Following is an excerpt from 17 Degrees North, the second book in the Jack Sloan series.

Chapter 3: Lights Out

Do the dead dream?

The blasts from two shotguns echoed through the pitch-black night. I heard the buzz of pellets over my head when I hit the ground, and a warm trickle flowed from my scalp across my right cheek.  Muzzle flashes showed the direction of the shots.

I lifted my head and wriggled my chest into the earth, then propped my Glock with both hands, aiming for the pinpoints of light, and squeezed off a full clip. Grunts told me they struck home.  I reloaded and stood.

I ran in the general direction of the shooters.  Two large shapes loomed in my path.  I stopped, aimed, and put five into the taller one on the right, but it didn't faze him.  He grinned and kept coming.  The rest of the clip went into his head, but by now, he was two feet in front of me with no signs of damage. One clip left.  I jammed it home and emptied it into the zombies who had begun to wrap their arms around me.

Someone shouted my name, and I looked down.  I lay on a slab and could see the yellow toe tag secured by a wire.  "Sloan, Jack, Male, Caucasian." Then I felt hands on my face and the person was no longer shouting.

"Jack, Jack.  Wake up."

A soft voice.

"Where am I?"

"The hospital. Thank god, you're awake. We were so worried."

Darlene stood next to me, her face and voice raw. I looked up and saw a fluorescent light and an IV filled with an opaque fluid. The trail of tubes led to my right arm where a needle rested in a vein.

"Why?"

"You and Sapphire had just crossed the river when a branch blew off a tree and hit you."

"When?" My throat felt parched, my voice squeaky.

"Two days ago. You've been out ever since. The doctor says you have a concussion.

"The bag. A mail pouch. Where is it?"

"In the barn with your saddle and other gear. Who cares?"

"Sapphire?"

"In her stall with oats and water. I knew you'd be pissed if I didn't take care of her first. I drove myself to the hospital."

"Who's taking care of the other animals?"

"Ray Green, the guy down the road."

I nodded, but it hurt.

"When can I go home?" I said.

"You just woke up after being unconscious for forty-eight hours, and you want to leave? Are you crazy?"

I saw a flash of anger illuminate her exhausted-looking face.

"I have to get home. Call the doctor, and ask him. Please?"

She threw her hands in the air, stomped from the room, and turned right. I reckoned she was headed for the nurses' station. I hoped so. I needed to take care of what I'd found, and to do that, I had to get home.

 

*                        *                        *

Two days later, I sat at my project table surrounded by guns. I still had a headache and the abrasions on my forehead itched.  Darlene came in from the office she used for working on her romance novels.

"Jack, what in the hell are you doing?"

I'd received the requisite sympathy for the past couple days, but Darlene was pissed. She'd wanted me to stay another day in the hospital. I knew her well enough to let her fume and not start an argument.

"They need cleaning," I said. "Look at this barrel." I held the spotless unit up for her to see, knowing she wouldn't bother to look.

"You cleaned them last week, cowboy."

I pretended not to hear the worry in her voice. The 'cowboy' reference was an inside joke and meant to be light-hearted, but I sensed the tension that roiled beneath the surface.

"You need to start practice-shooting again," I said.

I saw the tiny twitch of her head. She hadn't handled her gun since the night she used it to defend herself. She didn't answer, only turned and headed toward the stairs leading to the downstairs pool area. I remained at the rough work table and concentrated on my task. Nice going, Jack, maybe you can come up with another way to irritate her.

I thought about the hospital dream. It wasn't the first time. Darlene and I had both seen a therapist after the attack on our rancho three years ago. He said it was PTSD, a common reaction to what we'd gone through.  Mine showed itself in regular nightmares where I fired my weapon with no effect. No matter what I did, I couldn't stop the people who shot at us. After a year, the images faded, and I felt normal—at least my version of it.  Darlene claimed the same results, but I know that Abraham, the man she'd killed, still haunted her.

The ghosts never left me, but I didn't talk about it, and neither did she. Maybe a mistake. I'm living testament to the burden of guilt that settles on a moral person who's committed an immoral act. Taking a life, no matter the circumstance, transcends a person's boundaries and changes one forever. So it must be with Darlene.

Find out more about 17 Degrees North.