Working With Cedar: The Early Years Page 4

  At that moment, Betty came through the front door. She saw his raised hand and said, “Suck up the pain and watch my back. I’ll finish this.”

  Curling his injured hand to hold against his chest, Nash watched for any movement as Betty shook rainwater from her hair, wiped her face with the sleeve of her blouse and then methodically walked the room, shooting every bomb victim in their head, beginning her merciless campaign with the still moaning woman near the front door.

  She head-shot the gang members in the living room and then entered the kitchen. A man screamed, “Please don’t.” Nash heard a shot. After a pause, there was another shot fired.

  Betty came from the kitchen to where he was standing. “Lamar was playing possum, pretending to be dead. I’m out of bullets, give me your pistol.”

  With his pistol, she put another round into the head of the man he’d already shot, and then bent to do the same to the man on the floor. She straightened, used her foot to kick the man on the floor and said, “That’s Gene,” and then used her free hand to unseat the man slumped at the table, “and that piece of crap is Merle.” Merle hit the carpeted wood floor with a dead thud.

  Turning to face him, Nash knew he would never forget the blank emotionless face she wore. The tone of her voice complimented her expression. “They’re dead and now I’m a single woman. Let me see your hand.”

  Even though his hand throbbed, robbing most of his ability to think, her words triggered Nash’s number oriented mind. “Wait. I counted nine shots before you used my pistol to fire twice more. That’s eleven, but I counted thirteen people at the estate including you. Someone is missing.”

  In a disbelieving tone, she asked, “Are you sure.”

  “Positive.”

  “Christ, let me check.”

  Betty walked rapidly through the living room, glancing at each dead body. She entered the kitchen, returned seconds later and strode to the center of the room to shout, “Where are you Ellen? Ellen, answer me.”

  A muffled voice called from behind a closed door leading from the living room. “Is that you, Betty? Is it over?” Is it safe to come out?”

  Betty called back to her, “Not yet. How are the children?”

  “They’re scared. I was in the bathroom when the bomb blew up. I took Lamar and Sheena’s boys to the back bedroom with my girl. Is Merle okay? Why don’t I hear anyone else?”

  Not answering her questions, Betty said, “It’s safe to come out now.”

  The door opened wide enough for a middle-aged woman with grey-streaked curly blonde hair to poke her head around the edge and view the carnage. She said, “Oh lord.” Then she shouted, “Merle… Merle…”

  Betty waved her pistol and said, “Merle’s dead. Get your butt out here, Ellen.”

  Ellen flung open the door and dashed into the room. “Dead! Merle’s not dead! Where are you Merle?”

  Betty took three steps to close the distance between them and bashed Ellen’s face with Nash’s pistol. Ellen staggered backwards and clamped a hand to her face to stem the blood flowing from her nose.

  Betty again stepped close to Ellen to place the barrel of the pistol against her temple.

  “Don’t move, bitch. Your piece of shit husband’s dead right alongside mine. Now you’ll do what I tell you or die too.” Betty jabbed Ellen’s head with the end of the gun barrel. “Down on your knees.” Not giving Ellen time to move, she jabbed again. “On your knees!”

  Ellen dropped to her knees. Tears ran past her hand to mix with blood dripping from her chin. “Why are you doing this?”

  Betty aimed a vicious kick into Ellen’s side. Ellen fell to all fours and then onto her side to curl into a fetal position.

  As Ellen lay there, gasping for breath, Betty bent to shout, “Why am I doing this? In your husband’s words, this is about survival and anything goes. His failing was he didn’t think it could go against him.”

  Straightening up, seeing the accusing expression on Nash’s face, Betty said, “Don’t pity her. She spent an hour after the raid bragging about being the one who made the kill shot on your friend Jill. She bragged about the tight group of bullets in the poor girl’s chest. You’re welcome to shoot this one.”

  Nash shook his head. “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. It irks me to let her live, but if we kill her, we’d have to take on the children here. I know your hand hurts, but see if you can find something I can use to tie her.”

  Keeping the pistol trained on Ellen, she went to the door Ellen came through, and shouted, “Nicole, you’re the oldest. Stay in the room and keep Sheena’s boys with you. Don’t come out for any reason. Do you hear me, girl!”

  Looking for something to use to bind Ellen, Nash heard a muted reply. “We won’t come out.”

  Ellen had regained her breath, and attempted to speak. “Please don’t—.”

  Betty kicked her again, but not as viciously. “Shut up. Don’t say another word … Nash, have you…?”

  “Coming right now.” With only one hand to use, Nash yanked the cord that opened and closed the curtains, bringing down the rod and tattered curtains with it. He dragged the mess over to Betty.

  She unraveled a length of pull cord, and glancing at Nash’s agonized face, seeing him again cradling his bloody hand to his chest, said, “I’ll need you to hold your pistol on this murderess while I tie her.” she paused speaking to Nash to prod Ellen’s side with the pistol. “That’s what you are. Survivalists my ass; you’re murderers one and all.”

  Again speaking to Nash, “She and Merle took karate classes and participated in amateur martial arts contests. Gene took me to watch one of her fights. She’s dangerous. Once you have the pistol, be ready to use it.”

  Again, she prodded Ellen’s side. “You hear that. Don’t move.”

  Ellen twisted her head, turning her shoulders slightly toward Betty as if to speak. Betty slammed the butt of the pistol against her temple. “Don’t speak to me and don’t try to look at me or I swear I’ll kill you.”

  Ellen’s hand went to cup her temple. “Stop hurting me.”

  Betty motioned for Nash to take the pistol. Reluctantly, Nash ‘sucked up the pain’ and removed his cradling hand, but kept the injured one pressed against his chest. Before giving him the pistol, she asked for his multi-tool to cut the cordage, and then told Ellen, “I’m going to tie your hands. My friend will shoot you if you try anything.”

  Betty bound Ellen’s hands behind her back and then lashed her feet together. Telling Ellen not to move, she went to the remaining set of curtains and cut a length of cord to loop between the bonds at Ellen’s wrists and ankles, pulling her bent knees to touch her buttocks.

  Standing from the chore, she said to Nash, “That’ll hold her. Time to look at your hand. I’ll need to move the table under the light.”

  He holstered his pistol. “I’ll grab a chair.”

  “No, Nash, keep your pistol ready. Let’s not chance another gang of crazies catching us by surprise. To be on the safe side, check out the windows to see if you see anything. I’ll move the chairs and table.”

  While she moved the table and chairs from beside Merle and Gene’s bodies to place under the ceiling light, Nash went to peer through the nearest window. The rain still fell in a steady, thick downpour, severely limiting his visibility. He waited for his eyes to adapt to the dark, but his view didn’t improve.

  Turning from the window, he said, “I can’t even see the drive where the trees begin. There could be an army coming and I wouldn’t see them.”

  Betty set a second chair in place. The rain’s a blessing. We’re probably safe for now. Come take a seat.”

  Nash went to the table and sat in one of the straight-backed wooden chairs. Betty sat opposite him and said, “This is the second operating station in not so many hours. Maybe we should strap these chairs and table to the trailer.”

  He didn’t find humor in the suggestion. “Maybe I need to stop needing surgery.”

  Betty smiled and said, “That would be better. Let’s see the hand.”

  He didn’t want to move his throbbing hand from his chest, and said so. “I don’t want to. My butt was bad enough, but this is worse. Way beyond stitches. I’m going to need a doctor.”

  Betty raised her hands and held them edgewise, making a two-sided frame for her face. “Nash, look at me. We’re inside a house full of dead people. I’m exhausted and nearly at my limit of endurance.” Her next words dripped with sarcasm. “What do you want me to do, call nine-one-one? Oh, that’s right our cellphones don’t work. Hey, let’s go find a doctor. Maybe we can find one that doesn’t have Ebola. Oops, even if we could, we’d probably get shot looking for one.

  “Nash, I’m all you have. Let me see your damn hand.”

  Nash said, “Lighten up. I know you’re all I have.” He used his good hand to help his wounded one to the table. Placing it palm down, he had to drag the hand on the surface to make his dangling ring finger lay between the others. He couldn’t help making noises throughout the ordeal.

  Betty said, “Oh boy. I bet that does hurt.”

  She reached to touch his hand, and Nash braced for pain that didn’t come. Her fingers, probing the bloody wound on the back of his hand were surprisingly gentle.

  “Nash, They bullet went through your hand. In your hand, attached to each finger are the metacarpals. The metacarpals are the longest bones in your hand. The forth metacarpal, the one above your ring finger is missing a half inch from the middle. In addition, the bullet severed the associated tendons and ligaments that support and control that finger. Are you with me so far?”

  Nash stared at his hand and said, “I can see it’s really messed up. What can you do?”

  “I can leave the finger alone, clean the wound and bandage it, but that’s going to do nothing to restore the mobility of that finger. The best course is to remove the finger. Your hand will heal faster, have a much less chance of infection, and in the end, you’ll be better off without it. Picture yourself trying to do a task requiring two hands. A floppy finger will always get in the way.”

  Nash yanked his hand from the table; A mistake that caused a severe jolt of pain. Gasping with shock from the pain, and what she suggested, he said, “Remove it. No way.”

  Betty shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s going to hurt no matter what I do. I’ll get Merle’s first aid kit.”

  Nash said, “How about you bandage it like you said and take a chance we come across a doctor somewhere.”

  “Nash, I’m tired and in a state of shock. I didn’t make myself clear. Even if you found a doctor, to save your finger would require a hospital setting. You’d need a bone graft to bridge the gap in the metacarpal. Beyond that, you would need reconstructive surgery to attach the tendons and ligaments. Your hand would be in a cast for several weeks if not months.”

  “How would you do it? Remove the finger?” He asked.

  Betty said, “I’ll be blunt. First, I’ll slice around the base of the finger, and then cut the knuckle free so I can remove the fragment. If I can, I’ll attempt to blunt the remaining portion of the metacarpal.

  “Three or four stitches should suffice to close the incision, another couple on each side of your hand where the bullet went through. Without Novocain and with the tools we have, the procedure will hurt worse than you can imagine. You’ll scream the entire time, no way around that. If you’re lucky, you’ll pass out.”

  Nash made a decision. “The cover on my trailer is down. I don’t think the gang unloaded it. In my trailer, I have Novocain and syringes, prescription meds, bandaging supplies; you name it. The pharmacist at the medical supply store threw in a physician’s surgical kit. The old-time leather bag doctors used to carry on house calls. Oh yeah, and I have real sutures.”

  Betty didn’t inquire into the circumstance of his acquisition of the supplies. “What are you suggesting?”

  Nash almost squeaked his next sentence. “Take it off. I can’t function with a dangling finger.”

  Betty stood from the table. “Nash, I’m not a doctor, but I did my share of time in operating rooms. I feel confident doing this. Really, amputating a digit is minor surgery. With Novocain, all you’ll feel is a couple of needle pricks. I’ll check Ellen’s bonds and we’ll go to the trailer. Let’s get this done so we can leave this place.”

  **********

  Nash knew exactly where he packed the shopping bags full of medical supplies. By the front door was an assortment of umbrellas, but even so, they were again rain-soaked during the time it took to gather what was needed.

  Back inside, Betty was overwhelmed with the bounty the bags held, especially awed by the quality surgical instruments in the doctor’s bag. Holding a scalpel to the light to view the edge, she said, “No wonder the kit has a five-hundred-dollar price tag. No one beats German made steel.”

  It took almost a half-hour to prepare for the surgery. She used new plastic food containers from among the supplies Jill purchased to hold hydrogen peroxide to sanitize the instruments. Another container held vodka-soaked gauze pads to use as wipes. The preparation of a sanitary surface on the table to lay scalpels, forceps, and other, in Nash’s opinion, instruments of torture. Those preps consumed the time.

  She was correct about the pain he would feel. The Novocain injections were the worst part of the surgery. Heeding her advice, he kept his head turned from what she did to his hand. Even so, feeling her move his hand as she worked acted as a constant reminder that she was amputating his finger. He couldn’t help but imagine what she was doing.

  At one point, feeling a tug on his wrist, he pictured her pulling the broken bone, finger and knuckle attached, from his hand. He gagged, prompting her to ask about his wellbeing.

  “I’m trying not to throw up. I hope you’re almost finished.”

  “Hang in there just a few more minutes. I need to blunt the remaining end of the bone, flush the wound and then stitch it”

  To blunt the bone, she used Jill’s amazing Dremel tool with a ball-shape grinding attachment. The vibration of the tool on his bone cued a nauseous response that he couldn’t control. His surge of projectile vomit flew almost to where Ellen lay bound on the floor.

  Betty stopped grinding and said. “That’s it. I’m going to flush the area with peroxide and sew it closed.”

  Nash spat bile and said, “Thank god, I can’t take much more.” Then he added, “I hate to say this, but I think I opened the wound on my butt. I fell running to the house after the bomb exploded. My pants are almost dry, but I can feel the cloth sticking to my skin there.”

  She finished the operation on his hand, completing the task with a neat, but bulky bandage. An inspection of his buttock revealed he had indeed torn two of his stitches loose.

  Dropping his pants in front of Betty was no less embarrassing than before. Novocain once again proved its worth. Betty replaced the ripped stitches and applied a proper bandage.

  While cleaning the tools she used, she asked, “You know what’s packed in your trailer, is there anything we need from here?”

  Nash, thanks the lingering effects of Novocain masking the pain of his injuries was able to give due diligence to her question. “The only thing we want from here is the weapons and ammo; they’ll make good trade items. All the vodka might come in handy.” Glancing around the room, “Lord knows this bunch was well armed. We’ll have make room in the trailer. Other than that, we’re set to go.”

  Betty placed the last of the cleaned surgical instruments into the leather bag and zipped it. “Let’s get to it. The sun will be up in a couple of hours and I’d like a nap before we leave. One thing you’ll want to do is keep the bottle of vicodin for when the Novocain wears off.

  Betty checked the cords binding Ellen, inspecting the knots and then giving the stringer a good yank. Ellen spoke for the first time since Betty’s command to shut up.

  In a nasal tone, she said, “You broke my fucking nose. I need to pee.”

  Nash saw Betty draw back her leg and then stop. “I really want to kick you again, but my friend made a face at me. What I will say is this. We’re going to catch a nap before we leave. If I hear you squirming around trying to get out of the ropes, I won’t ask his permission to put a bullet in your temple.”

  “I need to pee,” Ellen repeated.

  “Then pee.” Betty said.

  The generator chose that moment to run out of gas.

  Nash heard Betty utter an expletive, and then say, “Nash, you’re close to the table. My bag is beside my chair. Rummage out my flashlight.”

  Nash located her huge bag. Digging through it for the small LED flashlight, he was amazed at how many items he had to move aside to find it. He flicked it on and went to where Betty stood beside Ellen’s trussed form.

  Accepting the flashlight, she said, “The guns and ammo can wait for the light of day.”

  She went to the door leading to the bedrooms, opened it a crack and shouted. “Nichole, you’ve done well so far. Don’t even dream of leaving your room before I say you can. If you do, I’ll shoot your mother. Keep this in mind. Your Mother and father were nothing but murdering, evil scum. Think about that every time your mother opens her mouth.

  They made another trip to the trailer for dry, clean clothing. Jill’s clothing fit Betty as if bought for her. They lay side by side on the carpet near the front door, the only place in the room relatively free of dead bodies.

  **********

  Nash awoke to throbbing pain. Gone was the sound of rain. The heat of a Georgia morning in June brought welcome relief from the wet chill of the night. With squinted eyes to block the bright sunlight streaming through the windows, he fumbled the bottle of vicodin from his jeans and chewed a pill to dry-swallow. Not yet fully awake, he spent the next minute sucking spit to flush the nasty flavor from his mouth.

  He heard Betty groan and shift position beside him. Rolling to face her, he asked, “You awake?”

  “I have been since the sun came up, maybe a half-hour. How is your hand?”

  “It’s throbbing like a misplaced migraine. I took a vicodin.”