Chapter 5: "Help"

"You should have called me earlier," Doc McLean sighed, finishing his rapid, cursory examination of the last of his four new patients. "Your suspicions are right on. Bacterial Meningitis. Frankly, these children should be dead."

His voice wasn't unkind, but he'd never been one to beat around the bush. Sarah shivered, but before she could answer, Iggy jumped in.

"We heal really quick, and we don't usually get sick," he grumbled. The boy was sulking, leaning against the corner of the room with his arms crossed, as far away from Doc as he could get, bestowing an unfocused death glare on the whole room at large.

"Which is probably the only reason I'm going to be administering medicine right now instead of helping Sarah dig four holes in the back pasture," Doc said bluntly. "Now come here, young man, I could use your help."

Iggy hesitated, and Sarah could tell that beneath the angry, defiant teenager front he was presenting there was real, heart-stopping fear at work, but he finally shuffled forward. His steps lacked the confident grace he'd moved with when she first met him, and she knew he was beyond exhausted, having skipped sleep for who knew how many days now. Hopefully, if Doc McLean could get the others stabilized, Iggy could be persuaded to rest for a while.

"When were their last vaccinations, do you know?" Doc asked Iggy as he immediately got to work, thrusting some bags of clear liquid he pulled from his leather doctor's bag into the boy's hands. Then he gestured for Sarah to hand over the hammer and nails she'd fetched only moments ago.

"Vaccinations?" Iggy spat. "Are you kidding? We're the freaks they test the diseases on to see what happens when you catch them. I don't think we've ever been vaccinated against anything in our entire lives."

Okay, Iggy was majorly grumpy, Sarah couldn't help thinking. Obviously she had underestimated the teen's hatred of doctors and anything related to them. There was a snark to his comments that had never been there with her, even when he'd been caught fingers-deep in her medicine cabinet.

To his credit, however, the big doctor took it all in stride, though Sarah could see the angry set to his lips and dark scowl in his eyes. Not at Iggy. But at the thought of what people had done to these children, in the supposed name of the greater good and science.

"Sorry about the walls, Sarah," Doc threw at her as he gripped the hammer, placing a nail. "I'll come help you fix them later."

"Don't worry about it," she assured him. "Do whatever you need to help these kids."

With quick strokes, his rough, weathered hands drove two nails into her wall, above the side of the bed where little Angel lay. For just a moment, Sarah took the time to marvel at those hands – how they could be so worn and calloused, yet so gentle when caring for people.

Doctor Lyman McLean was a bit of an anomaly. Built like a linebacker, with a voice that boomed no matter what he said, he was the type of man you pictured as the foreman of the construction crew, not in a doctor's office. But the rough exterior belied a warm and generous heart. It made for a strange and yet wonderful mix – the gruff doctor who told it to you how it was, then gave you a lollipop afterwards. He should have retired five years ago, but he just couldn't. The small, rural community was his family, his people. He'd delivered half of them, treated their scrapes and bruises, walked with them through the trials of old age. He'd laughed with them, prayed with them, cried with them…he just couldn't stop caring for them, for as long as he was able.

Not that a desperate and freaked out mutant teenager was willing to notice any of that right now, however.

"What are you doing?" Iggy asked with open suspicion, fingering the items that had been stuck in his hands.

"Jury-rigging a way to hang IVs," Doc answered. "A trick I learned in Vietnam. Here, Sarah," he added, turning back to face her and handing off the hammer and nails. "Go do that above each of the others as well."

Sarah took the tools and moved around the bed to the side where the dark-haired boy lay – "Fang" Iggy had called him – listening as she pounded nails.

"These kids needed antibiotics being pumped into them days ago. I'm not wasting any more time to try and track down real IV poles that no one will notice are missing and bring them here."

"What about all this other stuff?" Sarah couldn't help asking as she stepped over to the other bed. "Will someone notice? Will you get in trouble?"

"Don't worry about it, Sarah. I'll take care of it," Doc assured her. "This secret is safe with me, I promise," he added, this time directing his words toward the still hostile Iggy.

"What's in these? What are you giving them?" the boy demanded, holding up one of the squishy bags.

"Antibiotics and fluids. That's it. Now, are you squeamish at the sight of needles?"

Iggy scoffed. "I'm not squeamish at the sight of anything, Doctor. The Whitecoats took care of that years ago when they broke my eyes."

That finally got a reaction out of Doc. For just a moment, he paused, looking hard at the boy standing beside him, rage and sorrow mixed on his rugged face. Sarah stared as well, equal parts surprised that Doc hadn't noticed Iggy was blind until now and horrified to learn it had been done to him on purpose. He'd neglected to include that tidbit of information in the brief rundown of the atrocities he and his family had faced that he'd shared with her earlier.

"All right then," Doc said, recovering fast. "You just got drafted as my nurse. Sarah, we'll need you, too."

0o0o0o0o0o

"She's soft. And she has pretty eyes."

Sarah smiled tiredly at the young boy as he ran curious hands down the side of her Jersey cow.

"Yes, she does," she answered gently.

"Does she have a name?" the boy asked, his blue eyes locked on the cow's big, doleful brown ones.

"Jane," Sarah answered, rinsing out the cloth she'd just used to wash off the udder.

"Max says names are important. People name things they care about. That must mean you're nice to her."

Sarah wondered how long the list of people who hadn't been nice to this little boy was. It made her sad, because no one should have to grow up like that.

He was very quiet and subdued tonight, something she sensed wasn't normal for him, but they were both exhausted and weighed down by worry and fear. And Sarah felt bad. In the last twenty-four hours Gazzy had been pretty much abandoned and ignored as she focused on trying to help his siblings. With Doc upstairs now watching over the others, though, she'd decided to try and fix that by bringing the youngest boy outside with her to help with the evening chores.

"Gazzy's a pretty interesting name," she acknowledged, pulling up the stool and situating the bucket. Jane stood calm and still, chewing her scoop of oats in routine contentment, unaware of the complete spiraling out of control of life around her.

"We named ourselves," Gazzy said matter-of-factly. "Well, Max, Fang and Iggy did. And they gave us younger ones names, too, since all the Whitecoats ever gave us was an experiment number."

A sad sigh that she couldn't stop escaped as she listened to Gazzy's words, but she forced her hands to keep up the steady rhythm, the familiar sound of the milk as it streamed into the pail somehow comforting in the midst of all this change.

"Gazzy's just my nickname," the boy continued, sliding closer to her side and watching with fascination as she worked.

"What's it stand for?"

"The Gasman."

Sarah turned her head sideways to look at him without stopping the rhythm of her hands, raising an eyebrow as a smiled tugged at her lips.

"Okay, little man, what's the story behind that name?"

"My digestive system's kinda messed up so…I can fart really good! I can clear a room in ten seconds! Iggy calls it my evil gift." He smiled huge, looking like an eight-year-old boy instead of the scared zombie who'd been wandering the lower levels of her house all day.

And only an eight-year-old boy could take unbounded pride in knowing he was named after flatulence. For the first time in what felt like years, Sarah laughed.

"Try not to use that gift in the house, okay?" she said, shaking her head as she grinned.

Gazzy giggled, but she noticed he made no verbal promises.

"Will you take the milk to the store and sell it once you're done?" he asked.

"No. Some farms do that, but this is just a little farm. I only have two cows, Jane and Rosebud over there, and their calves. I just keep them so I can have my own milk without having to buy it."

"How come your farm's so small?" He sat down next to her on the barn floor, watching intently.

"It didn't used to be. It was my parents' farm, and it used to be a lot bigger, but when they died and left it to me, I couldn't keep up with it all. I sold most of the land to a neighbor who promised to take good care of it and make it part of his own farm. I just kept enough to have a little bit of a farm, because I like animals and growing things and needed a way to make a little extra money. You don't make a lot of money teaching school."

"Do all your animals have names?"

"Yep."

"Even the pigs?"

Sarah smirked. "Yep. Their names are Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner."

"Yummy," Gazzy laughed. "Next time you get a pig, name it Bacon."

"I like you. You catch on quick," she said, laughing with him. It felt really good.

"Can I try that?" he suddenly asked, changing the subject with no warning in the way only children can do. He pointed at her hands that were still squeezing the last bit of milk out.

"Sure," Sarah answered. She patted her lap, and Gazzy moved in front of her, then she guided his small hands to the front teats. "Grasp it at the top with your thumb and pointer finger then squeeze down like your fingers are doing the wave or something. That pushes the milk all the way down and out the hole at the bottom."

Awkwardly, he followed her directions, jumping when a small jet of warm milk shot out at a wild angle, hitting them both in the legs. He snorted with laughter.

"It's usually better to aim for the bucket," Sarah said with a laugh.

A few more tries and he was going rather well, if slowly. She let him finish, just checking to make sure Jane was really milked out at the end, before rubbing her down once more with the warm cloth.

"Now what do we do?"

"Well, we've checked on the sheep and the lambs, fed the pigs and chickens, and finished the milking. I think the chores are done. Now we strain the milk and put it in the fridge for the night, then go feed The Three J's."

"The Three J's?" Gazzy asked, picking up the smaller bucket and carrying it carefully so he wouldn't spill a drop.

"Jethro, Jerry, and Jasper – my cats."

"Oh, yeah! I think one of them slept on my chest when I took a nap this afternoon."

"That would be Jasper."

When they reached the back door, Gazzy handed her his bucket, then pulled the door open and held it for her.

"Why thank you, Mr. Gazzy. You're quite the gentleman," she teased.

"You might not think that when you see the mess in your TV room downstairs," he answered with a wry grin. "I got really bored today."

Sarah just shook her head with a smile. She set the buckets on the counter and was reaching for some clean sections of cheesecloth when she heard a muffled thump from upstairs.

"SARAH!" Doc's voice suddenly resonated through the house.

Instantly, the smiles and respite from the stress were gone. Gazzy looked at her, a scared and alone little boy once more, tears hiding in his eyes and she looked back, exhaustion and fear dripping from her. On instinct, she reached out and pulled him to her tightly, kissing the top of his head, before whispering "stay here" and sprinting upstairs, filled with renewed dread.

0o0o0o0o0o

Just as he had every few minutes for the last several hours, Doctor McLean checked the vitals and temperatures of his patients. He was pleased to note that even in that short amount of time, he was seeing measurable improvement. The fevers were still high, but no longer rising, and the breathing of all four had smoothed and stabilized. The boy had been right – with the help of the antibiotics, their bodies were kicking in to fight the bacteria remarkably fast.

And speaking of said boy, Doc glanced over to the corner, studying his silent, glaring companion.

Once the IV's had been set up and things had started to improve, Iggy had parked himself in the corner again, arms defiantly crossed. He refused to sit, but instead somehow bored holes in the doctor's back with blind eyes, letting Doc know in no uncertain terms that his every move was being monitored, all while making sure his escape route to the door remained open at all times.

Doc sighed. He'd seen that kind of fearful, instinctual – almost animalistic – behavior before. In POW's, or victims of extreme torture and abuse. He'd seen shades of it on a twelve-year-old girl who'd once come to live in this very house. It broke his heart then and it broke his heart now.

"There's two chairs in here, you know. I'm pretty sure the wall can stay up on its own without you holding it," he said causally.

Iggy didn't move even though Doc could see the way his exhausted body trembled with the strain of keeping him upright.

"Are they getting any better?" the boy simply asked, lowering his head slightly and letting his stringy hair fall forward to cover his eyes.

"Yes. I'm seeing improvement."

"When will they wake up?"

Doc sighed again. "I'm not sure. For a normal person, I wouldn't think they'd come around for at least three or four more days. Bodies that have been pushed this far need time to heal. But you guys are anything but normal."

Iggy snorted but didn't answer.

Doc had to admit to being intensely curious. He hadn't seen their wings, knowing somehow that to ask would be the ultimate mistake and breach of trust, but he couldn't help wondering about them. Still, the physiological differences he'd noted in the last hours as he examined and cared for the young people had been enough to leave him with no doubt the wings existed.

"You should know," he started gently, turning around to fully face the boy in the corner, "they might not come out of this unscathed." He didn't want to have to tell Iggy this, but it wasn't fair to hide it from the boy.

"What do you mean?" Iggy asked, raising his head again, allowing Doc to see his pale face and unfocused eyes.

"Meningitis is a nasty, doesn't play fair disease. It attacks the membranes of the brain and even when treated promptly can cause death. Those that manage to survive can be left with a whole host of complications. For normal people, it's rare to not see at least one."

"Complications?" Iggy gulped, and Doc noted the shaking of his body increase. He wished he could get the boy to let go of his fear enough to at least sit in a chair. "You mean, like brain damage?" he asked.

"Yes. Meningitis can cause damage to the brain that could result in vision or hearing loss, memory loss, seizures, impairment of motor and fine muscle skills, migraines, learning disabilities…"

Iggy just stared at him, well at the air a little to his left, his jaw dropped and complete horror on his face as silence filled the room. Then suddenly, he turned and pounded the wall beside him with a fist, words slipping from between his teeth that Doc was pretty sure he wasn't meant to hear. He banged on it a few more times before letting his forehead sink against it, what little energy he'd had left entirely spent.

"Will that happen to them, for sure?" he finally whispered, his voice muffled by the wall he was speaking into.

"Nothing is sure, son. We won't know until they wake up."

Iggy heaved a ragged breath, which caught Doc's attention. He looked closer at the boy and saw he was trembling all over, almost swaying against the wall. He stood up quickly, taking a step closer.

"But they will wake up?" the young man asked, his voice barely audible.

"Yes, I'm one hundred percent sure now that they will wake up. The drugs are doing their job."

"Good," Iggy muttered, and then his eyes slid closed and his body crumpled as he hit the floor with a resounding thump before Doc could catch him.

"SARAH!" Doc bellowed, knowing he'd need help before he even knelt down at the teen's side. He instantly noted two things with great dread. One – Iggy was burning up with a fever that had to rival what the others had reached and two – the boy's heartbeat was silent and still.

"Oh no you don't!" Doc growled, straightening his limp form out on the floor. "No one is dying tonight on my watch!" he shouted at the boy. With grim determination he started CPR.

Author's Note:

As always, thank you to everyone who is reading! And a special thanks to my faithful reviewer kalk7897!

If you are interested, the first two chapters of my CSI NY/Maximum Ride fic will be going up tomorrow. Check my profile for the link if you want to.:)

Thanks again!