G3C-187: Three days and some odd hours ago
"Go, go, go!" John growled fiercely to Teyla, urging her to follow his command, and growing angry because she seemed to be digging in her heels to refuse.
"We should ALL go, John. You are sick too, and there is no guarantee these people will help even if they are able." The Stargate kawooshed and drew John's gaze to McKay who stood leaning heavily against the DHD. Ronon was swaying over the two unconscious native guards, trying, but failing, to appear alert.
"I have to try, Teyla. That girl, Nalia: she knows something. Maybe something that can help us. If you're feeling half as crappy as I am, then you need to go to Beckett, now. But I have to talk to Nalia again, just in case Beckett can't figure it out in time."
Teyla studied him for a long moment and he poured as much confidence and persuasion as he could into his expression; it was really hard to do while sweating and shivering and hunched over with the pain they were all experiencing. Finally she just nodded and he stifled a sigh of relief. He needed his people to be safe at home. And he needed to get Beckett started on a cure ASAP because everything they'd heard so far about the disease, it's symptoms and rapid morbidity, sounded too terrible to be mere folklore.
"Good," he went on. "Get to the Alpha site, it's unpopulated at the moment, then dial Atlantis. Let Beckett figure out the quarantine procedure."
"I know, John. We'll be fine. It is you who will be in great danger."
"Yeah, well, I'm sort of getting used to that."
Teyla held his eyes for a couple of heartbeats, touched his arm briefly, then turned away to prod McKay and Ronon through the gate. Ronon's usually easy stride was stiff and forced, McKay had passed beyond even constant complaints and moved in a hunched shuffle. Teyla alone still walked with something close to her natural grace, and John was certain it was sheer force of will only; she was as sick as the rest of them. As she turned for one last look at him, he called out firmly, "Don't send anyone back. It's too dangerous."
John waited until he was certain they had all passed safely through the event horizon before acknowledging his own misery. He tried to turn away immediately to walk back to town and look for Nalia's house again, but he swayed dangerously after only a step, grabbing at a nearby tree trunk to steady himself. He knew it was the fever that was making him lightheaded, and he wished his body could decide if it was hot or cold; he would feel like he was baking in an oven one moment, then the next he would be shivering like he'd been skinny dipping in the Antarctic…again.
"Come on, John!" he chastised himself, "It's just the flu; you can do this." Gritting his teeth against the pain of movement, he pushed away from the tree and set a decent pace down the path towards town. "Just the 'incurable, make you feel like you were already dead before it kills you in 72 hours' flu…that's all. No problem," he muttered as he forced himself along. "…maybe I can find some damn chicken soup."
A crowd of villagers pounded down the path shortly after he left the Stargate. He waited in a tangle of brush as they passed by, then, knowing they would be back, he stayed put for another 5 minutes. As expected, the group returned as they headed back to town, walking more slowly and muttering something about, "They'll get what they deserved." As if he was stupid enough to send his people home without requesting quarantine procedures.
Some twenty minutes later, well behind the posse who now thought they'd all left, he stumbled on the uneven path and landed on his hands and knees. Deciding that a break was in order, he shifted to sit against a nearby stone boulder and drew his knees up tight against his chest. Two miles had never felt so far. At a run, he could have covered the distance in 15 minutes; on a good hiking day, two miles was a comfortable half hour, if that. Looking briefly around him before dropping his head wearily on his knees, he guessed that at the moment he'd made it about half way; another mile to go.
John let his mind wander for a few minutes. Going back to town was beginning to seem like a really bad idea after all. When he and his team had arrived on the planet they called G3C-187 just yesterday afternoon, local time, they had been greeted by the villagers who seemed friendly enough, if a bit reserved. They had spent the night in the home of the town Doctor, Naden, and his daughter Nalia. Naden was very interested in Sheppard's people, and asked many questions that Sheppard couldn't answer directly, owing to the fact that as far as most of the galaxy was concerned, Atlantis had been destroyed more than a year ago. For his part, Naden seemed equally evasive, saying only that the town was a lumber outpost from a planet that had been culled and destroyed by the Wraith. He and his daughter had only come here in the last year and were some of the last of their home world.
John had retired for the night feeling unsettled and eager to leave the secretive and somber people they were among. He awoke at dawn the next day feeling like hell. And it had only gotten worse over the next few hours.
John groaned and tried to think of anything but the fire in every joint and muscle that was tempting him to curl up and die. The scary part was: if he stopped for very long, he could end up doing just that. A momentary surge of fear, and a deep reserve of self-preservation jolted him out of daydreaming, and propelled him to his feet. An anguished cry escaped his throat as the hasty movement shot spikes of agony up and down his shaking body. He was in a shivering phase just then, and he wrapped his arms around himself in a vain effort to warm enough to stop his teeth from chattering.
The image of Teyla walking stiffly, yet proudly, through the gate floated before him and he forced himself to take one step, then another, then another until the motion itself loosened the painful joints and warmed him from within. He had to make it, not only for himself, but also for Teyla and Rodney and Ronon. It wasn't that he didn't trust Beckett, or the man's abilities to eventually find a cure; John just preferred to help the situation along in case Beckett couldn't. It was a paradoxical philosophy to be sure, but it worked for John.
One more mile: Step by agonizing step, John pushed on towards the town. If he had stopped to think about it, he would have admitted even to himself that he had no damn idea what he was going to do when he got there.
Atlantis, 3:30 a.m.
Elizabeth startled and jerked awake, looking around wildly for a moment before her gaze rested on the sleeping form in front of her. John still slept, but was becoming restless again, his hands clenching and unclenching, his legs rustling under the blankets. Groggily, Elizabeth checked her watch; she'd been dozing for nearly an hour and considered returning to her own quarters for what remained of the night. But she'd already tried that; urged by Beckett around midnight to get some rest, she'd laid down for maybe two hours before her own restless curiosity and worry pulled her back to the infirmary.
A soft moan brought her alert as sure as any shout, and she was quickly standing beside John and squeezing his hand again. She watched him thrash weakly as he muttered, "Let me go, let me talk to Nalia, let me go." Despite Carson's repeated reassurances that the agitated episodes were only dreaming, she still looked around for a nurse or Doctor in case he needed more help than a warm hand and a comforting word. Beckett was finally resting himself, after days of caring for the others, but a night nurse was sitting at the desk nearby, occasionally glancing at the monitors.
"You people are fucking insane!" The almost-shout from the sleeping man was unexpected and Elizabeth jumped, even as John curled himself into a tight ball and began to shiver. Hastily dashing over to the blanket warmer, she was met by the nurse who was already pulling one out. Smiling at Elizabeth's urgency, the nurse handed over the blanket and allowed Elizabeth to take it back to lie over John's shoulders, covering the wires and bandages gently.
With that done, Elizabeth hovered for a moment, not quite ready to return to her chair. She rarely heard John swear like he just had in his fevered dream. His casual, playful personality was usually slow to reach the point of desperate anger she'd heard behind the words. Someone had held him, or delayed him and he'd become frustrated to the point of fury…if she was interpreting his random mutterings correctly.
With a sigh, she realized that she may never know exactly what happened. Oh, he'd debrief with her and write his report…but he wouldn't describe his fear or frustrations, or tell her if he'd lost hope. Someday she hoped he could trust enough to share those things too, but for the time being, his dreaming mumbles were probably the only way she would learn more about the missing time than "I went here, then there, blah blah blah." For just a moment she felt guilty for listening in, as if she were invading his privacy. But the feeling only lasted a moment as she thought again about how much she cared for him: as a colleague, a friend, even as a brother figure when she needed someone to lean on every now and then. She could never hurt him.
The warmth of the blanket seemed to melt John's taut huddle, and he relaxed into quiet again. Finally, feeling like her own limbs and eyelids were melting into puddles of liquid lead, Elizabeth tweaked John's blanket ever so slightly, brushed a strand of hair off his forehead, and turned towards her own bed.
G3C-187, Day 1
John reached the edges of the settlement where they had spent the night and paused before stepping onto the main road proper. It had taken him another 30 minutes to walk this far, and the town sprawled over at least a square mile of cleared mud between forested borders. Gasping from the effort it took to move, and still dizzy with fever, he found some comfort in the thought that at least his team should have made it back to Atlantis by now. Beckett would have figured out the quarantine and his people would be safe and cared for. John even allowed himself a moment of jealousy at the thought of the nice handfuls of Tylenol they could even now be choking down.
"Why'd they build their stupid town so far from the gate?" he muttered to himself, finding it odd that he seemed to have developed the habit of doing this out loud. Must be the fever.
As he looked warily down the neat row of wooden shops and houses towards the large and beautiful mill with its whirling waterwheel, paddling up foam in the swift forest river, he answered his own question: they'd built near the river for water and water power. Shaking his head, and regretting the motion instantly, he mused yet again that so much of the Pegasus galaxy looked like something out of old westerns: Simple wood dwellings, pre-industrial cultures for the most part, and people beaten down by the "bad guys" who followed no law but their own. In Pegasus' case, the "bad guys" also had spaceships and literally ate you for breakfast.
A few villagers were on the street, moving among the shops and the mill and John pressed himself into the shadows at the forest borders. This morning, when he and the others had admitted to Naden that they felt ill and were going to return to their own home, he had changed from cool hospitality to open hostility in an instant. John shuddered at the remembered look of disgust and superiority on Naden's face as he berated them for intruding upon the town's privacy and for their weakness in falling ill.
John had gotten a bit testy at being called a coward for simply catching the flu and had moved to simply leave when Naden had stopped him. "You don't understand," Naden had said. "No one who comes here can leave again, especially if they carry the plague. You will remain here while I gather the guards."
"What do you mean by plague? Do we have something you've seen before?" Despite his growing anger, Sheppard had felt the first tendrils of fear at Naden's blunt remark.
Naden's smirk was shadowed and frightening, "You suffer from a plague, a disease that struck down half of our population and that of several other worlds we unwittingly carried it to. It is lethal in 72 hours. Fever is followed by agonizing joint and muscle pain. Pneumonia develops after 48 hours, leading to respiratory distress and death. I expected this. There are already guards at the Stargate and on alert throughout the town. You will not be allowed to leave. You are a danger to any you contact beyond this world, and you are as good as dead here or anywhere you go."
What followed was something of a blur: Ronon had picked up Naden and tossed him aside like a bag of sugar, they had muscled through the door and endured the shocked, hostile glares from the villagers who caught sight of them stumbling and shaking their way to the path out of town. And Nalia, Naden's daughter of 17 or 18 had followed them for blocks, begging them to stay. As Naden had promised, guards appeared as they neared the borders of town, but the unskilled natives and primitive weapons were no match for a well armed and thoroughly pissed off Ronon.
Sheppard thought through those few hours ago…Nalia. Something she had said as she followed and pleaded with them to stay had caught John's attention. Something about, "I can speak to my father," and "There could be another way…" Nalia knew something her father wasn't telling, and John intended to figure out what that was.
Getting his bearings, John slipped around behind the shops and homes, following instead the imprecise edge of town as it cut into the surrounding forest. Nalia's home was on the far side of town, just beyond the mill, across a bridge over the river. In fact, the home was somewhat secluded and he appreciated the tactical advantage that would offer once he got there. IF he got there. Most of the buildings he was skulking behind were blank, the windows, instead, all facing into town; but they were widely spaced, and John could see people on the main street as he crept past the gaps.
Adrenaline and concentration had pushed the pain from his mind at first, but he felt it catching up with him. He was starting to stumble and shudder again when all his luck ran out at once. He was pausing to catch his breath when a man strolled lazily between two shop buildings with a load of what was probably trash. John froze and the man just almost walked past to dump his load into the tangled forest. Instead, with a startled jerk, the villager spotted Sheppard, dropped his basket where he stood and with a triumphant glare dashed back towards the main street yelling "Plaguer! Plaguer! He's back here!"
John bolted towards the river, a half-formed thought of following it deeper into the forest fighting for space with the raging agony his body was screaming into his mind. He struggled at speed for perhaps a minute or two, then stumbled, far short of his goal. He staggered to his feet again, pushing on, when a group of men, armed with sticks and rocks and a few projectile hand weapons, rushed across his path ahead of him. A handful of men behind him caught up, surrounding him.
With resignation, John tried plan B. "Hey, fellas. I was just looking for, um, you. I need to talk to Naden. It's important, so just run along and tell him I'm dropping in." He wished his voice sounded more convincing than the panting breathy gasps allowed. He really didn't plan to start a firefight; not only would it be unsporting with his superior firepower, but he wanted to talk. Killing a dozen of the town men didn't seem like a good way to get them to listen.
The shopkeeper who had spotted him in the beginning, jerked his head at two of the men who stepped forward and John allowed them to grab his arms…after carefully removing his 9mil and P90 from their clip and holster, setting the safeties on, and handing them over himself. The others milled about and then began to disperse back to their shops.
John sagged a bit into the hands holding him and blinked up at the shopkeeper who seemed to be in charge. "Look, I'm sorry I came back to bother you people, but I just need to say a few words to Naden. You can take me to Nalia instead if you want. I just want to talk. Then I'll be on my way. You won't have to worry about me sneezing on you or anything after that."
The leader merely snorted with the same distain that Naden had shown and motioned for his men to follow him back onto the main road. A crowd had gathered on the street and soon swarmed around him and his escorts, every face twisted with smug loathing. Shouts of "Plaguer!" broke out and the crowd pressed in, shaking fists at John who was beyond confused at the display, and close to passing out from the pain of being dragged awkwardly and forced to walk at the quick pace. The short walk down the street was becoming more horrible than John could have imagined, made even more so by the fact that he had no idea where they were taking him, or why everyone seemed so angry.
When he stumbled severely enough to lose his footing, the guards let him fall to his knees and the crowd jeered. Fury overwhelmed John as the men roughly hauled him back to his feet, the emotion providing a momentary surge of strength for him to shrug off the hands holding him and shout, "What the hell is wrong with you people! Where I come from, we help each other when we're sick…" His indignant outrage was cut off by a granite fist in his gut, the force of the blow doubling him over and knocking the breath out of him.
The head guard shouldered his way through the crowd and with a curt word parted the villagers to allow his men to drag a semi-conscious Sheppard the last few steps into the Mill. Vaguely, John was aware of the sounds of their footsteps thudding on polished wooden floors and the rhythmic creaking of the water wheel's axle driving cogs of machinery in the workshops a level down. The building was large, though, and the sound faded as he was taken through a heavy door and into a room that was clearly a jail of some sort. If he wasn't simply fighting to stay conscious, John would have laughed at the almost stereotypical setup of the long room with 3 or 4 cages separated from each other by tall iron bars. For a moment he felt as if he'd fallen into a movie.
The shopkeeper pulled open a door into one of the cages and John was dragged through to be dropped onto the floor, despite the fact that a moldy cot was only a foot away against the wall. John pushed himself to shaking hands and knees only to be knocked over again as one of the men kicked him savagely in the side. Not to be outdone, his companion kicked out and struck John in the small of the back. John yelled and writhed weakly, trying to roll himself away from the assault into a defensible ball against the wall.
"Enough," growled the leader and they all stomped out muttering, "Plaguer", closing the cage with a click and slamming the heavy outer door behind them.
John remained curled on the ground. The cool polished wood surface felt good against his fevered forehead, but the rest of him ached and burned. He began to shiver again, his whole body trembling in waves that tormented firey joints. Blackness began to creep into his vision until finally, overwhelmed by pain and despair, John let it take him.