unwanted affection, or how to
evaluate what was real. Maybe the danger and trauma had heightened her senses
and created a false bond. She felt so vulnerable.

While Lauren wrapped gauze around Garrett’s upper arm, Owen
updated Don about the morning’s events.

“How many bullets do you think Jeb has left?” Don asked.

“I don’t know,” Garrett replied, “but I’m pretty sure I
dislocated one of his kneecaps. It’ll be hard for him to sneak up and take shots
at climbers.”

“You can’t climb with one arm,” Lauren pointed out.

“I can climb,” Owen said. “I have an idea for breaking through,
too.”

“What’s that?” Garrett asked.

“My dad used to always complain about something called
spall.
It happened when he was doing heavy torch work.
The garage floor would get really hot, he’d hose it down and the concrete would
flake away.”

“The heat weakened it?”

“I think it was the combination of heat and water.”

“We don’t have water,” she said.

“Anything wet will do the trick. Radiator fluid, windshield
cleaner. Even piss.” He gave Lauren an apologetic glance for his rude
suggestion. As if she cared.

Garrett nodded, seeming impressed by Owen’s logic. The young
criminal wasn’t as stupid as he looked.

She secured the bandage, not bothering to voice her strongest
concern. They still needed drinking water to survive. Owen couldn’t climb
without Garrett’s help, and their injuries would slow them down. They were all
exhausted.

“How do your arms feel?” Garrett asked.

“Not bad,” Owen said.

Lauren rolled her eyes at the obvious lie. “You should
rest.”

“We don’t have time to rest.”

“No, you only have time to die,” she snapped. “You’ve been in a
hurry to do that from day one.”

“She’s right,” Don said, finally backing her up. “It’s foolish
to rush.”

“You could lose your leg if we wait.”

“Better my leg than his life,” he replied, jerking his chin at
Owen.

“Without food and water, we’ll all die.”

Don dragged a hand down his haggard face. She had barely enough
morphine to keep him from suffering, but he hadn’t complained. He was tough as
nails, stoic and sweet. “I hid a few cans in Cady’s suitcase.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened and he glanced away, torn by Don’s
confession. Lauren knew exactly how he felt. Her stomach ached from hunger, but
it sickened her to contemplate using supplies that a grandfather had set aside
for a child.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the tent. They listened to
the faint sound of Sam’s breathing, which served to punctuate the gravity of the
situation. It was far too easy to imagine a slow, helpless mass death.

Outside, a gentle thrumming began. Not another aftershock.
Something less ominous.

Owen scrambled to his feet, ducking through the tent flap. She
went after him, and Garrett followed close behind. Owen ran toward the climbing
rope and lowered the dummy from the ceiling to the ground. He stood underneath
the crevice, holding out his palms. “It’s raining!”

Although Lauren recognized the patter of raindrops, she almost
couldn’t credit her ears. Heart racing, she rushed to Owen’s side and touched
his upturned hands. They were wet. More drops fell from above, moistening her
hair. When she looked up, her mouth open in wonder, rain splashed her face.

The elements that had trapped them inside so cruelly worked to
their favor now. Rain coursed down the sloped angles outside, pouring through
the cracks and crevices at the top of the collapsed freeway.

“It’s raining,” Owen repeated, as if he couldn’t believe
it.

She threw her arms around him, laughing in delight. “It’s
raining!” He hugged her back, laughing along with her. Tears of hope rushed into
her eyes. If it continued to rain, they could gather and store drinking water.
And, judging by the number of drops she’d already felt, it wasn’t just raining.
It was
pouring.

Releasing Owen, she turned to Garrett, her heart in her throat.
He was just watching them, enjoying the moment. She wanted to give him a big
kiss on the mouth, but she limited herself to another friendly hug. His body
felt warm and strong against hers. All trespasses were forgotten. They were
going to live!

Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she let him go. His eyes
lingered on her face, and she got the impression that he was committing the
image to memory. A sad smile played on his lips, as if the sight pained him.

“We need clean containers,” he said, glancing toward the RV.
“Anything that hasn’t been used to store chemicals.”

They raced around crazily, collecting receptacles of all sorts.
There were dozens of empty cans and bottles scattered about. Owen used a knife
to convert them into open cups. The RV yielded two plastic buckets, several
large storage bins and a collection of pots and pans. Mother Nature did the
rest.

At the upper corner of the structure, there was a rift that
worked as a rain gutter. Water traveled along it and spilled over the edge, onto
the ground. They placed the empty containers beneath it and watched them fill
up.

By noon, they’d collected several gallons of water. If it
continued to rain like this, they might have to worry about flooding, rather
than dehydration.

Leaving a large bucket to gather more, she took some water back
to the RV to boil. Cadence was in high spirits, but Penny looked tired.

“How’s Cruz?” she asked.

“He’s sleeping.”

“And eating?”

“Yes,” she said, sighing. “Every hour, it seems.”

Lauren wasn’t sure if that was cause for concern. She’d been
told that newborns should nurse frequently in the first few days.

She checked the supplies, her own stomach growling. They had
one last soda, and a small amount of peanut butter and jam. Before she’d even
decided to ask Cadence about the extra food, the girl brought it to her.

“My grandpa forgot about these,” she said, handing her a can of
Spam and stewed tomatoes.

Lauren accepted the offerings with reverence. Right now, a can
of protein was worth more to her than a brick of gold. She also knew that
Cadence was sharing the food by choice. “You’re a treasure,” she said, dropping
a kiss on her forehead.

The girl wrinkled her nose. “I don’t even like Spam.”

Laughing, Lauren ruffled her hair. She boiled more water and
found a box of penne pasta that had been overlooked before because there was no
way to cook it. She made a hearty soup with the Spam, tomatoes and pasta. For
the first time in days, there was enough food and water to go around. Everyone
drank and ate their fill.

The meal reenergized the group, and the rain offered a
much-needed respite, but it also put a damper on Garrett’s escape plans. Owen
couldn’t operate the cutting torch in a deluge. Now they had no choice but to
wait.

Over the next few hours, Lauren and Cadence collected as much
water as possible, transferring it from containers to storage bins. For dinner,
she cooked rice with peanut butter. She was glad they wouldn’t go to bed hungry
again. The previous night, she didn’t think Garrett had slept at all.

She made a last visit to the triage tent and gave Don the final
dose of morphine. Tomorrow, she’d have to manage his pain with Tylenol. Cadence
wanted to sleep in the back of the semi again, which was fine with Lauren. She
tucked her in and locked the door, telling her to honk the horn if she needed
anything.

Lauren gathered a handful of toiletries and a roomy sweatshirt
with the intention of washing before bed. The excess rainwater was just pouring
onto the cavern floor. She could stand under the stream and get clean.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she cast a hesitant glance
toward the front of the RV. Garrett was sitting in a lawn chair next to Owen.
They were resting, but alert. She wondered if they planned to keep watch all
night.

“Can I borrow a flashlight?” she asked.

He handed her the camp lantern. “Where are you going?”

“To rinse off in the rainwater.”

His eyes traveled down her body. He made a noncommittal sound,
pulling his gaze away. The waterspout wasn’t visible from the RV, but it was
within screaming distance. She didn’t have to worry about Jeb sneaking up on
her.

“You should come,” she said. “Your clothes are covered with
infectious waste, and you have open wounds. It’s a health risk.”

He straightened, glancing down at his filthy pants. They had
blood and grime on them. On rare occasions, contact with dead bodies could
spread diseases like hepatitis. Even so, he seemed reluctant to get clean.

“You’re contaminating your hands every time you unzip your
jeans,” she pointed out.

His mouth went slack with understanding. She’d finally found
something that scared him: the idea of corpse germs on his manly parts.

Owen scooted his chair a little bit farther away.

“I’ll wash up after you’re finished,” Garrett said.

“How will you manage, with one arm? You need help.”

Scowling, Garrett rose to his feet. He moved slowly to avoid
jostling his arm. She’d already offered him more painkillers, and a sling, both
of which he’d declined. His reluctance to let her wash him wasn’t surprising.
Although he tolerated pain well, he was a poor patient, borderline
noncompliant.

If he was trying to avoid sexual temptation, he needn’t have
worried. He was injured. Seduction was the last thing on her mind.

Not that she didn’t want him anymore. Assuming they were
rescued, and he worked out his relationship issues, she’d be interested in
dating him.

Lauren wondered what would have happened if she’d met Garrett
while she was still engaged. Would she have noticed him in the same way, and
felt the same irresistible pull? She couldn’t imagine
not
feeling it.

Then again, trauma brought people together in odd ways. Under
less extreme circumstances, she might not have found Garrett so fascinating.
Maybe the draw between them was just intense sexual chemistry combined with the
fear of dying.

Troubled by her thoughts, she searched the supplies for a
change of clothes for Garrett. The dummy’s coveralls looked large enough to fit
him. Grabbing them, and a wool blanket, she gestured for him to follow her.

At the waterspout, she placed the lantern on the hood of a
nearby car. “I’ll go first.” He averted his gaze politely while she stripped
down to her bra and panties. Leaving her undergarments on, she stepped into the
falling water.

She yelped as it streamed over her hair and shoulders.

Garrett turned at the sound. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s cold.”

He glanced away—but not before getting an eyeful.

Shivering, she wet her hair quickly and lathered it with hand
soap. Then she scrubbed the rest of her body. Making sure he wasn’t looking, she
slipped her hand into her wet panties and washed between her legs. When she felt
clean enough, she rinsed as best she could and moved out of the stream, her
teeth chattering.

He kept his back to her while she removed her undergarments and
put on a roomy sweatshirt. It covered her to midthigh.

“Okay,” she said, signaling that she was decent.

His injury would make this process difficult. She knew he could
unzip his pants, but he’d left the top button undone. He couldn’t unlace his
boots or take off the rest of his clothes without assistance.