Battle Scars (2/3)
Here's part 2. The story is done but needs a final read-through before posting. I should be able to get part 3 up later tonight, tomorrow at the latest.
Part 2
Even with a mask, gloves, and breathing through his mouth, cleaning Tayven was an exercise in hell. The smell was overwhelming, and the sight of the bugs burrowing into the kid’s hair and under his clothing was threatening to send John skittering across to the other side of the room every few seconds. He’d seen a lot of desperate situations in his life in the military, but this one was rapidly earning its spot at the top of the list.
Paulsen had at least a dozen emergency blankets. They were small when they were folded up and packaged, making them easy to fill small gaps in the bag. He spread two of them on the bed, knowing the bugs were likely as deeply infested in the mattress, then laid Tayven on top and stripped him of his dirty, ragged clothes. The medical bag had a number of packets of powdered soap as well. As soon as the bucket of hot water arrived, John began washing the kid as well as he could.
It was all he could do to not to gag at the sight of the insects. Tayven was infected head to toe with body lice and head lice-at least this world’s version of the insects-and his skin was covered in rashes, some areas bad enough that they’d broken out into open sores. The boy’s hair was long, almost to his shoulders, and in the end, John ended up cutting it as close to the scalp as he could, then scrubbing his fingers through the remainder in order to get rid of both the live bugs and the eggs.
Even then, he wasn’t sure he’d gotten all of them, but it was a drastic improvement. By the time he was finished, he’d gone through six pairs of gloves and trashed the first two emergency blankets, spreading four more out on the bed. Tayven didn’t react to John’s manhandling or scrubbing, and his skin burned under John’s touch. He looked worse with the shaved head as well, his eyes and cheeks gaping hollows in his thin face.
He treated the open sores next with a tube of antibiotic cream then spread another blanket over Tayven. He grabbed the boy’s clothes and the dirty blanket he’d tossed to the corner of the room, balling them and one of the discarded emergency blankets up and tying the other blanket around it. The hallway outside had been quiet since the water had arrived. John grabbed the door handle, pulling and twisting it, and expecting it to be locked. When it swung open immediately, he stepped back in surprise. Thug One appeared, holding his club up and bracing himself for a fight.
John thrust the bundle of dirty, bug-infested material at the young guard. “Get rid of these. Burn them,” he ordered. He dropped the bundle at Thug One’s feet and slammed the door before he could answer.
He turned back toward Tayven, and the sight of the sick child sent a rattling shakiness through him. He dropped to the chair, shifting the duffel bag to the end of the bed so that he had room to just sit and gather his thoughts for a moment. He stripped off the latest pair of gloves and pulled his mask down, then leaned forward to rest his head in his hands.
He knew a lot about field medicine. The Air Force didn’t hold back when it came to training their pilots, particularly in John’s case with the types of missions he’d frequently found himself flying over the years. But that was intellectual knowledge. Staring at Tayven now, John fought back a wave of emotions. What if he made things worse for this kid? What if he treated him incorrectly and made him sicker? What if Tayven died as a direct result of John’s actions?
He shook his head. He couldn’t think like that. This kid was already dying. He took a deep breath and tried to focus his thoughts. An image of Beckett rose up in his mind, and while John had noticed the efficiency and decisiveness with which the doctor had tackled medical emergencies in the past, he’d never fully appreciated the ramifications of that until now.
“What do I do, Doc? What do I do?” he muttered, and part of him wished Beckett would suddenly appear in the room.
One thing at a time. Tayven was severely dehydrated, so John dug out an IV kit and saline bag, cursing himself for not doing this first. He donned another pair of gloves and slid his mask back over his mouth, then tried to ignore the way his fingers were shaking as he attempted to find a vein. It was harder-much harder-than it had been the few other times he’d had to do it, but he finally got the IV started. He set the bag up on the dresser next to the bed, then dug through the medical duffel again.
Medicine. That should be the next step. The pre-filled syringes were clearly marked, and John read through the directions three times before pulling out one of the broad spectrum antibiotic ones. He administered it through the IV, quickly, before he changed his mind.
Next step. He tapped his fingers against his knee for a second. The next step would be… would be…
“Come on, Doc, talk to me.”
This time, his imagination briefly flirted with a scenario where Beckett came to the planet and got himself kidnapped by Hesh and his gang, finally showing up in Tayven’s room. With a grunt, he shook his head, banishing the thought. This was not helping Tayven.
“Think, John. Use your head.” He stared at the boy again and watched the rapid rise and fall of the chest.
Breathing, heart rate? He dug through the bag again and pulled out a stethoscope. Relief rushed through him when he also found a thick manual. Thank God Paulsen had thought to pack that. He flipped through it, scanning the contents until he found the page he thought he needed. Hesitating for only a few seconds, he slid to his knees until he was kneeling next to the bed. He fitted the stethoscope into his ears and pulled the blanket covering Tayven down to the boy’s waist, then reached forward with the chestpiece.
He paused, remembering how Beckett would rub the metal disc against his palm to warm it up. John did that, frowning at the sound of friction that made its way up the eartubes, then gently pressed the disc against the boy’s chest. If he was hoping for some kind of reaction, he was disappointed. Tayven didn’t respond to having his heart listened to, just as he hadn’t reacted to anything else.
John listened to the heart for several minutes, clinging to the rapid thumping in his ears. It was too fast, but the kid was feverish. Was that normal? He closed his eyes, his mind racing through information he’d learned and shelved, never expecting to have to use it in quite this way. Field medicine was all about doing just enough to keep the person alive until you reached someone more qualified to take over, and John’s experience had dealt more often with injuries than illness. He stared down at the manual for another second as his thoughts raced. He thought that was right. High fever usually meant increased heart rate. He moved the stethoscope around on Tayven’s chest, listening to the breath sounds.
Footsteps pounded past the door, and John froze, but whoever was outside kept on walking. He felt his cheeks suddenly flush with heat, remembering how he’d dressed up as a zombie doctor for Halloween his freshman year of college. He felt as much like a phony doctor now as he had then. He pushed away the discomfort and continued listening to Tayven’s lungs, straining to hear what he was supposed to hear. Or not hear. He knew what he’d been told to listen for, but trying to distinguish it from what he was actually hearing was a different story.
Tayven was breathing fast, and John could hear the air moving through his lungs-louder in some places than others. He didn’t sound congested, but the breathing sounded… thicker… than he imagined it should be. He sat back with a sigh. He should probably check blood pressure, take the kid’s temperature, make sure his body was getting enough oxygen.
Write this down. The thought flashed his mind and he cursed under his breath. All the time he’d spent in the infirmary, doctors and nurses wrote every little thing down religiously. He flipped to the back of the manual and saw the last page was blank, so he ripped it out. In the side pocket of the duffel bag, he found a pen and he jotted down meticulous notes of what he’d found and done so far.
Nearly an hour later, John sat back in the chair, exhausted. Tayven looked a little better, less pale with his cheeks flushed pink, but he hadn’t moved any closer to consciousness. John glanced at his watch, surprised at the late hour and his stomach grumbled automatically. The day had already been long, but it was well past midnight now. He’d discovered a supply of powerbars in another pocket of the duffel, and he downed two of them quickly.
Speaking of food, Tayven was in dire need of it. Hesh had said he hadn’t eaten since he’d grown sick, or he’d vomited when he’d tried to eat. John tried to remember his exact words, but his head was starting to pound from stress and fatigue. Maybe with a bit more fluids, the boy would rouse enough to eat something. John let his head fall into his hand and closed his eyes. He was exhausted…
He jerked awake suddenly, ears straining for what had woken him up, but he heard nothing. The room was deathly still. He turned immediately toward Tayven, his heart seizing in his chest, but the boy looked the same. He was still breathing, still alive. In fact, he looked like he’d shifted a little, flopping one arm across his stomach.
Maybe that was what had woken John up. He scrubbed at his eyes, feeling dry grittiness under his lids. He hadn’t slept for long. A couple of hours at the most. He glanced at his watch and noted it was now just past 3 a.m. The IV bag still had about a quarter of its solution left, so John left it alone. He ran through the other checks, though, writing the results down on his makeshift chart.
When he was done, he glanced at the door. It had been unlocked before but guarded. Were they still there? He was surprised no one had come to check on him. He squatted down to the bag and dug through it until he found a small case carrying a half dozen scalpel knives of different sizes and picked out the largest one.
This was the dead time, when most people were deep asleep, and those who weren’t wished they were. As far as he could tell, the hall outside had been quiet for hours. If he was going to escape, now was the time to do it. John crept to the door and pressed his ear against the panel, holding his breath as he listened for any sound. After a few minutes, he stepped back and grasped the handle.
He glanced back at Tayven and felt guilt claw at his chest. The kid really did look better than when he’d first arrived, but that didn’t mean much. That could be a temporary bounce back, and then what? Then Hesh took out his grief and anger by bashing John’s head in. John clenched his jaw. He could get out of here, back to his people, and then maybe return with more support, more supplies. An actual doctor.
He nodded to himself. Tayven’s best chance was for John to escape, but the guilt at leaving the boy alone wouldn’t stay squelched. With a huff, he crossed the room and grabbed his page of notes, stuffing it in his pocket. Now when he returned to Atlantis, he had a little more information to give Beckett for when they came back.
At the last second, John extinguished the lantern on the dresser, plunging the room into darkness. He moved slowly to the door, acutely aware of every scrape of his feet against the floor. The door was still unlocked, and he opened it slowly. When neither Thug One nor Thug Two appeared, he leaned out into the hallway, scanning the darkness. Candles had been set on the floor at ten feet intervals, casting just enough light so that he would be able to pick his way through the trash without stepping on anything that would make any noise.
He waited a few seconds more, letting his eyes adjust, but no one yelled out at his sudden appearance. At the end of the hallway, near the stairwell, he could just make out the silhouette of a young man leaning against the wall, facing away from him. The guy was smoking, and in the red glow of his cigarette, John recognized the boy the others had called Biggie.
He’d learned a trick or two hanging out with both Ronon and Teyla, and he managed to walk the short distance down the hall without making a sound. Biggie moved just enough to raise and drop his cigarette, but he never once looked back at John’s approach. John felt adrenaline pump through him, his senses reaching out around him and the hair on his arms standing on end.
Biggie suddenly threw his cigarette butt to the ground, smashing it with his foot. John tensed, raising his scalpel, but before he could take another step, he felt a cold metal barrel press against his neck.
“Don’t think so, giver,” Ulam spat behind him.
John cringed, grateful for the darkness as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment at how easily Ulam had caught him. Again. How had he not heard anyone sneaking up behind him?
“You a foolish giver, eh? Thought givers were smart up here,” Biggie crowed, tapping his finger against his temple. In the flickering candlelight, he danced in front of John, bouncing from foot to foot and riding his own wave of adrenaline. “I heard you coming the second you opened that door. We knew you were gonna make a run sometime tonight. Knew it.”
The rifle pressing against his neck disappeared. John heard a whistling sound near his head, and then the rifle crashed against his arm. The scalpel clattered to the floor as his hand flashed first with pain, then numbness. He slammed his jaw shut, intent on not making a sound and giving these guys any more satisfaction at how easily they’d caught him.
Dammit, John, he cursed himself. Get it together. He’d underestimated them-saw kids when he should have seen soldiers. They might not have gone through any formal military training, but he’d seen the streets they were living in, knew what kind of lives they’d had to live to survive this long. Even pretending to be a giver might not be enough to keep himself alive now.
Ulam grabbed his uninjured arm, jerking John off balance, and John instinctively curled his right arm into his chest, cradling it. It was still numb. The rifle had caught his forearm right below the elbow, and no amount of mental coaxing could get his fingers to curl into a fist. His arm was a dead weight.
Biggie bounced ahead of them, kicking at a door until Thug One and Thug Two emerged, looking half-asleep. Farther down the hallway, another door flipped open, spilling bright light into the corridor, and a dark figure stepped out.
Hesh. The two thugs took Ulam’s place, each one latching onto one of John’s arms. They dragged him to Tayven’s door, then stopped. Hesh was striding toward them, the shadows flickering across his face making him look much older and very angry.
“He tried to run, Hesh. Ulam and me, we caught him sneaking.”
“Shut it, Biggie,” Hesh snapped, and Biggie slid back against the wall, the bounce of adrenaline draining out of him in an instant. Hesh turned to John, glaring.
“I had to use the head,” John said before Hesh could ask him anything. His attempt at a nonchalant shrug was halted by the two guards clamping hands on his shoulders, and Thug Two readjusting his grip until he had a meaty fist wrapped around the bruise on John’s forearm. John winced, and the dead muscle began to tingle as feeling flooded back into the limb.
“Where’s Tayven?” Hesh barked.
“Sleeping.”
Hesh threw the door open and stepped into Tayven’s room. Light flooded into the hallway as the lantern was once again turned on. There was a pause, and then John heard Hesh cry out in surprise.
He was back out into hallway, inches from John’s face, within seconds. “You cut his hair,” Hesh snarled.
John leaned back from the spit flying from Hesh mouth. “He was filthy. I cleaned him.”
“You cut his hair!”
“I got rid of the bugs.”
Hesh jumped forward, grabbing John by the throat. “He’s naked! What did you do to him?”
“I cleaned him,” John choked out. “He’s sick. He needed basic hygiene-”
Hesh screamed, pushing his hand against John’s throat and cutting off John’s air supply. John let his legs fold, giving into the pressure, and Thug One and Thug Two’s grasp on his arms slipped. He fell backward, Hesh landing on top of him.
His head smacked against the floor, but he’d been half-prepared for the fall and managed to absorb most of the impact with his back and arms. He grabbed at Hesh’s hand around his throat now, squirming.
“I’m trying… to help… him…,” he wheezed out.
Hesh’s face was red, going on purple. Or maybe that was just the lack of blood and oxygen making it to John’s brain. He tucked a knee up between himself and Hesh and pushed out, finally dislodging the other man’s grip on his neck. Hesh rolled to the side, stood up, then kicked a hole into the wall with a scream. John turned away from him, sucking in precious oxygen.
“Get him up.”
John had let his eyes slide closed for a moment, but they flew open as he was jerked upright. Hesh paced in front of him, his movements jerky and his breaths coming out in fast pants.
“He was covered in bugs,” John said. His voice was raspy and low, and he swallowed what little spit he had in his mouth to work some moisture into his throat. “That’s probably the reason he’s sick in the first place. If he can’t clean himself, then you have to do it for him.”
“I ain’t no giver,” Hesh snarled.
“No, you’re his brother, and he needs you to take care of him.”
“That’s why we got you.”
Hesh turned, grabbing the rifle out of Ulam’s hands and John’s breath caught in his throat. Was he going to shoot him? After all the trouble they’d gone through to get him here in the first place, they wouldn’t just shoot him, would they?
“He still needs help. He’s still sick.”
Hesh froze, glaring at John. Slowly, the anger leaked out of his expression, replaced with something almost like glee. Maniacal, like he was about to do something he was really looking forward to doing.
He flipped the rifle around and swung it like a club, an arc somewhere in between a baseball swing and a golf swing. John flinched, stumbling backward, but the thugs kept him still enough for the end of the rifle to crack against the side of his knee.
He screamed, jerking in his captors’ arms. They let him go, and he fell hard to the floor, curling up instantly around his throbbing leg. Arms dug at him, stretching him out, and he looked up again just as Hesh swung the rifle again. This time, he felt his knee dislocate, sliding sideways against the impact. John arched, throwing his head back as his vision whited out in pain. His entire leg was on fire, and he was only dimly aware of hands dragging him into the brighter lights of Tayven’s room.
They dropped him in the chair, causing his injured leg to bend just a little. The patella slipped back into place with a sickening crunching, sending another jolt of pain through his leg and up into his throat. John leaned forward, feeling his stomach flip with nausea, and grit his teeth against the urge to throw up.
A hand dug into his hair, jerking his head up. “Now maybe you won’t go wandering down the hall,” Hesh smiled, but his eyes still simmered with anger. “My brother dies, you die,” he hissed in John’s ear. He flung his head back and stomped out of the room, and John was left alone with Tayven once again.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
His knee swelled up like a watermelon almost as soon as it relocated. John stretched out in the chair, leaning carefully toward the medic bag. The urge to throw up had subsided, but it wasn’t gone completely. Every little flinch and jostle sent stabbing pain through his leg, and by the time he’d managed to pull a leg splint out of the bag, his face was slick with sweat. A few agonizing minutes later, he had propped his leg up on the bed and stabilized it with the brace.
He leaned back, letting the air out of his lungs with an exhausted huff. He needed to sleep-not long, but maybe an hour or two. The incessant throbbing wasn’t going to let him drift off for even a few minutes, however. He dug through the bag again in search of the strongest Ibuprofen he could find and almost cried in relief when he uncovered a couple of chemical ice packs instead.
He crunched one of them in his hands, feeling the pack go ice cold, then went through the painful process of loosening the brace again and shoving the ice pack against the inflamed joint. By the time he had tied everything back up again, the pain had dulled enough that it didn’t take his breath away every time it moved. He found a bottle of Ibuprofen and downed the pills quickly.
His arm was badly bruised, but as far as he could tell, nothing was broken. He debated using the other ice pack on the black and blue welt covering half his forearm, but decided against it in the end. He’d need to ice his knee again later. He glanced over at Tayven, but the kid’s condition hadn’t changed. He’d have to change out the IV bag soon, and he thought of the syringes of antibiotics.
Should he give him another one? John blinked, rubbing at the dull ache in his head. He couldn’t remember, but he had Paulsen’s manual. Hopefully, it had something in there about how often to give antibiotics. Remembering the chart he’d started on Tayven, he fished it out of his pocket and smoothed it out, then set it on top of the bag.
Tayven was… well, not okay, but good enough for the moment. John’s leg and arm were about as okay as they were going to get without more advanced painkillers and medical help. He let himself sink back in the chair, his eyes sliding closed almost against his will. Just a few minutes. He just needed a few minutes…
He woke slowly, his head pounding. It took a monumental effort to open his eyes and he winced at the lamp he’d left on. His mouth was dry and he smacked his lips as he attempted to work some moisture into his throat. He’d spotted a few water bottles in the bag and he opened one now, forcing himself to drink slowly. He also downed a few more Ibuprofen and powerbars, and a few minutes later, the ache behind his eyes released its hold on him.
His leg was hot to the touch and still swollen. The ice pack had lost most of its cold and now felt soft and mushy under the brace, but it was still cool enough and he had no desire to move it at the moment. With a grunt, he sat up, then used his arms to slide from the chair to the bed. Tayven was still asleep, but his skin had gained color, his cheeks a bright pink.
“’Morning, kid,” John muttered, glancing at his watch. 5:40 a.m. “Very early morning.” With a sigh, he ran through his checks, updating his chart. He checked the heart and lungs again, and frowned at the readout on the thermometer when he saw the temperature. Tayven was just as feverish as he had been the night before.
He scanned through the manual and slammed it shut in frustration when he couldn’t find exactly what he was looking for. He needed a chapter on Tayven, with step-by-step guidelines on what to do and when to do it. The IV bag was out, so he switched it for a new one. By the time he was done with that, he’d opted to go ahead with more antibiotics. He’d had to drop his injured leg to the floor to sit on the bed, and he could feel a hot throbbing picking up in his knee. Once he was back in the chair with his leg propped up, he wouldn’t be moving from that position again for a while. Hesh had certainly found a way to keep him from trying to escape.
With a sigh, John decided to check Tayven over again for any bugs that might have escaped him the night before. It took only a few minutes, but he seemed clean enough. John examined the larger sores on the skin next, reapplied the antibiotic cream, then re-bandaged them with a scowl. At the risk of sounding like McKay, he was not cut out for this medical stuff.
It was as he was pressing a band-aid over a small, inflamed cut on Tayven’s shoulder that the boy flinched and his brow pulled down in a furrow. John froze, and a second later Tayven turned his head away from him. He sighed, a soft hoarse sound and flailed his arm, but his eyes stayed stubbornly shut.
John grabbed the small hand. “Tayven?”
The boy winced, curling his fingers to grip John’s thumb.
“Hey, buddy? Come on, wake up.”
He heard Beckett’s voice again, echoing in his own words. How many times had Carson forced him to wake up and open his eyes when all John had wanted was sleep, escape whatever pain or illness was afflicting him at that time?
“I know you don’t want to wake up, or open your eyes, but I really need to see that you’re getting better. Just for a second.”
Tayven sighed and settled back into the bed, his grip on John’s hand loosening. He was asleep again.
“Yeah, alright. Maybe later,” he whispered. He brushed his fingers against the boy’s forehead.
The skin was still hot. He’d pulled the emergency blanket over Tayven down to his waist, but nothing else he’d done was cooling the kid off. He closed his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand as he thought through his options.
Water. Water was the best bet. He stared at the closed door and realized he would have to get up and walk across the room to get anyone’s attention. He glanced down at Tayven again and shook his head. He needed water.
He braced himself as much as he could, then stood up using the dresser to support most of his weight. It rocked precariously, but he moved slowly. The pain in his knee doubled, sending bolts up and down the limb.
“Damn it, Hesh,” he muttered. He moved about three feet, one hand still on the corner of the dresser, but he was reluctant to let go of the furniture completely. The door was still another five feet away, but this would have to do.
“Hey! Guards!”
After his last trip out, he imagined Hesh had stuck someone on his door even after he’d disabled John’s mobility. He smiled when he heard footsteps scrape against the floor in front of him, grimly satisfied at having worked out the scenario. The door flung open, and a young man poked his head in the room, dark circles ringing his eyes. It wasn’t anyone John had seen yet, making him wonder how big Hesh’s gang was. This guy looked a little younger than even Biggie, and a little more on the malnourished side.
“I need water.”
When the guard continued to stare at John without reacting, John pointed a thumb at Tayven behind him. “For the kid. Either get me a bucket of water-cold this time-or go fetch your boss, Hesh.”
The kid closed the door without responding and John sighed. There wasn’t much more he could do and still hold onto the dresser. He decided to give them a few minutes to get his bucket of water first. Very slowly, he turned himself around and hobbled back to the bed, barely catching himself from a completely collapse. The bruise on his arm was aching but better than it had been the night before-definitely not broken. His leg, on the other hand, was screaming at the forced movement and the little bit of weight he’d exerted on it.
He grabbed the medic bag and pulled it closer to him, digging out more Ibuprofen and swallowing them dry. Now would be a good time to take inventory. The bag was big and had been packed with enough stuff that it was a small miracle the zipper and seams hadn’t popped, but it wasn’t Mary Poppins’ magical suitcase. There were limits to his supplies, something he should have paid more attention to before.
He dug through the bag now. It had been somewhat in order when he’d first opened it, but now it was a mess from his rummaging, stuff spilling out over the top. He knew there was a collapsible stretcher in a separate pocket along the bottom of the bag, but he left that alone for now. He spread the rest of the items out around Tayven’s sleeping form, separating them into piles that kind of made sense. He had two more water bottles and nine powerbars in one pile, and a second IV kit, two more saline bags, and a pile of needles and tubes in another. He left the various bandages, wraps, and braces in the bag, but pulled out all the medicines-the Ibuprofen and antibiotics included-and set them off to the side.
He had a dozen more emergency blankets, still packaged in two-inch squares, and at least that many pairs of gloves. One more chemical ice pack, tape, alcohol wipes, safety pins, cotton balls, another tube of antibiotic cream that he tossed into the medicine pile, eye patch, more tape, a pair of scissors, a set of small scalpel knives-minus the one he’d lost during the night-a dozen individual packs of powdered soap, stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, thermometer, a tube of anti-itch cream-
“Jackpot,” he said, pulling out a small bottle of antibacterial hand lotion and a three-pack of washcloths. “Could have used this last night.”
He continued digging, finding another pair of scissors, a chest tube kit, empty saline bags, a-Holy shit!-small bone saw, a few suture kits, and a couple dozen small packs of nutrition powder that could be mixed into food or water and that might help Tayven later if John could get him to eat or drink. He ducked his head into the bag again and came up laughing a second later holding a box of condoms and a pregnancy kit.
“Seriously, Paulsen? For a combat medkit?”
John pulled out an endotracheal tube next, then a face mask and the grin on his face vanished, replaced with a grimace. “I hope for your sake I don’t have to use these, kid.” He tossed them toward the head of the bed and cringed when the edge of the mask smacked against the boy’s head.
“Damn, sorry,” he muttered, leaning forward to move it away from him.
As he did so, Tayven’s eyes fluttered open. John glanced at the stuff surrounding the kid, not sure if he should try to quickly shove it back into the bag or if that movement would startle the boy. John was a complete stranger to a kid who’d grown up in a very dangerous world, and he had no idea how the boy was going to react.
“Hey,” he whispered, opting to stay as still as possible. He leaned back, trying to look as unimposing and unthreatening as possible.
Tayven’s gaze was glassy and unfocused. He blinked up at the ceiling a few times but still seemed unaware of John’s presence.
“Tayven?” John spoke a little louder, and the boy’s gaze drifted toward him.
His eyes widened in surprise, and his arms flailed as he panicked. His chest began to heave up and down, and spit dribbled out of the side of his mouth. Beneath the rattling breaths, John could hear a hoarse, high-pitched whimper. Tayven was in a full panic but too sick and weak to do anything but writhe and moan.
“It’s okay,” John said, keeping his voice low and his hands held up. “I won’t hurt you. I’m a… a giver.” He had no clue whether Tayven was even hearing him. He reached out with one hand to grab the arm with the IV needle in it. The boy reacted instantly, letting out a strangled cry before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he went limp.
“Oh, shit,” John breathed, lunging forward, the pain in his own knee all but forgotten. He dug his fingers into the boy’s neck, feeling his own heart pounding in his chest. The rapid pulse against his fingertips gave him only a small bit of comfort. Tayven was still breathing heavily, although it was slowing to a more normal pace, but John swore he could hear the beginnings of a wheeze at the end of each exhale.
He repacked the medic bag quickly in a haphazard order, but he knew what he had now, and he could reach whatever he was looking for quickly enough. He kept the stethoscope out, pressing the end piece to Tayven’s chest. The boy’s breathing sounded worse, heavier and more congested, and John’s heart sank.
“Hang in there, kid,” he muttered, folding up the stethoscope and scribbling the latest down on Tayven’s chart.
Heavy footsteps pounded outside the door-a lot of them-and John looked up in surprise. He’d half forgotten his demand for water. Maybe the young guard had come through for him after all. He braced himself and shoved the piece of paper into his pocket, wincing when he inadvertently tried to bend his injured knee, and was staring at the door when it flew open.
Hesh entered first, much to John’s surprise. The gang leader glared at John then shifted his gaze over to Tayven behind him.
“How is he?” he demanded.
“A little better,” John answered evenly, “but still sick. Very sick.”
The young guard from earlier walked in behind Hesh, carrying a bucket of water that sloshed as he moved. He slid past Hesh and set it down next to John’s feet, then backed out of the room without looking at any of them.
Hesh said nothing, so John leaned forward and moved the bucket over to the side of the bed where it was easier for him to reach. He turned to the bag and pulled out the pack of washcloths, ripping the plastic and dropping one cloth into the water before returning the rest to the bag. He glanced at Hesh and noticed how intently the young man was watching him.
He was a giver. Hesh had to continue to believe that. Stifling a sigh, John wrung out the wet cloth and spread it over Tayven’s forehead.
“Fever?” Hesh asked.
“Yeah.”
“How bad?”
“Bad, Hesh. He may need more help than I can give him here.”
Hesh’s eyes narrowed and he clamped his jaw shut. He studied Tayven for a moment longer then jerked his head at John. “Grab your supplies. You’re needed down the hall.”
John snorted, laughing at the idea that he could just jump up with a heavy medic bag and follow Hesh wherever the young gang leader commanded. Hesh’s face flushed red, and John clamped his jaw shut at the anger flaring in the other man’s eyes. He waved a hand at his knee.
“Remember this, Hesh? I can’t walk, let alone carry a bag with me.”
The muscles in Hesh’s jaw flexed as he stared John down, but he said nothing. A second later, he marched out of the room and John let the breath he’d been holding whoosh out of him. He was sure Hesh had been ready to attack him again. Shouts and stomping feet brought his attention back to the open door and hallway, and he bit back a sigh when Hesh reappeared with the new guard-Water Boy-Thug One, and Thug Two.
“Grab the bag,” Hesh ordered. Water Boy jumped forward.
“Hey! What the hell?” John cried out, lunging for the bag. For a split second, he forgot his busted knee and tried to jump to his feet. Pain erupted through his limb and he grit his teeth against the urge to scream hysterically as he collapsed back toward the bed.
Thug One and Thug Two moved quickly, grabbing onto his arms and yanking him upright. John grabbed onto their shoulders, letting them hold most of his weight as he desperately tried to douse the flames in his knee. He breathed heavily through his mouth, letting his eyes close and his head fall forward.
“Bring him.”
Hesh’s voice cut through the haze and John looked up just as his thug friends started to move.
“Where are we going?”
“You talk too much, giver.”
John groaned when he stepped forward and attempted to put some weight on his injured leg, and the thugs on either side of him tightened their grips. There was no way he was walking on his own, and he resigned himself to leaning on them, using them as crutches as he slowly moved forward.
“What about Tayven?”
Hesh paused, glancing back at the boy on the bed. “He’s strong. You won’t be gone long.”
Thug One and Thug Two moved forward again, dragging John out of the room and down the hallway. They moved slowly enough and seemed willing to take as much weight as John was putting on them, but going for a little walk was the last thing John needed at the moment. His leg swung slightly as he hobbled forward, stretching abused muscles and ligaments under the swollen joint. Sweat broke out across his forehead, dripping down the side of his face and neck.
When they hit the stairs, John groaned out loud, earning a glare from Hesh. The young guard moved ahead of them with the medic bag, bouncing down the stairs as if the bag were empty. The thugs took the stairs slowly, careful with their charge, and by the time they’d descended the first half flight, they were almost carrying John completely.
Windows facing the street appeared at each landing, and John strained to catch a glimpse outside. It was light out, the pale brightness of morning. As they rounded the corner and headed down the next flight, John glanced over at his watch. His men would be out in force now, searching for him. Maybe even scouring the area with the jumpers. If they went outside at all, he had to find a way to leave a sign of where he was being held captive. This could all be over with in a few hours.
His hopes were dashed a minute later when Hesh signaled them out of the stairwell and into the hallway. They had only gone down two flights, which meant they were still three flights up. The murmur of babbling voices floated down the hall and John forced himself to ignore his leg and look around. Water Boy had moved ahead of them and he flung a door open halfway down the corridor. The sound of people-a lot of people-doubled, and John was dragged quickly to the new room.
It was a large room, filled with random beds, chairs, and sofas. A group of young men sat or lay on the scattered furniture, but they grew quiet as John and Hesh entered. John’s thug friends dragged him over to a wooden chair and dropped him, and John grit his teeth against the sudden urge to scream.
“Line up,” Hesh ordered. “More serious first.”
John blinked back tears of pain to focus on the people in the room. They were all young men, ranging in age from early teens to maybe mid-twenties. They looked rough and dirty, more than half them visibly bruised or beaten.
Hesh left without waiting for anyone’s response. Water Boy dropped the bag at John’s feet, then bounced out of the room after the gang leader. Thugs One and Two stood on either side of the door, back on guard duty. The rest of the room began silently forming a line in front of John. The boy in front of him was about eighteen and holding a bloody bandage to his forehead.
“What’s going on?” John asked, glancing around the room. His heart was pounding. He had an inkling of what Hesh intended, but he did not like where this was going.
“Hesh said you were a giver,” a voice called out.
John glanced down the line, looking unsuccessfully for whoever had spoken. The boy in front of him swayed, and John snapped his head back. The kid’s eyes were glassy, his face pale and sweaty. He needed to sit down, fast.
“I need a bed or sofa,” John called out. The large room was filled with scattered furniture. If John was going to treat these guys, they’d have to sit down for him to do it. No way in hell was he going to be able to stand up and come to them.
Whispers broke out, then a minute later, a few of the boys near the back of the line carried a narrow, metal bed frame and thin mattress to John’s side, carefully sidestepping his outstretched injured leg. They shuffled back as soon as they pushed it almost up against John’s chair, retaking their position in line.
For a gang, they were remarkably quiet and well-behaved, waiting patiently in the line Hesh had ordered them to make. John signaled the bleeding boy in front of him to come forward and sit down.
The kid did, although he dropped heavily and with little coordination onto the side of the bed. He stared forward with dull eyes, hardly reacting when John pulled the bloody rag away from his head and turned the kid’s face toward him.
“What happened?”
The kid didn’t answer, just blinked, then frowned.
“Hey,” John said, snapping his fingers. “What happened to you?”
“Fight with Arader’s gang,” the next kid in line said. John looked up to see a boy no older than fifteen pressing his hand against a blood-soaked sleeve.
“Arader?” John leaned over, digging into his bag as he spoke, not quite sure what he was looking for. A bandage? He glanced up at the kid sitting next to him and saw the deep cut on his forehead. Definitely a bandage. Maybe even stitches. He stifled a sigh as he pulled out a handful of supplies and dumped them on the bed next to him for easier access.
“Arader-he runs the gangs all over the southeast blocks. They been trying to move in on our blocks,” the boy with the arm wound explained.
“So you fought them,” John finished.
“We always fight them, but they ran at us hard this morning.”
“We clubbed them back, though,” another young man called out, and he was answered by a chorus of cheers and the thumping of fists against backs.
John cleaned the head wound, grimacing when he saw it was a deep scrape and not a cut. Not something he could easily stitch up-not at his skill level, anyway. He made the kid follow his finger with his eyes, reminded again of the number of times he’d been on the receiving end of this treatment. He owed the medical staff a huge thank you of some kind when he got home.
The boy’s eyes jerked as they attempted to track his finger. When John asked him if he had a headache, he nodded stiffly. John called to one of the boys who had carried the bed over and, after a quick check to see that he was suffering from nothing more than a few bruises, tasked him with looking over his first patient.
“Keep an eye on him until tomorrow morning. Make him rest and drink plenty of fluids-water.”
The boy swallowed and nodded his head, then helped the first boy to his feet and led him to the other side of the room. John watched them go for a few seconds, his stomach twisting in on itself. If the kid had a concussion, given enough rest, maybe he’d heal up just fine. If it turned worse? There wasn’t much John could do about that, no matter how well stocked Paulsen’s bag was.
The second boy in line was easing himself onto the bed and John stifled a sigh. “Hurt anywhere else besides your arm?”
“No. Cut deep, though.”
“Yeah, I can tell. What’s your name?”
“Copes.”
“Copes,” John repeated. He couldn’t see much through the rip in the sleeve and ended up having the kid pull his shirt off. The cut was very deep, thick blood still welling out of it and running down the skin. John felt his gut clench. He wasn’t normally skittish at the sight of blood, but this needed stitches. Copes looked tough as hell, but he turned his head away at the sight of the suture kit John produced, paling noticeably.
“This is going to hurt,” John said.
“I know,” Copes whispered.
To the kid’s credit, he hardly made a sound as John stitched the wound then covered it. John, on the other hand, could feel his jaw throbbing from clenching his teeth so tightly. He was also feeling slightly nauseous, which could have been caused by the blood, the sight of the needle weaving through the skin, the stench of body odor from Copes that was only noticeable once John leaned close to work, or some combination of all of the above. The throb in his knee wasn’t helping matters, and neither was the fact that he was hungry, thirsty, and stressed.
“Keep it as clean as you can,” John told him.
Copes deflated visibly, sagging on the edge of the bed. “Thanks,” he breathed out.
John nodded, not sure he deserved this kid’s thanks. He turned his attention over to the next boy but stopped when Copes grabbed his arm.
“Think when you’re done here, you can come over to my place?”
“What?” John asked, baffled.
“My mom, she gets these shooting pains in her legs, so bad she can hardly walk. Can you help her?”
“Um… I…”
“My sister,” the next boy in line called out, moving forward. “My sister-she’s pregnant, but she’s had really bad stomach cramps in the last week. It’s too soon for the baby to come. She’s afraid she’ll have it too early. If she starts bleeding…”
John opened his mouth to respond then glanced behind the boy with the sick sister to see the boys behind him watching John intently. The tough exteriors they usually wore around each other had dropped, and they stared at John with open desperation. John snapped his mouth shut, and held up a hand when more of the boys moved forward.
“I can try to help later, but right now, Hesh wants me to look at you guys. We’ll talk about your families later.”
Most of their expressions fell, crestfallen, but a few nodded back at him. John could see the hope in their eyes. He imagined that every single guy in the room had a family member-a brother or sister or parent-worse off than them, all in need of basic medical care.
Copes stood, shuffling off to the side and making room for the next kid. As John moved through the line, the injuries became less serious, devolving into shallow cuts and scrapes and bruises. He couldn’t help but look at them and see kids, despite the evidence he was treating that they weren’t just playing around outside. The injuries from that morning’s fight were relatively minor, but these kids were playing for keeps. He shivered at the thought that next time, he might be asked to do much more than bandage a few cuts. When he was finished, he’d used half of the bandages in the medic bag and almost all of the antibiotic cream. He zipped it up and signaled to the thugs guards that he was done.
“You gonna come to my house now?” Copes asked, wandering over to him and looking suddenly timid. “My ma… she’s been bad lately.”
“Hesh wants him upstairs,” Thug One answered, before John had time to come up with an excuse.
Thug Two grabbed the medical duffel and slung it over his shoulder, then pulled John to his feet. A few minutes later, John’s two guards where on either side of him, taking most of his weight as they shuffled down the hall and back to the staircase. They moved slowly, letting John get his good leg under him before each step.
“That happen often?” John asked, breaking the silence as they started the arduous climb up the stairs.
“What?” Thug Two asked.
“Gang fights, with that Arader guy.”
Thug Two nodded, his greasy blond hair falling over his face. “All the time now,” he muttered.
TBC...
Part 3
Part 2
Even with a mask, gloves, and breathing through his mouth, cleaning Tayven was an exercise in hell. The smell was overwhelming, and the sight of the bugs burrowing into the kid’s hair and under his clothing was threatening to send John skittering across to the other side of the room every few seconds. He’d seen a lot of desperate situations in his life in the military, but this one was rapidly earning its spot at the top of the list.
Paulsen had at least a dozen emergency blankets. They were small when they were folded up and packaged, making them easy to fill small gaps in the bag. He spread two of them on the bed, knowing the bugs were likely as deeply infested in the mattress, then laid Tayven on top and stripped him of his dirty, ragged clothes. The medical bag had a number of packets of powdered soap as well. As soon as the bucket of hot water arrived, John began washing the kid as well as he could.
It was all he could do to not to gag at the sight of the insects. Tayven was infected head to toe with body lice and head lice-at least this world’s version of the insects-and his skin was covered in rashes, some areas bad enough that they’d broken out into open sores. The boy’s hair was long, almost to his shoulders, and in the end, John ended up cutting it as close to the scalp as he could, then scrubbing his fingers through the remainder in order to get rid of both the live bugs and the eggs.
Even then, he wasn’t sure he’d gotten all of them, but it was a drastic improvement. By the time he was finished, he’d gone through six pairs of gloves and trashed the first two emergency blankets, spreading four more out on the bed. Tayven didn’t react to John’s manhandling or scrubbing, and his skin burned under John’s touch. He looked worse with the shaved head as well, his eyes and cheeks gaping hollows in his thin face.
He treated the open sores next with a tube of antibiotic cream then spread another blanket over Tayven. He grabbed the boy’s clothes and the dirty blanket he’d tossed to the corner of the room, balling them and one of the discarded emergency blankets up and tying the other blanket around it. The hallway outside had been quiet since the water had arrived. John grabbed the door handle, pulling and twisting it, and expecting it to be locked. When it swung open immediately, he stepped back in surprise. Thug One appeared, holding his club up and bracing himself for a fight.
John thrust the bundle of dirty, bug-infested material at the young guard. “Get rid of these. Burn them,” he ordered. He dropped the bundle at Thug One’s feet and slammed the door before he could answer.
He turned back toward Tayven, and the sight of the sick child sent a rattling shakiness through him. He dropped to the chair, shifting the duffel bag to the end of the bed so that he had room to just sit and gather his thoughts for a moment. He stripped off the latest pair of gloves and pulled his mask down, then leaned forward to rest his head in his hands.
He knew a lot about field medicine. The Air Force didn’t hold back when it came to training their pilots, particularly in John’s case with the types of missions he’d frequently found himself flying over the years. But that was intellectual knowledge. Staring at Tayven now, John fought back a wave of emotions. What if he made things worse for this kid? What if he treated him incorrectly and made him sicker? What if Tayven died as a direct result of John’s actions?
He shook his head. He couldn’t think like that. This kid was already dying. He took a deep breath and tried to focus his thoughts. An image of Beckett rose up in his mind, and while John had noticed the efficiency and decisiveness with which the doctor had tackled medical emergencies in the past, he’d never fully appreciated the ramifications of that until now.
“What do I do, Doc? What do I do?” he muttered, and part of him wished Beckett would suddenly appear in the room.
One thing at a time. Tayven was severely dehydrated, so John dug out an IV kit and saline bag, cursing himself for not doing this first. He donned another pair of gloves and slid his mask back over his mouth, then tried to ignore the way his fingers were shaking as he attempted to find a vein. It was harder-much harder-than it had been the few other times he’d had to do it, but he finally got the IV started. He set the bag up on the dresser next to the bed, then dug through the medical duffel again.
Medicine. That should be the next step. The pre-filled syringes were clearly marked, and John read through the directions three times before pulling out one of the broad spectrum antibiotic ones. He administered it through the IV, quickly, before he changed his mind.
Next step. He tapped his fingers against his knee for a second. The next step would be… would be…
“Come on, Doc, talk to me.”
This time, his imagination briefly flirted with a scenario where Beckett came to the planet and got himself kidnapped by Hesh and his gang, finally showing up in Tayven’s room. With a grunt, he shook his head, banishing the thought. This was not helping Tayven.
“Think, John. Use your head.” He stared at the boy again and watched the rapid rise and fall of the chest.
Breathing, heart rate? He dug through the bag again and pulled out a stethoscope. Relief rushed through him when he also found a thick manual. Thank God Paulsen had thought to pack that. He flipped through it, scanning the contents until he found the page he thought he needed. Hesitating for only a few seconds, he slid to his knees until he was kneeling next to the bed. He fitted the stethoscope into his ears and pulled the blanket covering Tayven down to the boy’s waist, then reached forward with the chestpiece.
He paused, remembering how Beckett would rub the metal disc against his palm to warm it up. John did that, frowning at the sound of friction that made its way up the eartubes, then gently pressed the disc against the boy’s chest. If he was hoping for some kind of reaction, he was disappointed. Tayven didn’t respond to having his heart listened to, just as he hadn’t reacted to anything else.
John listened to the heart for several minutes, clinging to the rapid thumping in his ears. It was too fast, but the kid was feverish. Was that normal? He closed his eyes, his mind racing through information he’d learned and shelved, never expecting to have to use it in quite this way. Field medicine was all about doing just enough to keep the person alive until you reached someone more qualified to take over, and John’s experience had dealt more often with injuries than illness. He stared down at the manual for another second as his thoughts raced. He thought that was right. High fever usually meant increased heart rate. He moved the stethoscope around on Tayven’s chest, listening to the breath sounds.
Footsteps pounded past the door, and John froze, but whoever was outside kept on walking. He felt his cheeks suddenly flush with heat, remembering how he’d dressed up as a zombie doctor for Halloween his freshman year of college. He felt as much like a phony doctor now as he had then. He pushed away the discomfort and continued listening to Tayven’s lungs, straining to hear what he was supposed to hear. Or not hear. He knew what he’d been told to listen for, but trying to distinguish it from what he was actually hearing was a different story.
Tayven was breathing fast, and John could hear the air moving through his lungs-louder in some places than others. He didn’t sound congested, but the breathing sounded… thicker… than he imagined it should be. He sat back with a sigh. He should probably check blood pressure, take the kid’s temperature, make sure his body was getting enough oxygen.
Write this down. The thought flashed his mind and he cursed under his breath. All the time he’d spent in the infirmary, doctors and nurses wrote every little thing down religiously. He flipped to the back of the manual and saw the last page was blank, so he ripped it out. In the side pocket of the duffel bag, he found a pen and he jotted down meticulous notes of what he’d found and done so far.
Nearly an hour later, John sat back in the chair, exhausted. Tayven looked a little better, less pale with his cheeks flushed pink, but he hadn’t moved any closer to consciousness. John glanced at his watch, surprised at the late hour and his stomach grumbled automatically. The day had already been long, but it was well past midnight now. He’d discovered a supply of powerbars in another pocket of the duffel, and he downed two of them quickly.
Speaking of food, Tayven was in dire need of it. Hesh had said he hadn’t eaten since he’d grown sick, or he’d vomited when he’d tried to eat. John tried to remember his exact words, but his head was starting to pound from stress and fatigue. Maybe with a bit more fluids, the boy would rouse enough to eat something. John let his head fall into his hand and closed his eyes. He was exhausted…
He jerked awake suddenly, ears straining for what had woken him up, but he heard nothing. The room was deathly still. He turned immediately toward Tayven, his heart seizing in his chest, but the boy looked the same. He was still breathing, still alive. In fact, he looked like he’d shifted a little, flopping one arm across his stomach.
Maybe that was what had woken John up. He scrubbed at his eyes, feeling dry grittiness under his lids. He hadn’t slept for long. A couple of hours at the most. He glanced at his watch and noted it was now just past 3 a.m. The IV bag still had about a quarter of its solution left, so John left it alone. He ran through the other checks, though, writing the results down on his makeshift chart.
When he was done, he glanced at the door. It had been unlocked before but guarded. Were they still there? He was surprised no one had come to check on him. He squatted down to the bag and dug through it until he found a small case carrying a half dozen scalpel knives of different sizes and picked out the largest one.
This was the dead time, when most people were deep asleep, and those who weren’t wished they were. As far as he could tell, the hall outside had been quiet for hours. If he was going to escape, now was the time to do it. John crept to the door and pressed his ear against the panel, holding his breath as he listened for any sound. After a few minutes, he stepped back and grasped the handle.
He glanced back at Tayven and felt guilt claw at his chest. The kid really did look better than when he’d first arrived, but that didn’t mean much. That could be a temporary bounce back, and then what? Then Hesh took out his grief and anger by bashing John’s head in. John clenched his jaw. He could get out of here, back to his people, and then maybe return with more support, more supplies. An actual doctor.
He nodded to himself. Tayven’s best chance was for John to escape, but the guilt at leaving the boy alone wouldn’t stay squelched. With a huff, he crossed the room and grabbed his page of notes, stuffing it in his pocket. Now when he returned to Atlantis, he had a little more information to give Beckett for when they came back.
At the last second, John extinguished the lantern on the dresser, plunging the room into darkness. He moved slowly to the door, acutely aware of every scrape of his feet against the floor. The door was still unlocked, and he opened it slowly. When neither Thug One nor Thug Two appeared, he leaned out into the hallway, scanning the darkness. Candles had been set on the floor at ten feet intervals, casting just enough light so that he would be able to pick his way through the trash without stepping on anything that would make any noise.
He waited a few seconds more, letting his eyes adjust, but no one yelled out at his sudden appearance. At the end of the hallway, near the stairwell, he could just make out the silhouette of a young man leaning against the wall, facing away from him. The guy was smoking, and in the red glow of his cigarette, John recognized the boy the others had called Biggie.
He’d learned a trick or two hanging out with both Ronon and Teyla, and he managed to walk the short distance down the hall without making a sound. Biggie moved just enough to raise and drop his cigarette, but he never once looked back at John’s approach. John felt adrenaline pump through him, his senses reaching out around him and the hair on his arms standing on end.
Biggie suddenly threw his cigarette butt to the ground, smashing it with his foot. John tensed, raising his scalpel, but before he could take another step, he felt a cold metal barrel press against his neck.
“Don’t think so, giver,” Ulam spat behind him.
John cringed, grateful for the darkness as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment at how easily Ulam had caught him. Again. How had he not heard anyone sneaking up behind him?
“You a foolish giver, eh? Thought givers were smart up here,” Biggie crowed, tapping his finger against his temple. In the flickering candlelight, he danced in front of John, bouncing from foot to foot and riding his own wave of adrenaline. “I heard you coming the second you opened that door. We knew you were gonna make a run sometime tonight. Knew it.”
The rifle pressing against his neck disappeared. John heard a whistling sound near his head, and then the rifle crashed against his arm. The scalpel clattered to the floor as his hand flashed first with pain, then numbness. He slammed his jaw shut, intent on not making a sound and giving these guys any more satisfaction at how easily they’d caught him.
Dammit, John, he cursed himself. Get it together. He’d underestimated them-saw kids when he should have seen soldiers. They might not have gone through any formal military training, but he’d seen the streets they were living in, knew what kind of lives they’d had to live to survive this long. Even pretending to be a giver might not be enough to keep himself alive now.
Ulam grabbed his uninjured arm, jerking John off balance, and John instinctively curled his right arm into his chest, cradling it. It was still numb. The rifle had caught his forearm right below the elbow, and no amount of mental coaxing could get his fingers to curl into a fist. His arm was a dead weight.
Biggie bounced ahead of them, kicking at a door until Thug One and Thug Two emerged, looking half-asleep. Farther down the hallway, another door flipped open, spilling bright light into the corridor, and a dark figure stepped out.
Hesh. The two thugs took Ulam’s place, each one latching onto one of John’s arms. They dragged him to Tayven’s door, then stopped. Hesh was striding toward them, the shadows flickering across his face making him look much older and very angry.
“He tried to run, Hesh. Ulam and me, we caught him sneaking.”
“Shut it, Biggie,” Hesh snapped, and Biggie slid back against the wall, the bounce of adrenaline draining out of him in an instant. Hesh turned to John, glaring.
“I had to use the head,” John said before Hesh could ask him anything. His attempt at a nonchalant shrug was halted by the two guards clamping hands on his shoulders, and Thug Two readjusting his grip until he had a meaty fist wrapped around the bruise on John’s forearm. John winced, and the dead muscle began to tingle as feeling flooded back into the limb.
“Where’s Tayven?” Hesh barked.
“Sleeping.”
Hesh threw the door open and stepped into Tayven’s room. Light flooded into the hallway as the lantern was once again turned on. There was a pause, and then John heard Hesh cry out in surprise.
He was back out into hallway, inches from John’s face, within seconds. “You cut his hair,” Hesh snarled.
John leaned back from the spit flying from Hesh mouth. “He was filthy. I cleaned him.”
“You cut his hair!”
“I got rid of the bugs.”
Hesh jumped forward, grabbing John by the throat. “He’s naked! What did you do to him?”
“I cleaned him,” John choked out. “He’s sick. He needed basic hygiene-”
Hesh screamed, pushing his hand against John’s throat and cutting off John’s air supply. John let his legs fold, giving into the pressure, and Thug One and Thug Two’s grasp on his arms slipped. He fell backward, Hesh landing on top of him.
His head smacked against the floor, but he’d been half-prepared for the fall and managed to absorb most of the impact with his back and arms. He grabbed at Hesh’s hand around his throat now, squirming.
“I’m trying… to help… him…,” he wheezed out.
Hesh’s face was red, going on purple. Or maybe that was just the lack of blood and oxygen making it to John’s brain. He tucked a knee up between himself and Hesh and pushed out, finally dislodging the other man’s grip on his neck. Hesh rolled to the side, stood up, then kicked a hole into the wall with a scream. John turned away from him, sucking in precious oxygen.
“Get him up.”
John had let his eyes slide closed for a moment, but they flew open as he was jerked upright. Hesh paced in front of him, his movements jerky and his breaths coming out in fast pants.
“He was covered in bugs,” John said. His voice was raspy and low, and he swallowed what little spit he had in his mouth to work some moisture into his throat. “That’s probably the reason he’s sick in the first place. If he can’t clean himself, then you have to do it for him.”
“I ain’t no giver,” Hesh snarled.
“No, you’re his brother, and he needs you to take care of him.”
“That’s why we got you.”
Hesh turned, grabbing the rifle out of Ulam’s hands and John’s breath caught in his throat. Was he going to shoot him? After all the trouble they’d gone through to get him here in the first place, they wouldn’t just shoot him, would they?
“He still needs help. He’s still sick.”
Hesh froze, glaring at John. Slowly, the anger leaked out of his expression, replaced with something almost like glee. Maniacal, like he was about to do something he was really looking forward to doing.
He flipped the rifle around and swung it like a club, an arc somewhere in between a baseball swing and a golf swing. John flinched, stumbling backward, but the thugs kept him still enough for the end of the rifle to crack against the side of his knee.
He screamed, jerking in his captors’ arms. They let him go, and he fell hard to the floor, curling up instantly around his throbbing leg. Arms dug at him, stretching him out, and he looked up again just as Hesh swung the rifle again. This time, he felt his knee dislocate, sliding sideways against the impact. John arched, throwing his head back as his vision whited out in pain. His entire leg was on fire, and he was only dimly aware of hands dragging him into the brighter lights of Tayven’s room.
They dropped him in the chair, causing his injured leg to bend just a little. The patella slipped back into place with a sickening crunching, sending another jolt of pain through his leg and up into his throat. John leaned forward, feeling his stomach flip with nausea, and grit his teeth against the urge to throw up.
A hand dug into his hair, jerking his head up. “Now maybe you won’t go wandering down the hall,” Hesh smiled, but his eyes still simmered with anger. “My brother dies, you die,” he hissed in John’s ear. He flung his head back and stomped out of the room, and John was left alone with Tayven once again.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
His knee swelled up like a watermelon almost as soon as it relocated. John stretched out in the chair, leaning carefully toward the medic bag. The urge to throw up had subsided, but it wasn’t gone completely. Every little flinch and jostle sent stabbing pain through his leg, and by the time he’d managed to pull a leg splint out of the bag, his face was slick with sweat. A few agonizing minutes later, he had propped his leg up on the bed and stabilized it with the brace.
He leaned back, letting the air out of his lungs with an exhausted huff. He needed to sleep-not long, but maybe an hour or two. The incessant throbbing wasn’t going to let him drift off for even a few minutes, however. He dug through the bag again in search of the strongest Ibuprofen he could find and almost cried in relief when he uncovered a couple of chemical ice packs instead.
He crunched one of them in his hands, feeling the pack go ice cold, then went through the painful process of loosening the brace again and shoving the ice pack against the inflamed joint. By the time he had tied everything back up again, the pain had dulled enough that it didn’t take his breath away every time it moved. He found a bottle of Ibuprofen and downed the pills quickly.
His arm was badly bruised, but as far as he could tell, nothing was broken. He debated using the other ice pack on the black and blue welt covering half his forearm, but decided against it in the end. He’d need to ice his knee again later. He glanced over at Tayven, but the kid’s condition hadn’t changed. He’d have to change out the IV bag soon, and he thought of the syringes of antibiotics.
Should he give him another one? John blinked, rubbing at the dull ache in his head. He couldn’t remember, but he had Paulsen’s manual. Hopefully, it had something in there about how often to give antibiotics. Remembering the chart he’d started on Tayven, he fished it out of his pocket and smoothed it out, then set it on top of the bag.
Tayven was… well, not okay, but good enough for the moment. John’s leg and arm were about as okay as they were going to get without more advanced painkillers and medical help. He let himself sink back in the chair, his eyes sliding closed almost against his will. Just a few minutes. He just needed a few minutes…
He woke slowly, his head pounding. It took a monumental effort to open his eyes and he winced at the lamp he’d left on. His mouth was dry and he smacked his lips as he attempted to work some moisture into his throat. He’d spotted a few water bottles in the bag and he opened one now, forcing himself to drink slowly. He also downed a few more Ibuprofen and powerbars, and a few minutes later, the ache behind his eyes released its hold on him.
His leg was hot to the touch and still swollen. The ice pack had lost most of its cold and now felt soft and mushy under the brace, but it was still cool enough and he had no desire to move it at the moment. With a grunt, he sat up, then used his arms to slide from the chair to the bed. Tayven was still asleep, but his skin had gained color, his cheeks a bright pink.
“’Morning, kid,” John muttered, glancing at his watch. 5:40 a.m. “Very early morning.” With a sigh, he ran through his checks, updating his chart. He checked the heart and lungs again, and frowned at the readout on the thermometer when he saw the temperature. Tayven was just as feverish as he had been the night before.
He scanned through the manual and slammed it shut in frustration when he couldn’t find exactly what he was looking for. He needed a chapter on Tayven, with step-by-step guidelines on what to do and when to do it. The IV bag was out, so he switched it for a new one. By the time he was done with that, he’d opted to go ahead with more antibiotics. He’d had to drop his injured leg to the floor to sit on the bed, and he could feel a hot throbbing picking up in his knee. Once he was back in the chair with his leg propped up, he wouldn’t be moving from that position again for a while. Hesh had certainly found a way to keep him from trying to escape.
With a sigh, John decided to check Tayven over again for any bugs that might have escaped him the night before. It took only a few minutes, but he seemed clean enough. John examined the larger sores on the skin next, reapplied the antibiotic cream, then re-bandaged them with a scowl. At the risk of sounding like McKay, he was not cut out for this medical stuff.
It was as he was pressing a band-aid over a small, inflamed cut on Tayven’s shoulder that the boy flinched and his brow pulled down in a furrow. John froze, and a second later Tayven turned his head away from him. He sighed, a soft hoarse sound and flailed his arm, but his eyes stayed stubbornly shut.
John grabbed the small hand. “Tayven?”
The boy winced, curling his fingers to grip John’s thumb.
“Hey, buddy? Come on, wake up.”
He heard Beckett’s voice again, echoing in his own words. How many times had Carson forced him to wake up and open his eyes when all John had wanted was sleep, escape whatever pain or illness was afflicting him at that time?
“I know you don’t want to wake up, or open your eyes, but I really need to see that you’re getting better. Just for a second.”
Tayven sighed and settled back into the bed, his grip on John’s hand loosening. He was asleep again.
“Yeah, alright. Maybe later,” he whispered. He brushed his fingers against the boy’s forehead.
The skin was still hot. He’d pulled the emergency blanket over Tayven down to his waist, but nothing else he’d done was cooling the kid off. He closed his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand as he thought through his options.
Water. Water was the best bet. He stared at the closed door and realized he would have to get up and walk across the room to get anyone’s attention. He glanced down at Tayven again and shook his head. He needed water.
He braced himself as much as he could, then stood up using the dresser to support most of his weight. It rocked precariously, but he moved slowly. The pain in his knee doubled, sending bolts up and down the limb.
“Damn it, Hesh,” he muttered. He moved about three feet, one hand still on the corner of the dresser, but he was reluctant to let go of the furniture completely. The door was still another five feet away, but this would have to do.
“Hey! Guards!”
After his last trip out, he imagined Hesh had stuck someone on his door even after he’d disabled John’s mobility. He smiled when he heard footsteps scrape against the floor in front of him, grimly satisfied at having worked out the scenario. The door flung open, and a young man poked his head in the room, dark circles ringing his eyes. It wasn’t anyone John had seen yet, making him wonder how big Hesh’s gang was. This guy looked a little younger than even Biggie, and a little more on the malnourished side.
“I need water.”
When the guard continued to stare at John without reacting, John pointed a thumb at Tayven behind him. “For the kid. Either get me a bucket of water-cold this time-or go fetch your boss, Hesh.”
The kid closed the door without responding and John sighed. There wasn’t much more he could do and still hold onto the dresser. He decided to give them a few minutes to get his bucket of water first. Very slowly, he turned himself around and hobbled back to the bed, barely catching himself from a completely collapse. The bruise on his arm was aching but better than it had been the night before-definitely not broken. His leg, on the other hand, was screaming at the forced movement and the little bit of weight he’d exerted on it.
He grabbed the medic bag and pulled it closer to him, digging out more Ibuprofen and swallowing them dry. Now would be a good time to take inventory. The bag was big and had been packed with enough stuff that it was a small miracle the zipper and seams hadn’t popped, but it wasn’t Mary Poppins’ magical suitcase. There were limits to his supplies, something he should have paid more attention to before.
He dug through the bag now. It had been somewhat in order when he’d first opened it, but now it was a mess from his rummaging, stuff spilling out over the top. He knew there was a collapsible stretcher in a separate pocket along the bottom of the bag, but he left that alone for now. He spread the rest of the items out around Tayven’s sleeping form, separating them into piles that kind of made sense. He had two more water bottles and nine powerbars in one pile, and a second IV kit, two more saline bags, and a pile of needles and tubes in another. He left the various bandages, wraps, and braces in the bag, but pulled out all the medicines-the Ibuprofen and antibiotics included-and set them off to the side.
He had a dozen more emergency blankets, still packaged in two-inch squares, and at least that many pairs of gloves. One more chemical ice pack, tape, alcohol wipes, safety pins, cotton balls, another tube of antibiotic cream that he tossed into the medicine pile, eye patch, more tape, a pair of scissors, a set of small scalpel knives-minus the one he’d lost during the night-a dozen individual packs of powdered soap, stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, thermometer, a tube of anti-itch cream-
“Jackpot,” he said, pulling out a small bottle of antibacterial hand lotion and a three-pack of washcloths. “Could have used this last night.”
He continued digging, finding another pair of scissors, a chest tube kit, empty saline bags, a-Holy shit!-small bone saw, a few suture kits, and a couple dozen small packs of nutrition powder that could be mixed into food or water and that might help Tayven later if John could get him to eat or drink. He ducked his head into the bag again and came up laughing a second later holding a box of condoms and a pregnancy kit.
“Seriously, Paulsen? For a combat medkit?”
John pulled out an endotracheal tube next, then a face mask and the grin on his face vanished, replaced with a grimace. “I hope for your sake I don’t have to use these, kid.” He tossed them toward the head of the bed and cringed when the edge of the mask smacked against the boy’s head.
“Damn, sorry,” he muttered, leaning forward to move it away from him.
As he did so, Tayven’s eyes fluttered open. John glanced at the stuff surrounding the kid, not sure if he should try to quickly shove it back into the bag or if that movement would startle the boy. John was a complete stranger to a kid who’d grown up in a very dangerous world, and he had no idea how the boy was going to react.
“Hey,” he whispered, opting to stay as still as possible. He leaned back, trying to look as unimposing and unthreatening as possible.
Tayven’s gaze was glassy and unfocused. He blinked up at the ceiling a few times but still seemed unaware of John’s presence.
“Tayven?” John spoke a little louder, and the boy’s gaze drifted toward him.
His eyes widened in surprise, and his arms flailed as he panicked. His chest began to heave up and down, and spit dribbled out of the side of his mouth. Beneath the rattling breaths, John could hear a hoarse, high-pitched whimper. Tayven was in a full panic but too sick and weak to do anything but writhe and moan.
“It’s okay,” John said, keeping his voice low and his hands held up. “I won’t hurt you. I’m a… a giver.” He had no clue whether Tayven was even hearing him. He reached out with one hand to grab the arm with the IV needle in it. The boy reacted instantly, letting out a strangled cry before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he went limp.
“Oh, shit,” John breathed, lunging forward, the pain in his own knee all but forgotten. He dug his fingers into the boy’s neck, feeling his own heart pounding in his chest. The rapid pulse against his fingertips gave him only a small bit of comfort. Tayven was still breathing heavily, although it was slowing to a more normal pace, but John swore he could hear the beginnings of a wheeze at the end of each exhale.
He repacked the medic bag quickly in a haphazard order, but he knew what he had now, and he could reach whatever he was looking for quickly enough. He kept the stethoscope out, pressing the end piece to Tayven’s chest. The boy’s breathing sounded worse, heavier and more congested, and John’s heart sank.
“Hang in there, kid,” he muttered, folding up the stethoscope and scribbling the latest down on Tayven’s chart.
Heavy footsteps pounded outside the door-a lot of them-and John looked up in surprise. He’d half forgotten his demand for water. Maybe the young guard had come through for him after all. He braced himself and shoved the piece of paper into his pocket, wincing when he inadvertently tried to bend his injured knee, and was staring at the door when it flew open.
Hesh entered first, much to John’s surprise. The gang leader glared at John then shifted his gaze over to Tayven behind him.
“How is he?” he demanded.
“A little better,” John answered evenly, “but still sick. Very sick.”
The young guard from earlier walked in behind Hesh, carrying a bucket of water that sloshed as he moved. He slid past Hesh and set it down next to John’s feet, then backed out of the room without looking at any of them.
Hesh said nothing, so John leaned forward and moved the bucket over to the side of the bed where it was easier for him to reach. He turned to the bag and pulled out the pack of washcloths, ripping the plastic and dropping one cloth into the water before returning the rest to the bag. He glanced at Hesh and noticed how intently the young man was watching him.
He was a giver. Hesh had to continue to believe that. Stifling a sigh, John wrung out the wet cloth and spread it over Tayven’s forehead.
“Fever?” Hesh asked.
“Yeah.”
“How bad?”
“Bad, Hesh. He may need more help than I can give him here.”
Hesh’s eyes narrowed and he clamped his jaw shut. He studied Tayven for a moment longer then jerked his head at John. “Grab your supplies. You’re needed down the hall.”
John snorted, laughing at the idea that he could just jump up with a heavy medic bag and follow Hesh wherever the young gang leader commanded. Hesh’s face flushed red, and John clamped his jaw shut at the anger flaring in the other man’s eyes. He waved a hand at his knee.
“Remember this, Hesh? I can’t walk, let alone carry a bag with me.”
The muscles in Hesh’s jaw flexed as he stared John down, but he said nothing. A second later, he marched out of the room and John let the breath he’d been holding whoosh out of him. He was sure Hesh had been ready to attack him again. Shouts and stomping feet brought his attention back to the open door and hallway, and he bit back a sigh when Hesh reappeared with the new guard-Water Boy-Thug One, and Thug Two.
“Grab the bag,” Hesh ordered. Water Boy jumped forward.
“Hey! What the hell?” John cried out, lunging for the bag. For a split second, he forgot his busted knee and tried to jump to his feet. Pain erupted through his limb and he grit his teeth against the urge to scream hysterically as he collapsed back toward the bed.
Thug One and Thug Two moved quickly, grabbing onto his arms and yanking him upright. John grabbed onto their shoulders, letting them hold most of his weight as he desperately tried to douse the flames in his knee. He breathed heavily through his mouth, letting his eyes close and his head fall forward.
“Bring him.”
Hesh’s voice cut through the haze and John looked up just as his thug friends started to move.
“Where are we going?”
“You talk too much, giver.”
John groaned when he stepped forward and attempted to put some weight on his injured leg, and the thugs on either side of him tightened their grips. There was no way he was walking on his own, and he resigned himself to leaning on them, using them as crutches as he slowly moved forward.
“What about Tayven?”
Hesh paused, glancing back at the boy on the bed. “He’s strong. You won’t be gone long.”
Thug One and Thug Two moved forward again, dragging John out of the room and down the hallway. They moved slowly enough and seemed willing to take as much weight as John was putting on them, but going for a little walk was the last thing John needed at the moment. His leg swung slightly as he hobbled forward, stretching abused muscles and ligaments under the swollen joint. Sweat broke out across his forehead, dripping down the side of his face and neck.
When they hit the stairs, John groaned out loud, earning a glare from Hesh. The young guard moved ahead of them with the medic bag, bouncing down the stairs as if the bag were empty. The thugs took the stairs slowly, careful with their charge, and by the time they’d descended the first half flight, they were almost carrying John completely.
Windows facing the street appeared at each landing, and John strained to catch a glimpse outside. It was light out, the pale brightness of morning. As they rounded the corner and headed down the next flight, John glanced over at his watch. His men would be out in force now, searching for him. Maybe even scouring the area with the jumpers. If they went outside at all, he had to find a way to leave a sign of where he was being held captive. This could all be over with in a few hours.
His hopes were dashed a minute later when Hesh signaled them out of the stairwell and into the hallway. They had only gone down two flights, which meant they were still three flights up. The murmur of babbling voices floated down the hall and John forced himself to ignore his leg and look around. Water Boy had moved ahead of them and he flung a door open halfway down the corridor. The sound of people-a lot of people-doubled, and John was dragged quickly to the new room.
It was a large room, filled with random beds, chairs, and sofas. A group of young men sat or lay on the scattered furniture, but they grew quiet as John and Hesh entered. John’s thug friends dragged him over to a wooden chair and dropped him, and John grit his teeth against the sudden urge to scream.
“Line up,” Hesh ordered. “More serious first.”
John blinked back tears of pain to focus on the people in the room. They were all young men, ranging in age from early teens to maybe mid-twenties. They looked rough and dirty, more than half them visibly bruised or beaten.
Hesh left without waiting for anyone’s response. Water Boy dropped the bag at John’s feet, then bounced out of the room after the gang leader. Thugs One and Two stood on either side of the door, back on guard duty. The rest of the room began silently forming a line in front of John. The boy in front of him was about eighteen and holding a bloody bandage to his forehead.
“What’s going on?” John asked, glancing around the room. His heart was pounding. He had an inkling of what Hesh intended, but he did not like where this was going.
“Hesh said you were a giver,” a voice called out.
John glanced down the line, looking unsuccessfully for whoever had spoken. The boy in front of him swayed, and John snapped his head back. The kid’s eyes were glassy, his face pale and sweaty. He needed to sit down, fast.
“I need a bed or sofa,” John called out. The large room was filled with scattered furniture. If John was going to treat these guys, they’d have to sit down for him to do it. No way in hell was he going to be able to stand up and come to them.
Whispers broke out, then a minute later, a few of the boys near the back of the line carried a narrow, metal bed frame and thin mattress to John’s side, carefully sidestepping his outstretched injured leg. They shuffled back as soon as they pushed it almost up against John’s chair, retaking their position in line.
For a gang, they were remarkably quiet and well-behaved, waiting patiently in the line Hesh had ordered them to make. John signaled the bleeding boy in front of him to come forward and sit down.
The kid did, although he dropped heavily and with little coordination onto the side of the bed. He stared forward with dull eyes, hardly reacting when John pulled the bloody rag away from his head and turned the kid’s face toward him.
“What happened?”
The kid didn’t answer, just blinked, then frowned.
“Hey,” John said, snapping his fingers. “What happened to you?”
“Fight with Arader’s gang,” the next kid in line said. John looked up to see a boy no older than fifteen pressing his hand against a blood-soaked sleeve.
“Arader?” John leaned over, digging into his bag as he spoke, not quite sure what he was looking for. A bandage? He glanced up at the kid sitting next to him and saw the deep cut on his forehead. Definitely a bandage. Maybe even stitches. He stifled a sigh as he pulled out a handful of supplies and dumped them on the bed next to him for easier access.
“Arader-he runs the gangs all over the southeast blocks. They been trying to move in on our blocks,” the boy with the arm wound explained.
“So you fought them,” John finished.
“We always fight them, but they ran at us hard this morning.”
“We clubbed them back, though,” another young man called out, and he was answered by a chorus of cheers and the thumping of fists against backs.
John cleaned the head wound, grimacing when he saw it was a deep scrape and not a cut. Not something he could easily stitch up-not at his skill level, anyway. He made the kid follow his finger with his eyes, reminded again of the number of times he’d been on the receiving end of this treatment. He owed the medical staff a huge thank you of some kind when he got home.
The boy’s eyes jerked as they attempted to track his finger. When John asked him if he had a headache, he nodded stiffly. John called to one of the boys who had carried the bed over and, after a quick check to see that he was suffering from nothing more than a few bruises, tasked him with looking over his first patient.
“Keep an eye on him until tomorrow morning. Make him rest and drink plenty of fluids-water.”
The boy swallowed and nodded his head, then helped the first boy to his feet and led him to the other side of the room. John watched them go for a few seconds, his stomach twisting in on itself. If the kid had a concussion, given enough rest, maybe he’d heal up just fine. If it turned worse? There wasn’t much John could do about that, no matter how well stocked Paulsen’s bag was.
The second boy in line was easing himself onto the bed and John stifled a sigh. “Hurt anywhere else besides your arm?”
“No. Cut deep, though.”
“Yeah, I can tell. What’s your name?”
“Copes.”
“Copes,” John repeated. He couldn’t see much through the rip in the sleeve and ended up having the kid pull his shirt off. The cut was very deep, thick blood still welling out of it and running down the skin. John felt his gut clench. He wasn’t normally skittish at the sight of blood, but this needed stitches. Copes looked tough as hell, but he turned his head away at the sight of the suture kit John produced, paling noticeably.
“This is going to hurt,” John said.
“I know,” Copes whispered.
To the kid’s credit, he hardly made a sound as John stitched the wound then covered it. John, on the other hand, could feel his jaw throbbing from clenching his teeth so tightly. He was also feeling slightly nauseous, which could have been caused by the blood, the sight of the needle weaving through the skin, the stench of body odor from Copes that was only noticeable once John leaned close to work, or some combination of all of the above. The throb in his knee wasn’t helping matters, and neither was the fact that he was hungry, thirsty, and stressed.
“Keep it as clean as you can,” John told him.
Copes deflated visibly, sagging on the edge of the bed. “Thanks,” he breathed out.
John nodded, not sure he deserved this kid’s thanks. He turned his attention over to the next boy but stopped when Copes grabbed his arm.
“Think when you’re done here, you can come over to my place?”
“What?” John asked, baffled.
“My mom, she gets these shooting pains in her legs, so bad she can hardly walk. Can you help her?”
“Um… I…”
“My sister,” the next boy in line called out, moving forward. “My sister-she’s pregnant, but she’s had really bad stomach cramps in the last week. It’s too soon for the baby to come. She’s afraid she’ll have it too early. If she starts bleeding…”
John opened his mouth to respond then glanced behind the boy with the sick sister to see the boys behind him watching John intently. The tough exteriors they usually wore around each other had dropped, and they stared at John with open desperation. John snapped his mouth shut, and held up a hand when more of the boys moved forward.
“I can try to help later, but right now, Hesh wants me to look at you guys. We’ll talk about your families later.”
Most of their expressions fell, crestfallen, but a few nodded back at him. John could see the hope in their eyes. He imagined that every single guy in the room had a family member-a brother or sister or parent-worse off than them, all in need of basic medical care.
Copes stood, shuffling off to the side and making room for the next kid. As John moved through the line, the injuries became less serious, devolving into shallow cuts and scrapes and bruises. He couldn’t help but look at them and see kids, despite the evidence he was treating that they weren’t just playing around outside. The injuries from that morning’s fight were relatively minor, but these kids were playing for keeps. He shivered at the thought that next time, he might be asked to do much more than bandage a few cuts. When he was finished, he’d used half of the bandages in the medic bag and almost all of the antibiotic cream. He zipped it up and signaled to the thugs guards that he was done.
“You gonna come to my house now?” Copes asked, wandering over to him and looking suddenly timid. “My ma… she’s been bad lately.”
“Hesh wants him upstairs,” Thug One answered, before John had time to come up with an excuse.
Thug Two grabbed the medical duffel and slung it over his shoulder, then pulled John to his feet. A few minutes later, John’s two guards where on either side of him, taking most of his weight as they shuffled down the hall and back to the staircase. They moved slowly, letting John get his good leg under him before each step.
“That happen often?” John asked, breaking the silence as they started the arduous climb up the stairs.
“What?” Thug Two asked.
“Gang fights, with that Arader guy.”
Thug Two nodded, his greasy blond hair falling over his face. “All the time now,” he muttered.
TBC...
Part 3