Author's notes:
There is more blood in this chapter and more mention of the death of a minor animal character, so be warned.
There is also a little Firefly/Serenity reference in there just for fun.
"Eliot! Eliot … c'mon man … wake up …"
Eliot struggled through a red-tinged fog of pain and disjointed sensations. Whoever the hell was sticking a molten poker in his side was pressing so hard he was sure his ribs would melt.
He tried to lift his left hand to punch the mystery figure, but agony tore through his side and his head was feeling decidedly brittle, so he tried with his right hand instead. It was batted away and he growled in protest, but the effort of taking a deep breath nearly sent him spiralling back down into limbo.
"Leave … leave me 'lone –" he rasped weakly.
"Welcome back, dumb-ass … lie still, okay? You're bleedin' like a stuck hog and we don't have that many pressure bandages so damn' well stay still, y'hear?"
Eliot grunted as the pressure increased, but he did his best to open his eyes despite the throbbing pain in his head. All he saw was a blurry, shifting world with faint impressions of shapes and colours. One of the shapes moved.
"Who … I can't … where …" he whispered, confusion echoed in every word.
Hardison glanced at Eliot's bloodied face and took in the gash over his left ear. Like all head wounds it had bled like crazy, but he knew he had to deal with the wound in Eliot's side, so he kept pressing one of the only two pressure bandages left in their decimated first aid kit against the gouge along Eliot's ribs.
"To answer what I think were questions, it's me, Hardison, you can't move because you're shot, you fool, and we're still in the armpit of the world and stuck here, so let me patch you up first an' then we'll talk, okay?"
"Head … hurts …"
"Yeah … well … that happens when you get shot, fall six feet head-first off a pump-house an' bash your head against a rock."
Eliot frowned and then wished he hadn't as pain thudded through his skull.
"Shot?" he asked. Huh. Some bastard had shot him.
He struggled to get up and managed an inch or two before his side exploded in even more pain and he sank back onto the dusty, bloody ground with a groan.
"S'all right, El … the shooter … he's taken care of. Here," Hardison pressed a gauze pad into Eliot's right hand, "if you want to do somethin' useful, hold this against your thick skull."
It took two tries for Eliot to get a firm grip on the gauze and then Hardison helped guide his hand up to the still-oozing cut.
"Sniper?" the hitter asked faintly.
"Yeah …" Hardison replied. "I took care of him. He's … he's dead."
Eliot, eyes blessedly shaded from the light by his right forearm, digested the information, but he would ask Hardison about the sniper's demise later. But if the man was dead, others would come looking for him.
"Al … Albany Mining, right?" Memory was returning, and Eliot figured out now what had happened. Someone had been watching Bore Seven, and reported their presence. What the hell was Albany Mining hiding?
"Yeah," Hardison said as he checked to see if the bleeding was easing up. "I got some footage before Larry crashed, an' there's somethin' definitely hinky goin' on – aw hell," he added under his breath as Eliot felt him run his fingers around the wound and check something. Hardison pressed gently over a rib, and the pain made Eliot want to rip the hacker's face off and feed it to him, but he just let out a keening groan and dealt with it.
"What … what's wrong," he asked huskily. God, he was thirsty.
He heard Hardison hesitate before he spoke.
"Bullet's still in there, man. Under the skin and lyin' against a rib. But it'll have to be cut out an' I can't do it. Half of the medikit got blown to pieces."
Eliot shifted and winced.
"It's okay. Just get Gertie an' Bomber saddled up an' we'll be out of here –"
"El … listen … we're stranded." Hardison explained awkwardly. "Uh … Gertie, she's … she's gone, an' Bomber … that bastard shot him right after he shot you. He's …"
"Shit," Eliot said under his breath. He was very fond of the little horse and for Bomber to have been killed so needlessly … "Gertie … she's gone, you said?"
"She got nicked by a bullet and high-tailed it."
Eliot lay still and thought about their situation for a bit while Hardison bandaged up the bullet wound. They were in one helluva bind.
"Eliot … I gotta get you sittin' up so I can take off your tee and check your shoulder. You must've bust your stitches." Hardison muttered.
Eliot removed the gauze from his head wound and nodded, even though it cost him a lot of pain. Jeez, he had a headache.
Hardison managed with a bit of effort to help Eliot to sit up and prop himself against Gertie's saddle, which, apart from a bullet hole in one of the pads, seemed to be in one piece.
It turned out that Eliot had indeed burst the stitches in the wound in his shoulder, but what made Hardison take a deep breath was the redness of inflammation around the injury. Infection. And he could do nothing about it other than clean it up and bandage it.
Eliot, screwing his eyes shut against the sunlight, gave a tired grin.
"It's fine, Hardison – you know I've survived a helluva lot worse." He saw Hardison raise a doubtful eyebrow as the young hacker taped gauze over the wound. How were they to get out of here? Because the dead man would soon be missed and people would come looking for him, and, Eliot knew for certain, they would not be friendly.
It was then he heard a soft gurgle, and he twitched a smile. He let out a gentle whistle, although he wished he could have had a drink of water first. His mouth was as dry as the Gobi Desert.
And there was Gertie, trotting out of the bush, big, ugly head held high and bottom lip flapping as she headed straight for Eliot and Hardison. But she stopped and smelled Bomber as he lay silent and still. He had been Gertie's constant companion for over two years, and she rumbled to herself as she nosed at her friend. She honked quietly, and Eliot, his heart aching, called out to her.
"Hey! Hey, Gertie! C'mere, girl …"
And Hardison moved nervously out of the way as Gertie trotted over to Eliot and dropped her head down to him, awaiting a scratch. She rumbled dejectedly to herself, and even though Eliot's sight was still a bit blurry and his head felt as though it was on the point of exploding, he managed to raise a hand and rub her soft muzzle.
"I know, darlin' … I know …" he murmured, doing his best to soothe her, and Gertie tried to rest her head on his chest. Eliot could make out blood on her left ear, but not the detail of the damage. He didn't think she was too badly injured because she began to hum, but then she realised Eliot was hurt. Her humming turned to concerned rumbly squeaks, a silly noise, Eliot thought, for such a big animal, and she nuzzled very gently at his side and shoulder.
"Hey, hey! Stop that!" Hardison scolded, and tried to push Gertie away, but the camel just gave him a couple of slurpy licks on the face and returned to fussing over Eliot.
"Hardison … I can't see straight … c'n you check her out for me? See if she's okay?"
Hardison, doing his best to fend off the huge animal and sputtering through the camel saliva, scowled.
"She's fine, man, I promise … she's got a bit of a hole in her ear, but not much blood. I think she's gonna be okay. Now, I need to get your head fixed an' then we talk."
Eliot, rubbing Gertie's head and smiling at her squeaky attention, decided they were 'way past the time for talking.
"Hardison … we gotta go as soon as we can. Can you saddle up Gertie?"
"Me?" Hardison sat back on his heels after finishing taping up the cut on Eliot's head. "How the hell do I do that?"
Eliot sighed in exasperation.
"You just put it on her back, tighten up the girths an' the breastplate an' that's it. Give me those ropes I hung on the tree beside the hammocks. I'll clip 'em to her bosal … that's her bridle."
"Oh … okay," Hardison answered, and then looked at the devastation of their camp. He didn't really want to look at Bomber. The little horse had been very patient with him and had been the perfect introduction to horseback riding, and Hardison discovered he was very upset by the animal's death. "El … I'll cover Bomber with the hammocks. It don't feel right just leavin' him like that."
"Yeah … yeah, do that, Hardison. Look after the little guy." Eliot didn't mention that the hammocks wouldn't prevent predation by scavengers, but it afforded the old gelding some dignity until someone could come back to the spot and either burn the body or bury his bones. "I gotta lie down for a few minutes, Hardison … feelin' a bit queasy here …" Eliot continued, and Hardison suddenly saw the hitter's face turn ashen.
"Uh-oh – you gonna hurl?" he said, and before he could do anything Eliot turned away and vomited, although he didn't have much in his stomach to bring up. The pain in his side didn't help, and Eliot retched until his stomach muscles ached with the effort.
Hardison held him until he finished, and then wiped his friend's face with a cloth soaked in water from the trough.
Eliot was wheezing, and resting his head back on Hardison's chest he closed his eyes and tried to deal with the explosion of pain in his head and side.
"God, I friggin' hate bein' sick!" he gasped, swallowing bile. He dearly wished he had a mouthful of water to rinse with, but the water canteens all had holes in them and had bled their precious contents onto the dry earth.
"Easy, man … it's the concussion, okay?" Hardison whispered, trying to keep his voice low so as to not make Eliot's headache any worse. "Let me get you moved to someplace a little more shaded and see if I can find a clean shirt for you. Then I'll go find out what we got left. That bastard pretty much wrecked everythin' we had."
Gertie nuzzled at Eliot, and Hardison couldn't help but give her velvet nose a rub, although how Eliot's concussion-riddled noggin dealt with the overwhelming smell of camel he had no idea. But the animal was obviously worried and fretting as well as dealing with the loss of her equine companion, so Hardison had to sympathise.
He spent the next half-hour sorting through their damaged packs and salvaged what he could. Taking down the hammocks, both of which were torn and now not much use, he draped them over Bomber after giving the old fellow a pat on the neck. At least his passing had been painless and instant, but it still didn't stop the swell of fury and grief in Hardison's chest.
But when he turned back to Eliot, who he had moved to rest beside a gum tree, he was astonished to see the hitter on his feet, slowly working his way around the tree and poking at it carefully with his old Ka-Bar knife.
"Eliot! What the hell -?" he ranted and was about to sort the idiot out, but Eliot, left arm tight against his bandaged side and squinting at the tree trunk, waggled the knife at him. Gertie stood beside him as though making sure he didn't fall.
"You keep on doin' what you're doin', Hardison. I'm gonna try and fix the canteens," he rasped, and then turned back to his chore, almost falling as his poor balance threw him, but he used his left hand to grab hold of Gertie's bosal and the big camel stood as still as she could as though she knew he was out of kilter.
"Whoa … dizzy …" Eliot murmured to himself and his shoulder and side twinged, but he righted himself and letting go of Gertie, he felt the 'give' in the piece of bark his knife had gently eased loose. Sticky resin clung to his fingers and he grinned. Sliding the Ka-Bar back into its sheath at his belt, he gathered a lump of the resin, moulding it into a ball. Once done, he shakily kooshed Gertie and slid down to sit beside her. He waited for the world to stop tilting, and then he waved erratically at Hardison.
"Hey! Hardison! Got the canteens?"
Hardison, sifting through his pack, raised his eyebrows.
"Yeah … just a sec –"
He grabbed the three canteens, all with neat holes punched through them, and took them to Eliot, dropping them in his lap. Crouching down beside the hitter, he gave Eliot a run-down of what he had managed to save.
"Okay, 'm'man … I sure hope you like gummy frogs 'cause I got four packs. Bullets, apparently, cannot destroy gummy frogs."
Eliot, trying his best to focus his bleary gaze on the canteens, began to plug the bullet holes with resin.
"Figures. An' there's me tryin' to improve your and Parker's eatin' habits. Gummy frogs ain't a food group, Hardison! What else did you find, an' I hope it's some proper chow."
"A few packs of that organic soup you like … uh … let me see …" he rummaged in the bag in which he had placed all of the available food. "Not much, I gotta say. Tea … two tins of condensed milk, whatever the hell that's for … some fruity oaty bars … and, would you believe, Effie's box of cookies an' lamingtons, bless her antsy-rage-y heart."
Gertie suddenly showed a great deal of interest in the box, and Hardison had to shove her whiffling lips away from it. He slid it back into the bag.
"Other than that, I got some bandages and one pressure bandage left … butterfly strips … no thermometer, that's broke … a couple of ampoules of saline. Tape." Hardison shrugged. "Socks … bottle of paracetamol –" he lifted the little plastic container and shook it, the contents rattling, "-which, of course, you won't take because you're Mister roughy-toughy punchy guy … an' some of that dried stuff you add water to an' you get some sort of orangey drink with lots of electrolytes in it. That's it – oh, and the billy with two mugs. Forgot those."
Eliot finished repairing the canteens and left them in the sun for a few minutes for the resin to harden, and then he slumped back against Gertie, who gurgled quietly and turning her head, lipped at the injured man's side.
Eliot closed his eyes and rested his right hand on Gertie's head, and thought about the situation in which they found themselves. If he could stand the strain and if they could find somewhere safe for the night, they could be back at the homestead by midday the next day. But they had to get away from Bore Seven, and the sooner the better.
He opened his eyes and waited for his vision to settle. Concussion was a bitch.
"We have to go, Hardison," he said wearily. "We can't stay around any longer. We need to be someplace safe by nightfall."
Hardison studied his friend. Eliot was concussed, although he didn't think it was too bad as Eliot's pupils were even and reacted to the light. But he had a helluva bump on his head coupled with a nasty cut held shut with butterfly strips and nothing else. He was dizzy, disorientated and a little punchy. But that was the least of the Oklahoman's problems. Apart from the infected cut in his shoulder, he was still carrying a bullet. Hardison had no idea how long Eliot could keep going under the circumstances. But he couldn't worry about it at this moment in time. They had to leave, and it had to be now.
So with Eliot giving him somewhat addled instructions on how to put an Afghan saddle on a camel, Hardison managed to get Gertie saddled up and the pack slung over the raised peak in front of the second seat. Then he filled the patched canteens with fresh water straight from the bore pipe, and was surprised when the containers proved to be completely watertight. Eliot Spencer, the man Hardison was sticking to like glue if the apocalypse was ever upon them, had done it again.
He made Eliot drink a couple of mugs of the cold, fresh artesian water, and then he quenched his own thirst. They were ready.
Helping an unsteady Eliot to his feet, Hardison looked at Gertie. Gertie gurgled at him as she sat comfortably in the shade.
"Um … Eliot … I have no idea how to ride a camel," he said as Eliot stood beside him, the hitter having a distinct list to the left.
Eliot winced.
"Dammit, Hardison! Not so loud, okay? Look … all you do is sit on her an' tell her to stand up. Then you just steer her like a horse. Easy."
"That's what you say, El! It was hard enough ridin' Bomber … this … I mean … I don't know … she's your camel, I don't know if she'll work for me …"
"She's not a robot, man! Just … just get me settled an' I'll help you all I can … damn, my head hurts …"
Hardison caught Eliot as he sagged a little and the man grunted as his side flashed pain.
"Rear seat … you're up front …" Eliot gasped, and as Hardison helped him sit astride Gertie, the hacker was wondering how the hell Eliot was even going to stay in the saddle. Well, he thought, it couldn't be an issue. They had to get out of danger, and that was that.
Once Eliot was aboard, feet in the stirrups, Hardison, with his heart in his mouth, eased himself into the front saddle. He sat there, looking at Gertie's ears which twitched as she listened for Eliot's voice. Her ear was ragged and torn, but the bleeding had stopped. She would have the scars for the rest of her life.
"Okay … okay El … what now?" Hardison asked nervously.
"Got the reins?" Eliot said, his right arm clutched around Hardison's waist to help keep himself in the saddle.
"Yeah …" Hardison said faintly. This was going to be just terrifying, he could tell.
"Here we go. Lean back as she stands up," Eliot advised, and then he said "Hut-hut!" as clearly as he could.
Gertie hoisted her backside into the air, unfolded her front legs and stood up, Hardison letting out a yelp of terror, but miracle of miracles, they both stayed in the saddle and they were ready to go.
"You … you alright, Hardison?" Eliot asked tiredly.
"I think so … hell, it's a long way down …" Hardison swallowed dryly, and then urged Gertie forward, and she set off down the track towards the billabong they had passed the previous day.
It they could make their way down past the billabong before nightfall, the rocky terrain would proffer shelter and safety through the long night and Eliot could get some rest.
Hardison just hoped Eliot could stay in the saddle long enough for them to get there.
To be continued …