"Maybe you should pass out," he said as he came up to the sofa. "Do you have anything to dull the pain?"
"Yes, get me that bottle of Pendleton," she ordered. "And for shit's sake, hurry."
Quincy opened the cabinet and pulled out the bottle of Pendleton. It was half full. He went to a cupboard looking for a glass.
"Screw the glass. Give me the fucking bottle. The pain is burning hot now."
Quincy unscrewed the cap and handed her the bottle. She immediately started chugging the liquid amber. After gulping down about a quarter of the bottle, she came up for air. "Wow, that packs a wallop. Whew!" The numbing effects of the alcohol began to take effect. She noticed that the room started to get a healthy spin and that the pain had subdued considerably.
Quincy stood over her with the hacksaw. "Don't you think you should sterilize that or something?" she queried with each word sounding more slurred.
"Oh, probably so. I bet there's no alcohol around," he said. "Wait. I have an idea." He went over to the stove, removed the top covering and turned on one of the burners. Madeline watched him out of the corner of her eye; turning her body made the rebar twist. The pain started to increase again, so she knocked back another mouthful of the Pendleton. The hit of booze made her head spin even faster. "Hurry up. Get this done with," she said, sounding like the old comedian Foster Brooks. Giggling, she asked, "Hey, do you remember that old comedian whose whole shtick was acting like a drunk?"
Before Quincy could respond, she slipped out of consciousness for a moment. When she came around, an incredible pain erupted from her chest. After a series of screams that echoed through the motor home, she bellowed, "What the fuck?"
Quincy had his knee on her stomach and was sawing through the rebar. He placed several towels around the protruding metal spear, trying to soak up the spewing blood. "I'm almost through," he said. "Relax."
Madeline screamed repeatedly. "Relax my ass. You…are…fucking…killing…me."
"Here, drink some more-"
Before he could finish his sentence, she swiped her arm up, hitting the bottle out of his hands. He continued his sawing. With each push, Madeline felt like her insides were being pulled apart. Her two dachshunds cowered over on the driver's seat.
"Done," he exclaimed. He threw the saw down, pushed her gently onto her side and yanked on the round melted protuberance on her back. She then felt the metal slide through her body.
"I got it," he said proudly. He quickly took one of the towels and put pressure on the open holes.
Immediately, Madeline felt a sense of relief. "Gimme the bottle," she ordered.
He picked up the Pendleton. There were only a couple of mouthfuls left. She took one big gulp and passed out.
When Madeline woke up, she looked around the room. Quincy had put her on her bed. She tried to get up, but the pain in her chest decided differently, not to mention that her head felt like it was being squeezed in a lemon press. The Pendleton was demonstrating its next-day-hangover effects. She lay back down and realized the motor home was moving. Slowly licking her lips, she realized she was incredibly thirsty. Just as she was about to shout for water, she yawned and fell back to sleep.
A few hours later, she awoke to see Quincy standing over her. "How we doin'?" he asked.
"I feel like shit. I don't know about you."
"I would too if someone had been sawing on my chest," he said with a big smile.
"Water. I'm so thirsty. My mouth feels like the desert and I hate the desert as you well know."
Quincy went out to the kitchen and came back with a large multicolored plastic tumbler full of ice water. He held it up to her lips. She drank like a madwoman falling off the wagon.
"Easy," Quincy said, wiping the hair away from Madeline's eyes.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"Near the Oregon border. I found a nice rest stop where we can stay for the night."
Madeline reached down and felt her chest. There was a big bandage around the wound.
Quincy lifted the covers and inspected the dressing. "I think I probably should change that. We also need to get you to one of your doctors pretty quickly. All I've been putting on that wound is a little Neosporin. I think you should have better antibiotics than that and maybe even some stitches. In the meantime, we just need to keep everything really clean." He gently peeled back the dressing and set it on the nightstand. He lifted the first aid kit from the floor and set it on the bed. He dug out several large square bandages as well as some gauze. After cleaning the wound, he wrapped it securely. Slowly turning her on her side, he dressed the wound on her back. When he was done, he took away the old bandages and cleaned up the nightstand.
Madeline looked up at him and smiled. "You probably saved me, you know."
He didn't say anything and continued to fix the covers on the bed.
"However, you did disobey me. I told you to go join my forces."
He froze, thinking Madeline was going to chew him out…or worse. She tried on her warmest smile and told him she was grateful that he rescued her.
"Well, I just had a feeling," he said quietly. "I just wanted to cover your back."
Madeline started to laugh, but stopped abruptly when the pain in her wound flared. "Right now, you got my back covered and my front just fine." After another failed attempt at giggling, Madeline lifted her finger and motioned for him to come closer.
"Lean down here," she said with a feeble seductive tone. "I want to thank you properly."
Quincy sat on the edge of the bed and leaned closer. She pulled his shirt to draw him near. Their lips were close. "Quincy, you are a good man and I am thankful for what you did for me. I will always…um…"
She froze.
Love him? Could I really love someone? That word has never been a part of my vocabulary since well…forever.
The following afternoon, Quincy drove the motor home up to Madeline's encampment in a large field north of Bend, Oregon. As the motor home approached the edge of the camp, several men came out to greet them. The motor home was equipped with several cameras around the rig. Madeline had a monitor near the nightstand that allowed her to see what was going on. She turned up the volume. Quincy, standing a few feet from the front door, reported that Madeline was sleeping and would welcome them later.
"Is it over?" one of the men asked. "Did she take care of Heckel?"
"Unfortunately, no. He nearly killed her." Quincy said.
Hearing the name Heckel infuriated her. She kicked the covers halfway off, trying to get up. A stabbing pain erupted from both open wounds and settled in. "Shit, shit, shit," she yelled, each word crescendoing. "Quincy, tell them to go away for now and I will hold a meeting in a few days."
One of the men muttered, "I take it things didn't go so well."
Madeline watched Quincy go back into the motor home and slam the door shut. He came back and saw her tangled in the bed sheets.
"Lay back down, or you are going to start the bleeding again," he said, helping her down. He brought the sheet and blanket up, tucking them under her chin.
"Those assholes. If I could stand, I'd-"
"Quiet. You need to remain-"
Before he could finish, someone entered the room.
Madeline peered around Quincy and saw Mr. Barker standing at the foot of the bed. She signed, making her wound throb, and thought, Oh fuck. This can't be good.
"Leave us," he said sternly. Quincy spun around ready to attack.
"Quincy, do as he says. I'll be fine. Maybe you should go check on…um…the generator. You said it was acting up."
Quincy glared at Barker as he left the bedroom.
Barker stood at the foot of the bed. Madeline pushed herself higher on the propped-up pillows, wincing in pain.
"You look like shit," he said.