by Keith Ahrens
I squat down in front of him. Time to deliver the ‘bad news speech.’ “Look, Thirax—”
He cuts me off and squeezes my wrist with a surprising amount of strength. “Promise me, or leave me be now!”
I freeze for a moment, feeling his feral anger and fear. Anger at himself and his injuries, and fear of jeopardizing his Pack. He sees my hesitation and activates his own stat sheet. Scanning down the page, I see he has half his Hit Points and his ‘Base Movement’ is down to 5 feet. Under ‘Special Conditions’ it simply says ‘Paralyzed-both legs.’ Ah, shit.
Hooking his claws onto the top of my breastplate, he pulls me toward the image, forcing me to look right at it. “I lose strength as we argue, soon it will be too late anyway.”
“All right… I promise.”
He relaxes his grip and sighs. Then he closes his eyes and nods.
I take a healing stone, the fresh one, and place it on his shattered spine. I leave the depleted one in my belt pouch. I take a deep breath and try to calm my thoughts and relax my mind, forcing myself to go slowly and not burn out. I struggle against the need to fix this horrific wound quickly before shock sets in and he dies anyway. On second thought, I take the drained stone out and place it next to the first one. Couldn’t hurt. Then I get to work.
After an eternity, or perhaps twenty minutes, I can't feel any more injuries and no more broken bones scraping together. But what I do sense is blood flowing and electrical impulses traveling past the healed section of spine. From here, I see the full red of his tat through his course fur.
Slumping back, I let both stones disintegrate in my hand, the dust falling through my fingers. I close my eyes and wish I could sleep for just a minute (or two more) as exhaustion overwhelms me.
Nope. Two hundred pounds of deliriously happy Gnoll is pulling me up and into a rib-crushing bear hug. “You have restored my legs, human! The Pack is stronger for having you!”
The hug goes on way too long for comfort, but then he releases me and hops out of the wagon, stumbling a little.
“Take it easy for a bit, you might be a little weak for a time,” I admonish the giant dog-man as I climb down. We kind of lean on each other as we make our way back to the rest of the group.
Vince is sitting next to Miles when we return to our small group, and we all share what little food and water we have between us, and for a brief few minutes, we almost relax.
Except for Olivia.
“How many people were in your wagon, Olivia?” asks Miles.
She says nothing for a few moments, and I'm not sure if she will answer.
“Too many,” comes her short reply. Then she gets up and walks away from the rest of us. We leave her be, letting her grieve her own for now. They were all that had been left of her squad, the people she was closest to in this horrible place. There's nothing any of us can do or say that will make that better.
The remainder of our party continues to take advantage of our short respite. Even Haynes has forgotten about his five-minute rule for this break. I momentarily doze off. We know we are still too far from safety to really let our guard down and truly rest, but for right now, we'll take what we can get.
19
We load our wounded, including Olivia and Thirax, back into the wagon. Her armor had protected her from the direct burns, but the same armor also trapped a lot of heat, kind of slow roasting her in the process. Between that and the road rash, she's decently banged up right now. Of course, I have no healing stones left. The best I can do is give her a little morphine from my kit to take the edge off. She accepts it with a grateful smile. Her Hit Point tattoo indicates her wounds look a lot worse than they really are. I’m pretty sure they're still painful, just not life-threatening.
Haynes and Grayson had taken a few minutes to begin collecting the bodies (and parts) of the dead elves to put into Jesse's wagon. Why not? It already has a few dead elves in it; what’s a couple more? Sarge says it’s a good tactical move, taking the dead bodies. This way, the enemy doesn't know who is alive or dead or what happened to them. Makes them uneasy and prone to second-guessing their next move.
While they're sorting through the bodies, we take one of the less skittish horses from Olivia's lost wagon and add it to Jesse's team, bringing it back up to four.
“Sylvia hasn't come back yet and that other wagon just left us, huh?” Haynes asks while we load up the rest of our group.
“You think there's a problem?” I ask.
“I don't know Sylvia that well, but she came highly recommended by a few groups. I think we can trust her. It’s the other group I'm more worried about.”
We mount up and hit the road again. Thorn is still in a light trance trying to keep Nian stable, but Vince is on his feet and doing well. He hangs onto the bow and sits by the back door with one foot dangling out as he keeps watch. I spend some time in the wagon, talking with Olivia while I clean out some of her wounds and burns. We don't have much fresh water left, but I use what I can sparingly, not wanting to leave her road rash with pebbles and dirt embedded in the skin. I offer her a little more morphine before we start, but she declines.
She tells me she's suffered worse from various 'on the job' injuries and a few recreational motorcycle accidents.
“What year were you taken?” I ask out of idle curiosity.
“2009, I got sent home in the middle of my shift after an Emergency Room visit. I got a little stabbed while disarming a 'perp.'” We share a chuckle when she mentions being 'a little stabbed.' “When I got home, I took a few painkillers they'd given me. Next thing I know, something had walked through the mirror in my bedroom. You know, one of those full-length mirrors you can check your outfit in?”
I nod, vaguely knowing what she is referring to. I'm a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy, so I've never needed to 'check my outfit.’
“We fight, but I'm so whacked out on the painkillers, it’s not much of a struggle. I was too doped up to even grab my Glock. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in a cell, chained to a wall. Kinda ironic, now that I think about it. I guess that was about a year and a half ago, as best as I can tell,” she finishes and hisses in pain as I debride a bad patch of skin on her calf.
“Sorry. I'm trying to be gentle.”
She replies with a quick little smile, “I know. It’s okay.” We hold eye contact for a moment, and I feel a little jolt. She has really pretty eyes.
Whoa! Where the hell did that come from? This is not the time nor place for that kind of thinking. Gotta stay focused, stay in survival mode… at least until we get out of here. Ahem… time to change the focus.
“What about you, Vince? What’s your story?” I ask, directing my question to one of our fellow wagon-mates. Olivia's mention of the mirror has got me thinking there's an obvious connection here.
He stays quiet for a minute, deciding what or how much to tell us. He decides to be brief, which kind of fits his personality so far.
“It was 2003. I was working as a bouncer in some hole-in-the-wall strip bar in upstate New York. I'd tossed out a few guys who were giving this new girl a hard time. After my shift, she and I took a little walk. It was a great night, full moon, nice and warm. We stopped on a small grassy hill next to a pond in the woods. She disappeared for a minute, next thing I knew, the hill kind of opened up, like a sinkhole, and dropped me here. I've been here just under two years. Thorn over there has saved my life many a time.”
I try to think back. Was it a full moon the night I got taken? I can’t be sure.
“Olivia, was it a full moon the night you were taken?”
“How the hell would I know? What am I? A Wiccan?” she snorts with a short laugh.
“It definitely was when we were taken,” says Miles. “I remember because the tides were really low.” He looks around embarrassed for a moment. “We lived in a coastal town; you notice things like that.”
“Colt, your turn. What’s your story?” I glance up at him while I'm scrubbing at a bit of road rash on Olivia's sho
ulder blade. Oh, man. I just noticed she has a cute tattoo on the nape of her neck where her hair usually covers. Stay focused, moron. I shake my head a little and pay attention to what Colt has to say.
“Well, I'm a… or I guess I was a Fugitive Recovery Agent from outta Arizona. A bounty hunter. I was tracking a skip all the way up in Pennsylvania. Found out this guy had holed up in a remote cabin about a million miles from any real town. I'd made a small camp on top of a little hill with a good line of sight of the cabin. It was definitely a full moon, 'cause that night it was almost bright as a cloudy day. At some point, I fell asleep and woke up in a cell, getting beaten up by a few of the ogres. That was back in 2010. I've also been here about a year and a half.”
The years don't add up very well; maybe time really does run differently here. There’s plenty of folklore and tales backing this up. The first one that pops into my mind is the story of “Rip Van Winkle.” I’m sure there are others, but I’m just too damned tired to think of one. I take a few more minutes to finish cleaning Olivia's many minor wounds.
She smiles at me again. For the first time, I notice that beneath the dirt and grime, she's quite gorgeous. Bright green eyes, high cheekbones, and just a smattering of freckles. It figures. Ethically and morally, I can never bring myself to flirt with someone I consider a patient. It’s not fair, them being vulnerable and hurt, and me here trying to fix that hurt. It builds a false sense of… connection, I guess. It doesn't matter anyway; this is still not the time nor place for this crap.
We all talk for a while about things we miss back home and what we want to do first when we return. My vote is for a hot shower and then some good ol' comfort food, followed closely by a smooth whiskey. Maybe not in that order. I could definitely go for something straight up right about now. Somewhere in the middle of our conversation, I drift off into a light sleep while the group continues chatting on without me.
20
Olivia shakes me awake a little while later. We've only been traveling for probably less than an hour when the wagon slows to a stop. I don't hear any gunfire or commotion, but we get out on full alert anyway. Vince agrees to stay with the wounded so Olivia and I can find out why we have stopped. Haynes and Grayson have dismounted and are standing next to a body in the middle of the road.
It's Sylvia. Left lying in the mud and wheel ruts, it looks like she died in a brutal manner. Olivia squats down next to the corpse, and I join her but on the other side. Neither one of us is touching anything, probably out of old habit. Kind of pointless, as I doubt we're gonna get a forensics team out here.
Her body is prone, her head half-turned to the side though mostly facedown. I see a lot of swelling to the skin and bones around her right eye. A few teeth have been knocked out, and I can see them resting in a pool of congealed blood dripping from her ruined lips.
Olivia breaks the silence, “Ligature marks on her wrists; they tied her up before they beat her. And at some point, they burned her tattoo off as well.”
I look at Olivia and place my hands on the body's shoulder and hip. She nods and helps me roll the body over. I get a good look at her face now and wish I hadn't. Her left eye is gone. Nah, not just gone, completely burned out of the socket, the flesh around it blackened and cracked. A very intense and focused heat caused this. Maybe a hot iron poker, but I don't see evidence of a fire anywhere around us.
“Hey, Des, from what you know, can fire magic be focused like this?” I point to the eye socket while I continue my inspection of the body.
“I… ah, jeez man, you gotta warn a man before you show him something like that! Shit!” He swallows hard and clears his throat.
“There's no shame in puking. Plenty of people do. Just don't puke on me or the body, please,” Olivia says in a distracted, professional tone, eyes still focused on the deceased form before us.
I smile to myself and make an effort not to laugh out loud. Sometimes I forget that most never see things like this up close. Majority of people only see these things in movies or maybe the evening news if it slips past the censors. For cops like Olivia, or medics like myself, this is just another day at the office. Thick skin and detachment are a virtue sometimes, especially when logical thought and rational thinking are necessary.
I've been accused of being cold-hearted or callous in the past for exactly this reason—my ability to stare at a mutilated corpse, with no show of emotion or reaction. Cold, clinical logic works just as well for a horribly mutilated person that is still alive as well. It allows people like me to act and perform in circumstances that reduce most people to crying, useless wrecks.
Hey. Don't judge me. But if one must, try to look at the mitigating factors and remember that none of us started off this way. Anyway, back to the matter at hand.
“She has at least a dozen stab wounds to the abdomen. Most aren't that deep; they didn't want to kill her right away,” I say in a neutral voice.
“They were looking for information, or they tortured her because they're sadistic fucks. In my opinion, though, they wanted to get intel out of her. It looks like a rush job, especially being out here in the middle of the road. They had no way of knowing when someone else would come along,” Olivia's voice continues to be professional and detached.
Jesse has been walking the edge of the road, going about thirty yards past us before he starts making his slow way back in our direction, staring at the ground.
Des finally gets himself together enough to look at the wound. “Yeah, I think magic could’ve done this, but no spell I ever saw, anyhow. It charred the bone somethin' fierce. Y'all think she was still alive when they done this?”
“Yeah, she was, but that’s not what killed her. This one here,” I gesture to a large gash in her abdomen. “This is the one that killed her. They angled it up through the diaphragm and into the heart. Bastards twisted the blade around a few times to make sure it did its job. Olivia was right on both accounts. They were in a rush, and they are sadistic fucks.” The autopsy ends here when Jesse calls for our attention.
“Sergeant, I have established the course taken by these heinous perpetrators!” Jesse says as he salutes Haynes. I guess Jesse has reverted to whatever military role he had, probably the only thing his brain can make sense of anymore. On the other hand, this past day is the most animated and alive I've ever seen him.
“At ease, soldier. Report!” Haynes replies, returning the salute.
“I believe the lass dismounted yonder—” he gestures to a spot about ten yards away from us "—and walked over to meet the wagon. She was surrounded and forced to her knees here—” he points to a spot a few feet behind the body. “A small struggle ensued but was over quickly, as she had nary a chance. I count at least six different boots, perhaps more. Another took her mount and made off with it. But, sir, I must confess to a bit of confusion. Verily, there seems to have been two wagons here at about the same time.”
Haynes rubs his chin with a gloved hand, looking troubled. “All right, good work, soldier. Caleb, you and Olivia put Sylvia's body with the rest of the deceased, and then load up. At this time, we have to believe we were betrayed by the other group that escaped with us. We must assume they know what we know and are not running for the exit, but setting up an ambush for us. I want everyone on alert, anyone who has and can wield a weapon is to be outside the wagons and ready. When we reach the lake, Jesse and I will scout out the path on foot until we are sure that there is no trap. From this point forward, if anyone sees anything even slightly out of the ordinary, call it out. Questions?”
No one says anything. We just set about our tasks and load back up. I hop onto the driver's bench with Colt. Vince kneels down on top of the wagon, bow in hand and arrow ready. Des rides with Jesse, who perches alert in his seat with his pistol in one hand, sword in the other.
Miles and Thorn stay in the wagon with the wounded. Olivia stands at the door of the wagon in a defensive stance with her sword out. A deadly serious scowl rests on her pretty face, her resolve writt
en across her body as she sets herself to protect our people.
We start rolling once again.
The lake comes into view a few hours before sunset just as we crest a final hill. The closer we get to the fork in the road, the stronger my sense of unease grows. In the distance, I can see a gathering of red and gray clouds over the far banks maybe a half-mile away. No birds circle in the air.
Thorn points to the clouds and calls out, “'Tis a mage storm. Strange colors and it does not move with the winds. We should be safe as long as it stays on the opposite side.”
“Can you tell what it does?” asks Des.
“Not from here, but I promise you, nothing good.”
Haynes holds a hand up to stop the caravan once more. “Bodies in the road. Jesse, take the other horse and come with me.”
We all wait while Jesse unhitches Thorn's horse and mounts up. The two men and their steeds continue on at a slow, cautious pace. The rest of us stand guard on high alert, facing in all directions to watch and wait. It's equal parts boring and tense as hell.
Twenty or so minutes pass before they come back, having finished inspecting the scene. They return at a faster pace than they left. We all relax a little when we see that they don't seem in a rush or panic.
“Two wagons and a horse met at the lake's shore. There was a pretty brutal fight. We found one dead ogre, two dead goblins, and a dead human. After it was over, the wagons split up, one going right and the other in the direction we need to go. The single horse seems to have been killed and dragged into the lake,” Haynes recites his report for the rest of us like he's reading a newspaper out loud.
“Shit, can we tell if the wagons traveled together before they brawled?” I ask.
“No way to be sure. They were either together or within an hour of each other,” replies Jesse. He sits comfortably in the saddle, as if he's had a lot of experience riding.