My father. Fran still couldn’t get her mind around that.
Two minutes earlier she and Duncan had been running through the woods and were stopped by what appeared to be a swamp monster, vines and sticks hanging from its body.
“I’m Warren,” it said. “Follow me.”
Fran followed. She’d just seen the sheriff get shot, and much as she mistrusted the man in front of her, she had to protect Duncan. Warren Streng led them to a dead deer, pressed some sort of button, and the ground opened up.
“Slide down. I’ll be right back.”
Fran clutched her son and they went down the ramp on their butts, Fran using the rubber grips on the bottom of her sandals to slow their descent. When they reached bottom they were in a room illuminated by black lights. The decals on her sweatshirt and Duncan’s white shoelaces and socks glowed purple.
Above them the hatch closed. Fran startled at the sound. They’d escaped the Red-ops, yet again, but she still felt a long way from safe.
“Is Sheriff Streng okay?” Duncan asked.
“I don’t know, baby.”
“Is that guy really your dad?”
“I think so.”
“So he’s my grandpa?”
“Unfortunately.”
Duncan pulled away from her, trying to stand.
“Stay close to me, baby.”
“I’m not a baby, Mom.”
Fran rubbed his back, like she did when he was an infant and wouldn’t go to sleep. “You’ll always be my baby, Duncan.”
“Can I get lights like this? They’re cool.”
“We’ll see.”
The seconds ticked by. Fran wondered what they would do if Warren didn’t come back. She guessed this place had more rooms. There was probably food, water, weapons. And so far the Red-ops hadn’t been able to find it. Maybe they could stay here for a while, wait for them to leave. Maybe—
A clanging sound, coming from the corner of the room. Fran noticed that some tools on the pegboard were wobbling and a wrench had fallen on the floor.
She stood up, forcing Duncan behind her.
“What is it, Mom?” her son whispered.
“I don’t know, Duncan. Someone else is in here.”
Movement, to their right, followed by a piercing shriek. Fran flinched, putting her hands up to protect her face as something flew at her. It landed on her chest and hugged her neck.
The monkey.
“Mathison!” Mathison jumped from Fran to her son, giving him a hug, as well. “He must have snuck in when Grandpa opened the secret door!”
She didn’t like Duncan calling Warren Grandpa, but she didn’t press the issue.
Instead she walked away from the monkey and child reunion and approached the pegboard, looking for weapons. Fran selected an awl and a hammer with a straight claw.
A clang, from the surface, echoed through the room.
“Mom?” Duncan whispered. “There’s someone coming.”
“Come here, Duncan. Quick.”
Duncan stood at her side, Mathison on his shoulder. Fran held the awl in one hand, the claw hammer in the other, and waited for the person to come down the slide.
There was a noise from above. It got louder. Closer.
“What if it’s them?” Duncan asked.
Fran had weapons. She would fight to the death. They wouldn’t get her son. She held her breath and raised the hammer, watching as two booted feet came down the ramp.
Warren. And he had Sheriff Streng.
“Fran, Duncan, I need some help.”
Warren hit a switch on the wall that closed the above hatch, then hauled the sheriff across the floor, leaving a streak of blood. In the black light it looked like motor oil.
“Get the door,” Warren ordered.
Duncan opened the only door in the room, which led into a bright hallway.
“First door on the right. Fran, grab the first-aid box.”
Fran stepped over Streng and hurried into the room. She found herself in a large storage area, filled with ranks and files of shelves. Food, paper products, boxes of all types, and on the rear wall—racks of guns.
“Second aisle, a white footlocker, bottom shelf.”
Fran spied it, a metal box with a suitcase handle on it, so heavy it took both hands to carry.
“Duncan,” Warren said, his hands on the sheriff’s bleeding leg, “get some jugs of water. Last row, second shelf. Fran, pull this suit off me. And the shotgun.”
Warren wore a camouflage holster on his back, which housed a shotgun that nestled against his spine. Fran removed both holster and gun, then located the snaps on the swamp-monster outfit and tugged it off. Warren’s eyes met hers, and Fran was stricken by how much they looked like Duncan’s. Like her own.
“In the box, get me a scalpel.”
Fran opened up the footlocker and shelves folded out like a tackle box. She found a scalpel in a slot and handed it to Warren.
“I got the water, Grandpa.”
“Pour it on the sheriff’s leg, Duncan.”
Warren cut away Streng’s pants. Fran glanced down, saw the gory stump where the calf used to be, and had to turn away.
“Duncan,” she said. “Leave the room.”
“Like hell he’s leaving the room,” Warren barked.
“He’s a child.”
“He’s got hands. I need those hands. Pour the water, Duncan. And keep pouring until I say quit.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I can help.”
Duncan pulled the cap off a water container and sprinkled some out.
“Faster, son, dump it on there.”
Duncan upended the jug, and Fran stared, mortified, as it flushed away the blood, exposing several wormy blood vessels and two pink bones.
“Fran, give me some clamps.”
Fran didn’t move, paralyzed by the spectacle before her.
“Clamps, Frannie! They look like scissors.”
Frannie. Her mom used to call her Frannie.
Fran found a clamp and handed it to Warren.
“Keep pouring, Duncan. Right here, where my fingers are. Good job.”
Warren locked the clamp around one of the slimy purple worms.
“Another one, Fran. And give me the big silver syringe, the one with two tubes coming out the sides.”
Fran searched the box. Warren clamped off another artery. She heard a chittering sound, saw Mathison sitting on a shelf, watching the proceedings with a worried expression.
“I’m out of water, Grandpa.”
“Get more.”
“I got it,” Fran held the strange-looking syringe out to Warren. The plunger had a loop on the end, and instead of a conventional tip it boasted a valve with two plastic tubes, each ending in a catheter. He took it, rolled up his sleeve, and shoved a needle into his wrist.
“Pull the plunger to take blood from my artery,” Warren said.
Fran did as instructed, tugging on the loop and staring as the syringe filled with blood. Warren searched for one of the sheriff’s veins. He located one in the crook of Streng’s elbow.
“Pour some water on my hands, Duncan. They’re too slippery.”
Duncan complied. Warren found the vein on the third try, and Fran gently pressed the plunger without being told. Warren’s blood flowed into Streng.
“His leg, Duncan, keep going. And more clamps, Fran. And a package of gauze. Hand over the blood tranfuser.”
Warren pulled and pushed on the plunger, sucking and pumping faster than Fran had dared to try. Streng moaned, his head shaking.
“There’s a glass bottle, Fran, bottom of the box, called pethidine. Find it, and fill up one of those small syringes. Duncan, see what I’m doing with this syringe? You do the same.”
Duncan took over the blood transfusion. Warren tied off two more blood vessels while Fran found the bottle and syringes.