And drank. And when he began to feel sated, he shifted the somewhat
lighter load he carried somewhat in his arms, and one of his hands became
tangled in a mass of unbrushed, unkempt black hair. As his senses began to
return to him, Henry's suddenly discerning tongue lingered in the wound,
only to find no trace of the damage that he'd caused remaining.
Something jumped inside of him as he felt the picture come into focus, and, dropping the body, he stumbled backwards over the edge of the coffin, nearly toppling back himself, but finally stabilizing himself with one foot on the floor and the other in the coffin, in an attitude of horrified retreat.
"Oh, jeez, not again!" Henry bemoaned the situation, his forehead furrowing in deepest worry. The wave of nauseated guilt came over him like an entire ocean, but there was nothing on earth that was going to get him to vomit up his ill-gotten sustenance. Frowning, he set his chin a bit, shaking off the pangs of guilt. He hadn't any time to waste on simply feeling bad. He'd have to act quickly if Hawkeye was going to survive. He easily hefted the (he groaned, somewhat lighter) body of Captain Pierce, cradling it like a child, and strode out into the compound, making a beeline for pre-op.
B.J., who had heard the shout from the supply tent, frowned as he hastily exited the swamp, and yelled out in surprise when he saw the fellow from yesterday night holding the prone form of his first friend in Korea.
"What the hell happened?" he demanded to know, reaching towards Hawkeye's hand to feel for his vitals.
"It's a long story," Henry snapped back, shifting Hawk's body out of the direction of B.J.'s reach. "He's got to get some blood in him." He added as he carefully maneuvered into pre-op. He barked the blood type at the moustached fellow who'd followed him in, and told him rather roughly to go get it.
"But there's no-" B.J. protested.
"Look, fella, I'm a doctor, okay? I know what I'm doing. Go get an I.V. set up, on the double, or he won't have a chance." He frowned, that queasy feeling rushing over him as he recalled the distinct pleasure he'd taken from glutting himself on his friend's blood. "And, um," he added, somewhat guiltily, as B.J. "Keep it coming."
"Is something wrong, B.J.?" asked Father Mulcahy as he met the doctor in the doorway. "I heard a--" he cut himself off as he spotted the two figures in the pre-op ward. A second later the priest was nearly beaming from every pore with the shocked joy of one who has just witnessed a miracle.
"Henry!"
~
"You're alive!"
"Yeah, well. . ." Henry dodged the topic, laying Hawkeye out on a guerney.
"What happened?" Mulcahy followed up, his supreme joy hardly fading as he approached the unconscious surgeon. He might have been more concerned if the severity of Hawkeye's condition was obvious, but not even a trace of blood remained on his slightly pale neck.
"He killed him." A voice spoke in the back of Mulcahy's head.
"What?" He replied out loud, looking behind him as B.J. re-entered with an IV of blood set up, which Henry with unnatural deftness slipped into Hawkeye's arm. "Another one," he called hastily, "Get another one." He began to roll up Hawkeye's other armsleeve, and took his pulse, which was weak and getting weaker.
"Don't you think we should do some test--" attempted B.J., this procedure of randomly pumping blood into a patient rather new to him.
"No! We can't take any more." Henry grabbed B.J.'s hand and placed it on the pulse point. "Feel that? Want to ask any more questions?" he demanded, and B.J., startled by Hawkeye's poor condition and the icy feel of this fellow's hand, went running back for a second IV setup.
"He's going to kill you, too." Echoed the voice in Mulcahy's head. He turned to look back at Henry, whose face suddenly appeared to be in an early stage of decomposition. He rubbed his eyes, and it was only Henry again. He trembled from head to toe.
"Do something!" urged the voice, "Kill it! Stop it!"
Mulcahy dropped to his knees, and unsteadily made a blessing sign. "Don't! Henry, don't!"
B.J. ran back into the room with the second I.V., passing it off to the cold doctor before even taking in the odd scene between the priest and the stranger. "Father?" He asked, concerned, then, back to Henry, "Henry?" "I used to work here, but, you see, I was on my way home, and I got. . . lost," the words suddenly clicked with the name, and he went wide-eyed. "Henry Blake?"
"Last time I checked." Henry quipped stressedly as he outfitted Hawkeye with the second I.V.
"What is he talking about?" he asked, concerning the priest.
"I---" Henry looked over to Mulcahy, and as their eyes met, he knew exactly what he meant. He felt, moreover, a deep shame stabbing him to the quick. He turned his face away, and felt for Hawk's pulse again, though his previously unusually nimble fingers now felt made of lead and highly lethargic. "I don't know," he lied.
~
Something jumped inside of him as he felt the picture come into focus, and, dropping the body, he stumbled backwards over the edge of the coffin, nearly toppling back himself, but finally stabilizing himself with one foot on the floor and the other in the coffin, in an attitude of horrified retreat.
"Oh, jeez, not again!" Henry bemoaned the situation, his forehead furrowing in deepest worry. The wave of nauseated guilt came over him like an entire ocean, but there was nothing on earth that was going to get him to vomit up his ill-gotten sustenance. Frowning, he set his chin a bit, shaking off the pangs of guilt. He hadn't any time to waste on simply feeling bad. He'd have to act quickly if Hawkeye was going to survive. He easily hefted the (he groaned, somewhat lighter) body of Captain Pierce, cradling it like a child, and strode out into the compound, making a beeline for pre-op.
B.J., who had heard the shout from the supply tent, frowned as he hastily exited the swamp, and yelled out in surprise when he saw the fellow from yesterday night holding the prone form of his first friend in Korea.
"What the hell happened?" he demanded to know, reaching towards Hawkeye's hand to feel for his vitals.
"It's a long story," Henry snapped back, shifting Hawk's body out of the direction of B.J.'s reach. "He's got to get some blood in him." He added as he carefully maneuvered into pre-op. He barked the blood type at the moustached fellow who'd followed him in, and told him rather roughly to go get it.
"But there's no-" B.J. protested.
"Look, fella, I'm a doctor, okay? I know what I'm doing. Go get an I.V. set up, on the double, or he won't have a chance." He frowned, that queasy feeling rushing over him as he recalled the distinct pleasure he'd taken from glutting himself on his friend's blood. "And, um," he added, somewhat guiltily, as B.J. "Keep it coming."
"Is something wrong, B.J.?" asked Father Mulcahy as he met the doctor in the doorway. "I heard a--" he cut himself off as he spotted the two figures in the pre-op ward. A second later the priest was nearly beaming from every pore with the shocked joy of one who has just witnessed a miracle.
"Henry!"
~
"You're alive!"
"Yeah, well. . ." Henry dodged the topic, laying Hawkeye out on a guerney.
"What happened?" Mulcahy followed up, his supreme joy hardly fading as he approached the unconscious surgeon. He might have been more concerned if the severity of Hawkeye's condition was obvious, but not even a trace of blood remained on his slightly pale neck.
"He killed him." A voice spoke in the back of Mulcahy's head.
"What?" He replied out loud, looking behind him as B.J. re-entered with an IV of blood set up, which Henry with unnatural deftness slipped into Hawkeye's arm. "Another one," he called hastily, "Get another one." He began to roll up Hawkeye's other armsleeve, and took his pulse, which was weak and getting weaker.
"Don't you think we should do some test--" attempted B.J., this procedure of randomly pumping blood into a patient rather new to him.
"No! We can't take any more." Henry grabbed B.J.'s hand and placed it on the pulse point. "Feel that? Want to ask any more questions?" he demanded, and B.J., startled by Hawkeye's poor condition and the icy feel of this fellow's hand, went running back for a second IV setup.
"He's going to kill you, too." Echoed the voice in Mulcahy's head. He turned to look back at Henry, whose face suddenly appeared to be in an early stage of decomposition. He rubbed his eyes, and it was only Henry again. He trembled from head to toe.
"Do something!" urged the voice, "Kill it! Stop it!"
Mulcahy dropped to his knees, and unsteadily made a blessing sign. "Don't! Henry, don't!"
B.J. ran back into the room with the second I.V., passing it off to the cold doctor before even taking in the odd scene between the priest and the stranger. "Father?" He asked, concerned, then, back to Henry, "Henry?" "I used to work here, but, you see, I was on my way home, and I got. . . lost," the words suddenly clicked with the name, and he went wide-eyed. "Henry Blake?"
"Last time I checked." Henry quipped stressedly as he outfitted Hawkeye with the second I.V.
"What is he talking about?" he asked, concerning the priest.
"I---" Henry looked over to Mulcahy, and as their eyes met, he knew exactly what he meant. He felt, moreover, a deep shame stabbing him to the quick. He turned his face away, and felt for Hawk's pulse again, though his previously unusually nimble fingers now felt made of lead and highly lethargic. "I don't know," he lied.
~