Conflicted Home (The Survivalist Book 9) by A American (learn to read books TXT) 📕

I looked around for anyone I could recognize and saw Danny. He was on his feet and running towards the burning truck. I started towards him and the air screeched again. The earth spewed up, sending both of us flying. I came to with the sensation I was moving. But that couldn’t be. I knew I was on the ground. I looked to my left and saw Danny beside me. Then, looking back over my shoulder, I realized Thad had us both by the collar and was dragging us, much faster than I would have thought possible.

Another explosion rocked the park. But it sounded farther away. Or maybe it was just my shot-out ears making me think it was. Thad deposited us both against a concrete wall. Mel and the girls were there, as well as Jace and Edie. Mary, Jess and Fred were also there, huddled against the wall.

But there were also cries of anguish. I tried to regain my senses and started to look at everyone. I ran my hands over Mel and the girls. Little Bit had some scratches, Mel was fine. Lee Ann had a gash in the top of her head, but I couldn’t see bone, so I told her to hold pressure on it and moved on. Thad was doing the same as I was. He was checking Mary when I looked over to see blood on his hand.

But a cry of pain got my attention and I looked to the source to see Danny holding his left wrist. The hand was a bloody mess. Blood ran freely from it and I quickly moved to him and ripped the med kit from my vest.

“Hang on, Buddy!” I tore open an Israeli bandage and tried to sort out just what was going on with his hand. Determining most of the damage was to the lower three fingers, I wrapped the bandage around them and secured it.

The park was full of screams, wails and shouts. People were running around looking for loved ones, friends. When they’d discover them, dead or mutilated, they would add their voice to the chorus of anguish. It was hard to distinguish any one sound from the cacophony filling the air.

I saw black smoke suddenly pour out of the Stryker as it lurched forward. It began to build up speed as it raced through the park. I found Sarge, shouting into his radio. I hadn’t noticed the traffic and cocked my head to the side to hear it.

“…ing now and will be moving pretty quick. I got nothing to try and stop them.” Dalton said.

“Mike’s on the way to you. Try and keep them in sight.” Sarge replied.

“Grab that little bastard Micha!” I shouted into the radio.

“I already have him,” Dalton replied. “He ain’t going anywhere.”

“Bring his ass to me when you can.” I said. Then I looked around the park. There were so many hurt it was hard to find a starting point. But seeing Doc working on a woman, I ran over to him to help as best I could.

The park was a surreal scene. Smoke filled the air, mixed with the smell of blood, dirt and torn vegetation. Leaves from the trees in the park blanketed the ground, covering body parts that were scattered across the lawn. Tables that the traders used were turned over or smashed. In a couple places, they were burning. The truck that I’d pulled Mel and the girls from under was a ragging inferno. All the food and supplies in the back of it, now gone.

But that small loss paled in comparison to the loss of life. It would take some time to tally the dead and wounded as the death toll would surely climb in the days to come. I could see a woman being carried away, missing her left leg from mid-thigh. A woman carried a small blond toe-headed boy, his body limp in her arms. His bright blond hair matted with blood.

We applied a tourniquet to the woman Doc was helping. A severed artery in her right arm spurted bright red blood with every beat of her heart. Her right side was riddled with shrapnel as well. As soon as we stopped the arterial bleed, Doc grabbed two people and told them to take her to the clinic. We moved on to see if we could help others.

As we moved through the park helping those we could, we found an elderly man lying on his stomach. His lower back had a hole big enough to put a can of soup in; he was still conscious. Doc spoke to the man, he was alert and calm.

“Are you in pain?” The man shook his head affirmatively. Doc patted his shoulder, “Ok. We’ll get you moved to the clinic soon.”

“Alright,” the old gentleman replied with a nod.

Doc pulled a Sharpie from his pocket and leaned over, writing the word BLACK on the man’s forehead. As we moved through the survivors, that became the routine. Doc would evaluate the patient quickly and we would mark their forehead with a color. Red for immediate, meaning they needed immediate care and were a priority. Yellow for delayed. These cases could wait and were next in line. Green for minimal; these were usually the walking wounded. And black for expectant. Those people were too injured to help and were expected to die. If all others were helped and there were time and material, they would be seen last. If they were still alive.

We stopped by a couple, the man cradling his wife in his lap. She had head wounds that looked worse than they were. Her face was covered in blood, her hair matted as well. Doc looked her over and removed a couple of sponges from his kit and wiped her forehead and face to give him room to write, DELAYED.

The man seized Doc’s hand, asking, “What does yellow mean?”

“It’s alright,” I replied. “It means her injuries aren’t that bad. She’s going to