Chapter 8
The Cretan Flu was here. The men burned pine needles to keep the smell of sickness at bay. The thin, blue, smoke seemed to permeate the camp on days there was no breeze, creeping across the ground as a fog. The smell took Roy back to mountain survival training, with him and Hughes huddled around the small fire at night. Roy made the decision to not radio Edward and his team with the news. He was happy enough that the mission seemed to be going without any of Ed's usual flare. He had found an enemy camp moving out from Odetta and plotted any easy path for their weaponry to take to block off their supply. Edward would be back in two days.
He found himself working on his personal project during meetings, often startled when he was addressed over the radio by his superiors. Getting it to work was becoming more about the principle of the matter. He was a master alchemist and an adult. He was going to make this work. Lines encompassed the basic circle of fire transmutation, slowing the flow of energy and creating a slow, gentle, warmth, but it wouldn't stop. He was especially perturbed when they smoldered holes through his pockets, during inspection. It's difficult to maintain an expression of professionalism when your pants are on fire. He would never admit it, but Colonel Roy Mustang was losing his edge, and it was mostly if entirely Edward's fault. The boy was in his head.
In his lungs was the familiar stirring of his Trench Fever, and heavy in his breast pocket was his army flask, the rampant lion and star of Amestris etched on the front. It served as a nearly constant reminder of what nearly was during the long months following the Ishbalan conflict. These days he filled it with water.
At the back of his mind, somewhere behind his obsession, he was worried. The fly spread through the camp like wildfire and exhaustion etched its lines into the faces of his men. No one had died yet, but the sound of hacking was always audible beneath the buzz of the action camp. Roy adjusted the blankets around his shoulders, the cot squealing beneath him as he tried to get comfortable. He tried to focus on the hum of the stove and the chirping of the insects as circles with salamanders spread across the pages.
The boy had died sometime in the night. The sickly blue tone of his skin stood out against the white of the morgue linens and the little blue stars of bruises spotted his skin. Dark blood was still crusting on his lips.
"I recommend we burn the bodies of the sick, sur." The doctor chimed from behind his mask. "I know you have a reputation for the bodies always making it home, but we have an epidemic on our hands." Roy's lips pressed into a thin line and his jaw worked as he watched the man on the table warily.
"Do as you need. Be prepared to speak tonight on the new protocols to prevent the spread." He turned, trying to put the whole ugly matter behind him, when a thought came to him.
"And do me a favor, Doctor. Try to take the bodies as far from the camp as possible before you cremate them." He didn't even wait for a response before rushing out into the twilight.