"Whatever can go wrong will."
- Murphy's Law
"I always carry a few bandaids, juice boxes, rolled up socks, bug spray, hair gel and a fire extinguisher with me. … Have you met the Warblers?"
- Blaine Anderson
Shit. Shit. Shit. They're a mess, but at least they have someplace safe to wait out the storm. Or, at least, someplace relatively safe. As safe as he can feel in this calamity of an adventure. He'd thought going home would ground him, let him clear his head and his body. He thought that bring his friends out to nature with him would help explain why he did what he did. Instead, it went FUBAR. Just like his life.
They're a mess, but someone has to take stock of the situation and figure how to get them out of here. No one will think it odd if the four boys don't appear for another few hours; there have been times when he's gone on longer hikes alone. But, if they wait another few hours, things could get worse.
He takes inventory of the situation in the darkness of the cave. They have a dry, sheltered place. They're not getting any wetter. That is good. Shelter is good. Unfortunately, with the sheets of rain pouring down outside, the clouds in the sky and their position away from the wet, slick, entrance, it's dark. It doesn't matter. He can take mental inventory.
Beside him, Sebastian stirs fitfully. The tall boy has a scrape across his forehead and cheek, from when they tumbled down that cliff face. Sebastian had hit his head hard, and blacked out. Now, he's sleeping with what might be a concussion. To make matters worse, his insulin pump gives a low trill. It's a sound that's kept Hunter up at night. The kind that starts off as a gentle melody and escalates to an incessant keening until Sebastian pulls the damned thing off and gives it more insulin.
Across the cave, Nick reacts to the sound, moaning. Hunter's no doctor, nor does he have any interest in medicine beyond what's required to keep himself and the people around him alive, but he's pretty sure that your bones are supposed to stay inside your body.
Jeff sits shivering and rocking across the cave. He's shell-shocked, mostly. And cold. And wet. He'd taken a tumble in a creek early on, losing his pack. It hadn't been so bad when the sun had been out, although the leg of Jeff's jeans had been stiff and old. But the rain had brought on a drop in temperature. Hunter was willing to bet it had gone from a balmy sixty to forty-five in less than an hour. He's pretty sure that a damp flannel shirt, a cotton tee, and jeans are a recipe for hypothermia. After all, cotton is a death fabric. He doesn't want to think of what will happen when the Aussie stops shivering.
He takes stock of himself, last. He's probably in the best shape, and that isn't saying much. He has his head, that's about it. His side aches where he fell in a bush (sage seemed like a softer, if more prickly landing than the sun packed earth and buffalo grass), his arm bears a few scratches, and his knee is slick and dark with what he suspects to be blood and dirt. He can feel the secondary pain, too. It's not just a scrape then. His joint is bleeding, too.
He shucks off his jacket, laying it over Sebastian and pulls off his t-shirt. He will still be warm in his base layer. He applies pressure, like they taught him.
The thought of his own blood makes his head spin. He takes a steadying breath and hears years of medical professionals in his head. Apply pressure and it will stop. He doesn't know what he'll do if it doesn't.
He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. They will get warm and dry and wait out the storm. They'll be fine. There's no reason to think about worst case scenarios.
He scuttles across the cave, collecting the three packs in front of him. Nick and Jeff were carrying light rucksacks. Sebastian had an old Kelty twice as old as they were. And, he had his heavy hiking pack. He shook out the contents of the packs, making a mental inventory of their supplies.
Four boys: two unconscious and injured; One wet, but otherwise uninjured and conscious; one conscious and injured.
Three packs all in reasonable shape.
One down sleeping bag, rated to 30ºF.
He shakes out the sleeping bag Sebastian had packed for ballast in the bottom of his pack. It was lightweight enough to let him feel like a real mountaineer without weighing him down.
"Jeff."
The blond doesn't more.
"Jeff!"
There is a flick of recognition.
He scuttles back across the cave, holding out the bag. "Take off your clothes and wrap up in this."
Jeff obeys, numbly, stripping down to his wet kangaroo boxers.
Five bottles with water: one mostly empty (Sebastian's); three half full (his, Nick's and Jeff's) and one entirely full (his back up).
Compass and map.
Not much help. He has a good sense of where they are, he's just not sure he can orient anyone else here.
Camera, binoculars, Edible Herbs of the Rocky Mountains and Wild Flowers of the Oyhees.
Also mostly useless. They'll be dead from shock, injury and hypothermia before it comes down to finding sassafras root and eating it, he expects.
Wet iPhone he can't turn on. Android with a smashed screen. Old-school Nokia in more or less good shape.
He tries his cell phone. It functions decently well as a phone: he can make calls, and text (occasionally). He can't send or receive pictures, can't check the latest baseball scores, can't use it as a GPS. But, the thing is fucking indestructible. Probably more indestructible than he is. He thinks he might have to throw it into a volcano to keep it from coming back to life.
The screen blinks on in its greenish-gray glory. He has battery, and one bar. He can't make a call, but maybe he can send a text? He turns it off for later, when the storm calms and maybe he or Jeff can hike up to a ridge and get a signal
One working cell phone.
The thought gives him hope.
One pill bottle with waterproof matches; one pill bottle with wood shaving for tinder.
Short of lighting their clothes on fire, they don't have anything to support the fire once it comes to life.
One first aid with bandaids, antibiotic ointment, a thermometer, a cold pack, a compression bandage, a single syringe and three safety pins.
He leans over to study Sebastian again in the half-light. The boy's face really is a mess. When he touches it, though, it's tacky. It needs to be washed out, and a bandaid won't hurt, but it's not life threatening. He fishes out the little tube of ointment, and spreads it across his roommate's cheek.
Then, he moves across the cave to Nick and Jeff, carrying one of the water bottles. The blond has wrapped himself in Nick's jacket and has the sleeping bag over the two of them. It's something Hunter should have thought of earlier, would have thought of earlier.
Jeff is still clammy and stiff, and his voice shakes when he speaks, but he sounds clear headed. "I figured we need ta keep 'em warm mate, to stop shock. Can't really splint it until this rain stops."
Hunter nods. "Unless we you have tools somewhere to take apart Sebastian's pack, we need sticks. But, I have a bandage. And a cell phone that's working."
Jeff rewards him with a brief smile. "I guess we just have to wait things out, then."
"I guess," he agrees.
He doesn't want to think about waiting. He tries to take his mind off of it.
…
He sings quietly. Jeff joins in, unable to ignore the lure of music. Even macabre music, considering their situation.
…
His knee is still bleeding. And, it's starting to hurt like hell. He's not sure he'll be able to walk out of here, even to climb up and find a signal.
He's two days late with his prophylaxis. The first time he said any thing about it, Sebastian laughed nervously. He wishes it was sexual.
He really doesn't want to give Jeff his pants, but the accident-prone blond is the only other logical choice.
…
Sebastian stirs, and comes to. "Where are we?"
"In a godforsaken cave in Idaho. What's your name?"
"Sebastian Smythe. Don't ask me stupid questions, Hunter."
"Are you thirsty?"
"As fuck."
"It's still raining." He passes the boy a water bottle.
"I'm gonna sleep." Sebastian drains it in three swallows, then lies down again.
"Okay."
…
He turns on his phone. It's five o'clock. They're been holed up here for two hours.
He's been bleeding for two hours.
…
He's getting dizzy. And cold. He keeps pressure on his knee, but it aches. The pressure helps with the stinging, but not he aching. He needs his medicine. The over-due prophylaxis won't protect against anything.
…
Some neuron in his brain fires, and he turns on his phone to call for help. Two bars. Is that enough for a call? He's not sure.
He taps out a text message: sos. in cve up bogus by stck rck. 3 hrt. H. He sends it to the ICE numbers in his phone. They're there in case of emergency, right?
…
He tries 911. The operator's words are garbled, and the call gets dropped halfway through. But, he did something.
…
Nick and Jeff are snoring gently, curled together like puppies. He's going to sleep, too. He just needs to do one thing.
He lies beside Sebastian, close but not touching. He doesn't want to touch anyone.
…
Why is it so cold this morning? Why is it so dark? He just wants to go back to sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
…
Someone is shaking his shoulder. There's a light in his face He blinks his eyes, trying to get the blinding light out of them.
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" His voice is raspy in the cave. He flails out, coming into solid contact with the person.
"Shit." The light moves out of his face, and he sees a man.
Another figure in a red parka crouches next to a blond whose hair is silvery in the flashlights glow. There were two other people here before. Where did they go?
"Hunter, can I see your knee?"
Hands pull away the t-shirt and start probing before he has a chance to say no. He doesn't know if he could have said no, if the hands would have listened to him.
People don't listen to him when he says no.
He doesn't want to be touched. He doesn't want anyone touching him.
He pulls his leg back into his chest, the knee aching and protesting. It's hard to bend a swollen knee. It feels like he's fighting an exercise band stretched across his leg.
The pain is better than someone touching him.
"Donttouchme!" The words pour out. "Donttouchme."
The hands move away.
"We need to get you out of here."
He nods. "Donttouchme." He agrees.
He doesn't know why he said that.
"I won't touch you without asking." The man in the red parka looks honest in the semi darkness.
He's not sure if he believes him. People lie in full daylight.
"But," the man continues, "I need to get you out of here. And, I don't know if I can do that safely if you won't let me help you."
"Let him help you." The order comes from a familiar, slightly accented voice.
He trusts that voice. He trusts the speaker. He can follow the order. "Okay."
He doesn't fight as the hands probe his knee. He doesn't hiss when they make the stinging overpower the aching. He sits, stiffly until they're done.
"Okay, Hunter, we need to wrap this up. Can you stretch out your leg for me?"
He hugs his knee closer to his chest. Stretching it will hurt.
"Stretch out your leg, Hunter." The familiar voice. An order.
He straightens his leg.
He lets the man in the red parka wrap his knee in an ace bandage.
He lets the man wrap him in the red parka.
He takes a sip of he water the man hands him when they tell him to drink. He will take some, but they have to save their water. He can't be greedy. He can't take it all.
There are more people in red parkas outside. A buxom blonde smiles at him, and helps him onto the back of the four-wheeler. She fascines a helmet under his chin.
He pulls away, and the clasp catches at his throat. It draws more blood.
The man now without his parka hisses.
He sits stiffly on the back. She reaches back and wraps his arms around her waist. He stiffens even more.
…
Taking the trails out is round. He's conscious and the girl keeps him talking.
The ambulance ride to the valley is bumpy. They used the helicopter for Sebastian, but he's stable enough to ride down on the roads. It's a small victory.
He lets them put in an IV but he doesn't let them examine him. They will be at the hospital soon. It's only forty minutes.
…
He blinks his eyes open. Even in the blur without his contacts or glasses, he can make out the all too familiar setting: Gray-white walls, speckled ceiling tiles, linoleum floor, silver sink, blue curtain. There's an IV line running to the crook of his elbow. His knee is wrapped, and a bag of ice waits beside it.
A pair of brown underarm crutches lean against the bed. They're fuzzy, but he's familiar enough with them to know what they are. He suspects they're already adjusted to his height. He's had to fight to get to the respectable six feet he currently enjoys. It's a fight he doesn't talk about, with its own set of consequences. Maybe it's a fight he should give up, soon.
The TV is on, but he can't see. It wouldn't matter even if he were near the set, he's mostly blind without corrective lenses. It sounds like one of Trent's chick flicks, though. He doesn't understand why Trent wants to disappear into a world where high school is ruled by popular girls and jocks. It's a world where there is constant pressure to have sex, and you can tell who and what everyone is just by what they're wearing. No one's parents die on screen. They're either already gone, or they stick around for the whole movie. Oh, and true love always wins. Actually, he's not sure why he doesn't like chick flicks more. It sounds like a perfect world.
"On Wednesday, we wear pink," Rachel McAdams says to Lindsey Lohan. Definitely one of Trent's chick flicks. He snorts into his blankets.
Someone reacts to the sound, and a pair of pinkish shapes come over to the bed. One has light hair, the other dark.
"Sorry mate," the light one says, pressing a pair of heavy black fames into his hand. They manage to give him the glasses without actually touching him. He appreciates the gesture.
He slides the glasses on his face, the world coming into sharp relief. Jeff and Trent hover beside him.
"How are you?" He asks Jeff, quickly. He feels like a failed leader.
"Fine. Embarrassed that the fuckin' hot fiery girl and half the people down in A&E saw my undies."
"It is a fine ass," Trent offers, without mentioning the last time he saw Jeff's ass, it had been because Hunter had been injecting something into it.
"And Sebastian? Nick?" If he's failed as a leader, he wants to know, now.
Trent smiles. "Sebastian was minorly concussed, what he described as 'majorly high' and 'pissed as all hell'. He was snapping and screaming at people all night. He just passed out, though."
He nods. That sounds like his roommate.
"And Nick's up in surgery. They're setting his arm, but he's going to be fine." Jeff's face pales a little when he mentions the surgery, although it's not surprising, really.
"So everyone is going to be okay?" He looks up at the two for confirmation. He needs the confirmation.
Trent reaches out a hand to rest on his shoulder, then draws it back. The brunette cares enough about him to respect his space. Touch is so instinctual for Trent, it's like physical contact allows him powers of telepathy. … Maybe Trent has the X gene… although that's something Hunter doesn't want to think about. He doesn't think he could take mutants running around Dalton, along with everyone else.
"You can touch me," he says, quietly.
He's surprised at how feather light the hand on his shoulder really is. He's surprised at the gentleness of Jeff's hug.
"Yeah, thanks to you, everyone is going to be okay."
A/N: Okay, my muse has been running wild. This happened somewhere on the bus the other day. I've spent a good part of the last 10 years in and out of the rocky mountains, and I'm currently living in Colorado. There were so many good opportunities with Hunter coming here (I'm still pretty sure that part of the reason he let the military academy had to do, officially, with his attendance of a 4/20 smoke in). And then there was the idea of Hutner as a chronically ill (shocking from me, I know). Somewhere in here came an aversion to touch (which I want to explore more of later, when it's not 4 am and I don't have a paper due Monday morning or a lecture to teach on Tuesday). Anyway, I promise, I'm working on the Unseen (Wes and Quinn just wandered through my apartment, picking their way over the pile of dirty socks to go make out in my closet. Maybe I can coax them out later this week…). So, my lovelies, I'm going to sleep before I torture the boys any more, or decide to let my mathematical muse run wild (She's been taking control lately).