CHAPTER 9
Jennifer
Jennifer Scales, born
of two bloodlines—dragon and beaststalker—flicked back to her human
shape while banking in to land on the hospital parking lot. She
dropped the fifteen or so feet, caught the impact by flexing her
knees, then walked through the front door, acknowledging the armed
sentries flanking the west entrance.
It was a measure of
how much had changed in the last year that she had flown in as a
dragon, switched to human in midair, dropped to the pavement with
her swords carefully strapped, and no one blinked. Heck, the only
ones who even noticed were the sentries.
Both
thirteen-year-olds were nodding back, Jim Tenny cradling a Hechler
& Koch S—uh—an S-something-or-other . . . Jennifer had never
known much about guns. Her mother was expert with any bladed
weapon, and her father—well. ’Nuff said.
His twin, Jana, was
holding the stock of her .12-gauge in one hand, the shotgun barrel
resting on her left shoulder. They looked weirdly alike, which was
unsettling as they were fraternal, not identical, twins. In fact,
except for the length of their hair, they really were identical.
They even bore identical, slight smiles.
Susan’s right. The Boy Scouts/Sniper Team are creepy.
Especially when they drag their sisters into
it.
“Have you seen my
dad?”
In times of crisis,
she knew her mother drew inward, while her father extended outward.
Together, they were a formidable team. But what she needed now was
the one who would talk with her and help her process what she had
seen less than twenty minutes ago.
Jim and Jana
shrugged, so Jennifer went inside.
The next person she
ran across was Anna- Lisa, looking harassed as usual, barely
flicking a glance her way as she walked by on the way to the supply
room, talking to herself. “Oh, what do we need, oh, hi, Jennifer,
okay, we need another case of lightbulbs—any kind, we’re going to
have to check the storage space at Wal-Mart and Target . . . even
Christmas lights would be okay. And also, um, yeah, Jennifer, your
dad’s—flashlights! Yeah, we can wind Christmas lights around the
poles out there to keep the place lit at night, but
we—uh—”
“My dad?” Jennifer
prompted.
“Right, hang on guys,
um, Jennifer, I haven’t seen your dad. I know your mom’s checking
on Bonnie’s new baby—premature, poor thing, I don’t think her
lungs—lighter fluid!” This made Jennifer jump.
Jennifer moved
through the lobby, recognizing each of the faces there. They had
become a sort of extended family, including several members who
probably wished for a different heritage. Some of them still
dropped their eyes when she passed—nurses her mom had worked with
for years, EMTs who had come over to the house for barbecues since
Jennifer was four. A couple of PAs. Cooks. Physical therapists. An
awful lot of them were carefully avoiding eye contact.
Is it because of who and what I am . . . or did they catch
a live feed?
The hospital still
smelled of antiseptic, blood, and floor wax. It even looked like
one, sort of—the place was a mess, yeah, and more lights were
burned-out (when they were even turned on) than not.
Still, there were
differences anyone would notice at once: staff were scarce;
multiple rooms had been converted into “temporary” living quarters;
the emergency fire boxes were all emptied of hoses and axes; nobody
was asking anyone a damn thing about insurance information; nobody
was “Midwestern plump” anymore; and everyone looked exhausted and
scared.
Winter’s coming again, she thought. We need a plan.
But first, we’ve got to figure out how Skip will react to
what Hank has done today.
She heard her mother
long before she saw her.
“—dammit, dammit,
dammit! How am I supposed to treat a
preemie without bilirubin lights? Huh?”
“You could try
throwing a tantrum,” came her father’s voice, helping her breathe a
sigh of relief as she rounded the corner.
As always (these
days, certainly) her mother looked exhausted and . . . well . . .
old. Though Jennifer didn’t like to
think about her mom as a, you know, real person and all (gross!),
she had always known that Elizabeth Georges was seriously cute. She
usually looked in her thirties; today (and
yesterday and last week and last month and) she looked like
she was on the far side of sixty.
“I don’t have time
for banter,” she shot back. She turned back to the man who looked
ready for orders—her PA, Michael Donovan. “We’re low on ventilators
and antibiotics. We’ve got to decide if baby Marshall here truly
needs anything beyond a blanket and a bottle. By the sword of St.
George, I swear—”
Jennifer raised her
eyebrows. That was a rare epithet indeed—one her mother, prior to
Big Blue, took care never to repeat in mixed company.
“Basically we’re down
to freaking kangaroo care!”
Now Jennifer tried to
stifle a giggle. Her mom had explained once that in less-developed
countries (or in cities that were, say, trapped beneath a dome) the
best way for medical professionals to treat premature infants was
skin-to-skin contact. And not only from the new moms. People all
over town would be pressed into kangaroo-care service: male or
female, trained or not, dragon or beaststalker or neither.
Lactating or, uh, not.
Jonathan cleared his
throat. “I better not keep you too long, Liz. Listen, I scouted
those farms you sent me to—the ones to the northwest? There are
maybe half a dozen cattle left.”
Michael twisted his
mouth. “That’s maybe enough to feed this hospital population for a
couple of weeks. If nobody has seconds.”
“Mother fuck,” her
mom said in quiet despair. Then, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—thank
you so much for looking. It’s good news, Jonathan.”
“Sure it is. I’ll bet
Jennifer has more.”
They all—both parents
and Michael, and possibly even the baby—looked at her. She chewed
her tongue, trying to figure out how not to make what she had seen
sound even worse than starving to death.
As it turned out,
there was no way to do that. So she settled on telling them, no
punches pulled, about the repeated hobbling of Tavia Saltin on the
bridge in front of Skip and Andi.
Everyone sat
down—first Jonathan and Michael, and then Elizabeth, with baby
Marshall still in her arms.
“Did anyone see you?”
she asked.
“I don’t think so. I
was in camouflage, circling overhead. No one acted as if they knew
or cared I was there.”
“That was dangerous,
ace.”
“I know, Dad.” She
did know. He might as well have said, We’re
stuck under a dome, ace.
“You say Skip walked
away from that?”
“And Andi. But I
doubt this is the end of it. Skip doesn’t walk away from fights.
Not these days, especially. He has something in mind.”
Elizabeth handed baby
Marshall off to Michael before pounding her forehead with a fist.
“Fucking Hank. Fucking Hank. Fucking Hank.”
“Liz. You
okay?”
“I’m super, honey.”
Whack! Whack-whack! “This is how I think.”
“Maybe it would work
better if you could punch Hank instead of yourself.”
“Don’t tempt me. I
can’t believe he’s provoking arachnids as we head into a second
winter. What does he have stockpiled down there under city
hall—provisions for eternity? Moronic mama’s boy.”
“On behalf of mama’s
boys everywhere,” her father said with faux dignity, forcing
Jennifer to stifle yet another giggle, “I resent that. And I doubt
Hank thinks that far ahead. C’mon, Liz. I know this is bad, but we
have to focus. You’ve got a baby that needs care here. What do you
want Michael to do?”
Elizabeth rubbed her
eyes and turned to Michael. “Kangaroo care it is. You have first
shift. Watch him carefully for symptoms and start an immediate
course of antibiotics if you see anything.”
As Michael nodded and
took the baby out of the room, Jennifer marveled at the deftness
with which her father, who not twelve hours ago had been nearly
catatonic with pessimism and defeatism, had redirected her mother’s
despair into positive action.
He really knows her. And she really needs him. No wonder
she’s willing to resort to bad coffee to keep him going. Hey—I
wonder if he does the same thing to me?
Naw. He’d be more subtle. He’d—
As if on cue, he
turned to her. “C’mon, ace. Let’s you and I go bring those cattle
in.”
Subtle like a brick to the forehead.