2
The deeper they got, the worse conditions became. Close to the reactor core, the air was filled with smoke, and split wide open by a siren's shrill keening. John had the vague impression of flaking paint, pitted concrete, warning placards and rusted pipes. Not much else to see, as it had gotten dark in there pretty quickly, necessitating the use of the suits' head lamps. The close, stifling atmosphere fairly crackled with hard radiation.
John lost contact with 5's computer almost immediately, then Scott a little afterward. Too much interference. He nearly tripped over the first volunteer. A woman in a stained white coat and modest head scarf lay crumpled on the ground, retching miserably. Her dosimeter badge indicated well over 90 sieverts. Lethal, and then some.
Waving to get his older brother's attention, John indicated what he was about, then bent over the anguished woman. She clutched at him with pleading, dark eyes. Dying, undoubtedly; but she deserved better than to do it alone and sick, in a puddle of vomit.
Wiping at her face with one end of the head cloth, John scooped her off the floor and headed back outside, promising that all would be well. She was scientist enough to know he was lying, but the look in her wide eyes told him she appreciated the comforting fairy tale.
He left her outside in a tiny patch of shade, with a scrounged-up bottle of water. He could see WorldGov Civil Defense trucks heading along the mountain road, trailing a long plume of yellow dust. The cavalry, at last.
Helping the young woman drink a bit, John turned to go, but she wouldn't release his hand. Even through the insulated glove, he felt her despairing grip. For some reason, he didn't simply pull free.
"I'll come back," he promised, in her own language, "but there are people still in there who need help. I have to go."
She nodded, too sick with radiation poisoning to speak, and turned him loose. John gave her shoulder an encouraging pat, then returned to the blazing building, thinking,
'Damn, I'm no good at this.' From space, all they were was data points, to be shuffled efficiently from one area to another. On Earth they were people, with eyes that begged you not to let them die alone.
Scott struggled past, a minute later, a comatose scientist under each arm. John helped his brother get them out of doors, where the newly arrived Civil Defense crew took over. He made a quick side trip, had just time to direct the medics to the poisoned woman, then rejoined Scott at the radioactive mouth of hell.
Several miles away, Gordon waited for the pod door to finish opening, then hurried down into baking sunlight. Dark haired, drably clad people (men, mostly) crowded round him immediately, shouting questions and comments he didn't understand. His hastily memorized Persian phrases being not much help (he mangled them terribly), Gordon lost patience with all the chaos and shouting. No one was listening, and nothing was getting done, while moment by moment, death crept silently closer on the wings of the searing-hot wind.
"Shut up, and pay attention!" he ordered. Then, making a big, circling motion with one arm, he snapped into the sudden silence, "International Rescue, we're here t' help! Everyone...inside...now!"
A broad shooing gesture, directed toward the pod's interior, accompanied the second bit. Obvious enough, he'd have thought, but... nothing. They stood there, staring at him, seeming not to understand the need for haste. Finally, still fierce with impatience, Gordon pointed toward the distant, smouldering reactor and its shroud of poisoned smoke.
"That cloud's headed this way, and it's toxic. You'll be killed, the lot of you, if y' don't put a bit of snap in your step!" Then, with growing frustration, "My teammates 're up there, waitin' for back up. We haven't time to sit about debating this, dammit!"
An older man arrived (turbaned and mustached, in loose, white and tan clothing). Gordon took him to be some sort of village headman, as the crowd parted respectfully to let him through, and waited in silence while he approached. Identifying himself, Gordon tried again, repeating the warning as slowly as possible, and making many broad hand signals. Something got through. Shooting a swift glance at the reactor, the old fellow nodded once. Then, he turned to his massed followers and began calling orders.
"Finally," Gordon muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Someone who speaks bloody English!" Or understood sign language, at any rate. All at once, the village began to move; lock, stock, barrel... and flocks.