Page 29 of A Wilderness Within

“Where’s the girl?” Lincoln demanded.

“Upstairs. Tied to the bed.”

Lincoln could barely keep his control as a red haze of hateful fury descended over his eyes. “Did you touch her?”

“Does it matter? You’re going to kill me either way.”

“True.” Lincoln caressed the trigger, his body tensed for more killing.

“We didn’t, though,” the man said, his words slurred from his fractured jaw.

“Good.” Lincoln squeezed off a shot, and the bullet tore through the man’s skull and embedded into the wall behind him. The TV screen spiderwebbed with fractures outward from the two bullet holes. Sucking in a breath, Lincoln lowered the gun and then almost collapsed. Blood soaked his shoulder, and his vision was swimming in and out. Lincoln staggered out of the kitchen and toward the stairs.

“Caroline?” He called her name and heard a muffled cry. He climbed the stairs and searched the rooms until he found her. A dish towel was stuffed in her mouth, and her limbs were tied spread-eagle to the bed. She was still clothed and shaking violently as she saw him.

“It’s okay, honey,” he whispered as he untied the knots and freed her. She jerked the towel out of her mouth.

“It’s not okay! I’m… Oh my God, you’re bleeding!” She grasped him by the shoulders, and he let loose a string of profanities before she released him.

“Sorry!” she exclaimed, her eyes darting over his face and shoulder.

“Do you see an exit wound?” he asked, turning around to show her his back.

“Yes. There’s a bloody spot on your sweater, and it’s torn.”

“Good…you won’t have to dig out a bullet, but you will need to clean the wound. I’ve lost too much blood. Grab my medkit from the bathroom. Use QuikClot—it increases…clotting.”

Lincoln sank off the bed and onto the ground, leaning against the edge of the mattress. His head was already spinning.

“Tell me what to do,” Caroline said.

“You worked at a vet’s office… It’s all the same.” Those were his last words before he passed out.

Caroline was paralyzed with fear. It rooted her to the bed for far too long. But when she got herself back under control, she had an idea. She ran to the bathroom and got a cup of clean water and soap, along with the medical kit he kept on the counter. She rinsed the wound with soap and water after she cut his sweater off. Then she dressed the wound with the QuikClot gauze she found in the kit and secured it with bandage tape. Then she kept him upright and in a seated position and waited for half an hour, checking his vitals. His pulse remained steady and strong, so she took a chance to leave him alone for a minute.

When she went downstairs, she saw the blood…and the bodies.

The three men who had broken into her temporary home and ambushed her and Lincoln were lying dead in the kitchen and the family room. The solemn sanctuary of this empty house seemed to have changed. It was violated by violence and death, which now settled like a black shroud over the once peaceful refuge. In that moment Caroline felt a surge of hatred inside her. How could they do this? These men… How could they take her home, her safety, almost take her and Lincoln’s lives?

She was glad they were dead. These weren’t survivors—they were predators. Parasites. She wouldn’t mourn these men; their stories were over. All that mattered now was getting them out of the house and taking care of Lincoln.

She dragged the bodies outside one by one and down the upper deck stairs and left them in a pile by the creek, where the scavengers could handle them. She didn’t have the time or energy to dig graves. Her back ached and her muscles cramped with the effort, but when she was done, she wearily climbed the porch steps and headed back to the guest room.

Lincoln was still okay, as far as she could tell. But she couldn’t just sit there, watching him and worrying. She had to stay busy, so she returned to the first floor and mopped up the blood. There was no saving the expensive white carpets. Pink stains remained, despite her scrubbing for what seemed like an eternity with a cocktail of different cleaning solutions.

When she was finished, she sank down against the door leading to the porch. Her back was knotted with pain, her clothes were stained with blood, and she suddenly had no strength left.

Tears ran down her cheeks as she struggled to cope with what had just happened. If Lincoln hadn’t killed those men, she would’ve been raped by now. Probably dead. And he had almost died protecting her. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, exhausted, crying, frightened. Finally, she dragged herself back upstairs to check on Lincoln. He was sleeping, the soft rhythmic sounds of his breath were calming. She lay down beside him, curling her hand through his before she let sleep claim her. For now, this was comfort.

She woke a while later, darkness thick around her.

“Caroline.” Lincoln’s rough voice stirred her more fully awake.

“I’m here,” she whispered and squeezed his hand.

“Water,” he rasped.

“Hang on.” She left the guest room and fumbled in the master bedroom until she found the camping lantern and then turned on the water and filled him a glass. Then she returned and put the cup to his lips. He drank the water greedily.

---