Two thin figures moving rapidly in her direction caught Lauren’s eye, but she couldn’t readily identify them. She called out to them with both arms in motion, perceiving the reverberation of her vocal cords louder than her own voice. Assured her visitors had seen her and were coming to render aid, her attention fell to Neo again. She moved close to him once more, delighted to feel his breath brush her skin. As she extended, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and a woman’s face came into view.
“Lauren! Oh my word, child, what happened?!” Jean expelled, taking in the scene. She went to a knee and rubbed at a spot of murky residue on Lauren’s forehead. “You look a fright…are you hurt?”
“Damnation…looks like that shed out back blew up.” Francis moved slightly past while coughing out smoke and airborne ash.
“It did…and I’m okay,” Lauren replied, her voice shaky and reflexively elevated. “But Neo…he’s critical. He needs help.”
A look of distress befalling her, Jean visually explored the young man’s injuries with a hand over her mouth, then looked to her husband for remedy.
Francis leaned in. “He looks hurt bad. I’ll run and fetch Mr. Woo Tang…see about gettin’ one of them trucks they got over here.”
Lauren vetoed with a resolute shake of her head. “There’s no time…we have to get him to Dr. Vincent now.”
“And how do you suppose we do that?” Francis shot back, arms aloft to his sides. “I can’t rightly carry him there, not with my back in the shape it’s in.”
His reaction was beyond vexing, reminiscent of something his cousin Lazarus would asseverate without a care in the world as to how it sounded or was perceived.
Lauren was confused and frazzled, operating on waning adrenaline. Her drive alone possessed the muscle to get Neo anywhere he needed to be, but her body felt tenuous in the wake of her latest brush with death. She knew she wasn’t up to the task, though confessing that weakness was another matter.
Jean held up a pleading hand, hopeful that Lauren would reserve further reprimand. “Francis, just go. I’ll stay here with Lauren and the boy. We’ll try to figure something out.”
“Oh? Such as? Your back ain’t much better than mine, Jean, need I remi—”
“Francis Thorne Whitacre, don’t you test me! I said go on! Now! Git!”
His distaste on display, Jean’s husband sighed and trotted off in the direction whence he’d come, only to find that Woo Tang, Fred Mason, and another uniformed man were already hastily making their way to them. “Reckon I’m stayin’ here. They must’ve gotten wind of the ruckus.”
Lauren cast aside everything and everyone in that moment aside from her injured friend, until detecting Woo Tang’s muffled voice when he knelt beside her.
“Lauren Russell, move out of the way, please. We will take it from here.”
Her heart warmed at knowing he was here. She nodded a response without looking and scooted away on her knees. “I thought he was dead, Jae,” she whimpered. “He wasn’t breathing when I found him…I started CPR and got him back somehow…I-I think I might’ve broken his ribs.”
“That’s valuable info, thank you,” said the young man opposite her.
Lauren looked him over as he rifled through a blue medical bag at his side, identifying him as the FMTV driver who’d happened upon her group moments after their trip on foot to the valley had ended. He’d sported a broad smile then, and his face had been clean shaven, but neither attribute was tangible now. “Evans.” She read his name tape aloud. “You’re…a medic?”
He grinned awkwardly. “No, not formally, ma’am. But not to worry. The corporal’s in good hands.”
“I wasn’t asking to insult you…”
“I know, and you didn’t,” Evans said. “The shit hit the fan during my eighth week at Fort Sam, midway to sixty-eight whiskey. I learned a lot there, just…never made the grade.”
Lauren nodded understanding and left him to his devices. She knew well what it had been like not to have finished a level of education resultant of society’s downfall. Sitting back, she watched him assess Neo, and took in a sense of the real damage done. Dave Graham’s RTO looked as though he’d been dragged through an all-consuming hell. Severe burns and blistered skin covered a substantial portion of his back. And his glasses were missing again.
Scarcely able to hear even his own patented command voice, Lauren found Fred standing tall in proximity. With one arm cradling his M1A like a newborn grandchild, the other supported a walkie-talkie he held close to his ear. His stare punched holes through the pile of smokey destruction on the opposing side of Trout Run. “Charlie fucking Foxtrot…talk about drudging up bad recalls,” he grumbled, giving the walkie a frustrated shake. “I think this rig of yours is FUBAR, squiddy. I can’t raise any of your people.”
“Have you tried another channel?”
“I have—every damn one of them.” Fred handed the radio off to him. “Either no one’s listening, they’re too pooped to riposte, or that fast mover got to all of them, God forbid.”
The former SEAL glowered crossly. “Let us hope that is not the case.”
Fred grunted his accord while appearing unconvinced.
“Fast mover?” Lauren prompted, still raising her voice enough to discern it, though no one furnished a reply.
She observed Fred in the span of reticence, noting how the ferocity had returned to
