“In the truck,” she said. “He won’t wake up.”
Prendick had dropped his rifle when he’d been struck, and Alice brought it to Andrew so he could use the stock as a crutch. With Alice’s help, he managed to wrestle the door open and looked up into the cab. Moore slumped forward in the driver’s seat, his head turned to the side so he faced Andrew, his cheek mashed against the steering wheel. When Andrew managed to shove him back into the seat, the horn at last fell silent. Even without a medical degree, Andrew could see Moore was in rough shape. His nose had been broken, a swollen, misshapen mess. His lips were busted, his scalp lacerated, his face and shirt soaked with blood.
“We have to get him out,” Alice whimpered, tugging at Andrew’s arm, pleading.
How? Andrew thought, at a dismayed loss. The dash had collapsed around the steering column, trapping Moore’s legs. “I thought you left,” he said to Alice. “I thought your dad…he was going to get you out of here.”
“The door closed,” Alice said. “Daddy got it open but then it rolled shut before we could get out.”
With another pained grunt, Andrew grabbed the door and muffler stack pipe, hoisting himself on his good leg up onto the step again. “Moore,” he said, keeping one hand on the frame to keep his balance and using the other to reach beneath the shelf of Moore’s chin, fumbling for a pulse. “Dr. Moore? Can you hear me?”
Moore didn’t answer, but beneath Andrew’s fingertips, he felt a faint, thready vibration. Moore uttered a sigh, a moist, rattling, laborious sound. The steering wheel was big, raised enough so when he’d crashed forward at the impact, he’d caught it against his face and upper chest, probably crushing ribs.
“He’s hurt,” Alice moaned and Andrew glanced down at her. There would be no sparing her from this, no hiding or disguising it. No sheltering her.
Because I’m not going to be able to get him out of here, Andrew thought. Not without a hacksaw to cut his legs off at the knees.
“Listen to me.” Biting back a pained gasp of his own, he stepped down from the ruined cab of the truck. Sitting against the stool was not only a blessed relief to his wounded leg, but it put him down at the girl’s tearful eye level. “I need you to help me,” he said, cupping his hand against her cheek. “Can you do that, Alice?”
She nodded and he tried to smile, reassuring and calm. “Good girl. Do you remember the little bathroom where we made you a pallet to sleep? There’s a desk right beside it, Dani Santoro’s desk.” God, it pained him to say her name at the moment, because the last he’d seen, she’d fallen to the ground, having taken at least one shot from Prendick’s M16, if not more. He didn’t want to think about what that might mean.
“That’s where Daddy found the truck keys,” Alice said.
“That’s right.” Andrew nodded, still forcing bright nonchalance into his face and voice. It was working, he could see it in Alice’s face. He was acting calm, so her own anxiety was dissipating. “I need you to look around inside the drawers and see if you can find any more keys. These trucks are too smashed up to drive now. We’ll need to get another one.”
She glanced up at Moore, momentarily hesitant, then back at Andrew and nodded. “Okay.”
“Good girl,” Andrew said again, with a smile he didn’t feel.
He watched her scurry across the dark landscape of the garage, hands outstretched, her feet whispering against the smooth floor. Then he stood again, and, using the rifle to balance himself clumsily, leaned back into the cab.
“Moore,” he said, giving the older man’s shoulder a little shake. After two or three such attempts, Moore groaned, his eyes opening. His gaze was unfocused, pain-filled and dazed, settling in visible confusion on Andrew’s face.
“Alice,” he said in a warbling voice that dissolved into a sudden, sodden stream of coughs. Blood peppered his cheeks and chin with each forceful, painful exhalation, and in the aftermath of the fit, he slumped back against the seat, eyes closed, blood dribbling down his chin.
“She’s alright,” Andrew told him. “She’s not hurt.”
He didn’t know if Moore had passed out again or not, at least until the other man nodded once. “Good,” he murmured, a faint croak. His hand flopped out, groping weakly at the front of Andrew’s shirt. “Don’t… let her see me… like this.”
“I’m going to get you out of here,” Andrew said.
Moore peeled back one eyelid and regarded Andrew for a long, wheezing moment. “Son, you’re going to be doing good to… get yourself out of here.”
The corner of his mouth hooked in a smile and Andrew managed a hoarse laugh. “Don’t worry about me,” Moore said. “Just… get Alice out.” When Andrew started to protest, he shook his head. “My aorta is ruptured. I… can tell from my breathing… the pain in my chest. I’m bleeding to death. Do you understand?”
Stricken, Andrew stared at him.
“You… can’t stop it,” Moore continued with a grimace. “There’s nothing you can do. So promise me…please.” Again, his hand hooked against Andrew’s shirt, pulling the younger man near. “Take care of Alice,” he whispered. “Please.”
“Alright.” Andrew nodded, but it was too late. Moore’s fingers uncurled, limp and loosening, his hand drooping to dangle lifelessly in the open doorway. His breath rattled to a moist, strained halt and his eyelids drooped to a sleepy, eternal half-mast.
Oh, Jesus. Andrew stumbled back from the door, leaning against the barrel of the rifle, teetering unsteadily. He cut his eyes around, but there was no sign of Alice. He thought he could hear the soft sounds of rustling from somewhere across the room, in the direction of Dani’s desk.
Then he heard another rustling, this one much closer and when he turned, he realized that, contrary to popular misconception, Major Prendick was alive and well. Or if not well, then at least lifting his head from the wrinkled hood of the truck.
“Oh, Jesus,” Andrew said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Glaaaggghhh.”
Prendick uttered a horrible cawing sound, his mouth slack-jawed and agape, blood drooling down in thick streams over the outer edge of his bottom lip. His eyes punched into Andrew, round and wild, the cornea on his left side stained red with hemorrhage. His hands moved against the hood of the cargo truck, fingers splayed wide and outstretched, scrabbling and slapping at the crimped metal.
He’s still alive. Andrew shrank back in horror, hopping on his good leg as he snatched the M16 between his hands. Oh, God, how can he still be alive?
“Glllaaaaaggghhh,” Prendick squawked, his fingernails scraping the metal hood like a slate chalkboard: Screeeeeech! He began to shrug his shoulders and wriggle at the waist, twisting from side to side slowly at first, then more quickly, fervently, furiously.
He’s trying to get loose. Oh, Christ, he’s trying to get to me.
What had Dani had told him about firing the rifle?
Turn the safety off. There’s a switch on the side panel. Turn it to semi.
“Major Prendick, you…you shouldn’t be moving,” Andrew stammered helplessly, pawing at the rifle, thumbing the toggle switch to arm it. “You’re pretty messed up.”
Prendick uttered a warbling croak, then vomited blood, sending a thick torrent splashing against the smashed front end of the truck, down into the steaming, exposed engine components. Still, he thrashed against the grill, and Andrew heard a moist grinding sound as flesh and bones, meat and guts began to rind and rip.