NIGHT HIGHWAY (or Why Rodney Never Went to Niagara Falls)
By TIPPER
——————————————————————————————
CHAPTER THREE: WORTH THE RISK
He woke up coughing, gagging into the small travel pillow, desperately trying to muffle the noise and not disturb his sister. When the coughing finally stopped, he rolled onto his back, staring up at the navy blue car ceiling, panting and wiping the spittle from his mouth. His body was shivering, and his head hurt. And he itched. God, he itched!
His nails scrabbled at his skin, digging through the pajama fabric. He didn't want to scratch the skin directly—cause his fingernails were dirty. The fabric rubbed and scraped, and it wasn't good enough.
His breathing quickened, and he shook even more. He started coughing again. It felt like he was coughing up his whole insides. Another image from a book popped into his head—heart, lungs, stomach, intestines—they were all coming up, choking him.
"Mer?" His sister's sleepy voice called.
"Rodney?" His father's voice was more awake, and sounded concerned. "Son? You okay?"
Rodney finally stopped coughing, and rolled onto his side, gasping for air. He couldn't move.
"Daddy," Jeannie said, sounding closer. "I think he's sick."
"Rodney?" Richard McKay sounded more worried now. "Rodney, what's the matter?" There was a sound like a soft punch, then, "Mary! Mary, wake up."
"Oh, what now?" his mother moaned. "Oh, Christ, Richard. It's still night. I told you not to wake me until—"
Rodney started coughing again. The whole world cut out as he gagged and choked, and he curled up even tighter. He heard voices calling his name, and was vaguely aware of the sensation of the car slowing down. Jeannie was suddenly by his side, pressing a tiny hand to his head.
"He's hot, Mom! He's really hot!"
"Sweetie, get away from him. If he's sick, I don't want you getting sick, too." His mother sounded really worried.
The car had stopped moving. He just kept trying to breathe, curling up in a ball inside the sleeping bag.
Cold air filled the car as doors were opened, and he felt Jeannie slide down to his feet. How had she gotten to his side of the back? Someone got into the backseat—he could tell because their head blocked the interior light.
"Baby?" He felt a new hand on his forehead, dry and cool. "Oh, baby, why didn't you say something?"
Rodney tipped his head back, blinking up at her through haze-filled eyes. "Momma?"
She smiled gently at him, though there was fear on her face. She was leaning over the backseat into the back, one arm holding herself up while the other pressed at the underside of his chin.
"What is it?" Richard McKay called from the front. "Mary?"
"He's got a fever," Mary replied.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course, I'm sure," she snapped roughly. Then her voice softened again as she smiled again at Rodney, "Mer, sweety, can you lift your chin more?"
Rodney did as he was told. She pressed a little harder into his neck, and he winced at the pain. "Ow," he whispered. She looked apologetic, and shook her head.
"Your glands are swollen," she told him, running her hand down his face again, "probably your throat too. That's why you're coughing—your body is trying to get more oxygen." She leaned further into his space and plucked at the sleeping bag around his shoulders. She frowned more when she saw something near the base of his neck. "Is that a rash?" she asked quietly. Rodney guessed she wasn't actually asking him—since she didn't look at him when she asked. What did Dad say those questions were called? Ret...something...It had oral in it. Right? Oral came from the latin 'oris,' for mouth.
His mother was talking again.
"Meredith, honey, can you come out of your sleeping bag? I need to see you."
No. No, he didn't want to. "Cold," he said, shivering and trying to curl tighter. "Too cold."
"I know, baby, but I need to see what's wrong with you, so I can make it better, okay?"
"Nuh-uh," he said, shutting his eyes tight and shaking his head.
"Come on, Mer," he felt small hands rock his legs through the sleeping bag. "Let Mom see you."
"Leave me alone," he muttered, trying to kick at Jeannie. He hit something, and heard his sister huff.
"Jeannie," his mother's voice sounded exasperated, "come on. Come out of there."
"But—"
"No, buts, Jeannie. Come out of there. Give your brother his space."
"But—"
"Jeannie! Now!" The anger in his mother's voice was a whip-crack, and Rodney felt Jeannie physically flinch where she'd been touching his leg again. He opened his eyes as he felt his sister crawl by him, her lips quivering—obviously on the verge of crying again. She glanced at him, frowned, then pulled herself up over the backseat and into the front of the car. His mother had made room for Jeannie to climb out, and then she was back again, reaching for Rodney again.
"Rodney, listen to me," she urged. Rodney actually looked up at her in surprise—she never used his middle name, even though he (and his father) liked it better. She gave him a small smile at his expression. "I need you to come out of the sleeping bag, Rodney. Please. Just for a minute."
He stared at her, then, reluctantly, he gave a nod. With shaking hands, he pushed himself out of the sleeping bag. The cold air bit at his dry skin, seeping into his bones. He felt himself shivering even harder, and he couldn't stop.
His mother worked quickly. She physically pulled Rodney to his knees and grabbing at his right wrist, roughly shoving up his pajama arm. She frowned, then pulled at the neck of the shirt, tugging it down to see the top of his thin chest. He continued to shake, and his head really began to hurt.
Next thing he knew, his mother hand pulled him even further up and had wrapped her arms around him, holding on tightly.
And for a moment, he stopped shaking.
"You always tell someone when you're feeling sick, okay?" she whispered. "No matter what your father says. You always tell someone."
"Mary?"
He felt his mother tense at his father's call, then she let go. She dropped him back down and backed up. "Get back in the sleeping bag, baby," she said as she turned around to face the front of the car.
"Mary," his father sounded annoyed, "What is it?"
"He's sick, Richard," Mary stated coldly. Rodney quickly climbed back into the sleeping bag and tugged it as high as he could around his shoulders.
"Well, obviously," Richard ground out. "Boy sounded like he was coughing up a lung before. You said he had a fever. How bad is it?"
"He's burning up," Mary said. "I think...I'm not sure, because it's so dark in here, but he's also got a rash on his arms and his chest."
"Damn," Richard muttered.
Cocooned once more, Rodney propped himself up to sit against a suitcase almost as big as he was, arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He could just make out his father's silhouette up front, the headlights of the cars going past on the other side of the highway throwing all sorts of weird shadows across his square face. Dad's eyes glittered as they peered back at him, then they turned to look at Mary.
"I think I saw a sign for a gas station a couple of kilometers ahead," he said. "They might have some Tylenol."
"Tylenol?" His mother said, surprise in her voice. "Richard, no. Even if I thought it was safe for him to have any, which I don't, he needs to get to a hospital."
Richard's eyebrows lifted, genuinely surprised. "A hospital? Why?"
His mother's head listed forward, like she couldn't believe what she'd just heard. "What do you mean, why? He's sick, Richard. I just told you that he's burning up."
"Yes, but," his father grimaced, "it's hot in the car, Mary, and he was deep inside that sleeping bag. You just touched his forehead with your hand, which, really, is not the most precise—"
"Richard! I'm not arguing with you about this. Your son is sick! We need to get him to a hospital."
"Mary, be reasonable. I'm sure it doesn't warrant—"
"Stop it, Richard! Do not argue with me! We are taking him to a hospital. Now!"
There was silence for a moment, as his father looked out the front window, watching the cars fly past them where they'd stopped on the shoulder. The car rocked from the wind gusts caused by the other vehicles. Rodney found himself flinching when a massive Mack Truck rolled past, loud and screeching.
"Richard!" Mary called, growing even more frustrated.
"I don't even know where one might be," his father said tightly. "We're in the United States, Mary, not Canada. Even if I was able to find a hospital, I've no idea what they might charge us. They make you pay here, remember? And with our current state of finances, I—"
"You are not seriously putting money before your son, are you?" Mary stated coldly. Rodney coughed again, and his mother reached back a hand, grabbing his wrist through the sleeping bag.
"Of course not." His father sighed, and Rodney could almost feel him rolling his eyes. "All I'm saying is, for now, let's just find a drugstore and get him some medicine. Triaminic or something. And keep going. I'll watch for hospitals in case he doesn't get better, okay? If he gets worse, we'll—"
"Damn it, Richard McKay, don't you do this!" Mary spat. "Just because you're so desperate to get to this new job, doesn't give you the right to endanger your son!"
Richard's shoulders hunched forward as if he'd been punched, and Rodney saw his head bow down. He let out a heavy breath, then turned in the seat to glare at his wife.
"That's it," the man muttered. "That is it." His eyes narrowed. "I am not endangering my son, Mary. He's got a cold, that much is obvious to me. And you think he's got a fever. Well, children get sick all the time. I'm not going to risk our future on your theory that he suddenly needs a hospital! You're being irrational!"
"I am not being irrational!"
"Of course you are! You're his mother. He coughs a little, and you immediately assume that he's dying. You and he are the worst kind of hypochondriacs—what was it last time, huh? A nosebleed? I came home to find you had taken him out of school for two days because of a nosebleed! And before that, you took him to the hospital for pink-eye!"
"I couldn't have known!"
"My point exactly! You didn't know then, and you don't know now!"
"I—"
"Rodney," his father's gaze lasered in on his son, "do you need to go to the hospital?"
Rodney blinked. He turned his eyes to his mother, who had turned around to look at him. Her gaze pleaded with him—she wanted him to back up her argument. He looked back at his dad, and his father's expression held no plea. All it held was that same darkness he saw before. And he was more afraid of that, than of his mother.
"I'm okay," he said softly.
"Mer," his mother admonished, ducking her head away from him. She was disappointed.
"There," Richard said, smirking a little. "I'm not taking him to a hospital. And that's final. We're going to keep going. Now, shut your door and let's go."
Rodney watched his mother, the way she seemed to go rigid. Her breathing grew shallow and quick, as if she were on the verge of exploding.
But she just expelled a heavy sigh, and pulled away from Rodney.
"Fine," she said tightly. "But I'm staying back here." She shut the back door and settled into the little space between the boxes on the backseat, where Rodney had been sitting before.
"Whatever," Richard replied, reaching over and shutting the passenger side door loudly. He turned the car back on and they slowly merged back into the traffic.
His mother glanced back at Rodney, then turned to look out the window at the trees.
His sister sniffed back tears from somewhere Rodney couldn't see.
And his father urged the Oldsmobile to move faster—Rodney could feel it shaking with increased speed.
He slumped against the suitcase, pulled his knees in tighter to his chest, and turned around. He could just make out the cars through the rear window even with all the stuff in the way.
So many cars.
He wondered, did they see him? The people in those cars? Did they see him inside here when they drove past? Did they see his sister? His mother? His father? Did they even look?
He coughed again, so hard his chest started to hurt. Swallowing, he forced back the tickle in his throat and sniffed, trying to get his breath back. He scratched at his leg near his ankle.
When he felt okay again, he saw his mother watching him. Her eyes were so wide, he could see the whites of them. Her eyes were really blue. Dad's were too, but Mom's were paler, like his. Her thin lips were pressed together tightly, her pointed chin looking like it was sticking out even more than normal.
Then, suddenly, she looked away, turning her back to him.
His teeth chattered, and he nodded. Turning, he looked again out the back.
Another truck passed them by, rocking the station wagon.
No, he thought. They didn't see them. The people in those other cars. If his dad crashed the car right now, just drove into the woods in this nowhere place—all the people in those cars would still move on. They'd never know him, or his family, or know what had been lost. He'd be dead, his family dead, but the cars would keep driving down the highway. They would just keep going, wheels spinning on the road, forever.
Another truck blew past them in the outer lane.
"You might at least go faster," his mother said tightly. "You know, so your son doesn't die for lack of air before he gets something to soothe his throat."
Rodney heard his father sigh heavily.
The car shuddered as it increased in speed.
He closed his eyes.
The proximity sensors suddenly went wild in the Puddle Jumper. Rodney's eyes popped open, trying to make sense of the noise—and the Jumper shuddered. The shake caused him to fall off the bench and land hard on the floor—and onto something soft and yielding. Teyla squeaked, shoving him off and pulling herself out of her sleeping bag, where she too had obviously been sleeping. Rodney tried to do the same, but his body wouldn't behave. So, he just stayed on the floor, coughing harshly and staring into the front of the Jumper as Teyla dashed to stand by the pilot chair, next to John.
Sheppard was at the controls, having obviously taken off the auto-pilot. And for good reason.
A Wraith Hive had dropped out of hyperspace directly in front of them. And it was shooting at them.
"Damn it," Sheppard swerved hard to the right, his body backlit by the flash of weapons' fire. "Come on," he muttered, "cloak!"
Rodney felt his chest tighten. "What?" he whispered.
Ronon glanced back at him, the glare of the weapons' fire casting strange shadows across his face, and he shook his head. Rodney's eyes widened.
No, no, no!
He'd fixed it! He was sure he'd fixed it!
"What happened?" Teyla asked, her whole body rocking forward as they barely missed another strike. "Where did the Hive come from?"
"It's my fault," John said, swerving to avoid yet another volley from the Hive. "I wasn't watching the sensors. I must have dozed off." He spoke through gritted teeth. "Damn it! We're sitting ducks!"
"How did they find us?" Ronon demanded, gripping tightly onto the back of the co-pilot's seat.
"No idea," Sheppard answered. "Probably weren't even looking for us."
Rodney pulled himself out of the sleeping bag, his hands grabbing onto the bench in order to lever himself up. The motion pulled at his neck, and he felt something tear as he pushed up. Hot liquid ran down under the back of his collar from the wound—he tried not to think about it, focusing on just getting up. He had no choice. Damn it, what the hell! He'd fixed the cloak! He'd fixed it!
"Can we..." Teyla shook her head, leaning into another swerve. "Is there anything we can hide behind? Something in the vicinity?"
"No," Sheppard sounded pissed. "There's nothing here."
The Jumper rocked hard to the side, and Rodney slammed into the bench, and for a second, he saw stars behind his eyes. He was half sitting, half on his side...he coughed liquidly and blinked to get his visions back.
"They just decided to drop out of hyperspace here?" Ronon scoffed. "Hell of a coincidence, Sheppard!"
"Well, don't look at me!" John shouted, swerving around to avoid another volley. "I didn't invite them!"
Rodney turned and managed to pull himself up the whole way to standing, though every muscle in his body wanted him to bend over. It felt like his stomach muscles were barely holding him up—he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this weak.
He grabbed at the Jumper control box, pulling down the panel. Blood rushed from his face as he inspected the crystals, and, for a second, he felt so dizzy, he thought he'd faint. Blackness filled his vision and, for a second, he actually couldn't see anything at all, just felt the throbbing pain of the wound on his neck.
"Look," John said, "we know they drop out of hyperspace at certain intervals to recharge their batteries or something—Zelenka worked the distance out, remember? This could just be us shit out of luck. As for why here? They're probably heading to the same planet and Stargate we are—to them, it's probably the next closest food source."
Rodney's vision came back slowly, and, blinking, he finally got a good look at the crystal matrix, and his heart sank. "Oh God," he whispered softly. "I...the distress beacon is broadcasting. They must have heard it—that's why they're here."
"What?" Ronon's voice bellowed. Rodney leaned heavily into the panel as his vision threatened to blacken again. Blinking it back, he looked towards the Satedan. Teyla and John obviously hadn't heard Rodney's comment, because both looked startled by Ronon's shout. Teyla turned around, saw Rodney standing, and her eyes widened. John had glanced back for only a second, before he was facing forwards again and swerving to avoid more weapons' fire.
Ronon jogged into the back, his hands raised as if he expected to catch Rodney at any moment. "Can you turn it off?"
"Turn what off?" Sheppard called. "What's on?"
"The distress beacon," Ronon answered.
"What?" Sheppard all but shouted. "McKay, get it off!"
"It's my fault," Rodney whispered, looking up at Ronon with fevered eyes. "It must have come on—"
"When we were hit," Ronon nodded, stepping closer. "It's okay. You didn't know. Just turn it off."
Rodney gave a headshake. "No. I did know," he said, his voice cracking. "I just forgot to—"
"Doesn't matter!" Sheppard yelled from the front. "Right now, all I care about is turning it off and getting us cloaked! McKay! Now!"
Rodney gave a nod, and reached up to pull out the crystal that controlled the beacon—which crystal was also interfering with their ability to cloak. He had meant to pull it back when he'd first done the fix, because he'd rerouted the system through it. God, how could he have been so stupid?
"That did it!" Sheppard called happily, turning them around and down, avoiding another set of weapons' fire. "Nice job, McKay!"
Rodney felt the cool sensation that always ran through the Puddle Jumpers when they cloaked, and closed his eyes. He felt a hand on his arm, and he opened them again. Ronon was giving him a strange smile.
And then Ronon held up the crystal Rodney had dropped. He stared at it for a moment, then looked down at his empty right hand. He hadn't even noticed it slip out of his fingers.
The gentle canting of the floor demonstrated Sheppard was still swerving, but without the urgency of before. A glance forward showed that the Hive was now shooting blind, and nowhere near their location. Sheppard was really just getting the Jumper into the safest spot.
A moment later, and the Hive turned away from where they were.
"Hive's leaving," Sheppard said, leaning back a little in his chair. "They can't find us."
"That was too close," Teyla muttered.
"See?" Ronon said to Rodney, patting a hand to his back. "Told you it'd be okay."
Rodney snorted a laugh, then felt his legs give. Ronon caught him securely in his arms, and lowered him gently to the bench. The room was spinning, now. Ronon's weight at his side, holding him upright, was the only thing keeping him grounded.
"Stay awake, McKay," Ronon pleaded softly. "We need to get food into you."
Rodney frowned. His neck muscles seemed to give up, and his head tipped down again, pulling angrily at his neck wound. Hissing in pain, he reached a hand up to touch the bandage, but Ronon stopped him by grabbing his wrist. Rodney forced his head up, pulled his wrist free with the last of his stubbornness, and turned to look towards the front.
He caught Sheppard looking at him. The Colonel's eyes were filled with worry. Then, abruptly, they lit up, focusing on something far beyond Rodney. Rodney frowned—that was Sheppard's 'crazy idea' look. Sheppard grinned and spun back around to face the front, and the Jumper gave an almost imperceptible shudder as it picked up speed.
"John..." Teyla had slid into the co-pilot's seat, so Rodney couldn't actually see her anymore. "John," she called again, her voice thick with tension, "what are you doing?"
"Trying to catch that Hive before it goes into hyperspace."
Rodney frowned, and he felt Ronon tense behind him.
"Why?" Teyla asked, her tone that of someone wondering if they were about to talk someone off a ledge.
"Because," John said, and Rodney could hear Sheppard's maniacal grin, "we're hitching a ride."
Oh God, Rodney thought.
"John," Teyla said again, still in her questioning tone, "are you sure that is wise? What if the cloak fails again?"
"Rodney," John called, ignoring Teyla's question and turning in his seat so that he could look directly at the scientist, "We are taking you home." He turned around again, and the Hive loomed in the window of the Puddle Jumper like a small planet. "We are taking you home," John said again.
"John?" Teyla still sounded nervous.
"Any means necessary, Teyla," he stated firmly.
She paused a moment, then nodded, just as firmly. "Of course," she said. ""Worth any risk."
Rodney felt Ronon huff a laugh behind him. "Works for me."
No! Rodney shook his head, his whole body tensing with the thought. The risk was too big! He couldn't guarantee that the cloak would stay on, couldn't guarantee they wouldn't be caught. It was too dangerous. He would not be responsible for their deaths!
He lurched up out of the seat to stop Sheppard, and everything went white inside his skull.
He barely felt that arms that caught him, or heard Teyla shout his name. Without him wanting to...
He closed his eyes.
—————————————————————————————
TBC