John hit the ground and yelped at the sharp jolt of pain that accompanied a sickening crack. He immediately curled into a ball and cradled his wrist against his chest, panting heavily, unable to stop the ragged breaths from escaping as whimpering moans. The fresh pain subsided only slowly, and every scrape, bruise, cut and wrenched muscle seemed hell-bent on communicating its status in excruciating detail to John's overwhelmed mind. It was several minutes before he was finally able to crack open his eyes and try to figure out why he was lying in a leaf pile and why he hurt so damn much.
The blank, dead eyes of the dark-haired bandit lay staring at him, only a few feet from his own face, and John startled, scrambling upright and shoving himself away until his mind caught up and he realized that the man was no longer any threat to him. The strange twist to the man's body and the odd angle of the man's neck ensured that this bandit, at least, would never torment children again. Blinking with relief, John tried to calm the pounding of his heart, then realized that the fast, light-headed flutter wasn't fading. He sighed, wrapping his arm around his damp middle again, and wincing when doing so jolted the freshly broken wrist.
He was in bad shape, but he was alive. And he still had work to do.
Stick to the plan.
Groaning as he pushed himself up to his knees with his good arm, he spared a nervous look at the rim of the slope above him, fearful he'd see those guys with the scanner pointed at his chest and a gun pointed at his head. He'd never be able to outrun them now, so he had to shake them off, instead. Being a bit tired, and therefore lacking a more original plan, he'd decided at the top of the ridge to try the oldest trick in the book.
He knee-walked over to the bandit, studying him for a brief moment before jerking clumsily at the man's coat - a long, wool, duster-style garment that felt scratchy and rough to John's fingers. It was hard, awkward work rolling the man enough to pull the buttons open and tug the coat off with one hand. In the end he managed with brute force and desperation. He next carefully shrugged out of his own, beloved, leather jacket and sent a silent note of thanks that the guy had landed on his face; it would be much easier to put John's jacket on in that position, and there was no need to be tidy. The back of a jacket was the back of a jacket.
Sweat was dripping in his eyes again, despite the chill of the air and the persistent feeling of cold settling into his abdomen, when he finished switching the jackets and sat back for a moment to look at his handiwork, staring with something like vacant curiosity. The jacket looked good enough. Pants were similar color even if the style was all wrong. Dark hair. It could work. He brushed a few leaves over the legs to obscure the difference in slacks.
A sudden shout from above him jerked his head skywards again, and he froze in a confused moment of panic. What was he supposed to be doing? He was so damn tired.
Oh yeah, bad guys with scanner coming soon. Somehow finding the energy to move, he clumsily dug out a hole in the deep layer of leaves right next to the bandit, then sat down, sweeping the leaves back over his legs, then over his middle. He built up a large pile on his lap, suddenly feeling like he was 9 again and laying an ambush for Susie Miller and Jessica Brown at the bus stop. He grimaced at the memory. Susie had tattled and he'd gotten his worst whippin' to date. Just because that crabapple accidentally hit her on the nose...
He inspected the leaves over his boots, making sure they were thoroughly covered, then laid back into the trench. It was a rather unfortunate motion considering the swiss cheese nature of his abdomen and he almost cried out from the sudden stab of pain that jolted through him from from hip to pounding chest. He lay gasping and trying hard not to writhe or disturb the carefully placed camouflage. Another shout echoed off the tops of the trees around him and John gritted his teeth, finally managing to sweep the pile of leaves off his lap and over his face, snaking his arm back underneath and leaving him completely covered. He hoped.
Pinholes of light filtered through the jumble of colors over his face, and a stem tickled him, causing him to twitch and wrinkle up his nose, finally blowing at the offending leaf with a puff of air. A small avalanche of pebbles skittered down the slope to land with rustling plops among the leaves, and John froze completely, squinting through tiny windows of visibility. He thought he could just make out the ridge above, a dark line of shadow against the bright clear sky and treetops beyond. A small silhouette leaned out against the sky, looking down - straight at him.
"Ivan?" called a voice. "You down there?"
Ivan. So that was the dead guy's name. Another silhouette joined the first, then a third. John held his breath, terrified that they'd see his ruse for what it was. He'd wanted to watch from further away, to stay out of firing range, but he had to stick close to the bandit, or they'd see his transponder signature sitting a little too far away from the body he wanted them to believe was him.
"Hey, Zoar. That guy's down there!" There was a brief pause. One of the silhouette's bent over a bit.
"Yeah, that's him. The little dot's sitting right there, too." John almost sighed in relief. They wouldn't know that a transponder shut down after a short time once its battery wasn't being recharged by bio-electric something-or-other-rodneyesqe. Dead guy. Dot. They were buying it. Move along, please.
"Looks dead to me, musta taken a bad fall."
The voice belonging to Zoar grunted, then there was a loud report from a noisy projectile gun and a powerful thud into the ground a few feet from John's shoulder. Holy Shit! It took everything John had to keep from jumping in reaction, and his heart spiked, pounding wildly in time to his sudden ragged breathing. There was another grunt from above.
"Yeah, he's dead. Is now, at least. Where's Ivan?"
"I don't see him down there. Hey, is that his coat?"
John's heart almost stopped, having no ability to go even faster. The coat. He'd left the bandit's coat sitting in a heap next to the body. If they got curious enough to come down looking for their guy, he was dead. He'd have to run, he thought, then his belly moaned an icicle of protest. He couldn't run. He'd have to go to ground, which meant it would be a hell of a lot harder for Ronon to find him...
Zoar grunted yet again, something he seemed good at, and his silhouette disappeared from the edge. John was just barely able to hear his reply, "Nah. That's just a rock. Ivan must've gone back the way he came. We'll catch up with him at the village. I'm sick of this damn forest."
There was a muffled thump as something landed on the ground nearby, presumably thrown from the ledge above.
"We're getting the hell offworld before nightfall," Zoar grumbled.
There were other grunts of agreement, and soon the ridgeline above John was clear of bandits and the forest was silent again.
John closed his eyes in relief and lay under the leaves for a long time. He was so tired. And cold. And his stomach hurt. And had he mentioned he was cold?
A violent shudder snapped John out of semi-consciousness with a jolt of alarm. He'd almost dozed off, he'd been more than halfway there, in fact. What had disturbed him? Clenching his teeth and taking a few deep breaths to work up his courage, he finally sat up, wrapping both arms around himself in reaction to the motion. Leaves fell off his face and shoulders, leaving him only half buried in crunchy color. He was sure he'd heard something. His gaze automatically went skyward to the ridge.
A cry of joy was halfway out of his throat when the blessedly familiar hum of a jumper drifted down to him from it's flightpath high above the treetops. John just caught the reflection of sunlight against the jumper's oddly tubular metal fuselage...and then it tooled on by, the hum fading as swiftly as it had appeared. The cry died on John's lips.
They hadn't seen him? Why the hell hadn't they seen him!!
Righteous indignation got him to his feet where mere survival had been unable to accomplish it. He stared at the sky for a long moment, then dumbly looked around him for some explanation. His gaze first fell on the bandit and he gulped at the bullet hole neatly squared between the jacket's shoulder blades. Good thing Zoar was a good shot. John's nest of leaves was only a few feet from the bandit's back. He looked away in disgust. He'd really liked that jacket...
He turned slowly and ran his eyes along the bottom of the cliff again and an oddly regular shape caught his attention among the jumbled angles of surrounding nature. He shuffled over and hastily scooped up the pearl-cased hand scanner, looking up at the ridge in ironic wonder. Apparently, Zoar had seen no more use for the device and had chucked it over the edge. Lucky John! He didn't know how it was going to help him quite yet, but he was glad for any advantage.
Eagerly keying the touch-screen, he set it to scan for lifesigns, childishly hoping he'd see a row of dots charging his way in glorious rescue, nervously fearing he'd see five dots of bandits returning to check out the coat after all. He saw nothing. John waved the scanner around, over his head and down at the ground. Still nothing. Not even his own dot? Fully recognizing the hysterically pathetic nature of the act, he none-the-less pushed his fingers into his own neck, feeling for a pulse that would confirm that he was, in fact actually alive. He felt like death, it wasn't such a far leap to wonder if he actually was.
He next keyed the device to scan for transponder signals, realizing that his hand was shaking as he held the little box, and that the case was getting all smeared up with dark, drying blood. Still nothing. He didn't get it. The bandits had seen his signal. That had only been 10 minutes ago, tops. Still feeling ridiculous, he held up his arm - trying hard not to move the broken wrist at all - and pointed the device inches away from the spot where the tiny transmitter was hidden under skin and muscle. His shoulder twinged with a dull ache at the motion, and he glanced briefly at the sleeve in puzzlement before the tiniest flicker of a dot appeared on the screen then faded again, no matter how close he held it to his arm.
Getting a sudden idea, he palmed the scanner and gently poked at his arm. The resulting flare of pain drew a hissing breath from between clenched teeth, and he rubbed even more carefully to feel the extent of the deep bruise that was no doubt blooming in black-and-blue glory under the long sleeves of his black, winter uniform shirt. He'd landed hard on the whole arm, breaking his wrist and, apparently, bruising his shoulder badly enough to interfere with the transponder somehow. It had held its charge for a while, then he'd just seen it wink out completely.
Great. Just dandy. No transponder. No lifesign - and he hadn't figured that out unless it was the wall of radioactive rock next to him interfering with the signal. No jumper. No handful of Dr. Beckett's finest...
He just stood there. What the hell should he do? The shock and pain and despair he'd been holding at bay for so long felt like a monster lurking behind a door he was just barely able to keep closed. Even as he stood there, the door was rattling and beginning to creak open. He couldn't hold it closed much longer.
The jumper flew by again, further away and only barely audible above the slight rustle of leaves. This time, it seemed to fade into the East and John's shoulders sagged. He didn't even really know for sure if they had any idea where he might be. A standard foot search from the Stargate could take hours to get out this far, and with the scanners messed up...
He shivered, realizing that the thick shade under the trees in the natural valley he'd fallen into was even cooler than the sunlit air of the open forest above. Doing it for something to do, John walked over and put on the Bandit's long coat, forgoing the effort of trying to get his own off the dead guy. It smelled of tobacco and alcohol and bad hygiene and John wrinkled his nose. But it was pretty darn warm. He dug hesitantly in the man's pockets, finding only lint and a disgusting handkerchief that he tossed onto the ground.
Then he stood there again, out of things to do to kill time. He wrapped his broken wrist around his middle and shuddered again, despite the coat.
Come ON, John. You need a plan! Another...plan.
He forced himself to consider his options.
He could climb the slope and go back the way he came? Nope. His wrist twinged at the very thought.
He could sit here next to a dead guy and hope the foot search from Atlantis would get to him before he bled to death or froze to death in the sure-to-be cold night? Very, very, tempting. He could curl up and pass out and simply hope. He was a man with a lot of hope, and a lot of trust in his friends. But he was also a realist, and knew that, at the very least, he'd have to find shelter, build a fire if it got dark. Some water would be nice... or...
He could suck it up and go somewhere, try to get far enough away from the sensor busting rock, or try to find his way back to the Stargate from another route. He sighed. What would Ronon do?
Option number three had the best odds, he decided wearily. If Atlantis was searching from the 'gate, it could be hours, or even into tomorrow before help arrived, depending on how dangerous they decided the woods were at night. With a small, tiny, barely admitted niggle of fear and a slight gasp as his stomach twinged, he acknowledged that he needed help sooner rather than later. If he could get out in the open or get back on the sensors for them to see, he might just get himself to that "sooner" part of the rescue.
John scuffed around in the leaves for the bandit's primitive handgun, pocketing the ugly device once he found it. He knelt cautiously at the bandit's side for a moment, flipping up the jacket and checking the belt for a knife, feeling more relieved than he had expected at finding a simple leather sheath and a dull but serviceable blade. He cut several strips off the man's linen shirt and wrapped them around his wrist. He cut off a large chunk of fabric and wadded it up to press gingerly against the by-now-ancient hole in his belly. He was also pleased so see that the wound had stopped bleeding, profusely at least. His shirt and the skin around the wound were so encrusted with drying, caked blood that the hole itself had been stopped to a slow seep.
Taking one last look at the bandit who looked like him, he paused and cocked his head. He looked up at the rim of the slope, then looked at the man again. He nudged the bandit's arm a bit, tugged on a leg, then grinned, feeling a bit goofy. "Thanks, Ivan!" he muttered, patting the man's shoulder.
He lurched back to his feet, and stood waving his good arm in the air for a long moment in unsteady vertigo. John blinked back the dizziness, swiped at his clammy, damp brow then took a step. Then another. Then he was walking. He wouldn't break any land navigation speed records, but he was moving.
Besides, he thought - as if continuing an argument with himself, or trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing - even if Ronon and Teyla make a beeline for this spot and somehow find the ridge quickly, then he'd only be a little ways ahead of them. They'd find him whether he was sitting here on his butt or not. He thought of Ivan again and almost wished he could see the expressions on their faces as they caught their first sight of the dead man. Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated... They'd find him.
Ronon would figure it out.
A playful breeze touched Ronon's cheek as he stared at the man on the forest floor far below him. His teammates were equally silent, and for a long time they just stood there. Rodney finally turned his back and paced a few steps away, glaring into the forest with a posture that betrayed anger and as-yet-unaccepted grief.
Lorne and the Marines jogged up a while later and, getting no response to his greetings from the three standing by the ridge's edge, he raised an eyebrow and bent over to see for himself what they were staring at. Lorne also sucked in a sharp breath, then, shooting a shocked angry look at Ronon, he spun on his heel and began to bark orders to the other men who had also begun to lean curiously over.
"Peterson! Get out the repelling gear. Abramowicz, you've got the medical kit, you're down first. Michelson, radio the 'gate. Have them send the med-evac jumper through ASAP!"
The men jumped into movement amid a chorus of "yessir"s. Peterson had already dropped his pack and was rummaging madly even before Lorne had finished the orders.
Teyla slowly moved away and began to help string the freshly unpacked ropes and climbing gear around tree trunks in the bordering forest. But Ronon just knelt, ignoring Lorne and the others. They were admirable men, he thought. They never gave up. They'd continue rescue and resuscitation efforts until the bitter, hopeless end. It was something he'd liked about Sheppard, too. They all lived by optimism bordering on fanatical denial.
But Ronon had seen death in his young life. Too much of it not to recognize it when he saw it, even from this distance. The man below was dead. He was certain. He knew Teyla knew it too, she went about her work with the melancholy of someone moving to simply keep moving.
Ronon rolled his head and quietly beat his fist into his hand. Then he stood up abruptly, turning his face away at last and thinking he might leave the others and return to the 'gate alone and on foot. Anyone nearby might be in danger when he was finally unable to hold back the rage he felt consuming his very soul. He flicked his eyes unwillingly one last time at the crumpled body below...then startled. Turning back, he put his hand on his hips and cocked his head. He looked harder.
Then Ronon chuckled. The chuckle grew into a guffaw.
Abramaowicz looked at him curiously from his spot on the edge of the ledge about to repel down. Ronon grinned at him, then threw back his head and howled in glee, his laughter echoing off the trees and startling a flock of fowl into flight. Everyone was so stunned, that all activity ceased and the whole rescue team simply stood looking at Ronon who was bent over with mirth, stomping and slapping his thigh.
Suddenly realizing he was the center of attention, Ronon waved a hand in apology, gulped back another chortle and straightened, beaming at the group. He took a deep cleansing breath.
"It's not him," he announced.
"What?" Rodney shouldered his way closer, quick to grasp at any hope.
"That's not Sheppard." Ronon simply watched the reactions around him, enjoying the moment. Every face was skeptical, every face was transformed with hope.
"How do you know?" Rodney was glaring at Ronon and kept shooting nervous looks below.
"Look. Look again...Rodney." Rodney's eyes widened in skeptical surprise. Ronon never used his first name, especially offworld. Rodney looked. Then he dropped his shoulders in exaggerated exasperation, rolling his head back to Ronon.
"I'm. Going. To kill. Him," said Rodney.
"What?!" Teyla demanded. "How do you know that's not John?"
"R. R for Rodney. Or Ronon, I suppose."
Ronon watched Teyla peer over the edge one last time, bouncing on his toes, and heard chuckles break out all around him as the rest of the Marines caught on, too. The figure below lay on his face with one arm lying against its body, the other sprawled out and down, almost touching the leg on the same side that stuck out a bit from the other leg. If you looked just right, the shape of the figure looked a whole lot like the capital letter "R".
"So if that's not Sheppard, where is he?"
"Let's go find out," said Ronon, happily booting Abramowicz off the rope and throwing himself over to descend first.
In a remarkably short time, the whole group was standing around the dead bandit minus Peterson who remained above to watch the ropes and help people back up if they needed it. Lorne sent his guys to scout a perimeter and to give Ronon room to survey the area for clues. Ronon squatted, bending to his task with renewed vigor. Rodney stood at his shoulder, chatting happily.
"So, Sheppard pulled the jacket switcheroo to fool the bandits on his tail?" He asked after they'd confirmed that the face of the man wearing Sheppard's jacket was not familiar to them.
"Looks that way," Ronon muttered, then pointed. "Sheppard buried himself in the leaves, there."
"To give the illusion that his transponder signature was coming from the dead man," Teyla stated confidently.
"So...why aren't we picking up his transponder signature?" Rodney seemed to be asking the question of himself, so Ronon didn't answer. He didn't have an answer yet. Instead he walked around to inspect the other side of the bandit, flipping up the jacket and inspecting one edge carefully. Ronon's heart began to speed at the worrisome clues he was finding.
Teyla and Rodney were still chatting softly about transponders and life signs when Ronon stood abruptly. Rodney looked at him expectantly. "So. Where's Sheppard?"
Ronon shrugged, "I don't know. But wherever he is, we need to get to him. Soon."
Teyla quickly picked up on the blooming urgency in Ronon's voice. "What did you find?"
"He's wounded. There's another bullet hole in the jacket, front left abdomen and...lots of blood. Soaked in pretty good. He took fire long before he fell down the cliff. He also cut several strips of fabric off the guy's shirt." Ronon ground his teeth, realizing that he'd made the order to delay the jumper when they first arrived and had first spotted Sheppard. He'd left Sheppard on the run from bandits with a hole in his guts. He fidgeted, trying to force down the guilt.
"Bandages," Teyla breathed.
"Well, why would the man wander off then? Shouldn't he have been sitting here waiting for us. Surely he knew we'd come!" Rodney was sounding petulant again as the old worries resurfaced tenfold.
Ronon shrugged. "If I could walk, I'd try to get to open ground. Somewhere a jumper could see me or I could send a signal. He couldn't have known we'd be able to find this exact spot so quickly."
Teyla was nodding, "Then that is what me must assume John is doing. We have only to trace his steps. If he is wounded, we will easily overtake him."
They were briefly interrupted as the Medical evacuation team flew overhead in a second jumper. "Major ...orne? This ...s Med... three. Do...read?" The transmission was garbled and interference blotted out several words.
Ronon looked at McKay who took his turn to shrug. "This cliff is probably interfering. Radiation." Ronon nodded.
"Jumper three, this is Dex. Begin aerial search pattern. We'll search for Sheppard on foot. Stay in contact."
"Un...stood. Jum...three beginning search pattern." The static cleared for a brief second, then the jumper rose to a higher elevation and began a slow creeping survey of the forest around them.
Rodney was still poking at the hand scanner he'd taken from Lorne and looked up briefly in concern at Teyla and Ronon. "I'm still not getting any clear lifesigns readings. This indigenous radioactive rock is really going to hinder any technology assisted search. I just don't understand why we can't see his transponder anymore. I'm getting the rest of you, even through the interference." He sighed to himself. "Maybe distance is a factor. Maybe we'll pick him up when we're closer..."
Teyla touched Rodney's arm briefly in reassurance. "We'll find him, Rodney."
McKay nodded. "But without the scanners..."
Ronon interrupted curtly, "We'll find him in time, McKay." He felt a little bad about shutting down McKay. The man was only worried. They were all worried, Ronon even more so than the rest. He'd seen the massive blood stain on the inside of Sheppard's jacket. He'd seen the bloody fingerprints all over the jacket and the bandit's shirt, left as Sheppard had cut himself bandages. He was feeling that flutter of urgency again. They needed to get to him. They needed to get to him in time, as he'd promised Rodney. Rodney gulped, then nodded.
"Of course. Of course. So. Which way do we go?" Rodney looked around at the group of Marines who had gathered at a silent signal from Ronon and were waiting for the command to set out yet again.
Ronon glanced once down the length of the long cliff wall, then rolled his head at Teyla, locking eyes with her determined, steady gaze.
"West." They said in unison.
"Move out!" Ronon roared. And they tromped off again, turning their faces into the sunset.
