Ingra – Thank you! Tom will know how extraordinary he is. If he survives the fever, of course! As for when we get to hear from the League, I have it on good authority that we're going to get to hear from at least a few of them in this chapter.
Sawyer Fan – Thanks for keeping on trying with the review, and I knew you'd like the guest appearance in the last chapter. Looking forward to more of "Crucible" and "Sequel"!
"Rubicon 2 – Africa" Chapter 6
by Ten Mara
Rating: T
CATEGORY: Story, Drama/Angst, Supernatural aspects, hints of potential Tom/Mina
DISCLAIMER: The literary characters referred to are copyright their respective authors, and "LXG: The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen" is copyright 20th Century Fox, based on the comic books by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The characters and movie universe are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended, no profit will be gained. Characters not recognised are mine. This chapter has quotes from "King Solomon's Mines" by H Rider Haggard.
xXx
Through the haze of fever, Tom felt the coolness coming again, trying to help him. And on occasions, he was aware that he was being given water to drink.
Then when he became alert enough to actually open his eyes again, he was still afire, but happy to see his mentor at his bedside.
His fever-addled mind made Sawyer determined not to say anything so direct or confronting to Allan as: "You're dead." or "You're a ghost." It felt impolite and, even worse, he feared that in saying anything like that, he would break whatever tenuous connection there was between the worlds and Allan would disappear.
Even if Quatermain did turn out to be only a dream instead of a ghost, Tom wanted and needed this comfort, so would do all he could to keep it.
He did get as close to the subject as he dared by managing to say, "Thank you."
He could see the hunter understood; of course he would. "That's fine, son. You return the favour by hanging in there and getting better, you hear?"
Tom nodded, struggling to keep his eyes open, but failing. "Wish I was your son . . . ."
"As far as I'm concerned, you are."
The American could hear the emotion in the hunter's voice and felt a hand clasping his own. He was full of emotion too at Allan's words.
"I got M."
"I know you did. Now the next thing you have to do is beat this fever. Try not to talk. You have to save your strength."
Sawyer managed to nod, then shifted his aching body as best he could, trying to find a cooler part of the bed to settle on if possible. Quatermain knew. Whatever dimension he was in, whatever spectral form he was in, at least he knew what was in Tom's heart, and that was all the sick American cared about. As sleep took him, he was determined to follow his mentor's instructions and beat the fever.
xXx
He didn't know how long after that it was when a different and very persistent voice managed to reach him.
"Tom? Tom, it's Henry Jekyll. I've got the medicine. I need you to drink this."
Henry? He knew that name, that voice. And medicine . . . medicine was important. His head was being raised. Obediently the spy swallowed when a glass was put to his lips, liquid entering his mouth. He drank and drank and then tried to stop, but the voice came again. "Tom, you have to drink all of it. There's not much more. Please." He reluctantly obeyed, feeling like he was swallowing an ocean, then finally it was done.
He slid back into the fog.
Henry put down the empty glass, relieved that Tom had been able to drink the entire contents, but deeply concerned nonetheless. He watched with a mix of emotions as Allan Quatermain gently lowered the American's head back onto the pillow and ran a hand through the blonde hair. It was still hard for Jekyll to believe that the hunter was alive again, even after being informed of the fact when arriving back in Nairobi. However there were more pressing concerns.
"Now we wait," Henry said quietly. "Keep trying to get that fever down, Allan. I'll check on him again soon." The hunter looked up at him, with a suddenly piercing gaze that even gave Hyde pause, as the doctor went to move away. "Excuse me, the other patients –"
Before Henry could get very far from the bed, Allan literally collared him and pulled him into a corner where he could still keep an eye on Tom, but not be overheard.
"Out with it," he demanded. "The truth."
Henry took a deep breath. "I'm worried that the medicine won't do him any good - the damage might already have been done. How long has he had that high temperature?"
"I'm not sure, but he was like that when I got here. Dale might have an idea," Allan said. "I've been trying to get it down."
"A temperature that high could kill him. Or it could do things like make him blind, deaf or an invalid for the rest of his life – even brain damaged to the point of idiocy."
"We can't know that for sure," Allan protested in growing horror and denial.
"No, but it is a strong possibility. The fever is making his body extremely weak and may have already caused harm that we won't know about until he wakes up properly. His system could just give up under the strain. We're going to have to do our best to get that fever down, and wait and pray."
After delivering that news in an effort to prepare the adventurer for the worst, the doctor tried to show the silver lining. "But remember, I've certainly seen some miracles lately, yourself included, so we cannot give up. Tom does have some advantages over most of the other people here: youth, strength and the fact that he wasn't under-nourished to begin with."
Then Henry had to reluctantly leave his two teammates so he could aid the other afflicted people. The first priority for him was to work out who else in this room was to get medicine and how much. He also needed to find out if any of the children were gravely ill too. The rest of the League was on their way to the plantation with the supplies to make more of the cure. If all went well they should be able to have more manufactured before the time limit ran out for those who had had the spoonful. Jekyll had come on ahead of the others on horseback with some of the medicine.
Allan numbly resumed his place at the agent's side. He had been brought back from the dead – why? To watch this young man take his place in the grave instead of in the world? He had woken into a nightmare.
His son's death, for all of its horror, had at least been mercifully quick. The same with his first wife. But Harry's mother, Stella, had died slowly before Allan's helpless gaze, and the same could well be happening here.
If only they could give Tom an ice bath! However ice was an impossible commodity at this plantation. But the hunter did the best he could, bathing the young man's face and body, talking to him, trying to will him back in words and prayers.
Then he held Tom's hand in both of his own, and his mind went back to his own resurrection.
xXx
There had been flashes of consciousness – of responding when a cup was put to his lips, or a spoon, of swallowing water and soft foods, but no true awareness until now.
Then Allan Quatermain realized that he was alive. Either that, or heaven was a stone hut occupied by a Masai woman he had known back in Kenya. Allan blinked, staring around. The last clear thing he could remember was being in M's fortress tower, the pain of the knife fading along with his life, and Tom Sawyer's distraught face staring down at him.
And he well remembered the sense of relief, that Tom was all right.
But was he still? Had he gotten out of the fortress?
And did I really die?
This had to be Africa. The light was unmistakable. How did I get here?
The Masai woman had not yet noticed that he was awake. Allan felt very weak and could not do anything to attract her attention, so he waited and tried to look around for clues as to what had happened. He was clearly back in Kenya, but how had he gotten here and were the other members of the League still around?
There was a gleam of silver, an object in a sunbeam that came from a window. It was a rifle, leaning against the wall.
Tom's Winchester.
A good thing or a bad thing? He must be around here somewhere. I have to see him!
Then the woman looked up from her food preparation and smiled.
"Hello, Macumazahn," the woman greeted him in her native dialect. That was his Kafir nickname, which meant, as he had once explained it: 'He who keeps a bright look-out at night, or, in vulgar English, a sharp fellow who is not to be taken in'.
The woman gave him some water. His voice was rusty, but he managed to reply. "Hello, Anai. How did I get here?"
"Senei brought you back to life from your grave." He was the local witch doctor. "It took him two attempts before everything was right and there was success. It was not an easy thing, so he needs much recovery time."
Allan mentally congratulated himself on saving that particular village. So I really did die and was buried, he realised.The thought made him shudder, but then he resumed his focus.
"Anai, where is Tom Sawyer?" She looked at him blankly. "The owner of that gun." He pointed with his chin.
She named one of the warriors of her people. "Tukek said it was left on your grave by a young man with gold hair."
Allan let out a huge sigh of relief. He's alive! Thank God! But he had deliberately left his prized gun behind . . . .
It quickly became clear that Anai did not know the members of the League individually – she had been here in the village and only heard of their stay in Nairobi from the warriors of her tribe, who had carried the witch doctor and Allan back here to recuperate. The only further information she could give him was that the League was no longer in Nairobi; they had left an hour or so before the resurrection was successful, but she did not know where they had gone.
Now about six days had passed since the funeral, and Allan had been in a sort of waking coma during that time, able to consume nourishment and regain strength, but not come fully back to himself until now.
The League could be anywhere, Allan thought with frustration. He had to let them know – especially Tom – that he was all right, and to find out if they were all right. And to regroup with them. Hopefully M's plans had been completely foiled.
Fortunately he could feel his strength returning with amazing speed over every passing minute.
"Anai, I thank you and the witch doctor for all of your care, but I need to get back to Nairobi as soon as possible. I will return to personally thank Senei as soon as I can."
While arrangements were quickly being made, Allan was able to examine the Winchester at last. To his alarm he could see that it had been damaged. Looks like knife marks!
When dressing he found that his shoulder wounds were gone entirely: both the fatal blow inflicted in the fortress and the one when M had thrown a blade at him in the cemetery in Venice. The latter would have been much worse at the time, if not for a pocket copy of The Ingoldsby Legends in his shirt. The book had prevented the stiletto from penetrating very far.
The hunter discovered he could walk – a bit stiffly, but nothing to complain about, however the warriors insisted on making up a sort of sedan chair and racing him along in that. It felt a bit pretentious, but Masai warriors were incredibly speedy and it would save his strength, so Allan capitulated. And he made sure that Sawyer's rifle came with him.
By the end of the journey he felt much restored. Like my old self.
What – my old self before or after meeting Tom?
In Nairobi he was met by one of his old hunter friends who hadn't been in the Britannia Club at the time of the shootout, Melville, and Bruce the bartender, who had fortunately gotten out in time.
"Quatermain!" Melville boomed in delight. "When I saw your grave dug up and you being stretchered off by those natives, I went after them with my gun, thinking there was some body-snatching afoot. But then they showed me that you were breathing and told me what the witch doctor had done. He was out cold on another stretcher. I thought best if they took care of you, since Doctor Ben had gone off, and we popped in occasionally to keep an eye on you. After all, I don't know much about looking after someone just raised from the dead!"
After the Masai warriors had been thanked and left, Melville and Bruce escorted Allan into Melville's house.
Quatermain accepted a drink, then got right to the point. "I understand that the group I had joined up with – the League – came here to bury me?"
"Yes. What an amazing group of people! They'll be the talk of the town for ages."
"Do you know where they went? Where they were headed?"
"The League went to stay with Bennett and to travel with him, apart from the young man who went off with Doctor Ben on his rounds." Allan opened his mouth to ask a question, but Melville kept on, oblivious. "Most unfortunate that – that they ended up at the Barrington plantation just when an outbreak of Black Darrow fever had struck. Very bad."
Allan felt like he had been stabbed all over again. Young man. Oh God. No, wait a minute – what would Tom be doing out there with the doctor? It is more likely that Jekyll went with Hanrahan, to give his own expertise and aid where needed, and to learn about the medicines and treatments here. That was sound reasoning, though he felt sorry enough if Henry Jekyll was in such a dire situation. Allan's voice almost wavered when he asked, "Which young man was that?"
"Sawyer."
It was a miracle that the glass in Allan's hand did not shatter as he clenched it. He closed his eyes in pain.
"We managed to get word to the rest of the League and they are coming as fast as they can with the goods to distill the cure. They're coming through some time today and will then head for the plantation. I say, Quatermain, are you all right?"
"Get me a horse," Allan said firmly, standing and almost tossing his drink onto the table.
"But the League will be here –"
"Get me a bloody horse now!" Allan bellowed, fire in his eyes and voice, and Bruce, who had remained quiet all through the talk, nodded and raced out the door. He knew there was no arguing with the great white hunter when he was in this mood.
Allan for his turn knew he could not bear sitting around and waiting for the League to show up. He turned back to the stunned Melville. "Do we have any of the medicine here?"
"We sent what we had off with riders as soon as we knew of the outbreak. There has been no word since. There have been no victims of the fever here yet, but the League is going to give us some of the leaves to make more medicine with when they come through." Melville's mind was racing at Allan's reaction. He recalled how young Sawyer had stood alone at the grave for a while. Was the boy Quatermain's son via one of his lovers? An offspring that he had only recently found out about or kept quiet from the other explorers for years? Whatever the scenario, it did not take a hunter to know that the stakes were high and speed imperative. He quickly gauged the situation, wanting to help his friend as much as possible.
Quatermain was relieved when Melville became all focus and business, talking about getting him provisions right away and about where he planned to change horses. "Thank you. Why . . . why did Sawyer go with the doctor and not with the rest of the League?" Had he quit them? Or did the American Secret Service have some agenda?
"From what I could gather, it was because Doctor Hanrahan had known you better than Bennett, and the young man wanted to learn more about you."
Allan put a hand to his face, the same feeling going through him as when he had seen Tom reflected in the Fantom's mask with a knife at his throat.
This could not be happening . . . . But it was.
xXx
Allan rode hard for the Barrington plantation, carrying some supplies and Tom's gun, as well as other weapons. Along the way he discovered that the riders who were sent with medicine from Nairobi had been ambushed by the Barringtons, and the medicine stolen. The injured riders were being cared for by natives who had found them, and were in no condition to ride to the plantation, empty-handed, or back to Nairobi yet. The natives were not sure where the Barringtons were now.
The hunter changed horses when needed with as much economy of time as could be managed. Nightfall did not stop him, moonlight aiding his haste along the road. There had been other times in his life where frantic riding had been necessary: once to save Sir Henry's wife from an assassination attempt, another to save Marie, the girl who was to become his own first wife, from a planned attack. Just like with those times, Allan tried very much not to think, not liking where his fears were taking him.
Finally as he neared the plantation he saw that fires had been lit in braziers at strategic points like near the gates, to guide the way.
When Allan galloped in through the open gates, heading for the house, a young man appeared on the front verandah, holding a lantern. For a moment the head of blonde hair gave Quatermain hope, until he recognised it belonged to Jacob Barrington. Dale quickly joined him.
Both young men were gaping at the sight before them as they came out the verandah door. "You are alive?" Dale managed say through his shock, then he smiled. "The witch doctor has brought you back! And you have brought us the medicine!"
"Medicine enough for everyone is on its way. Where is Tom Sawyer?" Allan looked around hopefully as he dismounted. Surely Tom was just inside the house and would come racing out at any moment. Unless he was at one of the windows, stunned by the impossible-seeming sight before him.
Dale's next words shattered those hopes. "He is very sick."
No. Surely fate would not be that cruel. But he's not dead, Allan tried to reassure himself.
Allan gave the horse's reins to Jacob, who was nearest, then the hunter removed his saddlebags and weapons. Carrying them, he took a deep breath and said to Dale, "Take me to him."
Dale looked at Jacob, as if asking which one of them should escort Allan. Barrington's nephew indicated that Dale was to go ahead. The native worker led Allan into the house. It had certainly changed since the hunter had last been there, though he never really liked going there – he had not approved of their treatment of the locals. Now those people were everywhere, the rich furniture converted into their beds, fever-stricken faces wherever he looked. A small but dedicated band of villagers were doing their best at being nursemaids, trying to be in ten places at once.
"The worst are in this room over here – the ones who have not had any of the medicine at all." Dale was leading him there.
Tom hasn't had any of the medicine? "And Doctor Ben?" the hunter asked.
Dale pointed across the other side of the room from where they were going. "He fell sick when there was still medicine left. He has had a spoonful."
"How bad is Tom?"
"The worst."
Before that news could fully hit Allan, they entered the sickroom. Beds, ranging from real to completely makeshift, were arranged in the room, most of them heavily draped with mosquito netting. The others were empty. Allan picked his protégé out immediately and was torn between wanting to race forward to his side or race back out the door. This was not the reunion he had been hoping for.
His feet felt leaden as he approached the prone American and got his first proper look. He wished he'd never had to see it. Tom's eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow and hoarse. The mosquito netting separating them gave the scene almost an ethereal quality, like it was a dream, or nightmare. But even through its veil in the light of the lamps, Allan could see that Tom was extremely ill.
Swallowing, the hunter put down what he was carrying, then parted the netting, entering the nightmare.
No! It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. What sort of twisted cosmic justice is this? I gave my life for him willingly. How does it come to pass that I am alive again and he is the one dying?
Or is this the way destiny wanted it? Allan found himself wondering. Me alive and Tom dead? Was destiny or fate cheated when I saved his life – meaning I was able to be revived and this happened to Tom?
He shook himself out of those thoughts, then glanced around and saw a glass and a pitcher of water on a side table right next to the young man's bed. There was also a bowl, rags for bathing him and to make compresses with, and a hand fan for cooling and keeping away the insects.
"Dale, please bring me a chair if you can find one spare. I will stay with him." Allan's ample experience with tending to feverish people over the decades would hopefully see them both in good stead now.
Dale simply turned around and grabbed a wooden chair next to him, then passed it over. "I'll get you a glass – you must be thirsty. Are you hungry too?"
Thirst and hunger were the last things the adventurer was feeling, an all encompassing sick fear taking over. But he made himself respond to the courtesy he was being shown. "No thank you. I have a canteen and food in my bags here."
Allan busied himself with quickly positioning the chair as best he could, trying to get it and himself under the netting as much as possible, so he could easily tend to Tom. Despite his efforts, he was limited by the size of the netting, and there ended up being a sizeable gap left where mosquitoes could get through. But Allan Quatermain would hardly allow even one to get within a yard of the American if the creatures did try to land on him. And he had to be able to reach out and access the contents of the table.
Allan sank down into the chair, his legs more weak from the shock of seeing the spy like this than from the ride or his own recent 'death'. There was no trace of the healthy, exuberant young man who had completely gotten under his guard.
The American had not stirred, and even when Allan hesitantly said, "Tom?" there was no reaction. The adventurer reached out and touched his cheek, wincing at the heat he encountered. But he rested his hand there and said emotionally, "This is not how it ends for you. It's not your fate. I'm ready to live again, really live. I'm also ready to be a father again. And you're the only teacher and son I'll accept. Hold on – the rest of the League is coming."
Tom gave a faint murmur and shifted against his hand, eyes closed, before becoming quiet again.
Allan immediately folded up a rag, wet it, and set about bathing the flushed face.
The adventurer himself had caught this fever a number of years previously and from what the doctors had said, should now be immune. From the times that Allan had encountered the fever in the past or heard about it, the sickness seemed to affect both Caucasians and Africans with equal severity, and with white people it seemed to make no difference whether they had lived in Africa a long time, or only been there a short while, as in Tom's case. But how had Tom ended up the worst of everyone around here? Perhaps he was sick beforehand and therefore more susceptible.
The next time Dale came by, Allan took the opportunity to ask him. Even though the reply was relatively brief due to the other demands on Dale's time, Allan's existing view of the agent as special increased tenfold. He was a true leader of men and had put everyone else's welfare before his own. Now he was selflessly paying the price.
"I'm so proud of you, son."
Tom's eyes opened. Burning, like everything else about him, they somehow managed to focus on the hunter. "Quatermain?" he whispered uncertainly, hopefully.
"It's me. I'm here. Everything is going to be fine," Allan said, thrilled that Sawyer was showing some awareness. He put his hand on Tom's forehead and the spy looked up at him hard, as if trying to work out whether he was really there.
"I'm sorry . . . ."
"There's nothing to be sorry about. I'm so proud of you. You just rest and get better, Tom. I'm right here."
A brilliant smile touched the American's face, then illness and stupor claimed it again.
He's got a new century that he's supposed to set ablaze. But not like this.
Tom was so hot it was a wonder that flames were not bursting out on his skin. Allan did his best to try to bring the temperature down, but to no avail.
The explorer had encountered terrible heat in his lifetime, including the deadly desert on the way to his King Solomon's Mines adventure.
It was like all the heat and fire of those experiences combined were emanating from Tom's body.
I died for you. Now you have to live for me.
xXx
It was painful to see dwindling recognition and dwindling life in those eyes. Instead of the mischievous twinkle or zest for life, there was only the blaze of fever.
In those night hours, Allan's thoughts raced. He had tried to not make any comparisons between Tom and Harry, either on the mission or now. He had originally written the story of his adventures in trying to find King Solomon's mines mainly to amuse his son and keep him out of mischief for a week or so while he was studying to be a doctor in England.
He remembered Tom telling some of his own adventure tales. Allan had been impressed at how the young man had not exaggerated or bragged. The hunter did not think it witty to tell lies or boast – enough strange things happened to hunters anyway.
Allan recalled how he had told Sir Henry and Captain Good that he had thought their quest for King Solomon's Mines would end in their deaths, but he was going with them anyway, because:
I am a fatalist, and believe that my time is appointed to come quite independently of my own movements, and that if I am to go to Suliman's Mountains to be killed, I shall go there and shall be killed there. God Almighty, no doubt, knows His mind about me, so I need not trouble on that point.
That had been one of his reasons anyway. That fatalism outlook had been somewhat shaken several years later by Harry's death, as much as he tried to reconcile with it and God's will.
Also, for forty years he had hunted and traded, only managing to make a living. The average life of an elephant hunter in the field once he took to that occupation was four to five years. So he had felt his time could not be far off when he undertook the Mines quest.
Instead I survived. Survived that, came back a rich man. Then within three years I lost my son. I went on that other trip with Good and Sir Henry, this time to Zu Vendis, sure it would be the end of me. Should have been, due to that blow I got in the battle. But I survived. Disillusioned, he had left his friends and returned to Nairobi to while away his remaining years at the Britannia Club, disinterested in living. He had even written a book of his adventures in Zu Vendis that said he died at the end, hoping to bring himself respite from the story seekers. It hadn't worked. Then a few years later, M's henchmen had come calling.
The hunter looked down at Tom. Is this why I survived, why God wasn't finished with me on this earth?
Allan was not a first rate praying man – few hunters were, but there were times in his life when he rose to the occasion in that regard. Like when his party ran out of water on their way across the desert towards the mines. Then when they were trapped in the mines and nearly starved to death. And just like when I was trapped in that mountain, there's little I can do. He looked down at Tom with frustration. That fact was one of the worst things about the situation.
With Harry, there was barely time to say his name and try to staunch his wound before he was gone, let alone start appealing to God.
But now, hopefully there was time, and Allan prayed.
xXx
"Riders! Riders!" Allan's head jerked up at the cry. Surely this had to be some help!
Torn between reluctance to leave Tom's side and a desperate desire to find out, he hesitated, then decided. He gently touched Tom's shoulder. "I won't be a minute, son. Don't go anywhere."
He hurried out onto the verandah where Dale was already standing with a lantern, as three riders halted before them in the night. Allan quickly saw that the riders were a white man and a black man, both from Nairobi, and Doctor Jekyll.
Henry, for his part, nearly fell off his horse at the sight before him.
"Oh dear God," he said faintly.
Even though the League had been told in Nairobi that Quatermain was alive again . . . actually seeing living proof was another matter entirely. Though we were also told that as soon as he heard Tom was at the affected plantation, he raced off over there - That should have been all the proof we needed.
Allan barreled out of the verandah, nearly knocking the screen door off its hinges in the process. "Did you bring the medicine?" he demanded.
"I – um, yes. Some," came the stammered response as Henry tried to dismount as quickly but safely as possible from the horse, knowing that he had to pull himself together to help everyone. And because Quatermain looked ready to haul him clean out of the saddle otherwise.
"Yes, I'm bloody alive. Get over it! Tom's the worst – there isn't a moment to lose! Come on."
Henry got down his saddlebags and hastily moved to follow Allan into the house, leaving his guides to take care of the horses. Was Tom really the worst, or were the hunter's feelings getting in the way? True or not, Henry's heart sank at hearing that the American had been struck down.He had been braced for the possibility – no, even more than that, the strong likelihood of it - but still . . . .
He answered Quatermain's questions on the move, including about how much medicine he had with him.
"And where are the others?" Allan demanded.
"Nemo, Skinner and Mina are coming as fast as they can in a wagon, with the supplies and equipment needed to make more of the medicine. Once that is set up and running, they will be able to produce enough for a small town." Henry looked around at the patients as he followed Allan, then asked how many of the people had not had a spoonful.
Allan told him, then nodded to the door they were approaching. "They're isolated in this room here."
Once in the room Henry was quickly able to see that Allan was not exaggerating. Tom's temperature was by far the worst of anyone's, and his condition even made Hyde refrain from nasty comments or malicious glee. He probably could not think up anything worse to top what the American was already enduring.
Once he had quickly examined the others in the room, the doctor turned Allan, whose eyes remained fixed on the spy. "Is he still able to swallow?"
"I can still rouse him enough to drink, fortunately. Get a cupful ready. The sooner we get it into him the better."
We may well already be too late, Henry thought sorrowfully.
You're going to waste an entire cupful of medicine, you weakling! Hyde commented. He's done for.
Shut up!
Henry tried to keep up an encouraging facade for both parties as he and Allan managed to get the medicine into Tom, but when the American lapsed back into his stupor, Quatermain buttonholed the doctor and demanded the truth.
Jekyll told him. And wished he could take it back when he saw the weight fall onto Allan's shoulders, the strain it placed on him. But those were the facts. It was now up to Tom to overcome the odds.
xXx
Now that it was daylight again, the netting had been pulled back from around Tom's bed.
This was the fourth day since Tom and Hanrahan had discovered the outbreak. Time was running out.
Allan looked up, broken out of his memories, and saw two of the natives attempting to maneuver a wingback chair through the doorway as quietly as possible. Somehow they managed the feat, then huffed and puffed their burden over to the hunter. "You will be more comfortable in this." They knew he was going to stay day and night by Tom's side.
The wide side-wings at the top of the chair would be invaluable, allowing Allan to sleep as well as possible under the circumstances without hurting his back and neck overmuch. Not that he would have dwelled on that discomfort – his worries were firmly taken up with the feverish young man in front of him. Nothing else mattered. Allan only automatically consumed food and drink himself, not to satisfy any bodily demands, but to keep himself going.
He swore that Tom was going to live, and he was going to be there to greet him when he came out the other side.
END PART SIX