Short chapter. Shrug.
There were monsters and they were coming for Danny. They were coming for Danny and they were going to hurt and they were going to kill and Danny was screaming for Rusty, begging and pleading and screaming and Rusty couldn't help him, because Rusty was dead and couldn't even feel the grief at watching them tear Danny apart, in the dark in the heat in the dust and Danny's mouth was full of blood and Danny died screaming for Rusty and Rusty didn't help him.
Danny woke up, shaking and he had to grab onto the plastic of the airport bench to remind himself where he was.
He'd fallen asleep. He hadn't meant to do that. How could he do that? How could he have even contemplated sleeping when he was living in the nightmare of the possibility? Of the too-late?
His fingers tightened on the plastic. Not Rusty, he reminded himself. Not a chance.
Biting his lip he checked his watch. Still another hour.
Another hour of waiting. Another hour of being useless.
Rusty.
It was cold now. He thought it was cold now. He thought.
The trembling came over in waves, and he couldn't stop it, and everytime it made the aching just that little bit worse.
He wondered how long he'd been here. In the dark. In the pain.
He had to get out of here. He had to. He had to get free of these ropes and get out of here, because Danny had gone to get him a Coke, and he hadn't come back, and that had been a long time ago, and Rusty had to go and find him, because he might be in trouble. He might need help.
"Danny . . . " The voice was a whisper at best. He wondered where it came from.
As soon as he stepped out of the plane in Havana, the skies opened and the rain descended in sheets, bouncing off the runway. He heard enough surprised comments from around him to realise that this was unseasonable. Exceptional. Strange.
Good thing he wasn't superstitious. This looked like an omen.
There were giant insects above him. He could hear the patter of their feet on the metal roof. And they knew he was here, they must know he was here, and it was only a matter of time before they scratched their way through, before they came for him.
He whimpered and tried to burrow into the ground.
He stood in the middle of the sidewalk and looked up at the first hotel. This wasn't a plan; this was desperation.
He didn't have any contacts in Cuba. They didn't have any contacts in Cuba. And it in all likelihood, for anyone that he could talk to, all the cards he could lay down - charm, reputation, favours, money - all of them would be beaten by the simple fact that in all probability, Rusty had just been responsible for them losing a hefty pay out.
He didn't have any contacts. He didn't have any idea where Rusty was. He didn't have any idea who had Rusty, or even if anyone did. Hell, for all he knew, it was still possible that Rusty was curled up in a bar somewhere, with a bottle and someone pretty, miserable because Danny had abandoned him. Possible. Not likely. Not at all likely.
He didn't have anything useful. What he had was a list of hotels in Havana grouped by location and price. And he was going to start with the most expensive and work his way down. And if that didn't work, then he'd think of something else. Something even more desperate. Something that put Rusty at even more risk. He wasn't going to give up. Not ever.
There was a noise. Significant noise. Important noise.
He tried to focus. Listened and tried to drown out the pain, tried to drown out the thirst.
Thirst.
There was water dripping.
Again. He heard it again. Somewhere, in the dark somewhere, there was water, slowly dripping, and he needed to move now, needed to find it, needed, desperately needed.
He listened for the next drip and concentrated. To his left, and he forced himself to move, even though it hurt, even though it took more of an effort than anything ever had in his life, he forced himself to wriggle, to push himself along the wall, to search for the wall in the darkness that was so much bigger than it had seemed.
It hurt, and he couldn't hear the water dripping anymore; not over the noises he was making.
It hurt and he couldn't cry, mustn't cry, because he needed every last drop of water.
It hurt and there weren't words vast enough to describe the pain.
It hurt.
The first ten or so hotels were well appointed and luxurious. They had all the facilities that Rusty would normally pretend he needed just to survive the morning. They were all exactly the sort of places that they'd normally stay in; and none of them had heard any of the aliases Danny enquired about. None of them had any recent guests that matched the description he gave.
He tried to remind himself that if Rusty had a new long term identity, if Rusty had drastically changed his appearance, he would have told Danny about it.
He tried not to remind himself that Rusty hadn't mentioned that he was in Cuba.
The top of his head struck the wall, and he stopped and tried to listen. Finally, the dripping noise came again. Still to his left.
And he was tired now, more tired than he'd ever been in his life, and his head hurt so much, and it took so much to convince himself not just to curl up and sleep.
Water. There was water.
He felt his way along the wall slowly, and in the end he felt something splash down onto his shoulder, and instinctively he turned his head and tried to suck at his shirt, tried to save the tiny drop of moisture. He couldn't reach, and again he felt like crying.
Instead, he brushed his face against the wall, trying to find out where the water had come from. There was a tiny dent, just on the edge of his reach. A tiny dent on the wall, and there seemed to be a tiny trickle of water leading down to it. Must be from the roof. And when it overflowed, the drips landed on the floor.
Greedily, he pushed his tongue against the wall, and he'd meant to ration it, he really had, but there was hardly enough to swallow, and it tasted of dirt and rust and something bitter that he couldn't identify, but it was water, and he sucked at it frantically, he sucked at it, trying to get up every drop, every taste, every anything, and eagerly, he rasped his tongue over the metal wall and he felt the too-rough surface scour him like sandpaper, and still he lapped at the trickle, like an abandoned dog, alone and frightened and desperate, he lapped at it till it ran out and when that was done, when he was sure there wasn't a drop left to be found, he pressed his face to the ground, and licked at the dirt, hoping that maybe the drips that had fallen hadn't all disappeared yet, but it was gone. It was all gone.
There was no more water. And he was thirstier than ever.
More hotels. More and more hotels. And they were more downmarket now, and he was more desperate now. And the staff in most of them didn't speak English, and he had to switch to Spanish, and his Spanish was clumsy at best, and that meant that it all took a little more time, and since when did he have a little more time? He tried not to think about Rusty, grinning and calling his accent a national embarrassment.
More hotels. And none of them had seen Rusty.
"Please . . . please . . ." He was begging through cracked lips. Just another drop of water. Just a little. Just enough to wet his lips. Just enough to cool him down. Just enough to take the edge of the headache.
There was no more water. And the temperature was rising. There wouldn't be any more water.
"Please . . . " he begged.