Jill Sorenson - Aftershock

He gaped at her in dismay, unable to formulate a response.

“That was the scariest part. Thinking it was you.”

“Jesus,” he said in a hushed voice. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.” He looked like he wanted to punch himself a few times. “I told you I was going to keep watch and I fell asleep.”

She couldn’t blame him for drifting off. They’d had an exhausting day.

“Fuck,” he yelled, raking his fingers through his hair. “This is so fucked up!”

“Do you think they’ll come back?”

“Yes. Maybe not tonight, but eventually.”

Her stomach twisted with dread.

“There’s something I should tell you.”

“What?” she asked, warning bells sounding in her head.

His throat worked as he swallowed. “One of the vehicles in the north corner is a prisoner transport van. It got smashed to hell, like your ambulance.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Those men are escaped convicts.”

It took a few seconds for his words to sink in. They were trapped in rubble with critical victims, dead bodies and armed criminals. According to a couple of Spanish-language broadcasts, which Penny had translated, disaster crews were dealing with mass casualties. The freeways were impassable and several large buildings had collapsed.

A quick rescue was unlikely.

“They must have taken the gun from a guard.”

She glanced away, fresh terror coursing through her veins.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I thought they’d be sleeping off the alcohol, not coming over here to attack you. I had no idea they were this dangerous.”

Lauren took a deep, calming breath. The only way to get through this was to move forward. Garrett could beat himself up all he wanted, but she had to focus on the next step. There wasn’t time to get emotional.

She checked her watch: 5:04 a.m. The last aftershock had hit at 1:30. She’d gotten at least three hours of sleep.

Her shirt was torn, and the temperature had cooled significantly. Rising to her feet, she found a jacket in the pile of clothes Garrett had collected earlier, and she shrugged into it. “I have to check on the patients.”

He followed her with the flashlight, pointing the beam where she needed it. Mrs. Engle moaned in pain. Lauren gave her as much morphine as she could spare. Her other patient, the man with the head injury, was still unconscious.

Lauren was glad they were both alive.

She gathered a handful of medical supplies and a small mirror, checking the scratches on her cheek. Although the marks were barely noticeable, she scrubbed at them with antiseptic wipes. Her face was filthy. After cleaning every inch of exposed skin above her neck, she went to work on her chest, determined to remove the stain of Mickey’s touch.

Garrett stayed silent, and kept his eyes averted, but she noticed his concerned expression. Her hands stilled. If she scrubbed any harder, she’d bleed.

Clearing her throat, she trashed the soiled wipes and zipped up her jacket. More comfortable treating patients other than herself, she turned to Garrett. He didn’t appear injured. Mickey must not have landed any blows.

Maybe he only hit women.

“Let me see your knuckles,” she said.

With obvious reluctance, Garrett sat down across from her and showed her his bloody fists. They looked awful. She hadn’t ever treated the cuts from the safety glass. Old wounds mixed with new ones, creating a crosshatch of dark slashes.

They needed to be soaked, but she couldn’t waste water. After cleaning his hands with antibacterial foam, she placed them on a surgical towel and took out her suture kit. One of the lacerations was long and deep.

“I can give you a local anesthetic.”

“Just do it,” he replied.

The first time the needle punctured his skin, he sucked in a sharp breath. After that, he endured the short procedure in silence, showing no reaction. She made five neat stitches and bandaged his knuckles.

His skin was darkly tanned, as if he worked outdoors, and his palms were callused. Ropey veins stood out on the backs of his hands in harsh relief. He had good blood pressure, like an endurance athlete.

“Are you in the military?” she asked when she was finished.

He thanked her, flexing his hand. “I was.”

“Which branch?”

“The Marines.”

“Did you go to Iraq?”

“Twice.”

“How was it?”

“Kind of like this.”

His answers were curt and honest, which suited her fine. The fact that he had combat experience was a plus, given Jeb and Mickey’s presence.

“I’m going to stay right beside you today,” he announced. “I’ll carry a tire iron, and see if I can find any other weapons. Cadence and Penny should hang out inside the RV. No one goes anywhere alone.”

“Agreed.”

“We should do something with the bodies before it heats up.”

Her stomach did a queasy flip-flop. He was right. The corpses would begin to smell and attract flies.

Lauren wasn’t squeamish about death, but she didn’t usually have to deal with decomposition. Transporting bodies wasn’t part of her job. The coroner’s office or the police department took care of the dead. Emergency services focused on the living.

Taking a flashlight, they looked for a place to stack the corpses, avoiding the north edge, where Jeb and Mickey were holed up. The rubble at the southwest corner offered the best possible burial site. In addition to car-size chunks of concrete, there were a lot of small, loose rocks to work with.

The corner also had the lowest elevation in the cavern, another plus. Decomposition fluids would not creep uphill.

When she pointed this out to Garrett, he dragged a hand down his face, deliberating. “Let’s eat breakfast first.”

She murmured her assent. They might not have an appetite after.

* * *

GARRETT FOLLOWED LAUREN back to the RV, surveying the edges of the cavern with dark anticipation.

He’d love to take another crack at Mickey. If Jeb hadn’t shown up, Garrett wouldn’t have let him off so easy. He’d wanted to keep hitting him, and hitting him, and hitting him. Maybe even until Mickey stopped breathing.

Garrett had killed a man with his bare hands before.

The monster inside him had been chained too long. Garrett thought he’d conquered his anger issues, and he didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of his past. But he’d been enraged by the attempted rape. He was furious with Lauren’s attackers, and with himself.

Don had risen early, like them. He made instant coffee and scrambled eggs. Garrett helped himself to both and took a seat in a folded camp chair.

“How are the girls?” Lauren asked Don.

“Sleeping,” he said, with a tense smile. “Cadence had a rough night. She kept calling out for her parents.”

“Are they here in San Diego?”

“No, they live up north. She was visiting me and my wife for spring break. We live in La Mesa.”

“I have an apartment near there. Balboa Park.” Sipping her coffee, she turned to Garrett. “How about you?”

“What about me?”

“Where do you live?”

“Santee,” he said, shoveling eggs into his mouth. He didn’t want to continue this conversation.

To his relief, Penny came outside to join them, and Lauren’s attention was diverted. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Okay,” the pregnant girl mumbled.

“Did you sleep?”

“A little.”

Shuffling forward, Penny lowered herself into a lawn chair. Her long hair was tangled, her stomach huge and her eyes puffy. She looked miserable, but unharmed, her skin free from any serious cuts or burns.

Garrett moved his gaze back to Lauren, noting that the mark of Mickey’s hand on her cheek had already begun to fade. Like Penny, she wasn’t badly injured. Garrett felt some of his tension ease. In order to assist her, he had to control his emotions. Going on a murderous rampage wouldn’t be helpful.