Chapter 3
The fire had once again ignited and it was burning with a new ferocity. But something was different. It wasn't the agonising pain it had once been. This time it was just hot.
Am I melting? Alan wondered worriedly.
His head throbbed and his left arm burned. Everything was hazy and it was hard to breathe. He was so hot. He heard something move to his right. Hoping to see Mary there, he pulled his eyes open a crack. Whoever it was, it wasn't Mary. Alan couldn't make out a face. He tried to shake his head to rid himself of the fog that clouded his head and inhibited his thoughts.
"Son, can you hear me?"
John? Alan knew that voice. A cold hand rested on his shoulder. Alan wanted to grab that hand, to grasp something that was real. But every time he tried to move his free arm, a white hot poker would be held to it.
Another hand rested on his hand to stop the movement. "Take it easy, champ," John encouraged. Alan spun his wrist around and grabbed the hand that was over his. John bent over him. The cold hand on his shoulder moved to rest on his forehead. Alan nuzzled the heavenly touch. He was slipping again, he knew it. The fog was thickening and John's voice was becoming lost.
"Hang in there," the doctor said.
"Yes, Alan. Hang in there."
Alan jumped at the new voice. It took him a second to realise that the new voice wasn't coming from inside the room, rather inside his head.
"This isn't part of the plan, Alan," the voice warned. Its tone was casual, but beneath the surface, it was venomous. "Honestly, Alan. I thought you were stronger than this."
Alan? Why is he calling me Alan? Who knows my name?
For a moment the fog surrounding his mind began to clear, as if something was coming towards him. But as soon as the voice spoke again, the cloud was back.
"Don't remember. It's too hard," the voice encouraged. "Just sleep."
Something was pressing down on his head, sending him further into darkness. Although the voice disappeared, Alan swore he could see a pair of red eyes before sinking into oblivion.
OoOoO
John watched helplessly as the boy lost consciousness again. Shit, he silently cursed.
"Get me more icepacks and 400 mils of ibuprofen," he instructed the nurse, only glancing up high enough to read the name badge pinned to her blouse. By the time he looked back down at the boy, John had already forgotten the name that had been written on it.
John pulled out his penlight and inspected the boy's pupils. "Cindy, how are his obs?"
"Heart rate's still up, BP 150 over 90 and rising. His temperature has reached 104.3," Cindy reported.
"Keep a close eye on that temp and tell me if it rises," John told her sternly.
Come on, son, John silently implored.
The boy's condition had improved considerably over the last four days. His lungs were sounding good, his leg was healing nicely, and the MRI scans were showing a decrease in the swelling in his head and shoulder. But in the last 24 hours, things had taken a turn for the worse. As John had feared, the deep lacerations on the boy's arm had become infected and a raging fever had ensued. John was only glad that he had convinced Mary to return home for the night. He'd hate to let her see the boy deteriorate like this. Despite John's best effort, the fever was still rising to dangerous levels. Given the weakened state of his body, the boy would be lucky to last the night.
"Temp now 104.7," Cindy reported.
John had learned over the years that in this job, he couldn't punish himself for the death of a patient. You can't save everyone, he'd tell himself. But this time was different. He couldn't understand it, but this boy had touched him somehow. Despite the fact that he wouldn't admit it, he understood how his wife felt. There was more to the kid that met the eye, and he was determined not to lose him.
The nurse returned with the items he'd requested. Whilst she applied the icepacks under the boy's armpits and around his neck, John uncapped the pre-filled syringe and injected it into his patient's I.V port. He looked at the boy's face, waiting for any sign of a reaction.
"How's his stats?" he asked Cindy without looking up.
"Temp at 104.6, but it's holding. BP no longer rising," she said, relieved.
John didn't dare tempt fate and share her relief. "Maintain obs and put him on oxygen. I'll be back an hour to check on him. If he worsens again, page me."
Only when he left the room did John let out a huge sigh.
OoOoO
"Gordon?"
Gordon bit his tongue to stop him from snapping. Tintin's voice was too pure and sweet to anger him, but her presence was unwanted.
He sat on his bed, staring at the wall on the other side of the room. He'd given up trying the read the magazine that now lay on the floor. The soft glow of his bedside lamp sent shadows stretching across the entire room. It resembled his mood.
Tintin approached and cautiously sat on the end of the bed. "You weren't at dinner," she said softly.
"I wasn't in very sociable mood, honey," Gordon stonily replied.
Tintin nodded and looked away, looking embarrassed. She stood up to leave when Gordon held out a hand.
"No Tintin, don't go. I'm sorry," he sighed.
Tintin offered him a small smile. "It's okay. It's only natural for you to be upset after what happened."
Gordon frowned. "What happened? Tintin, I'm upset at what's happening right now. It's been nearly three weeks since Alan went missing and we still haven't found him. My dad would be out there scouring the world to find him, but he's not. My dad wouldn't rest until he brought Alan home one way or another, he said it himself! And now, suddenly, he's willing to give up and just assume that Alan is dead."
"Gordon," Tintin's eyes welled up as she sat on the bed next to him. "It's impossible that he could have survived that. I was there too. I saw the ruins of the community centre. The rescue leader at Mitchellton said that nobody could have survived that and he was right."
"But there are so many unanswered questions," Gordon argued. "Why isn't there a body? Why has everyone given up so fast? It's not natural. You know our family. We never give up! So why are Dad and the guys so easily resigning to the worst?"
Tintin frowned. "I don't know," she murmured. "But I can feel it too. Gordon, I'm so sorry, but Alan's gone. It just makes sense!"
"How?" Gordon asked her hotly.
Through her tears, Tintin looked surprised. "I don't know," she replied.
Gordon sighed. His gaze drooped to the pendant that hung from the cord around Tintin's neck. It was a piece of quartz that she'd worn for as long as he could remember. As it swung with the movement of Tintin's sobs, it caught the lamplight, throwing shards of rainbow across Gordons knees. Back and forth. Back and forth.
It was so simply beautiful, almost hypnotic. For weeks Gordon had felt empty but, quite suddenly, he didn't know why. Pulling his gaze away from the quartz crystal, Gordon went to continue with the conversation, then frowned. "What were we talking about?" he softly asked.
Tintin's eyes welled up again and her face contorted in pain. "Alan."
Then it hit him; an overwhelming flood of emotion. Tintin's pain was enough to make him face reality. Oh my God, Gordon thought. How could I have been so stupid? Here I am being stubborn and thinking about myself when Alan's dead! He has to be dead! He would have contacted us by now if he was okay. Dad would have found him by now.
A choked sob escaped him. Tintin put a hand on his arm, but he bolted out of the room, running through the hall to his father's office.
"Dad!"
His father looked up from where he sat at his desk. "Gordon? Are you okay?"
Gordon shook his head slowly. "Dad," he said, approaching his father. "I'm so sorry."
"Son," Jeff rose and enveloped the redhead in a hug. "It's okay."
Gordon gripped his father as he sobbed. "He's really gone! Dad, I want him back!"
Jeff stroked the back of Gordon's head. "I understand," he murmured, voice hitching. "You were closer to him than all of us combined. I should have known that it would be hardest on you. It's only natural you would've denied it."
Gordon nodded into his father's shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.
His father's shudder revealed that he too was crying.