Aftershock

CHAPTER SEVEN



LAUREN’S BODY TINGLED from the contact with Garrett’s.

For several moments after she walked away, she felt the imprint of his large hands on her bottom, burning through the fabric of her uniform trousers. He probably hadn’t meant to grope her, but he’d seemed reluctant to stop. Not that she was complaining; she’d enjoyed his touch. His arousal excited her.

What bothered her was his carelessness.

She’d lost a friend and coworker. Several patients had died in her care. She wasn’t sure Mrs. Engle or Sam would pull through.

The traumatic events she’d experienced over the past two days were too disturbing to process. One convict had sexually assaulted her. Another had threatened to shoot her in the head. Garrett had almost plummeted to his death. While he was climbing, she’d been sick with worry, her nerves frayed to a ragged edge.

The least he could do, after risking his life, was listen to her medical advice. Instead, he’d disregarded her instructions, and run roughshod over her emotions.

She tried to convince herself that her tears weren’t for Garrett. It wasn’t that she couldn’t stand the thought of him getting hurt. It was more about self-protection. If he did something stupid and got killed, Lauren would be at the convicts’ mercy.

She entered the triage area, aggravated and...turned on. The tent she and Don had set up was a big improvement for the patients. It would stay warm when the temperature dropped. There was a generator for the equipment, and decent lighting. She had a canvas cot and a stretcher so both patients were protected from the hard ground.

It wasn’t the Ritz, but she’d done her best to make them comfortable.

Mrs. Engle needed round-the-clock care. She was in constant pain and seemed confused by her surroundings. Lauren had stopped recounting the facts of the earthquake to her. Mostly she patted her shoulder and said they were waiting on the rescue crew.

Sam Rutherford was the easiest type of patient: unconscious. He didn’t complain or ask for more drugs. It was a blessing, because she had very little to give. Lauren found his stillness troubling and she worried that he might slip from coma to death at any time. If he woke, or incurred complications like brain swelling, she wouldn’t know how to treat him.

She sat with him for a few minutes. He had dark brown hair, cut severely short, and a lean build. Young, handsome men like him were popular with nurses. If he made it to the hospital, they would titter over him. She wondered whose ashes he’d been carrying around. His mother’s? Perhaps they belonged to his girlfriend, or even a late wife.

Patients in mourning were often listless and noncompliant. It was possible that Sam didn’t want to wake up.

Frowning at the thought, she squeezed his rough hand and went to work on elevating Mrs. Engle’s leg. It was a delicate process involving an extra dose of morphine, makeshift equipment and a lot of hope.

By the time Don called her to dinner, she was exhausted. She left the triage tent and checked in on Garrett. He was awake, hollow-eyed, surly.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“No.”

That didn’t surprise her. “I have some over-the-counter painkillers.”

He shrugged, indifferent.

Sighing, she went to the RV and grabbed him a soda. She hoped it would settle his stomach. When she returned, he accepted the can and cracked it open, drinking thirstily. Then he took his medication like a good boy. Maybe stewing in here with a pounding headache had changed his attitude.

“I’m going to have dinner with the others,” she said.

“Where will you sleep?”

“In here.” The Kenworth was perfect because she could lock the doors, but leave the window open a little to listen for her patients. “Is that a problem?”

“No. I can stay outside.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you’re ready to turn in, I’ll get out.”

Lauren realized he’d rather go outside than sleep in here with her. Was he afraid she’d trip and fall into his lap again? She shut the door to the semi and walked away, trying not to feel insulted. If he wanted to keep his distance, that was his prerogative.

In the RV, Don had prepared a small meal of canned corn and hot-dog slices. They had crackers and jam for dessert. It reminded Lauren of the dinners her mother used to make when her father wasn’t home. Hillary Boyer had grown up dirt poor in Bakersfield, California. Although she’d married well, and acquired some expensive tastes, she’d tended toward frugality in raising Lauren.

Cadence cleaned her plate and asked for more. Don indulged her with a lollipop, sending her off to play Nintendo. Penny picked at her plate, restless.

“You don’t like my cooking?” Don teased.

“It’s fine,” she assured him, finishing the last few bites. Lauren guessed that Penny had come from a wealthy family and wasn’t accustomed to such cheap fare. She had perfect table manners and graceful posture.

After dinner, as Don wiped the plates with a clean rag, they heard an engine roar to life. Exchanging a startled glance with Lauren, Don set the dishes aside and picked up his baseball bat. Together, they headed outside to investigate. “Stay here,” he said to Cadence, following Lauren through the door.

Although it was too dark to see much, the commotion was clearly coming from Jeb’s twisted little corner of the cavern. The engine choked and sputtered before dying out. Then it turned over again and revved up.

A radio had been cranked on. Kid Rock was blaring in the black abyss.

While they stood, listening, headlights flooded the space. The driver put the car in gear and punched it across the gap, slamming into another vehicle with a terrific crash. Jeb’s loud cackle rang out in the air. The car backed up, tires squealing.

Lauren couldn’t believe it. The convicts were playing demolition derby.

Garrett joined them in the doorway, using the crowbar as a cane. She did a double take at the sight.

“I think they found another case of beer,” Don mused.

“Or a bottle of hard alcohol,” Garrett said.

Lauren shivered at the memory of how they’d behaved under the influence last night. “What if they blow up the place?”

There was another bone-jarring collision.

“Maybe they’ll knock themselves out,” Don said, hopeful.

“Let’s all get back inside where it’s safer,” Garrett suggested. “I’ll honk the semi horn if I see them coming.”

Lauren followed Garrett back to the Kenworth truck, bringing her medical bag and a handful of crackers along with her. Before they retired, she checked on Sam and Mrs. Engle, who were blissfully unaware of the mayhem.

Drunk-driving derby aside, Lauren was glad the day was over. She felt like she’d been hit by a truck. Tonight, she might sleep through any number of car crashes, aftershocks and belligerent shouts.

She gave Garrett the crackers before she climbed into the semi.

“Thanks,” he said, popping one into his mouth.

“Are you really going to sleep out here?”

He nodded. “I have to keep watch.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

Although she’d rather have him by her side, she didn’t say anything more. In the distance, Jeb and his comrades were still hooting and hollering. She couldn’t tell if Owen’s voice was among the others.

“Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

She stepped up into the cab and went straight to the bed. Earlier in the day, she’d found a gym bag with workout clothes that looked comfortable enough to sleep in. She removed her soiled tank top and uniform pants. Using a moist wipe, she scrubbed the dirt from her skin. Then she slipped into the soft gray sweatpants and pale pink T-shirt.

The pillows had been donated to the triage area, but she had a wool blanket. She covered herself up, put the gym bag behind her head and closed her eyes.

Though she was emotionally and physically drained, sleep didn’t come easy. Disturbing images swirled through her mind. Jeb’s cigarette, winking in the dark. Mickey, tearing open her uniform shirt. Garrett, falling from the sky.

* * *

GARRETT LISTENED TO the chaos for several hours, his stomach roiling with tension.

When the vehicles were no longer in driving condition, the convicts picked up rocks to finish them off. They broke windshields, and caved in roofs, and smashed taillights. It was as if they blamed the inanimate objects for their captivity. Everything inside the structure was fair game. Not content to destroy empty cars, they started throwing glass bottles at the walls and making a bonfire out of trash.

The fire wasn’t just stupid, it was potentially deadly. Garrett didn’t know what they were burning, but it smelled like a mixture of paint and plastic. A cloud of noxious smoke filled the top half of the cavern.

Jeb and Mickey coughed and hacked and argued about the blaze, finally extinguishing it with the last of their water.

Garrett wanted to kill them just for that.

He’d found a Buck knife in Sam’s camping supplies. He longed to crawl across the floor of the cavern, carrying it between his teeth, and gut them like the pigs they were. But his head throbbed, his muscles were sore from climbing and he was nauseous. Attacking now wouldn’t be wise.

Finally, at well after midnight, the party wound down.

Again, Garrett considered sneaking into their camp to cut their throats. He had few qualms about killing as an act of war, and this situation applied. Launching a preemptory strike was fair game, as far as he was concerned.

Even though he wasn’t feeling well, he had the edge on them. He was sober, and trained to use deadly force.

Thoughts of Lauren stilled his hand. He’d vowed to protect her. If he miscalculated and got shot, she’d be almost defenseless. He’d also made a pact, after coming out of the PTSD fog, to avoid violence whenever possible. In his darkest days, he’d done unconscionable things. He could never take them back. The atrocities he’d committed, both overseas and here in the States, were the stuff of nightmares.

Maybe that was why he was afraid to fall asleep. He was a menace to society.

Staying out of trouble and exercising self-control hadn’t been a big issue for him over the past few years. He’d lived under a strict regimen and had time to reflect on his actions. Even so, no amount of atonement could ease his conscience. He was a dangerous man. If he let his guard down, Lauren might get hurt.

That was unacceptable.

He’d already crossed the line with her. Filling his hands with her ass hadn’t been very smart of him. He still wasn’t sure if he’d done it on purpose. He’d been inches from kissing her, seconds from abandoning his good intentions.

The notion that she might let him kiss her had entered his mind. For whatever reason, she seemed to think he was a nice guy. Sometimes she frowned at him in annoyance. Other times, she looked at his mouth and his body in a way that drove him insane.

She might let him do more than kiss her.

Garrett quickly discarded that idea as outrageous. He was filthy, inside and out. She’d been giving him a medical exam and he’d gotten aroused. Christ, she hadn’t even realized she was turning him on.

If she wanted anything from him, it was comfort. But he wasn’t capable of tenderness. Given half a chance, he’d rip off her clothes and bury himself in her.

He smothered a groan, shifting his legs.

Earlier tonight, he’d seen her reflection in the side mirror. She’d washed before bed, sliding a cloth along her slender arms. He’d waited, breathless, for her to unfasten her bra. Instead, she’d covered up with a T-shirt.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to picture her naked breasts, but it was a losing battle. There wasn’t much he could do about his hard-on, either. He adjusted the fly of his jeans, weighing his options. Stroking himself off would only bring temporary relief.

“Hey,” Lauren whispered.

Garrett jumped at the sound, jerking his hand away from his lap. She was at the driver’s side, looking down through the half-open window. How long had she been watching him? He rose to his feet, his neck suffusing with heat. “Hey.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“No more aches and pains?”

Only in his groin. “Not really.”

She glanced toward Jeb’s hideaway. “Sounds like the good ol’ boys went to bed.”

“They’ve been quiet for a while now.”

“Why don’t you come in and get some rest?”

He wanted to, but he didn’t trust himself not to touch her.

“You have to sleep sometime, Garrett. How can you protect us if you feel half-dead tomorrow?”

She had a good point; he was exhausted.

“Please. We can lock the door.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll take the front seat.”

Her teeth flashed white in the dim light as she opened the door and stepped down. “Great. I just have to pee.”

“In the RV?”

“No, I’ll go behind the semi. Stand right there and don’t look.”

He turned his back dutifully, smiling a little. When she was finished, she walked over to the triage tent to check on Sam and Mrs. E. Nodding with satisfaction, she returned to the semi, climbing in ahead of him.

He locked both doors and rolled up the windows, leaving only a crack of space. Lauren curled up in the sleeper cab, while he stretched out on the passenger seat. The reclining position was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the hard ground.

“Here,” she said, handing him a sweatshirt.

“What’s this for?”

“Blanket.”

He was used to sleeping on a bare mattress, so he felt strangely touched by the gesture. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

After he covered his arms with the XL sweatshirt, he closed his eyes, surprised at how drowsy he was. He thought he’d be nervous and aroused in her presence, but he was too tired to think about sex. For once.

“I feel safe with you,” she whispered.

It was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep.

* * *

OWEN COULDN’T STAND Jeb and Mickey.

He’d been unconscious for at least twenty-four hours, and he’d felt groggy when he’d woken up in the bed of a strange pickup truck. They’d been treating him like a whipping boy ever since. Get this, do that. Follow orders or we’ll break the rest of your face.

Although he was accustomed to dealing with loudmouthed a*sholes, he was tired and disoriented. He didn’t feel like drinking, and they were drunk. He wanted to go back to sleep, and they wouldn’t shut the f*ck up.

After what seemed like an eternity, they stopped crashing cars and burning trash. Unfortunately, neither had been fatally wounded in the process. They’d gathered around the embers of the fire.

“Make us some food,” Jeb said, poking Owen in the ribs.

Stomach rumbling, Owen got up and searched the box of supplies. There were three cans of tomato soup. Shrugging, he passed out two and kept one for himself.

Mickey popped off the top and took a long drink. Making a choking sound, he tossed the can away. It spilled across the ground, leaving a mess of thick red liquid. “That tastes like shit,” he said, wiping his mouth.

Jeb laughed, as if he’d done something funny.

“What the f*ck was that, period juice?”

“If it was, you’d lap up every drop.”

“Hell, no, I wouldn’t.”

Jeb looked at Owen. “How about you?”

“What about me?”

“Have you got your red wings?”

Owen wasn’t sure what that meant. He thought it had something to do with bloody oral sex, which grossed him out. “No.”

“He’s got white wings,” Mickey quipped.

“F*ck you,” Owen said.

Jeb and Mickey both laughed. But Jeb, who wasn’t as stupid as Mickey, drank his soup without any complaints. When Owen tried to do the same, Mickey kicked his booted foot. “Fix me something else.”

Owen passed him a package of crackers.

Mickey held it to his groin like an erect penis, grinning.

“Watch out, Owen,” Jeb said. “He likes blondes.”

“I like that blonde doctor,” Mickey agreed. “Let’s pay her another visit.”

“Shit,” Jeb said. “I should go this time and show you how it’s done.”

“You think you’d do better?”

“Damn right. You were supposed to knock her out and drag her off. Instead, you got greedy—and you got caught.”

Owen felt sick, listening to them. He’d heard a lot of cavalier conversations about rape behind bars, but most of it was just talk. This was different. There were real, innocent women only a few hundred feet away. It sounded like Jeb and Mickey had already attacked them. Without a gun, Owen couldn’t stop them from doing it again.

Mickey touched the bridge of his nose, which he’d bandaged with some tissue and duct tape. “I should kill that bastard and take his woman.”

“You’d better wait until he finds a way out,” Jeb said.

Luckily, they were too inebriated to cause any more trouble. After a long discussion about tits and ass, they hunkered down to sleep.

It was time to go.

Owen thought about trying to take the gun before he left, but Jeb kept it hitched in the waistband of his jeans. Owen didn’t want to wake him up and get shot in the face. No, it was better to slip away. Avoid conflict.

He was an expert at avoiding conflict. As a kid, he’d learned to keep quiet and go along with his brother’s schemes. He’d known how to hide from his drunk dad, and when to duck if he couldn’t hide.

Although he hadn’t been able to dodge the cops that day Shane robbed the liquor store, he’d figured out how to survive in prison. It wasn’t much different from home: respect those in power. If you can’t beat the gang, join it. The only other option for a scrawny eighteen-year-old boy was to be somebody’s bitch.

Needless to say, he chose the gang.

Maybe if he’d been a little older when he’d gotten arrested, he’d have been able to protect himself. He’d grown five inches and gained fifty pounds in the three years he’d been incarcerated. Now he was a force to be reckoned with.

Jeb and Mickey weren’t on his cellblock, or in his crew, so he owed them no loyalty. They’d been on the same work program, and that was it. Owen didn’t like rapists, and sure as hell didn’t want to spend his last days with two of them.

Until now, he hadn’t had a choice.

The first quake had busted up the transport vehicle and killed the guard instantly. There was a mad scramble to get free. They were chained together in pairs. Jeb took off with the keys in his hand. Then the aftershock hit, and Owen got knocked out. If he hadn’t been chained to Mickey, he’d probably be dead.

Jeb had survived by being a selfish a*shole. Mickey, through brute strength. Owen, by dumb luck.

Owen wasn’t leaving because he didn’t like them. He’d been tolerating unlikable people his entire life, and he had a high threshold for stupidity. What he couldn’t tolerate was physical or sexual abuse. His first few weeks in prison had been torture. Owen refused to be beaten and cowed by anyone, ever again.

He also thought he had a better chance with the other team.

The fact that Jeb had a gun weighed the odds in the convicts’ favor, so Owen had been reluctant to abandon ship. But then he’d watched Garrett climb the wall this afternoon, and he’d been struck by inspiration.

He’d figured out how to free them.

Now he knew his best odds at survival lay with the other group. Sure, they had some weaknesses. Garrett was the only strong one. But he was also the only one smart enough to look for a way to escape, rather than the means to be rescued.

Owen didn’t want to be rescued. He wanted to get the f*ck out of here.

There were a few obstacles. The tattoos that had helped keep him alive in prison worked against him now. That pregnant girl thought he was evil, and rightfully so. If Garrett’s group rejected him, he couldn’t go back to Jeb.

He eased out of the bed of the pickup, taking a backpack with him. Earlier today, he’d stashed a bottle of water and some chips in it. Although he tried to step quietly, broken glass crackled beneath his feet. Jeb rolled over, throwing an arm across Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey made a snuffling sound, but didn’t awake.

Owen crept away from them, his pulse thundering in his ears. He didn’t feel safe until he was on the other side of the structure, near the RV.

He’d been spying on the other group all day, so he knew the score. Like Jeb and Mickey, Garrett had a boner for that blonde doctor. Owen understood why—she was hot—but he couldn’t stop staring at the other one.

The pregnant one.

He paused, listening for movement. Garrett and his lady were in the semi. The rest of them were in the RV.

Hearing nothing, he moved on to an old Ford sedan. The car was empty, and it had a big backseat. He climbed inside and stretched out his long legs, shoving the backpack behind his head. Not bad. No death smell.

He took a sip of water but saved the chips. Tomorrow, he’d approach the other group at first light.

While he tried to rest, the dark-haired girl occupied his thoughts. She reminded him of someone. She made him feel something. Maybe it was her condition he was responding to. He liked women. He missed his mother.

That wasn’t it, though. He didn’t think about his mother when he looked at her.

Owen rolled onto his side, contemplating his embarrassing physical reaction. He’d been in prison for years. The only women he’d seen lately were in photographs or porno mags. Her pregnancy should have turned him off, but it didn’t. He wanted to feel her skin against his fingertips, to smell her dark hair.

The girl both attracted and repelled him. No—she just attracted him. Her beautiful face, her jarring vulnerability.

He repelled himself.