The Unknown

Summary: Chuck, Sarah, the wilderness, and some bad guys.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything and in no way intend to profit.

AN: The bug hit me tonight and I decided to finish this chapter, which took longer than I thought it would. The last 1/3 was just written, but I proofread everything.

-Chapter 2-

The silence is heavenly because it means I'm no longer being manipulated by the forces of gravity. It's as if we crashed through the ground and the tail is all that remains visible, but I know the severed fuselage is precariously balanced on the snowy mountainside. My lower torso aches from the force of my body trying to fall and the seatbelt preventing escape.

I push against the seatback in front of me, alleviating some of the strain, and carefully remove my safety strap. The structure shifts at the redistribution of weight and I unconsciously hold my breath, waiting for it to settle. Fear for Chuck is set aside and the CIA agent kicks into gear.

Whatever hit the plane wasn't an accident. Someone is after us. They're going to want to confirm a successful operation. I need to run; we need to run. Hopefully, the cockpit didn't travel that much farther than its one time counterpart.

My palms slip slightly as I climb over the leather seats to the plane's tail. Reaching the panel marked with a red cross, I locate the keypad in the lower right-hand corner and enter my code. The door pops open and I see just what I was looking for, weapons. A set of my trusty knives and my friendly handgun are in their usual hiding places throughout my body, but you can never have too much firepower, as Casey likes to say.

There's a pre-packed bag filled with ammo and a few other handy items. I sling it over my shoulder and go to close the door when something else captures my attention. It's the plane's first aid kit. Normally, agents would shun things like this in favor of traveling unencumbered. All I can think of is Chuck and the fact that the plane's front probably took the brunt of the impact. Refusing to argue with myself and waste precious time, I grab the case and lock the panel before carefully maneuvering vertically down the plane like a scene from Mission Impossible.

My feet touch solid ground and I immediately look for a way out of my prison. As if I've been wandering through the desert and finally find an oasis, I vault through the first sizable opening that appears in my field of vision.

It's cold. That's the first thing that crosses my mind. Having spent most of my life on the east coast, I'm use to cold weather, but these last few months in California have spoiled me. The wind is blowing at a steady rate and the skies are overcast with that ominous winter light shining through. Nightfall is approaching quickly. I survey my surroundings and see a path of broken tree tops. Even though the cockpit appears to have traveled farther than I expected, it shouldn't take more than five minutes to hike to the wreckage.

The snow isn't exceedingly deep, only reaching mid-calf level, but I'm glad that I wore my boots because they provide an extra bit of protection from the elements. Silence surrounds me as I rack my brain for survival training in situations like this. A lack of obvious birds indicates one of my many fears. There's a storm coming. As if being stranded and pursued isn't enough of a challenge.

I'm on full alert, even as my mind wanders to plausible and implausible scenarios. Stepping over a few fallen tree limbs, I reach the piece of the plane for which I was searching. My breath hitches. The windshield is broken and a tree is sticking out of the cockpit. I rush inside as quickly and safely as possible.

"Chuck," I call, hoping to hear his response and some affirmation of health. Nothing.

Shattered glass clutters the floor and crunches under my feet. I see the pilot first and he doesn't look well. My hand is firm and steady as I check for a pulse. There are no obvious signs of trauma, but he's dead and I don't have time to investigate. With slightly less confidence, I turn to where Chuck should be sitting.

Oh shit.

Part of the tree has pierced his right shoulder. His head is bleeding profusely and his left wrist is displaced at a slightly grotesque angle. I don't see any visible injuries to his legs, which is key to us getting out of this mess, if he's still alive.

Kneeling on the ground beside his seat, I check for signs of life and try to keep my stomach under control. He has a heartbeat. I lightly slap the blood free side of his face.

"Chuck. Wake up. We need to move."

No response.

I decide that it may be better for him to remain blissfully unconscious while I take care of his injuries. The impaled piece of tree comes first. My instinct is to pull it out and prevent infection, but my training prevails. Taking it out could start bleeding that may not stop. I need a saw.

After rummaging through the first aid kit, my supply bag, and the cockpit, I can find noting usable to sever the wood. I run my hand through my hair in frustration at the loss of time and my own incapability. Sitting down on the floor, I'm startled by a sound behind me. I get back on my feet and into a fighting stance instantly, but there is nothing to battle. It's then that I notice my gun on the ground. I smile.

The silencer screws onto my piece with ease and I stand back a safe distance. Three quick shots escape. The noise is almost deafening, as the bullets fly through the wood and hit the metal of the plane, but it's nothing compared to a non-muffled attempt. Moving closer, I inspect my work and am pleased by the results.

Now it's time to separate Chuck from the tree. Placing two hands firmly around the wood closest to his chest, I brace it to prevent movement. I give myself a pep talk and kick the main part with my left leg. It cracks slightly, but is still connected. My next kick had more force, which finally breaks the tree and also throws me off balance and into Chuck's lap.

"Sarah," he mumbles, groggily. The guy has perfect timing.

I ease off of him and into a crouched position. His eyelids flutter open, revealing an unfocused gaze. Grabbing supplies from the first aid kit, I begin wiping off his bloody face.

"What's going on?" His voice is stronger.

"The plane crashed. Do you remember anything?"

He instinctually shakes his head. He then begins moaning.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

Acting quickly, I ease him forward and rub his back while he empties the contents of his stomach. He dry heaves a bit before sitting back in the seat. I wipe off his mouth and am shaken to see blood on the cloth. It could be from his heaving or it could just be from the gash on his head.

"Don't suppose you have a breath mint," he asks jokingly.

I manage a slight smile, despite my worry and say, "All out, sorry."

"We crashed didn't we?"

I'm about to complain that I already explained our predicament, when the realization hits. He has a concussion. I figured the scrape on his scalp was from glass or a tree limb, but he must have bumped something during the landing. This combination of injuries is not good.

"Yes. Something hit the plane."

I'm confused slightly by his replying, "I was trying to get to you."

"What?"

"After the explosion, I got up to see if you were ok, but I was thrown into something. Skippy buckled me in and….where is he?"

His change of topic jars me and it takes a bit longer to respond than normal. My thoughts turn to the agency pilot that Chuck formed an unrequited friendship with, upon reaching the airfield in Sacramento. The man refused to give his name, so Chuck decided to call him Skippy.

"Sorry, he didn't make it."

Silence hangs in the air.

"That's alright. He didn't really get my jokes."

"Yeah," I respond, unsure how to react. His eyes start to close and I'm once again compelled into action.

"You need to stay awake Chuck. We have to move."

"I want to stay here. Too tired."

I put my hands on both sides of his head to ensure his attention.

"Listen to me. Someone is after us and we can't stay near the wreckage."

"Who….why?"

"I have a good guess as to why, but the who is up in the air."

My hands feel heavy against his skin. The scene becomes awkward when only silence follows my explanation. I remove my limbs quickly and Chuck does that nervous whistle of his.

"Did you call for help?"

I'm surprised by his spell of coherency, but Chuck has always exceeded expectations.

"I put out the code, but there was no signal, so I'm not sure if it was received. We need to operate as if we're on our own."

"Right, operate…………we're going die," he bemoans, once again becoming fuzzy.

"No. You see this," I question, pointing to his watch.

"My watch?"

"It's got a tracker. Casey is going to start worrying when we don't report in tonight. He'll know something has gone wrong and your watch will lead him right to us."

He's zoning out again, but manages a, "Yeah."

"We need to be alive when he gets here Chuck. That means your going to have to help me. No falling asleep."

Chuck knows a challenge when he hears it and rightly blinks away as much of the weariness as possible. Now it's time for the painful obstacle.

"I have to set your wrist or else you could do more damage," I supply, moving closer to his arm.

As if just learning he had that particular extremity, he glances down at the injury zone. I can see the look of panic creeping into his features. Grabbing a smaller branch from the tree, I shove it into Chuck's mouth before he can protest.

"Bite on that. This will hurt; I'm not going to lie, but we'll do it quickly, on the count of three."

He shuts his eyes tightly and nods slightly. Placing my hands in their appropriate places, I being counting. I pull on the count of two and the bones make a sickening crack before righting themselves. Chuck's screams are muffled by the wood, but his feet kick wildly. He's in pain and I can't help but run a soothing hand over his brow.

"I'm sorry, but it's set now," I say softly, taking the guard from his mouth.

He's too stunned to say anything. Using more branches from the tree and a bandage from the first aid kit, I splint Chuck's wrist as efficiently as possible. Two butterflies make their way to the gash on his forehead, along with a larger gauze pad to soak up the blood that continues to leak. A doctor would put his injured wrist in a sling, but the agent in me knows that having his limbs mobile could be the difference between life and death.

I look him over once more to make sure nothing else requires medical attention. The kit is going to have to be left behind. I can't be bogged down any more and Chuck is in no condition to carry something other than his own body weight.

"Time to go," I instruct, standing up and reaching for his waist.

He's unsteady, but manages to get to his feet. I give him a minute for orientation, before securing the pack on my back. We slowly head out of the wreckage and into the setting sun.