Ronon let the fire die out as the day grew warmer. Sheppard fell into a fitful sleep, in which he muttered words that didn't make sense, and some that Ronon didn't recognize at all. When the man finally began to thrash in his sleep, Ronon caught his free arm, shaking him awake.
Sheppard blinked, looking through Ronon rather than at him.
"Major … John Sheppard," he rasped, "United States … Air Force. One nine eight —"
"Sheppard!" Ronon shook the man, realizing he wasn't really awake. "Hey, wake up. You're not a Major anymore."
The man's head lolled as his eyes rolled back in his head, and Ronon felt his body stiffen under his hand, back arching and hands curling.
"Dammit, Sheppard!" Ronon held Sheppard in place, gripping his wounded shoulder as best he could as the convulsion went on and on before finally slowing. As Sheppard's body finally went still, Ronon gripped his free hand as tightly as possible, taking a breath that he didn't even realize he had been holding. How long would they be able to hold out? How long could Sheppard hold out? How many convulsions were dangerous? And how long would the bolt hold?
Checking Sheppard's bandages, Ronon pressed his lips tightly together, realizing that the convulsion had opened the wound in his side further, and the bolt in Sheppard's shoulder was also bleeding more freely. He didn't have enough clean bandages to stop the bleeding.
Venturing back outside with one of the portable cooking pans Sheppard had in his pack, Ronon collected some of the water and came back inside. Time to clean some bandages.
After restarting the fire and boiling the water, he replaced the sodden bandages with the rest of the clean ones from his pack and put the dirty ones on to boil. He hoped this planet didn't have any resilient bacteria. During his time as a Runner, a good boil always seemed to clean his bandages, but every planet had its own special surprise. Hopefully this one only had flash floods and crazy mutilated natives who shot people with explosive bolts.
Speaking of the natives, where were they? Did they know about the flood? Had they sought higher ground as well or had they made it to the mountains? Did he have more to worry about than just Sheppard's injuries?
Sheppard was stirring as Ronon fed the fire, and he quickly knelt at his side, concerned.
"Hey, buddy," he said gently.
His breathing was labored, and as he opened his eyes, Ronon could see that Sheppard wasn't quite there.
"Got to …" Sheppard muttered.
"Got to what?"
Sheppard began weakly pawing at his chest with his right hand, getting dangerously close to the bolt in his left shoulder. Ronon caught his hand, heart pounding as he realized what Sheppard was trying to do.
"Gotta get it out," Sheppard whispered. "Get it out …" He weakly fought Ronon's grip, panting and struggling.
Cursing as he realized he couldn't just stun a man who had suffered from a seizure moments earlier, Ronon reached over and grabbed his pack, pulling out a rope.
"Sorry, buddy," he apologized. "This is for your own good."
Quickly wrapping the rope around Sheppard's wrist, he then manhandled Sheppard until he was sitting up and leaning against the rock behind him, and swiftly wrapped the rest of the rope around Sheppard's upper body, pinning his good hand to his side.
Sheppard thrashed around, confused. "No," he protested weakly. "Get it out. Please! You gotta get it out …"
"I can't, buddy," Ronon replied, exasperated. "You know that. It will kill you if we take it out. We need to get back to Atlantis first."
Quieting down, Sheppard stopped fighting the rope, but his right hand was twitching as he unconsciously tugged at his bonds, rolling vacant, glassy eyes towards Ronon. "It's poison," he whispered.
"I know."
Ronon wondered if this was the long slippery slope to the end for Sheppard. So far, the poison was giving him a fever, delirium, and seizures. There was no way he could make it to the Stargate in his current condition, and Ronon was at a loss as to how he could get him help. There was really only one thing left to do.
Gripping the sides of Sheppard's head, Ronon forced the man to look him in the eye, ignoring the dried blood that flaked off on his fingers.
"Sheppard, I need you to listen to me," he said. "I need to go for help. You're not going to make it if I don't, and you aren't strong enough to come with me. Do you understand?"
For a moment, Sheppard was quiet, glazed eyes blinking hard as he stared at Ronon. "Yes," he finally whispered.
"But you have to promise you won't try to free yourself," Ronon continued. "I tied you up to keep you safe. You cannot take the bolt out of your shoulder or you'll die. You cannot take the bolt out. Do you understand?"
Sheppard blinked slowly, then whispered again, "Yes."
"You will die if you take it out. Got it?"
Sheppard nodded, slowly. Ronon prayed the man had understood through his delirium.
"Here's your gun," he said, pulling Sheppard's Beretta out of the holster and nestling the handle in his right palm. "If anyone comes in who isn't me - shoot them. Got it?"
Sheppard nodded wordlessly, gripping the gun a bit tighter.
"Ok. I'm going to be back by nightfall. I promise. Wait until I get back, and don't take the bolt out."
Ronon slipped out of the cave, daring only one last glance back at Sheppard. The man was sitting quietly, trussed up, but with the Beretta slung casually across his outstretched leg and aimed towards the entrance. His skin was deathly pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, and he looked about ready to fall over if the ropes weren't holding him up. Gritting his teeth, Ronon moved out into the bright sunshine, surveying the receding waters.
His plan wasn't to swim to the Stargate for help. Sheppard was running out of time far too fast for a rescue from Atlantis. Ronon had another idea in mind.
He was one of the best trackers in his unit, and he had purpose. Swiftly climbing the rocks again to survey the landscape around him, he found what he was looking for — a faint depression in the rocks — and struck out eastwards.
The water had receded enough that it was possible to follow the cliff line instead of hopping the hoodoos, and in some places, well worn trails were visible.
Ronon moved with deadly speed, tracking his prey.
A few hours later, he was rewarded with a glimpse of a hand on rock, then a head peering away from him. Stealthily, Ronon moved closer. It was only one man he was tracking, and he had seen no indication that there were others nearby.
As he approached, careful not to let his boots slip on the drying rock, he wondered where the natives went during the floods. Did they hole up in caves like he and Sheppard had done? Or was there somewhere else to go besides the mountains in the distance?
A pebble skittered under his foot, and Ronon turned the mistake into his attack.
