Just a Little Favor for a Friend Pt. 2
Trees (continued)
* * *
"Okay, here we go." Night had fallen as Wash stumbled uphill with Sink. Occasionally Sink yelped. Whenever he let out a "Stop it!" or some similar sound, Wash's shoulders jerked involuntarily. It was cold. Wash didn't feel it yet, but he knew that if he stopped moving, he'd shiver.
Their locators beeped rapidly. "This should be about it. Right here, here is where we want to be. There'll be water and shelter and other guys. Maybe some warmth and food, too, how'd that be? Sink?"
"I'm fine."
"Uh... okay. Yeah. Well, we'll get you fed, yes?"
"Yes. Where are we?"
"Rendezvous point."
"Oh good, that's good. I guess. It's good, isn't it? Wash? You still there?"
"I hope so."
Sink was quiet.
"Yes, I'm here."
Sink was still quiet.
The locators gave off steady tones and Wash closed them off. The red indicators were hidden. The woods seemed darker. He switched on a small light.
A boot lay in the needles between two trees. Wash nudged at it with the toe of his own boot. He adjusted his grip on Sink for the umpteenth time. The boot didn't move away easily, and he kicked it, idly. It didn't move that time either. Just wobbled.
"Oh, shit. Let's hope some flier left this here on the way because he had extra feet."
He was afraid to make too much noise, but called, softly. "Anyone? Hello?"
There was a chirring of something up in a tree. No human voices.
The boot was only one part of a varied collection, he found as he moved along, and he brought Sink with him though it seemed pointless. He knew the shelters would be trashed. They were. Their low roofs had been broken with hatchets. "No use in drinking the water. Wouldn't be wise."
Sink understood what was going on, or seemed to, because he was looking at an arm in a sleeve in a tree, and something charred next to it, and said, "Check the signal?"
"It'll be wrecked, you know it."
Sink was hopeless, but said, "Check it anyway?"
"Yeah. Wait here. Haha."
Sink chuckled. Wash boggled at him, then shook his head. "That poor fella took the booby trap for us. And for Ash... it's been here too long to have been him."
"Anyway, the hair's the wrong color," Sink noted.
"Yeah. ... Yeah, this is dead, Sink, we can't use it. I'm not the radio man, you are, but even if you could get a good look at this I think the Independents have done it in. We have no signal. And there doesn't seem to be any food."
"Yeah well. I'm not hungry. You got any?"
"No."
"Too bad. I don't feel so good. You think I'm clear in the head? Am I talking funny?"
"Not right now."
"Ah." After a pause: "It's a bit dark. Turn on my light? I can't reach it."
"Sure." Wash did so. He didn't expect Sink's face to look the way it did. He hadn't really been looking at him. Sink looked like he was half-gone. There was a red color that could have come partly from shadow, but he looked like a caricature.
Clarity came to him: This is stupid.
His brain took over. He had no emotional ties to his situation except a sort of disgust. At the same time, he looked at himself, thought of Ash, and it crossed his mind: "I've gone crazy."
"Look, um, I'm just going to turn this on again," half of Wash said, while the other half was in calculation mode. He'd never felt anything quite like this split in his thought before. He opened his locator and it beeped off the next closest spot. The half of him that had expected a solution jumped eagerly at the idea of the next rendezvous point, which if he were lucky the Independents hadn't gotten to. He just had to keep going, not sit down, and go through hunger and thirst, which he told himself was easy enough if he kept mind over matter. He brushed off the fact that he'd always seemed to have the constitution of a baby hamster.
He moved about a little to get a direction, and surveyed with his light. The direct route was up the mountain. The way there included a rock face.
He could get up that even with his bad foot.
Sink is dead.
He stopped having thoughts about having gone crazy. He calculated. He pawed through supplies. He could go around. With Sink in tow. Or, he could climb by himself, come back with others.
Sink joined his thoughts, out loud. "They'd never come. Waiting for a 'copter? What do you think? If you were them would you leave, take that chance? How long does it take to get from one point to another? That one's there because it's a spring or something, up there, and hard to get here from there."
"Is a dead man allowed to think?"
"Not dead yet. Don't shoot me."
Sink said that last so frantically, though not in an uncontrolled tone, that it made Wash realize he'd just then been fingering his sidearm. He didn't have any ammunition. Sink did.
I couldn't drag him up there, Wash went on thinking outside himself. I could drag him around, just keep going. Maybe get lost. Eat red squirrels. Trap them with string nooses, or something. Drink... dew. It could rain, it's dryish, but it could rain. Then it'll get cold. Could build a fire. Bring Independents from miles around. Could just go.
The supplies showed that the heat canisters had been emptied, or nearly so, probably into someone else's tube and carted off.
Sink coughed, "I learned that if you close yourself in with one of those heat canisters, put any kind of fluid on the end and light it, the fumes'll kill you."
"Is that what you want?" Did I just say that?
"Don't shoot me."
Wash looked over the heat canisters again. He, too, had been warned of the danger of mixing hot water with the heat. There was not enough heat left to kill a man that way. "There's not--" He realized he shouldn't tell Sink. "There's not-- a way to cover your head. The roofs--" maybe there was enough to knock a man down for long enough so he wouldn't know what was going on.
It didn't occur to him to use a knife. He knew he couldn't pull it off without worrying that Sink would feel something. Or protest. And then he couldn't finish. He couldn't finish it anyway-- what was he thinking?
He could leave him with what little heat there was, come back when the 'copter came, they could lift him easy.
In the meantime he'd freeze, starve, get eaten by squirrels... I mean coyotes... do they come up in the foothills... Their voices are far away, out in the grasslands where the sheep are.
"Um, here... Wash-- Wash!"
"What?"
"Get my jacket off and get this over with. I don't need to be warm. You need yours. Yes."
"Yes what?"
Sink didn't say anything. Wash took Sink's sidearm.
"Leave me my gun."
"I will." He took the ammo from it and put the gun back.
"Help me wrap my head up in this."
Wash did so.
Wash thought, "I'm in a gorram graveyard". The body spread around him in the site from the booby trap explosion made him wonder what was alive or what wasn't and which mattered.
His head covered, Sink looked horrible. "Light it."
"The fumes will kill you. Okay. Go on, just tilt a little so I can put it under. It's burning."
Sink breathed in. "I'm suffocating, Wash."
"That's the idea. Bud, just, you know. Do the thing. Where you breathe." He placed a hand on Sink's shoulder to steady him and so he'd have a better idea when he was truly unconscious. Finally the gunner seemed to curl up, then relax. His breathing slowed.
Before Wash had the chance to finish the thought "Before he wakes up," he snapped off a shot into Sink's temple, through the flight jacket.
* * *
Wash took Sink's ID badge, and his locator so any Independents who came that way wouldn't have directions to the rendezvous safe points. There was reason to hope the enemy had hit this one on luck, coming up from the opening of the canyon. Next Wash tried to leave, and found himself pacing weakly back and forth, instead.
"I can't just leave him. Gorramit, what next?" He thought about burying the body. He could use what strength he had left to do so, then rest, if possible without going to sleep. He was already so tired he could no longer tell how tired he was. He didn't know how much he had left in him for a short climb alone. He didn't know how to compare it to when he was dragging Sink along, and he couldn't get more water to keep himself awake without using too much energy going back to the stream.
He made a decision, blearily. "Might as well be hung for a sheep." Wash returned to the body, gingerly laid out Sink's left arm and looked at it. Finally he opened his knife. It was not easy cutting, but he forgot to be careful after a moment. When the knife wouldn't do the job he got a piece of sharp scrap, jammed his boot over it and stepped on it over Sink's wrist. Reeling from being tired and feeling crazy, Wash poked Sink's hand in under his flight jacket. He thought he would bury it, but found he didn't want to leave Sink at all, and took it along. Some part of him that insisted on emotional sense supposed he would bury it at the next rendezvous point, using it as a representative of Sink's body.
Overnight, Wash clambered up the rock face and made his way over the ridge, to a spring and shelters and other Alliance airmen waiting for pickup.
* * *
"Okay, here we go." Night had fallen as Wash stumbled uphill with Sink. Occasionally Sink yelped. Whenever he let out a "Stop it!" or some similar sound, Wash's shoulders jerked involuntarily. It was cold. Wash didn't feel it yet, but he knew that if he stopped moving, he'd shiver.
Their locators beeped rapidly. "This should be about it. Right here, here is where we want to be. There'll be water and shelter and other guys. Maybe some warmth and food, too, how'd that be? Sink?"
"I'm fine."
"Uh... okay. Yeah. Well, we'll get you fed, yes?"
"Yes. Where are we?"
"Rendezvous point."
"Oh good, that's good. I guess. It's good, isn't it? Wash? You still there?"
"I hope so."
Sink was quiet.
"Yes, I'm here."
Sink was still quiet.
The locators gave off steady tones and Wash closed them off. The red indicators were hidden. The woods seemed darker. He switched on a small light.
A boot lay in the needles between two trees. Wash nudged at it with the toe of his own boot. He adjusted his grip on Sink for the umpteenth time. The boot didn't move away easily, and he kicked it, idly. It didn't move that time either. Just wobbled.
"Oh, shit. Let's hope some flier left this here on the way because he had extra feet."
He was afraid to make too much noise, but called, softly. "Anyone? Hello?"
There was a chirring of something up in a tree. No human voices.
The boot was only one part of a varied collection, he found as he moved along, and he brought Sink with him though it seemed pointless. He knew the shelters would be trashed. They were. Their low roofs had been broken with hatchets. "No use in drinking the water. Wouldn't be wise."
Sink understood what was going on, or seemed to, because he was looking at an arm in a sleeve in a tree, and something charred next to it, and said, "Check the signal?"
"It'll be wrecked, you know it."
Sink was hopeless, but said, "Check it anyway?"
"Yeah. Wait here. Haha."
Sink chuckled. Wash boggled at him, then shook his head. "That poor fella took the booby trap for us. And for Ash... it's been here too long to have been him."
"Anyway, the hair's the wrong color," Sink noted.
"Yeah. ... Yeah, this is dead, Sink, we can't use it. I'm not the radio man, you are, but even if you could get a good look at this I think the Independents have done it in. We have no signal. And there doesn't seem to be any food."
"Yeah well. I'm not hungry. You got any?"
"No."
"Too bad. I don't feel so good. You think I'm clear in the head? Am I talking funny?"
"Not right now."
"Ah." After a pause: "It's a bit dark. Turn on my light? I can't reach it."
"Sure." Wash did so. He didn't expect Sink's face to look the way it did. He hadn't really been looking at him. Sink looked like he was half-gone. There was a red color that could have come partly from shadow, but he looked like a caricature.
Clarity came to him: This is stupid.
His brain took over. He had no emotional ties to his situation except a sort of disgust. At the same time, he looked at himself, thought of Ash, and it crossed his mind: "I've gone crazy."
"Look, um, I'm just going to turn this on again," half of Wash said, while the other half was in calculation mode. He'd never felt anything quite like this split in his thought before. He opened his locator and it beeped off the next closest spot. The half of him that had expected a solution jumped eagerly at the idea of the next rendezvous point, which if he were lucky the Independents hadn't gotten to. He just had to keep going, not sit down, and go through hunger and thirst, which he told himself was easy enough if he kept mind over matter. He brushed off the fact that he'd always seemed to have the constitution of a baby hamster.
He moved about a little to get a direction, and surveyed with his light. The direct route was up the mountain. The way there included a rock face.
He could get up that even with his bad foot.
Sink is dead.
He stopped having thoughts about having gone crazy. He calculated. He pawed through supplies. He could go around. With Sink in tow. Or, he could climb by himself, come back with others.
Sink joined his thoughts, out loud. "They'd never come. Waiting for a 'copter? What do you think? If you were them would you leave, take that chance? How long does it take to get from one point to another? That one's there because it's a spring or something, up there, and hard to get here from there."
"Is a dead man allowed to think?"
"Not dead yet. Don't shoot me."
Sink said that last so frantically, though not in an uncontrolled tone, that it made Wash realize he'd just then been fingering his sidearm. He didn't have any ammunition. Sink did.
I couldn't drag him up there, Wash went on thinking outside himself. I could drag him around, just keep going. Maybe get lost. Eat red squirrels. Trap them with string nooses, or something. Drink... dew. It could rain, it's dryish, but it could rain. Then it'll get cold. Could build a fire. Bring Independents from miles around. Could just go.
The supplies showed that the heat canisters had been emptied, or nearly so, probably into someone else's tube and carted off.
Sink coughed, "I learned that if you close yourself in with one of those heat canisters, put any kind of fluid on the end and light it, the fumes'll kill you."
"Is that what you want?" Did I just say that?
"Don't shoot me."
Wash looked over the heat canisters again. He, too, had been warned of the danger of mixing hot water with the heat. There was not enough heat left to kill a man that way. "There's not--" He realized he shouldn't tell Sink. "There's not-- a way to cover your head. The roofs--" maybe there was enough to knock a man down for long enough so he wouldn't know what was going on.
It didn't occur to him to use a knife. He knew he couldn't pull it off without worrying that Sink would feel something. Or protest. And then he couldn't finish. He couldn't finish it anyway-- what was he thinking?
He could leave him with what little heat there was, come back when the 'copter came, they could lift him easy.
In the meantime he'd freeze, starve, get eaten by squirrels... I mean coyotes... do they come up in the foothills... Their voices are far away, out in the grasslands where the sheep are.
"Um, here... Wash-- Wash!"
"What?"
"Get my jacket off and get this over with. I don't need to be warm. You need yours. Yes."
"Yes what?"
Sink didn't say anything. Wash took Sink's sidearm.
"Leave me my gun."
"I will." He took the ammo from it and put the gun back.
"Help me wrap my head up in this."
Wash did so.
Wash thought, "I'm in a gorram graveyard". The body spread around him in the site from the booby trap explosion made him wonder what was alive or what wasn't and which mattered.
His head covered, Sink looked horrible. "Light it."
"The fumes will kill you. Okay. Go on, just tilt a little so I can put it under. It's burning."
Sink breathed in. "I'm suffocating, Wash."
"That's the idea. Bud, just, you know. Do the thing. Where you breathe." He placed a hand on Sink's shoulder to steady him and so he'd have a better idea when he was truly unconscious. Finally the gunner seemed to curl up, then relax. His breathing slowed.
Before Wash had the chance to finish the thought "Before he wakes up," he snapped off a shot into Sink's temple, through the flight jacket.
* * *
Wash took Sink's ID badge, and his locator so any Independents who came that way wouldn't have directions to the rendezvous safe points. There was reason to hope the enemy had hit this one on luck, coming up from the opening of the canyon. Next Wash tried to leave, and found himself pacing weakly back and forth, instead.
"I can't just leave him. Gorramit, what next?" He thought about burying the body. He could use what strength he had left to do so, then rest, if possible without going to sleep. He was already so tired he could no longer tell how tired he was. He didn't know how much he had left in him for a short climb alone. He didn't know how to compare it to when he was dragging Sink along, and he couldn't get more water to keep himself awake without using too much energy going back to the stream.
He made a decision, blearily. "Might as well be hung for a sheep." Wash returned to the body, gingerly laid out Sink's left arm and looked at it. Finally he opened his knife. It was not easy cutting, but he forgot to be careful after a moment. When the knife wouldn't do the job he got a piece of sharp scrap, jammed his boot over it and stepped on it over Sink's wrist. Reeling from being tired and feeling crazy, Wash poked Sink's hand in under his flight jacket. He thought he would bury it, but found he didn't want to leave Sink at all, and took it along. Some part of him that insisted on emotional sense supposed he would bury it at the next rendezvous point, using it as a representative of Sink's body.
Overnight, Wash clambered up the rock face and made his way over the ridge, to a spring and shelters and other Alliance airmen waiting for pickup.