by Jake Elwood
The guards walked past him, though, completely engrossed in conversation. Grumpy looked up once, his eyes flitting past before Tom could react. They walked on past, then turned and marched toward the dark wall of the jungle. All Tom could do was stand there, frustrated, and watch them go.
He decided to wait. Another twenty or thirty minutes would bring the two men back. He'd get another chance. He stood there, staring into the jungle, as the seconds crawled past, each slower than the one before.
Until, perhaps five minutes after he'd vanished into the jungle, Grumpy re-emerged, alone.
He jogged up to the fence directly across from Tom and stood there, a burly figure with a flat, hostile face, hands shoved in his pockets, a rifle strapped across his back. “Well?” he said at last. “What do you want?”
Tom brought out the ring, held it up briefly, then shoved it back into his pocket. “I went to San Carlos,” he said. “I need medication. For Red Fever.”
Grumpy's eyes were fixed on his pocket. His face was alight with avarice. “Let me see it.”
Tom nodded, put a hand in his pocket – then glanced over his shoulder and froze. He pretended to react to something behind the closest hut, something out of Grumpy's line of sight. “Not here. Not right now.”
“Okay, sure,” Grumpy said. “Tonight. After dark. West end of the compound, right in the corner of the fence.” He jerked his head to the side to indicate the direction. “Meet me there. Bring the ring.”
Rain drove Tom indoors soon after. It wasn't a punishing downpour like the skies of Gamor so often unleashed, just a steady, miserable drip that made the world colorless and bleak. Prisoners had built coverings for some of the tables in the open ground, simple roofs on poles to repel rain, or provide shade on the rare days when the sun broke through the clouds. Men crowded the tables, though, and Tom was in no mood for company. So he stood in the doorway of his hut and watched the rain fall and thought about his plan and wondered if he was making a terrible mistake.
Amar naturally insisted on holding the evening parade as usual. Tom stood in front of his platoon, keenly aware of O'Reilly's absence. He scanned the handful of guards behind Amar, looking for Grumpy. He peered through the wire at the men in the Dawn Alliance compound, but the rain turned them all into blurry gray silhouettes.
After parade he went back to his hut. As the evening progressed men left the tables and trickled inside. Tom waited until sunset, stretched out on his bunk listening to rain patter on the leaves that covered the roof. A handful of officers were tracking a fresh leak a few bunks over, trying to decide if it was worth it to try to patch the roof during a rainstorm. If the leak was small, only the top bunk would get wet. Tom listened to them argue until he could no longer see the bunk above him, then climbed out and stood up. No one paid any attention when he slipped outside.
A last few die-hards sat at a table, engrossed in an animated conversation, their voices muted by rain. Tom slipped past them and into the rows of enlisted men's huts. No one else was out. He stuck close to the eaves at first, trying to avoid the rain, but his clothes hadn't really dried after the parade and he decided there was no point.
A door swung open with a creak somewhere ahead, then clacked shut. If someone asked him what he was doing there, Tom had no good answer – but who was going to ask? It was all enlisted men here, and he was an officer. He would have nothing to fear … until he got to the wire.
One of the more disconcerting things he'd learned during his imprisonment was that the guards didn't really care if someone went through the fence. It could be done. A patient, determined man could wriggle between the strands of barbed wire. An athletic man could climb the fence. The patrols were infrequent, and there were no other safeguards. He was almost certain of it.
The only stretch of fence with real security was the section separating the prisoners from the guards. That was where the tower stood. That was where the guards were actually alert. For the rest of the camp, though, the wire was little more than a nuisance.
Because, of course, there was nowhere to go. All Amar had to do was count heads every night during parade. If someone failed to turn out, he could take his time sending a tracking party to retrieve the starved corpse.
As he neared the corner of the compound Tom suddenly realized there was a flaw in his plan. If Grumpy had any sense he'd stay on the outside of the wire. He'd make Tom pass the ring through.
That would never do.
He cut sideways, heading for the south wire. He had to already be outside when Grumpy found him. It was the only way.
When he came to the corner of the last hut before the fence his nerve failed him. He stood frozen, staring at the wire, at the rain dripping from the barbs, and thought about death. About his own ignominious death, bleeding into the mud. About the men who would die if he was caught outside the wire. What right did he have to gamble with their lives?
Long seconds ticked past as he stood there, paralyzed with indecision. With fear. Finally he squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “O'Reilly.” O'Reilly, his friend, the man who'd stuck up for him when he was a junior officer on the Kestrel. Who'd supported him when fate had thrust him, unprepared, into the captain's seat. O'Reilly, who had never let him down.
O'Reilly, who lay dying at the other end of the compound.
“Shit. Oh, shit, I guess I have to do it.” He stepped out into the open, committing himself before fear could renew its grip. He wanted desperately to turn back. Instead he cursed himself for dithering in view of any passing sentry.
Six strides took him to the ankle-high wire that defined his world. A seventh step took him over the line, and then he flopped down on his stomach in the mud. He wriggled forward until his fingers touched wire, and then he slid his head underneath.
In thirty seconds he was stuck, the wire tight across his shoulders, a barb jabbing into each shoulder blade. He swore, struggled, and finally managed to back out. He lay there, panting as quietly as he could, and considered his options.
The nearest post jutted from the mud right beside him, and he grimaced at his own foolishness. The wire would be tightest at the posts. He squirmed sideways, found a spot about half-way between two posts, and rolled onto his back.
The mud was cool and soothing in the punctures on his shoulder blades, though he didn't want to think about the hygienic aspects. Rain fell softly into his face. It gathered on the wire and dripped from a barb onto his forehead as he slid his head underneath. He tilted his head to one side to keep from impaling the tip of nose, and watched as a barb came within millimeters of his cheek as he wormed his way deeper under the wire.
Only by pushing up on the wire with his hands could he get his chest underneath. Even then he had to unsnag his blouse several times. He sucked in his stomach, wriggled a bit farther, then had to use his hands again to get his hips through. I couldn’t have done this when I first got here.
When his hips were clear he twisted his body sideways, sliding one leg free, then the other. He ended up lying parallel to the fence, staring up into the rain, panting for breath and listening urgently for any sign of a sentry.
Nothing moved in the night.
He rose to his feet. Mud coated almost every square centimeter of his uniform, darkening it, making him almost invisible. It's like I planned it this way. Taking a last look into the darkness, he shrugged, decided the fates would spare him or they wouldn't, and set off along the fence at a jog.
No one waited at the southwest corner of the compound. Tom brought a hand up to protect his eyes from the rain and peered along the west fence, then along the south fence.
He was alone.
How long do I stand here waiting? How long until a sentry comes along? He looked around one more time. It's not as if there's someplace I can hide. Just as he was about to drop to his stomach and lie prone in the mud, a boot squelched in the darkness. Tom froze. Footsteps, loud and sticky, sounded in the darkness. Soon he was sure.
They were coming toward
him.
It's him. It's Grumpy. It must be him. Because if it's not, I'm dead. And O'Reilly is dead. And three other people are dead because of me.
A shape loomed in the darkness, plodding toward him, a dark figure with the unmistakable outline of a rifle butt showing above one shoulder. A guard, but too small for Grumpy. He marched straight toward Tom, who stood frozen, knowing he was spotted, knowing it was much too late to run.
But if it's not Grumpy, why isn't he grabbing his rifle? I'm a prisoner outside the wire. That makes me desperate by definition.
Why hasn't he shot me yet?
The guard kept walking, and Tom realized the rain and darkness had deceived him. The man was farther away than he'd seemed. And he was larger than he'd seemed. In fact, he was huge. When Grumpy finally stopped, just out of arm's reach, Tom had to tilt his head back to see the man's face. He was broad-shouldered, solid, intimidating, and Tom gulped. What have I gotten myself into?
“What are you doing outside?”
Tom lifted his hands, palms up. “I thought that was what you wanted.” He forced a chuckle. “Hurry up and give me the medicine so I can get back inside.”
“Show me the ring.”
“Right.” Tom stuck a hand in his pocket, fished out the circle of grass and cloth, and held it up between thumb and forefinger. Then, before Grumpy could reach for it, he said, “Here you go.” And he tossed the ring to the guard.
Grumpy swore and lunged for the ring, grabbing for it with both hands. It had his complete attention. He didn't see Tom step forward, plant a foot, and twist with his whole body as he drove a fist into the big man's midsection.
All the air left Grumpy's lungs in a single explosive grunt. He folded forward, and Tom brought a knee up, aiming for his jaw. Somehow Grumpy got an arm in the way, though. Then, still doubled over, he plowed forward, driving his head into Tom's chest.
Tom fell back, his left shoulder hitting the corner post of the compound. A barb dug into his back, and he hissed in pain. Grumpy grabbed for his arms, and Tom twisted them free, then grabbed at Grumpy's shoulders as he felt himself falling to the right. For a moment they stood there, gasping and straining. Tom managed to get his right leg out, his foot planted firmly in the mud. Only the post behind him kept him from tumbling onto his back, but at least his sideways momentum was stopped.
Grumpy began to straighten, planting large, strong hands on Tom's shoulders and hauling himself upright. His mouth kept opening and closing as he fought to inhale, so Tom leaned in and started throwing hook punches into his gut.
With his legs spread wide and those meaty hands on his shoulders he couldn't put much into the punches. Grumpy dropped his hands, though, protecting his suffering stomach. Tom belted him twice on the jaw, once with each hand, and Grumpy stumbled back.
That gave Tom time to finally straighten up. Grumpy inhaled, a long, ragged sound filled with pain, and Tom knew he was about to lose his only advantage. He waded in, throwing punches at the man's jaw, desperate to bring him down before he finished recovering from that first surprise blow.
Grumpy's big arms came up and curled around his head. Tom sent one punch after another thudding into his biceps and shoulders, knowing with a sick certainty that he was too late. Grumpy was recovering, and in a moment he'd start throwing punches of his own. That would end the fight pretty quickly.
Then Grumpy's arms dropped.
Tom was so astonished his next punch missed completely. The man was gasping for air, his jaw slack, his face stricken. His arms sagged even further – and Tom nailed him on the point of the chin with a solid right cross.
Grumpy landed on his back in the mud.
In a flash Tom was on his knees beside him, pawing frantically at the man's clothes. He patted one pocket after another, fighting a rising despair, starting with the breast pockets and working his way downward.
In Grumpy's left thigh pocket he finally struck gold. His questing fingertips found a hard rectangular shape, and he tore the pocket open with frantic haste. He pulled out a flat plastic case no bigger than the palm of his hand.
This has to be it. It's this or nothing. He patted the other thigh pocket, just to be sure.
Nothing.
Grumpy pressed his hands into the mud, trying to sit up.
“Don't report this,” Tom wheezed. “Or Amar will hear about your ring collection. Understand?”
Then he lurched to his feet, turned, and ran into the darkness.
The hospital hut was one of the few prisoner buildings with artificial light, a few pale strips attached to the rafters. Only one was lit when Tom let himself inside, the strip closest to the door. Vinduly, fully dressed, lay flaked out on a cot, his feet on the floor. He lifted his head as Tom closed the door, then sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Medical emergency?”
“No.” Tom drew out the stolen plastic case. “Do you know what this is?”
“A box?” the surgeon said skeptically, and held out his hand. Tom gave him the case. He peered at it, then rose and walked to the door, standing directly under the light. When he looked up his eyes were large. “Is this Quadrazine?”
“Is that Red Fever medication?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes, I think it is.”
“Where did you-” He stopped himself. “Never mind. I don't want to know.”
“I want you to treat O'Reilly. Is there enough?”
Vinduly slid the case open. Six glass vials lay inside, each filled with a clear liquid. “Six doses,” he said. “I can give him one dose now, and if he shows improvement, I can give him another dose tomorrow. Any more would be a waste.” His fingers curled around the case, and his face hardened. “I hope you don't want this back.”
What kind of person would take life-saving medication out of a hospital? “No,” Tom said. “Of course not.”
“Good.” He tapped at a control panel beside the door and brought up a few more lights. “Let's see what kind of shape Mr. O'Reilly is in.”
Tom followed him toward O'Reilly's bed. “What did you mean, if he shows improvement?”
Vinduly stopped and leaned his head close to Tom's. “O’Reilly is pretty far gone,” he murmured. “A hit of Quadrazine will give him a fighting chance, no more. It might not save him.”
Cold fingers squeezed Tom's guts. He ignored them. “Well, let's not waste any time, then.”
Vinduly nodded and crossed to O'Reilly's bed. He knelt on one side of the bed, and Tom squatted on the other side. O'Reilly had deteriorated noticeably in the hours since Tom had seen him. The skin under his eyes looked black in the dim light. His face looked skeletal.
He was not, however, dead. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. He looked from Tom to the surgeon, then back. “What's going on?”
Vinduly drew an injector from his blouse pocket, slid the first vial inside, and pocketed the case. “We've come into possession of some Quadrazine. Good news; you get to live.” He took O'Reilly's wrist in his left hand and brought the injector down with his right.
O'Reilly moved, surprisingly quickly for a man who looked more than half dead. He twisted his arm in a circular motion that popped his wrist out of the surgeon's grasp. A moment later he had his fingers wrapped around Vinduly's forearm. “Not so fast.”
“It's Quadrazine,” Vinduly said patiently. “It's medicine.”
“So?” said O'Reilly. “What are you giving it to me for?”
Vinduly stared at him, flabbergasted. “Because you have Red Fever.”
“And I'm going to die,” O'Reilly said evenly. “You know perfectly well I'm past the point where I can be saved. So why are you wasting that on me?”
“You're not doomed, O'Reilly. If I give you this, there's an excellent chance you'll pull through.”
O'Reilly sneered. “An excellent chance? Like what? Twenty percent? Thirty?”
“Maybe fifty,” the surgeon said.
O'Reilly's hand slipped from the man's arm, his strength apparently exhausted. The iron was stil
l in his voice, though. “Well, that's not good enough.” He nodded at the beds around him. “I want you to give that dose to one of the new cases. One of the kids. Someone in the early stages. Someone who's almost certain to survive if you treat him now.” He squinted at the injector. “That juice is too precious to waste.”
“It won't be a waste,” Tom protested.
“There's a fifty-percent chance it will be,” O'Reilly said. He stared into Vinduly's eyes. “That's my request. I don't consent to being dosed with that.” His eyes flicked to the injector. “Understand?”
Vinduly held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. He glanced at Tom, who gave him a helpless shrug.
For the next few minutes Tom stood, mute and frustrated beside O'Reilly's bed, watching as Vinduly moved from one bed to another, injecting patients in the arm. Tom watched him work, telling himself it was right, telling himself it was worth the price.
When he looked down at his friend, O'Reilly's eyes were closed.
Vinduly, his face bleak and tired, came back to stand beside Tom. He looked down at O'Reilly and said, “That's a brave man.”
Tom nodded.
“Here.” The orderly held out the plastic case. “There's one dose left. Keep it. Sooner or later you'll get sick. When it happens, you can catch it in the early stages. Before it's too late.” His eyes flicked to O'Reilly's pallid face, then back up.
“You've got more patients.”
Vinduly shook his head. “None who aren't at least as far gone as O'Reilly.” He pushed the case toward Tom. “Go on. You saved five lives. You can take an insurance policy. You deserve it.”
Tom stared at the man's hand, at the innocuous plastic case that could mean so much. He shook his head. “Give it to him.”
“I can't. He declined treatment.”
“Strictly speaking, he told you not to inject him with the first vial.”
Vinduly scowled. “He made his wishes pretty clear. As a matter of principle-”
“Principle?” Tom interrupted. “What do your principles tell you is the right thing to do right now?”
For a long moment the two of them stared into one another's eyes. Finally the surgeon shook his head. “What the hell.” A wry grin took some of the tiredness out of his eyes. “He's going to be some pissed if he recovers.” He loaded the injector.