by LRH Balzer
Illya reached into his vehicle and snagged one of the canteens, pouring some of the precious water into a tin cup. From the jeep's first aid case, he withdrew a packet of salt, mixed it with the liquid, and forced the saline water down Napoleon's throat. He poured more of the water from the canteen onto his handkerchief and dabbed at his partner's face.
"You should have waited for me, Napoleon. I told you this would happen." I knew this would happen. It was inevitable. But I thought it would be me, not you. I should be the one who...
But that wasn't how the dream had went.
The Russian pulled his knapsack from the jeep and placed it under Napoleon's legs, moving alongside him and checking his partner's vital signs again. He noted with relief that although the pulse was still rapid, Solo's skin was moist to touch, almost cool, which meant Illya had arrived before the more deadly sunstroke had set in. But heat exhaustion was dangerous enough, and Kuryakin lifted the sunburned head again and dribbled more water into the dark-haired agent.
There were other injuries, but none seemed life threatening. Taking off his own thin cotton shirt, he ripped it into strips and cleaned the worst of the abrasions and bruises from Solo's face and midsection, where the beating had been centered. Whoever had done this had been careful; no bones had been broken, no serious damage done. But why had they left Solo here, so close to the road that it would have been impossible for anyone not to see his partner as they passed?
Or did people pass this way? The U.N.C.L.E. compound was small—an outpost really, there to monitor the changing tensions of the district. The road itself was more of a path with a series of signs set at irregular intervals. One relied on one's compass more than the ground indicators.
Kuryakin drained the canteen into a tin cup, added more salt to it, and tapped at Solo's face, able to arouse his friend briefly to drink a few more swallows of water before the agent lapsed back into fitful unconsciousness.
It was still hot; soon the sparse shade of the jeep would disappear as the sun moved steadily across the sky. Crouched down, Kuryakin stared from the sun to Solo, fanning him with a map as he sorted out what his next steps should be. He was reluctant to move the U.N.C.L.E. agent yet; taking him in the open jeep or landrover would offer no protection from the direct sunshine and in any case, Solo was responding to the treatment and would probably revive on his own within fifteen or twenty minutes. The first order of business seemed to be providing some sort of reliable shade to last the next hour or so.
Kuryakin was pulling out a tarp from the back of the vehicle when he heard a rustle in the shrub brush behind him where a moment before there had been nothing. He froze, knowing his gun was in the front seat, out of reach. If it was a wild animal come to check them out, there would be time, but...
Looking over his shoulder, he saw figures moving across the undulating wilderness, several Thrush agents in full uniform stalking towards him. Four were Kenyans, three with guns leveled at him, and the fourth, a towering figure wearing a dusty felt hat with a brim wide enough to hide his eyes. With them, was an older white man with a malevolent, dangerous look on his face and holding a strange object in his hands, as though it were a weapon.
It was no weapon Kuryakin had ever seen before and he eyed it suspiciously as he slowly straightened, his hands slightly raised, knowing it would be suicide to try for his own gun. So it is to happen after all.
He waited for the right moment to move. "Salama," he said, loud enough for them to hear. Peace. "My friend here is hurt. Could you help me?"
They came at him steadily, stopping when they were fifteen feet away. "We figured someone would come to get him," the white man said, his words a clipped British in accent.
Kuryakin returned their scrutiny silently, his hands in the air, waiting. They had not returned the greeting he had made, which said much of them. And there was still Solo to consider. Death may walk the same path as the Russian, but he would stay a step away from it. For now.
The tall Kenyan spoke then, his British-accented voice rolling comfortably over the language. "We need a volunteer to check out some new modifications to our latest experiment in arsenal. You just volunteered, Mr Johannsen." Peter Kawali tilted back his hat enough for Kuryakin to see who he was, then nodded to the white man, who raised the strange cylindric object slightly, pointing it at Kuryakin.
"If it's all the same to you, I'll pass." Kuryakin felt his mouth go dry and stared warily at the weapon, trying to make some sense out of flechette-style cannon aimed at him.
He heard a series of whistles as the weapon fired and six darts embedded themselves in his chest and left palm. He gasped as they stung on impact, but the effects were not unlike wasp bites leaving behind half-inch metal stingers.
The weapon was aimed again and Kuryakin turned and made a mad leap towards the jeep, trying for his U.N.C.L.E. Special in the front. The second volley of darts partially caught him mid-back, the third on the shoulders and neck as he reached for the gun. He twirled, thumbing the safety off and firing but the Thrush agents had backed off. He fired several shots after them, watching, puzzled, as they loaded into Napoleon's landrover and disappeared from his sight.
He dropped to his knees shaking his head, the gun tumbling from his hand. The annoying darts were starting to hurt, making it awkward to move or take a deep breath. Kuryakin frowned, looking down at Solo again. His partner was resting easier, but the sun had now moved in the sky and the shade of the jeep would disappear within minutes. Kuryakin got to his feet wearily, feeling the tiny lances in his body protesting the movement. He slowly spread out the tarp, stringing it between the jeep and some low trees, then sinking beneath it into the welcome shade next to Solo. The entire effort only took a few minutes, but already there was a persistent dull pain spreading through his back, chest, and abdomen.
"Open Channel D," Kuryakin said, flipping open the cigarette case/transceiver. "Kenya. Bondolo Compound."
While he waited for the call to go through, he stared at the dart in his left palm. It was really starting to smart and he peered into the open first aid case looking for a pair of tweezers to pull it out. Instead he picked up the hunting knife.
"Bondolo Compound here. Come in, Mr. Solo. Where are you?"
"Mr. Solo is resting," the Russian said with a wry smile. "This is Kuryakin. I am not sure of my exact location. I pulled off the Loyangalani/Marsabit road at the U.N.C.L.E. landmark, fifty miles east of North Horr. I believe I'm on the right road, about twenty miles beyond the road branching northeast from Maikona. Can you pinpoint my location? We could use some medical assistance." His back muscles were beginning to ache intensely; the other wounds were pulsating, tiny points of fire.
"What’s the problem?"
Kuryakin described Solo's condition, and then started to explain about the weapon that had attacked him, but the agent on the other end interrupted him.
"Did it fire darts?" he was asked quickly.
Kuryakin frowned at the transceiver, trying to put the question into some context that he knew should make sense. "Yes." He shivered abruptly, his vision blurring.
There was a short silence on the radio, then the Bondolo agent's strained voice came on again. "Listen carefully, Mr. Kuryakin..."
He listened, then closed the channel and looked off across the arid landscape. In the distance, a cloud of golden dust lifted from the desert floor and blew across the scattered bush. He was on the edge of the Chaldi Desert, on a savannah that disappeared behind him into the horizon.
He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled up to a higher point not far away, the hill they had been hidden behind as the approached him. There was no one in sight now as he turned slowly, scanning the area. He could feel the ever-present wind dry against the bare skin of his arms and neck, the heat of the sun warming the chill creeping over him. He closed his eyes, basking in the heat, his straw-colored hair blowing across his forehead. A minute went by.
He felt the echo of the ground and turned to look behind at the sa
vannah and a herd of giraffes, perhaps a dozen, ambling their way towards an outlying water hole, pitifully inadequate for their needs. Soon it would be the rainy season again and they wouldn't have so far to travel. It would be easier for them. But now they wandered miles across the dry grassland looking for water.
Two minutes passed.
He watched the wind caress an acacia tree, its shade inviting, but even the short distance was too far for him. The tree stood alone on the dry grassland, its roots anchored in the arid African desert, somehow flourishing despite its environment.
Three minutes.
He turned again and from a distance Kuryakin stared at the other agent—his partner, his friend—still unconscious but stable enough that when help came, he would be alive.
Illya closed his eyes, facing the wind. Fatigued beyond thought, he could feel the cold poison seeping into his body. He was tired.
So tired.
Of it all. Of fighting. Of guns and weapons and bombs and war. Of coworkers and friends and family injured and dying. Tired of U.N.C.L.E. and Waverly and demands and assignments and surveillance and arrests. So tired of living.
It would be so easy to do nothing and wait for the end to come. To fall into its arms and close his eyes.
His hand tightened on the hunting knife still clutched in his right hand and he raised it, his eyes following its blade to the very tip, then dropping to look at his left wrist. At the veins pulsing beneath the sweat-damped skin. His right hand shook with fatigue and he knew he had only to relax and gravity would take care of the rest, pulling him closer to the end.
He took a breath. Waiting. Listening for a signal.
But the world around him, everything around him, was fighting to survive.
* * * * *
Napoleon Solo came to slowly in the midday heat, his eyes trying to focus on the orange tarp that had been rigged over him, protecting him from the equatorial sun. His head throbbed violently as the light burrowed into his skull.
He heard a sharp cry of pain nearby, an intense moan cut off quickly, and he rolled over looking for the source. "Illya? Illya!! What are you doing, man?" he whispered quickly, pushing himself up.
His partner sat hunched over near him, slicing into his bare chest with a thin razor blade clutched in his right hand, gasping as he slit a one inch incision. Illya's eyes were open but glazed, the end of his leather belt clenched between his teeth. Blood ran freely down his chest from several other self-inflicted incisions. Tears flooded the Russian's eyes as he pushed the razor further, his head tilting back, panting against the pain.
"Illya?" Solo reached over and grabbed at Kuryakin's wrist.
Mumbling to himself, Kuryakin shook himself free, dropped the blade, and picked up a pair of tweezers, blood dripping from his left palm as he used his forearm to wipe the tears and sweat from his eyes. He could hardly see what he was doing. He didn't seem to know the other man was there, but concentrated on extracting something from the hemorrhaging wound and tossing it away.
Solo crawled closer, ignoring the sharp jab of pain in his ribs, and he caught his partner as Kuryakin collapsed onto his right side, his breathing rapid and shallow. He twitched in palsied jerks, staring at Solo wide-eyed and holding out the razor that he had retrieved.
"C-c-cut," he gasped out. "Must... c-c-cut... out-out."
"Why?" As Napoleon tried to move, a wave of dizziness and fear swept the Chief Enforcement Agent. Ignoring it, he bent over the younger man. Kuryakin's flesh was gray and clammy, his hair matted with sweat and drying blood. His back looked like an acupuncturist had inserted almost a dozen needles into it. Frowning, Solo carefully grasped one of the metal shafts where it punctured his friend's shoulder and gently tugged at it. It broke off between his fingers.
Kuryakin arched in pain, a scream ripped from his throat, then clamped down to a quiet whimper as he fought for control, tears streaming from tortured bloodshot eyes.
"My God," Napoleon whispered. "They're barbed darts, aren't they?" He tried to calm the other man's spasms. He grabbed the canteen and flushed the wound quickly, getting rid of the burning acid. The Bondolo report flickered through his confusion as he tried to remember everything on it.
One thought was left clear enough: the Thrush poison darts had left no survivors.
"Illya?" he whispered. "What can I do?"
Incapable of talking, Kuryakin reached blindly for the U.N.C.L.E. transceiver that subsequently slipped from his damaged left hand. Solo picked it up and called into the Bondolo office.
"Jambo, Mr. Solo! It is good to be hearing your voice. I am Doctor Kitovu. Is your friend still there?"
"Yes, he is. Listen, he was hit by darts—probably the same ones you've had trouble with. Has Illya spoken with you already? Is help on the way?" he asked quickly, stumbling over the words.
"They left fifteen minutes ago—they had to get supplies ready first—but they won't get to you for another forty-five minutes at least. How are you, sir? "
"I'll be fine. I don't know why but Illya was trying to cut the darts out."
"That's what we told him to do. It is an outside chance—but it is all he's got, sir. You know what are the statistics on these attacks... The darts will continue to slowly leak the spider venom if left in; they must be extracted. Can you tell me how many has he been able to remove?"
Solo counted the bloody lacerations. "He was working on the fifth."
"You will have to do the rest, Mr. Solo. The shafts have a painful acid in them that will cause local burns if they are broken, but it is the barbs that have to be removed. They contain the poison. The venom. One bite is dangerous enough, but we could treat it. Eighteen bites? Untreated, I can offer no hope." The agent gave him the instructions and Solo reluctantly closed the channel, the horror of the situation gradually registering as anger cleared his vision. Thrush would pay for what he would have to do to his partner. They would pay dearly.
Solo took a deep breath and turned back to the blond agent. Kuryakin looked up at him through a haze of pain and smiled, exhaustion etched into the usually stoic features and Solo returned the smile grimly. He reached for the razor and gritted his teeth, taking the blood-stained blade between his fingers.
He wiped it on Illya's discarded T-shirt and cleaned it with the alcoholic swab in the first aid box.
Napoleon tightened his grip on the blade, then carefully sliced beside a puncture spot on Kuryakin's shoulder, spreading it with his fingers and unhooking the broken barb, using the tweezers to loosen and remove it.
Kuryakin had remained motionless throughout the procedure, but gave a sigh of relief as Solo maneuvered him onto his stomach. Six darts were out now, but there were twelve left. The poison was working through the pale Russian's system. As the Bondolo doctor had forewarned, Kuryakin's body began shaking and convulsing, the sweat-soaked skin stained with blood and dirt.
Another dart came out cleanly but the next broke off. Kuryakin was unable to choke back a sob as the green fluid within the piece flowed into the open wound despite Solo's quick effort to wash it out. Solo glanced at his watch. Help was still thirty minutes away. Medical attention was an hour beyond that. He tried to flush the wound with water and mop up the burning fluid as he poked for the barb, trying to at least get that from his partner's back. Eight gone. Ten to go.
Illya suffered silently now, his energy sapped, nonexistent. He drifted in and out of consciousness as Solo worked on the ninth dart, his weakened body almost beyond shaking from either the poison or the incisions.
Solo stopped when his eyes clouded and wiped the sweat from Kuryakin's face and his own, then shifted away to take a drink of water. He stared hopefully down the road, but there was no sign of anyone coming. He tried to get to his feet but his stomach churned and threatened to disgorge what little food he had eaten that day and he fell back against the jeep clutching at the fiery pain in his side from the cracked rib. The fierce pounding in his head was escalating, excruciating in intensity, and he longed to lie
down again.
But the responsibility of his partner's life rested in his hands—Illya was alive and as long as he was alive, there was hope.
Kuryakin lay utterly still now, his breathing faint and rapid. Solo picked up the razor, wiping it again, and turned his attention back to the ninth dart. He sliced through the skin alongside a tiny projectile, watching the blood rapidly ooze up and run down the back. Solo closed his eyes and swallowed, opening them to remove the poisonous barb. Nine down. Nine to go. Halfway there.
The next one broke off instantly as he touched it and Kuryakin moaned softly as the acidic fluid within the dart shaft contacted his skin. The blond agent was in shock and Napoleon knew Illya's time was limited. Where was the Bondolo U.N.C.L.E. team? Too far. He used up the last of the water from the canteen, cleansing the acid from the wound.
Solo scrubbed at his eyes, but he could no longer focus and the razor slipped from his nerveless fingers. He had tried, but he wasn't going to succeed. Flies buzzed around them as he sat leaning back against the jeep, fighting to stay conscious at least. He pulled Kuryakin closer, holding him, cushioned his head, and rested one hand on his partner's back, making sure his weight was. "Sorry, buddy."
Kuryakin lay in a crumpled bloody heap beside him, but a faint smile crossed the pallid face as he seemed to take comfort in the contact. If he knew he was dying, he also knew there was a friend with him during his last moments.
Unable to do more, Solo watched blurrily as his partner's sightless eyes closed and the breathing gradually slowed and faltered.
And stopped.
Act Three
"Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain..."
Awareness returned slowly.
The cool breeze on his skin was delicious and Napoleon lay peacefully, enjoying the sensation. He yawned and opened his eyes, blinking the fog from his sight. Overhead, a wooden fan revolved lazily, the air current soft as breath on his hot skin.