You can still go home, warrior.
He holds out his hand.
You hesitate. And then you take it.
71
Liam
Day One Hundred and Fifteen
Liam felt himself fading.
He slumped against the fridge. His worthless legs splayed out in front of him, sitting in his own congealing blood. Darkness lurked at the corners of his vision.
The M4 rested in his lap. He’d switched out the spent magazine and inserted the fresh one he’d confiscated from a nearby corpse. Thirty rounds for one last rodeo.
The ringing in his ears had dulled. How much time had passed? An hour? Two? How long did it take for a man’s lifeblood to leak from his broken body?
His thoughts drifted in and out of focus. His consciousness riding the waves of pain and numbness. Gradually, he began to let himself go.
His head leaned back, eyes half closed, staring at nothing. He thought of Hannah. The feel of her in his arms, the softness of her lips. How she tilted her chin and bit her bottom lip; how when she was angry, her eyes sparked a deep emerald green.
How bleak and unfair life could be. And yet, so fierce and wonderful and spectacularly beautiful. How much he would miss.
And yet, he was satisfied. The Sinclairs were dead. Every last one of them.
Footsteps approached from somewhere behind him. Two sets of boots.
Liam stiffened. Instinct took over.
It was in his blood. In his bones. He’d lived as a warrior. He would die like one, too. Hands shaking, he raised his gun one final time.
“Clear,” said a deep baritone voice.
“Damn it,” said another voice. Husky and familiar. “Look at the carnage. He couldn’t have made it…”
“I’ll search the bodies. I’m not leaving until we find him.”
“Roger that.”
It was a mirage. A figment of his dying imagination, his brain so starved of oxygen that his mind was playing tricks on him.
“I’m here.” His throat dry as a desert, swollen tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I’m here.”
Silence. Then, “Coleman?”
Liam’s eyelids fluttered. The gun was too heavy to carry. His eyes were too heavy.
The footsteps drew closer. Two figures rounded the corner in a crouch. Weapons up, scanning back and forth.
One tall, bulky, and black; the other short, broad, and Hispanic. The two prettiest men he’d ever seen.
“There you are!” Bishop said, like he was a recalcitrant child who’d gotten misplaced in a grocery store.
Liam lowered the carbine. “You—came…”
“Leave no one behind,” Bishop said. “You still don’t get it, you stubborn ass. You don’t have to carry this burden alone, brother. You never did.”
Reynoso looked down and saw the blood. The color drained from his face. “Oh, hell.”
“I’m…shot.”
“Clearly.”
Bishop knelt beside Liam and shrugged off his pack. He pulled out a first aid kit and looked Liam over. “Easy now. There’s no exit wound. The bullet’s still in there, messing you up.”
“I think it’s a fragment from a ricochet.” Stars danced in front of his vision. His eyelids fluttered. “Can’t feel my legs…”
Bishop looked up at Reynoso, expression drawn. “It’s a spinal injury. Get a door! We can use it as a backboard.” He turned to Liam. “Stay with me.”
Reynoso got to work on a door outside the kitchen. The Marine practically ripped the thing from its hinges. A minute later, he’d carried it to Liam’s side.
With great care, he and Bishop lifted Liam and placed him on the board. They filled any voids along his back with clothes stolen from the dead contractors. Bishop fashioned a neck brace with pillows from one of the hotel rooms, using duct tape to immobilize his head.
This was combat field medicine. They were in a war zone with few supplies in the middle of an apocalypse. They made do with what they had.
Once they’d stabilized Liam’s spine, Bishop pulled a makeshift IV bag and kit from his pack. Liam recognized the small battery-operated drill for EZ IO—intraosseous infusion.
It was designed to get quick IV access to the venous system through the shin bone. Though it looked hideous, it was perfect for both medics and untrained people to get an IV line going in a hurry.
Liam’s eyes widened. “You sure you know how to use that thing?”
“Enough to know what to do. Used one a couple of times during my tour in Afghanistan. It looks worse than it feels.”
“Says you.”