John stood by the truck, Burnett’s hand in his. Burnett’s voice was weak, telling him what had happened, denying they had anything to do with the raid on the convey. A couple of his people coming back from a trading mission with the cultlike reivers over in Madison County had witnessed it from afar and then ran for their base.
“Why didn’t you move as you told me you would?” John asked.
Burnett laughed weakly. “You know how much gas it takes to move half a hundred vehicles and four hundred people fifty miles? Looks like a scene from one of those damn disaster movies. I was bluffing you, John, to see what you’d do. Then we heard those helicopters coming in, and I knew the shit was in the fan.”
John could only nod.
“Thought you were in on it at first when I saw that plane. Yeah, we seen you fly it for the first time last weekend. Craggy Gap used to be a damn good perch to spy on you folks. So, yeah, I thought you were in on it. Your plane take a shot or two?”
“A couple. One damn near blew my head off, hit just behind me.”
Burnett chuckled weakly. “One-armed but still good with a carbine.”
“That was you?”
“Damn straight. But glad now I missed. Glad you dropped that note. Took a chance on believing you. Saw the way those Apaches bird-dogged you, as well.”
He slipped off for a moment, John squeezing Burnett’s hand with his right and reaching out with his left to check his pulse. It was weak and fluttery; he was definitely slipping deeper into shock. Throughout all this, the driver was silent, and John suddenly realized that he was wounded as well and had just quietly passed out.
Christ, these people are tough, John thought. Ragged and malnourished, they had struggled to survive. Black Mountain had managed to pull together in fair part because tactically it was a superb location, with only one pass in and one out, surrounded by mountains. But these people had somehow managed to survive while actually living in the mountains, narrow valleys, and hollows in the same way their ancestors had etched out a living 150 years earlier.
“Medic over here!” John shouted.
Burnett stirred. “Officers last, Matherson.”
“To hell with that!”
A stretcher crew came up to John, and he pulled the door open and went around to the other side and opened the driver door and then recoiled. The driver’s left side under his armpit was drenched red, blood actually trickling out from the open door and splashing on to John’s boots. The young man had silently bled to death while waiting his turn in the old tradition of women and children first, and John wanted to scream with frustrated rage. How he managed to drive with that kind of injury was beyond comprehension. A stretcher team came up, and John shook his head.
“This one’s dead.” He sighed.
He went around to where Burnett was being eased out of the pickup truck and onto the stretcher, protesting weakly for the rest of the kids and women to be tended to ahead of him.
Makala came over to his side, looked down at him, drew a pair of scissors out of her pocket, and cut the bandage off, revealing a jagged hole in his left side just below his ribs. She sighed and raised the lipstick tube.
“He’s a two,” John snapped, and she hesitated. “It’s Forrest Burnett, and he’s a two.”
Forrest, eyes going out of focus, looked up at him. “Officers last,” he whispered.
“Yeah, Forrest, you’re the last case, now relax.” He turned his gaze back to Makala. “A two, and do it now.”
She nodded. “You ex-military?” she asked, leaning down and shouting the question.
He stirred and smiled.
“What’s your blood type?”
He looked confused.
“Trooper, what’s your blood type?” John shouted.
“A positive.” Then he slipped out of consciousness.
“Get him into surgery now!” Makala shouted. “Prep him. I’ll go into him if need be if no one is working on him once I’m done out here.”
John looked at her and nodded his thanks.
“Spleen’s most likely blown apart,” she whispered. “He’s lost a lot of blood, John. We should just let him go.”
“Would you have three years ago? Before everything fell apart?”
She did not reply. Outwardly, she was doing her job, but he could see she was in shock and struggling to barely maintain control.
John turned to face the silent crowd, many of whom were still praying. “People, listen up. We need blood donors now. Most of you know your types. O positives over here. A, B, and AB form separate lines off to the right. Tell the medic what type you are, and that will be marked on your forehead. We need blood now!”
Half a hundred onlookers stepped forward, and again, a lump was in John’s throat. It took him back to the terrible days after the Posse fight, when those near death from malnourishment volunteered blood as a final gesture before dying.
Makala cleared the last casualty, an elderly woman who simply smiled at the lie that three meant they’d see to her soon.
“You’re a good soul, nurse,” the old woman whispered, “but I know I’m seeing my Maker today.”
John looked at her and sighed. It was Nurse Maggie, who had checked his concussion. He went up to take her hand, and she smiled wanly.
“So it’s you. Thank you for what you’re doing for us,” she said.
He could not reply.
“John?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The trucks have to go back. There’s fifty or more wounded waiting back at our camp. We sent the women, children, and badly hurt ahead first.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“Don’t trouble about me,” she whispered, and then the stretcher-bearers took her off to that place that all knew and whispered about with dread—the dying room.
He looked at Makala, who came up and leaned against his shoulder as he put his arm around her.
“Fifty-three packed into those trucks. Nearly half were threes, after that trip. If I could have gotten to them in that first golden hour, we could have most likely saved all but three or four of them.” A shuddering sob ran through her. “Oh, God, I could have saved that little girl if I had gotten to her quick enough.”
He started to break, as well. And his Jennifer could have been saved if only they had some more vials of insulin. He knew hundreds were watching, and again he was forced to act his role, drawing in a deep breath. “We got to get to work,” he whispered to her, and she nodded.
“Sorry we argued, John.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “My fault, and I love you.”
She looked up and smiled. “Same here,” she managed to whisper, and then she drew in a deep breath and backed away from his embrace. “I got to scrub up.” She again sounded all business. “You really want that Forrest character saved, don’t you?”
“Hell yes I do.”
“Why? He damn near had you killed.”
“Because I respect him, that’s why. He did what he had to do, same as I did. And besides, if for nothing else, he gave an arm and half his sight for this country long ago.”
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I want to save him too. I’ll try my best.”
He started to step back.
“John, you have to call Memorial Mission. They have enough anesthesia and antibiotics and painkillers on hand now, and we need all of it. We got enough hoarded up to help with the primary surgeries, but to ease the suffering of the rest, there just isn’t enough to go around. We’re giving aspirins out as a primary painkiller, at least to those who aren’t bleeding heavily. We have those batches of antibiotics made up from silver, but I’d prefer some stronger stuff, especially for the gut shots.”