The journey had been a rough one, and for all of the misery of it and the damage done to their bodies, the mission was a failure. Traipsing across the sand as the sun beat down on their weary flesh, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin knew that the only thing now was to hope someone would think to look for them in the middle of the stretch between Phoenix and the rest of the planet.
If there was one place on earth that Illya hated (okay, more than one but the terrain continued to be his nemesis), it was the desert. Any desert. His skin was scorched where it was exposed, and thanks to another THRUSH tormentor who was no longer a problem, he had been wandering in this cursed, waterless place without a shirt or shoes. It was by some unacknowledged grace that he had on trousers, so at least a valuable part of his anatomy would be unharmed.
The two agents had been in a van, being transported to a THRUSH satrapy, when the driver lost control of it, crashing through the barrier and rolling down into a dry riverbed. Experience had prompted both Solo and Kuryakin to assume a protective posture, but it hadn't meant they got through it without a scrape. The two THRUSH guards were both killed in the crash, flying through the windshield on impact. Illya was thrown against the bench where he and Napoleon had been sitting, causing extensive bruising and, by the feel of it, at least one broken rib.
Napoleon wasn't free of pain, he was nursing a dislocated shoulder. He was more concerned that the intense purple on Illya's abdomen was beginning to look like more than just a bruise.
Napoleon was lucky enough to have kept his tee shirt, helping to shield him from some of the sun's hateful rays. Still, his face was red and sunburned, his lips parched and lusting after any kind of moisture. The Arizona desert was threatening to be the worst kind of end to an otherwise satisfying life. His shoulder was throbbing, visibly out of alignment, something that Illya now remarked on.
"Your shoulder, let me set it back in place." Even as miserable as he was, there was no point in Napoleon suffering with a dislocated shoulder if it could be fixed.
"You don't look as though you have the strength…' Illya gave him a look that said to say nothing more.
"Okay, fine… just let me… I hate it when this happens." Illya took hold of his friend's arm, positioning it just so…
"DamnitIllya!' It came out fast and emphatic, all in one breath like a single word.
"You could've warned me."
"To what end? Now it's over, and…" Pain showed on the blond's face, his features contorted into an expression that said more than he would admit to.
"Sit down, you look awful." Napoleon was at a loss. This had to rank as one of their worst case scenarios, which was saying a lot considering what they'd been through in the past.
If they could just find a road of some sort, any little spot where the slightest chance that someone in a passing car or truck might see them and take pity on the two travelers. They had no communicators, no gadgets or tools… nothing that might help. Random patches of cacti were to be avoided, the wicked spikes in the body of a cactus plant would be catastrophic to their bare feet.
"I do not think I can go any farther Napoleon. I … " Illya collapsed into a heap, just missing a cactus.
"Illya! Hey, don't go out on me partner." Napoleon felt frantic, the purple bruising was growing, probably internal bleeding. This was a dire circumstance, something neither of them had counted on. They'd have been better off in that satrapy, able to plan some sort of escape. This desert though, it was without mercy or opportunity.
In the midst of his angst, Napoleon heard something. It was a humming sound, almost rhythmic as it cut through the hot air, giving him hope.
"Illya, I have to leave you here for a little while, but I'll be back. I think we're not too far from the road." Illya couldn't hear him though, he was out, his injuries beginning to suck the life out of him. Napoleon took off his shirt and covered his friend, hoping to keep some of the damaging sun from doing anything more to add to his misery. With a long look backwards, Napoleon began to head towards the sound of the road.
The kindness of strangers is not to be overrated. Napoleon would be forever grateful that someone was willing to stop for a half naked man whose frantic motions might have stopped a less trusting person from taking a chance that someone was in desperate need.
Michael Yancy was a cotton farmer in the valley just east of Phoenix. He was carrying a load of unrefined cotton that was covered by a large piece of burlap. It made a perfect bed for Illya when Napoleon and Michael finally got him into the back of the truck. The trip back to Phoenix took about an hour, but thankfully it was an hour that didn't kill the Russian agent, in spite of the severity of his injuries.
Napoleon was able to make some phone calls, contacting the UNCLE offices in Los Angeles, the nearest to their location. A helicopter was dispatched to Saint Joseph's Hospital, where Illya received life saving treatment from his injuries. When he began to wake up, he was being hovered over by nurses and some of the nuns, intent on saving the poor Russian that God had delivered into their care. Relieved at having survived his ordeal, Illya decided the best course of action was to sleep as much as possible, avoiding the nuns and the lingering gazes of some of the younger nurses. He seemed to attract caregiving types.
On board the helicopter were two Section III agents, sent to help Napoleon at the site of the accident. He was hoping to retrieve any viable clues to recovering what he and Illya had lost. To his dismay, when they found the place where the van had gone into the arroyo, there was no evidence of it save the damaged guardrail. The retrieval of that bit of intelligence would need to fall to another pair of agents. The mission belonged to the L.A. office now.
Napoleon got back into Phoenix about sundown, so he headed back to the hospital before checking into a hotel nearby. He had been treated for exposure before heading out to the accident site, but now he was tired. The road had served them well, and the kindness of Michael Yancy had most probably saved their lives. It was good to know that karma, or luck or whatever you called it, sometimes paid off for whatever good he and his friend had done over the years.
The rhythm of life, like the hum of the road, sometimes took you right where you needed to be.