The Summer the World Ended (39 page)

She let off the transmit button, choked up. Riley refused to let herself cry anymore. Her silent stare failed to elicit any reaction from the radio. She gasped and sucked her grief in, though her eyes grew watery.

“He liked me. His name was Kieran. The whole town had something against my dad, but now they know he was right. They made fun of him for being prepared, but he saw what was coming. There’s gotta be more people out there like him with bunkers and protection and radios and stuff. Please say something.”

Hiss.

She pulled the headset off and dropped it on the table. “This is a waste of time. I guess I’ll just stay here until there’s no food left and then hope I don’t get killed.” Sigh. “No, that’s stupid. It’s light out now. I gotta go find him.”

Slam.

A reverberating crack of wood echoed outside in the front chamber. Riley started to scream, but bit down on her left forearm to muffle it. All the bandits would need to hear was a terrified girl and they’d pound the door down with their… Riley shivered and grabbed the Beretta.

She ran to the south wall, hiding behind the mini-kitchen station with the gun pointed over it at the door. Metal clanking grew louder. The sound was unmistakable―boots on a ladder. The rhythm was wrong, zombie like.

Her thumb flicked the safety off.

Thump.

Something hit the door.

Thump, thump.

“Zombies can’t beat through a vault door,” she whispered.

Thump, thump.
The wheel rattled.

“Go away,” she whispered.

Silence.

She didn’t move. When her legs started to shake, she went from squatting to kneeling, but kept aiming over the sink at the door.

Small bits of metal jangled outside. She gasped. To her horror, the locking lever moved. She wanted to run over and grab it as it opened, but couldn’t summon the courage to abandon her cover. When the wheel rotated, she squeezed all the blood out of her fingers against the Beretta’s handle.

The wheel stopped with a
clank.
Her finger tensed on the trigger.

Bloody fingers slipped around the edge of the door. Riley raised her aim point, estimating where the head would be on an adult man.

“Go away,” she yelled. “One more inch, and I’ll shoot.”

“Squirrel…” wheezed a faint voice.

Her body went limp.

“Squirrel?” The door slid open a few inches farther.

“Dad?” She dropped the gun in the steel sink and leapt to her feet.

Dad staggered in, left hand pressed to his side, right groping at the air.

“Daddy!” Riley ran to him, bawling.

Her impact almost took him off his feet. He groaned. She held on and sobbed against his chest for several minutes.

“Sorry. I had to lose a couple of bandits. They were looting the house.” He grunted. “Help me to the cot.”

“Dad?” She leaned back as he staggered into the bunker.

The front of her shirt had turned red from blood. Riley screamed. Dad shrugged off his backpack, let the AR15 clatter to the ground nearby, and fell onto the cot with an agonized grunt. She hadn’t noticed until then how pale his face looked, or how weary he seemed.

“I thought―”

“Not yet.” He reached up to brush her cheek with dry, scratchy fingers. “I’m not dead yet. One of the bandits winged me. Nothing serious, but it hurts like a bastard. Grab the first aid box.”

She ran to the bookshelf, snagged a white plastic thing about the size of a lunchbox and ran back to him. Her hands shook too much to open it. Dad peeled his camo shirt off, revealing a darkened olive-drab tank top with a hole in it about halfway between armpit and hip, an inch or two in from his left side.

“Missed the vitals,” he wheezed. “I think it went all the way through.”

Blood welled out of the hole each time he moved. She pawed and clung, finding an exit wound on his back too. Riley made fists, took two deep breaths, and ripped open the first aid kit.

“You’re bleeding.”

His expression didn’t change from neutral. “That happens when a person gets shot. Help me get this shirt off.”

She did most of the work, leaving him to sit there and make zombie noises as the fabric separated from the wound.

He squeezed her forearm. “Tweezers. Get the fibers out of the hole.”

Joy at having her father alive overpowered any squeamishness. One by one, she plucked threads of shirt and fatigue jacket out of the holes in front and back.

“Wipe it down. Wash it with alcohol, then put a gauze on it with tape.”

She tilted her head forward, eyebrows raised. “Won’t that hurt?”

“Oh, yes. I believe it will.” He made a weak gesture at her backpack. “I got you some tampons. They’re in your pack.”

“Dad! Now is not the―”

“Give me one to bite on.”

“Oh.”

She rummaged through her ‘go bag’ until she found a pink box in one of the side zipper pouches. He’d gotten cheap ones, but who cared about that anymore. After gathering isopropyl, gauze, and two washcloths, she set about the task of cleaning him up as best she could. Dad’s fingers crushed around her shoulder when she dabbed the area with alcohol. He screamed through the cotton between his teeth. It hurt her to hurt him, but the wound had to be cleaned or he’d get something nasty and die anyway.

“Pack some cotton into the hole. In a few hours, you’ll need to change the dressing with fresh stuff.”

Blood swelled up and out as she pushed cotton into his back and taped a patch of gauze in place over it. He stretched out on the cot with a long, wheezing groan, and she repeated the process for the entry wound.

“Lucky thing all they could scavenge was ball ammo. I’d be in bad shape if they had hollow points.”

Riley knelt beside the cot, holding his right hand in both of hers. “What happened?”

“I made my way back toward the house. Geiger was clean. Figured I’d go inside and check on stuff, but there were a couple of looters by the door. As soon as they saw me, they went for their weapons. Son of a bitch was fast. I didn’t even have a chance to get a shot off.”

She squeezed his hand.

“I didn’t want to lead them to you, so I took a long circle. Found a hiding spot and dug in.” He gazed up at the ceiling, groaning.

Riley grimaced at the blood all over her shirt and hands.
He’s lost so much blood… He’s not gonna be okay.
She brushed hair off his forehead and plucked bits of scrub bush out of his beard. It would take another nuke going off―in the bunker―to get her to let go of his arm.

“Mother flying windless.”

“Huh?” Riley blinked.

Dad chuckled. “Side burn. Snowy brain.”

“Dad, what is wrong with you?” She put an arm across his chest and held on.

He rolled his head to the side and the mirth in his face faded to a serious expression of worry. “Moon aliens walk dark.”

“Stop it!” Riley wanted to shake him, but hesitated because of the wound. “Dad…”

His eyes seemed to go in and out of focus. “Squirrel?”

“Yes, I’m here. It’s Squirrel.” She kissed him on the forehead. “I’m here. I love you, Dad.”

“Bandits, outside.” He raised his right arm, pointing up. “Danger. Acorns hiding.”

She clutched his arm to her chest, the back of his hand against her cheek. “Dad, stop talking like that. You’re freaking me out. You’re all I’ve got left. Don’t die. You can call me Squirrel all you want if you promise to stay alive.”

“Okay.” The glazed look in his eyes faded two seconds before he closed them. He gurgled through a few belabored breaths. “I won’t die then.”

Dad drifted in and out of sleep over the next hour. At the sight of crust at the corners of his mouth, she got up and brought him water, feeding it to him a sip at a time. He continued muttering incomprehensible phrases. Each time he babbled, she shivered. The man on the cot seemed nothing like Dad. It felt as if someone else had jumped inside his skin. She hovered at his side, clinging to his arm.

Two hours after Dad returned, she warmed a can of SpaghettiOs and spoon-fed him. He seemed to recognize the smell right away, and offered a grateful smile.
Wow, he really does like them.

“I’m sorry, Squirrel. I tried to protect you when I left. I never meant to hurt you.”

She held up the spoon again. “Dad, this isn’t your fault. W-we’ll survive. Just like you said.”

I’m not gonna lose him too.

The process of giving him the entire bowl of SpaghettiOs proved a laborious task. Once he’d finished eating, she knelt on the floor, half draped on the cot. Nothing mattered but Dad. She wouldn’t make the same mistake she’d made with Mom.

“Tell me what to do, Dad.” She clutched his limp hand to her cheek. “I’m right here.”

A smile almost formed on his blue lips.

ay Fourteen.

Feeding Dad wasn’t so bad. Treating and dressing a wound was worse, but not intolerable. Repurposing a saucepan to a bedpan, and cleaning Dad up after the fact was even worse than Armageddon. Riley scrunched her face and looked away as she emptied it into the toilet and flushed. About ready to vomit, she poured some water through the ‘pot-that-shall-never-again-touch-food’ and set it on the floor.

Her legs protested moving. Sleeping on her knees next to him had left everything sore and her neck stiff. She collected some fresh gauze and a clean washcloth.

Blood had soaked through the bandages into the cot and left her shirt gory enough to suggest she’d taken a bullet herself. Dried crimson trails stained her bare legs all the way down to the shins. She coaxed him to roll onto his side so she could get to his back. Dad barely moaned when she plucked the cotton balls out of the bullet hole. Thick, scabrous chunks flaked away as she wrenched tweezers back and forth to dislodge a dark wad. Hours ago when she’d done that, he’d screamed.

“Dad?”

He moaned again.

“Dad. Dad. Wake up.” She put a hand on his shoulder and shook.

“Mmm. Squirrel, what time is it?”

“Uh… Eight after eleven.”

He didn’t respond.

“Dad!” she slapped his shoulder.

“Ouch. Let me sleep.”

Riley taped clean gauze over the wound on his back and eased him flat. He waved his finger about, murmuring, as she peeled away the dressing on his front and replaced it with a new one. He had about the same reaction to it as he had the other―almost none.

“Do you want coffee?”

Dad laughed. “Ground water brown. Glowing accountant clicking.”

“Stop that!” Riley screamed. Her hand squished into a fist through the old bandage. “You’re seriously freaking me out.”

His eyes fluttered closed as his arms fell limp at his sides. Subvocal muttering continued. Riley ran to the radio.

“Hello, anyone. This is Riley. I’m in a bunker near Las Cerezas. My dad’s been shot by bandits. Is there anyone out there? We need help. Please. He… I think he’s dying.”

Hiss.

She waited a minute and repeated the message. When that got no reply, she darted to the bookshelf and fumbled over the titles in search of anything helpful. One first aid book had little information in the way of gunshot wounds, and seemed written by someone who had a serious fascination with CPR and frostbite. The second looked like it came from 1962.