Whatever happened to Virgil? And an unexpected medical procedure.With thanks and appreciation to cat lovers and sailing fans everywhere.
9
Virgil lay on an icy concrete floor within the tight confines of his makeshift cage. He wasn't in pain, mostly... until he moved. Then, things ground together inside, setting off crimson agony and waves of clutching nausea. Each shaky breath brought a fresh stab from his ribs, filling his chest with fire.
He knew, though, that they were coming for him. Dad, John, Gordon... even Alan. They'd make it, if they had to walk every step of the way. No..., his real worry was Scott. The thought that his brother was out there somewhere, alone and wounded, maybe dying, was far more painful than the beating had been. Time and again he'd tried frantically to get to his feet, meaning to batter a way through the wired-together iron cage. But his broken legs wouldn't hold him and his numb, bound arms might as well not even have been there. So, desperately as he wanted to help Scott, Virgil could only lie there and wait for a miracle. He preferred to wait elsewhere, though. His body might be trapped, but his mind was free to wander, taking him out of that wretched prison and back to Wyoming.
In a sort of waking half-dream, Virgil found himself standing knee-deep in the swift flowing waters of a cold, rocky creek somewhere out in the Bridger-Teton Wilderness. He had his best fly rod out, and was contentedly casting for cut-throat trout. Catching a little more than usual, too... it was a dream, after all.
The line snaked out with a rushing hiss, dropping the fly, one of the green fuzzy guys that Grandad had first shown him how to tie, right over a shaded hollow. He jerked the rod a bit, causing the fly to skip and dance across the water, looking (hopefully) succulent and suicidal. It worked. A big trout rose to the bait. Virgil set the hook with a practiced flick of his wrist, then began reeling in his prize.
Something bothered him, though, breaking his concentration and nearly losing him his cutty. Not the llamas... he could hear them gurgling and complaining to themselves back at the campsite. Not grizzlies... that's what the llamas were for. That, and the biggest rifle he could tote. The weather was beautiful; air cool and sharp, wind roaring through the lodge pole pines with a noise like distant surf. Troubled, he looked up. Far above him, snow gleamed on the jagged mountain peaks, changing color with the angle of the sun. It was almost too beautiful for words.
Still... there was something... something important. As he netted and landed the trout, Virgil pondered, deciding finally that he was waiting for someone. That was it.
Good thing, too. Although Virgil never minded being alone, everything but elk hunting was better with a friend.
Satisfied, he put the shimmering cut-throat in a lidded basket, secured his fly rod, and headed back to camp for a date with a pan, some butter, a little corn meal, and the world's best breakfast.
Meanwhile, Cindy pulled everything she could find- coats, jackets, survival blankets and cushions- off the van's seats and onto the floor. She wanted to be as low as possible and out of direct window view in the event that someone came poking around in the night. The rest of her preparations were a little haphazard, just as they occurred to her. She couldn't simply drive off; all of the gas had leaked away through what must have been dozens of bullet holes. The battery was nearly dead, as well. It looked, Cindy sighed to herself, like they might be there for awhile. Fortunately, the van was set up with long road trips in mind. It featured a small food cabinet and benches as well as plenty of broadcast gear. It was liveable, barely.
The pilot was growing visibly weaker. Their trek through the snow had just about finished him. As Cindy helped him to stretch out on the makeshift bed, she thought,
'Got to get those wounds cleaned up and bandaged before he makes up his mind to bleed to death...!'
"Okay, Hollywood," she said, still keeping to a whisper, just in case, "let's have a look at..."
"Scott," he corrected her, in a barely audible mumble. "My name's Scott."
"Alright. Scott it is, then. I'm..."
"Cindy Taylor... WNN. 'Your eye on the world'." He smiled just a little, at her surprised expression. "...watch a lot of TV... better than Ned Cook."
"Well... thanks," Cindy replied, trying to arrange some kind of pillow. "About the Ned Cook thing, I mean. He may get better ratings, but he's got a big mouth, and a bigger ego, and he makes up half the stuff he reports on. Takes too many stupid risks, too. One of these days, remember I said this, something's going to happen to that blowhard. Not that I'm ill wishing him, or anything."
Returning to the task at hand, Cindy set about examining the pilot's wounds. He was feverish, she noted worriedly; not a good sign. Unzipping the totally inadequate bomber jacket he'd worn for warmth, Cindy saw that only one bullet had actually penetrated his chest. It had hit high on the right side, just below the collar bone. The other two had struck his right arm. Gloveless and apparently cold, he'd walked over to the would-be assassins with his arms folded across his chest and his hands tucked into the opposite jacket sleeves. Weird, she thought, opening up his blood-stained coverall; the wrong clothing had actually saved the guy's life.
"You'd better hang onto this jacket, Scott," she told him, more for the comfort of talking than because she thought he was listening. "...It's lucky. Too bad about your watch, though." That, too, had been hit.
Cindy wasn't a doctor or an EMT, but it seemed best to her not to go digging after the bullets. Clean and bandage, stop the bleeding, and wait for the pros. That much, she could do.
There was a first aid kit in the van; well-stocked, thanks to Abe. She'd never bothered with the thing unless one of them needed a band-aid. Now, though... well, once more Abe Lieberson's clear thinking was proving invaluable.
"Thanks again, Abe," she murmured softly, wishing him peace. "You're a lifesaver."
When she'd figured out what she was doing, Cindy gently shook her patient awake.
"Hey, Hol... Scott. I'm going to put some of this stuff on the bullet holes and swab them out a little, then I'm going to put in some gauze and try to bandage you up. Okay?"
Scott blinked, then replied blurrily, "Why wake me up to tell me about it? I couldn' stop you if I tried..."
Wincing, Cindy indicated a sloppy bandage on her own shoulder.
"Because it hurts. Trust me, I tried it out on myself, first. I didn't want you to wake up yelling, and maybe give us away."
Scott nodded. "Good thinking," he told her.
"Yeah, well..." Cindy put a gauze pad over the mouth of the antiseptic bottle and gave it a vigorous shake. "...it's not all to my credit, really. It's... it was Abe, my cameraman, who thought to pack all this stuff. He saved my life out there, and now I can't even pay him back."
She decided to start on an arm wound, first. Less dangerous area. As she tipped a bit of the antiseptic into the wound, then began dabbing timidly at the resulting bloody froth, Scott made a sound like he'd been punched.
"Yup," he managed to say, between gritted teeth. "Hurts!"His good hand clutched at the blanket, white-knuckle tight. Needing to keep talking, he said,
"I-if Abe saved you... and then you saved me... that pays back... pays back the debt, doesn't it?"
Cindy gave him a quick smile. "Yeah, maybe it does. I didn't think of it that way. Thank you, Scott."
Continuing to work, Cindy got him patched up as best she could, then put the first aid kit under his rigged-up pillow. The temperature inside the van was dropping steadily and she didn't know whether or not the stuff in the kit would survive being frozen. Then, having seen to the immediate issues, Cindy realized that she had an enormous, thudding headache. Tension, probably, and hunger. There was aspirin in her purse, but she needed something to wash it down with... Spotting a thermos up front between the seats, Cindy crawled forward and got it. She nervously sampled the contents back at the blanket nest.
"Hey!" She said, so pitifully grateful for good news that she just about cried. "It's coffee! And it's almost nearly warm!"
Scott made an odd noise. At first she thought he was choking, but then he said,
"Don't... make me laugh,,, please, ...hurts too much."
Cindy chuckled a little as she raised his head for a drink of the heavenly beverage.
"That's different," she said. "Usually, the reaction is: 'huh?', or... 'I don't get it'."
Scott agreed, saying ruefully, "I gave up trying to be funny a long time ago. No talent."
The coffee, a package of peanut butter crackers and a round of aspirin made up the evening meal, eaten slowly by the faint glow of the van's cigarette lighter. Tomorrow, they promised each other, huddling beneath the blankets, they'd go for help.