A/N: Gah! It's March, so midterms and term papers have been assaulting me for the past two weeks. But I have a couple days off, so I'm taking this opportunity to throw out another update. Hope you're enjoying it! Reviews are greatly appreciated :D
4. Weight of the World
Sam was beginning to realize just how very screwed she was.
She had no idea how long she'd been stumbling around in the forest; it could have been ten minutes or an hour. Despite the fact that she grew up in this area—she knew this area, damn it—she had absolutely no idea where she was going. A while ago she'd heard the sound of a Raven, but she hadn't been able to follow it. Frustration should have set in by now, but instead she just felt tired.
Her knee buckled suddenly and she fell, but she managed to spring her hands out in front of her to stop herself. Her left arm jarred as it connected with the ground. Pain exploded in her shoulder; she didn't even try to stop herself from swearing. Sam stayed in that position for a few moments, waiting for the burning to die down—and trying to decide if it was worth getting up.
A drop of red oozed out from underneath the tourniquet and splattered on the grass beneath her. Sam had almost forgotten she was bleeding. But then her brain started working again. She wasn't just bleeding, she was bleeding out—granted, slowly, but there was definitely a ticking clock. Things started to make sense: the blood loss was affecting her sense of direction.
Sam forced herself to her feet. She was not going to die out here. It was a stupid, weak way to go. And she still needed to rub her victory in Baird's face. If anything was going to motivate her, it was the thought of Baird's smug expression faltering as she returned triumphantly. Defiance bolstered her and she grinned weakly. Yeah, that would be worth all this crap.
But her determination didn't last long. She began to feel light-headed and she kept tripping over things that weren't there. Even better, she was starting to hear things. Like her name being called.
"Sam!"
Just perfect. Dying wasn't humiliating enough; she had to go crazy before the end too. She had to lean against a tree again. Nausea was starting to kick in. She couldn't control her breathing. Her heart was pounding in her ears, but she could still hear the imaginary voices.
"Sam!"
Oh, wait…
Sam doubted that her blood-deprived brain could re-create Baird's pissed off tone so accurately. She plodded towards the sound of his irritated calling. Eventually, she stumbled into a small clearing. Her heart leapt inside her chest: Baird and Cole were about twenty yards away from her, scanning the forest. Cole spotted her first.
"Hey." Sam waved half-heartedly.
Baird's head snapped in her direction; he immediately started towards her. "You," he growled. "It's about frigging time. Where the hell have you been?"
"Oh, you know…" She waved her hand vaguely. Her wit deserted her.
As he neared her, he noticed the blood splattered across her face. The angry expression faded. "Shit, what the hell happened to you?"
"What do you think, you idiot?" But her attempt at irritation only came out as exhaustion.
God, she was tired. She could feel her legs shaking, and walked slowly towards Baird. Just as she reached him, her legs finally gave out. She stumbled into his chest. His hands grasped her shoulders as he tried to steady her. She sucked in her breath sharply, but her curse died in her throat. And a second later, she just stopped caring. She was so exhausted that she'd kill for a nap. Sleep… that sounded good. Besides, she was more or less safe now.
She closed her eyes and let everything just fall away.
Baird felt Sam go limp against him. He had to grapple with her sagging body to keep her upright; the clunky armour didn't exactly make things easier. "Sam. What the fuck is wrong with you? Sam?"
Her head lolled against his breastplate, and some of the blood on her cheek rubbed off. God, it was hard to think straight over the sudden pounding of his heart in his ears. Baird pressed a finger to his tac-com. "Sorotki, I need a medevac at my location, stat."
"Copy that. I got your GID reading. Status?"
"Byrne's unconscious and bleeding. So, y'know, whenever you feel like it."
"On my way."
Something trickled down Baird's arm. He glanced down and his stomach lurched. Blood was seeping out from under Sam's tourniquet and dribbling onto his shoulder. He forced the concern back down inside and gently shifted Sam into a better position. The sound of the Raven could be heard in the distance. He lifted up the edge of the sleeve and blood bubbled out from underneath.
"Oh, shit."
Sam was starting to pale. This was so not good. He knew he should be doing something, but his brain just blanked. He froze up—whether it was from panic or inexperience, he couldn't tell. But Cole didn't seem to be in a better situation. They were both standing there like complete idiots, while Sam's chest rose and fell with her erratic breathing.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
"Head's up." Sorotki's voice crackled in Baird's ear as the Raven appeared above the trees. "I don't want to land on you."
The Raven hovered a few feet above the ground, with Mitchell crouched at the edge of the crew bay. Baird rushed forward, supporting Sam, and then handed her off to Mitchell's waiting hands. Cole hopped up into the bird and helped Mitchell to lay Sam down on a stretcher behind them. Baird hoisted himself into the Raven as Mitchell gave Sorotki the go-ahead.
"Let's make it quick, Mel. Byrne's looking like a T1."
Fuck.
Baird's fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. Cole patted Baird's shoulder, but his face didn't look any more reassured. He was going to have a heart attack. This wasn't anything he hadn't seen before. Guys in his squad got shot all the time. People got injured, people died. Ice poured into his veins at the thought and he clenched his jaw. Shit, it was Eugen on Vectes all over again. It had completely exploded his well-crafted shield of indifference. He'd almost spilled his guts to Bernie over it.
What was it he had wanted to say to Marcus all those months ago? Oh yeah. "Caring screws you up, man. Just switch it off. Life gets a lot easier then." He really needed to get used to things coming back to bite him in the ass. But it was true: caring made you vulnerable, and when you were vulnerable things could hurt you a lot easier. Baird couldn't afford to be weak.
The flight back to Anvil Gate was agonizingly long. Baird had to switch off his tac-com to avoid the radio chatter. Mitchell had alerted the infirmary to the incoming injuries, and Hayman and her team were scrubbing up. But Baird didn't want to hear any of it. Instead, he stared intently at Sam, watching for the slightest change. Blood was starting to pool on the stretcher, despite the tourniquet. Rossi and his squad were uncharacteristically quiet, as were Carmine, Pad and Cole. For some reason, this seemed to hit everyone hard. Every so often, Cole would pat Baird's knee, as if to reassure his friend that everything was going to be okay—but Cole's face didn't agree with his sentiments.
Finally—mercifully—Anvil Gate came into view. Sam was alarmingly pale. As the Raven got closer to the ground, Baird could see Hoffman, Bernie, Dizzy and a Pesanga woman standing beside the LZ, a gurney positioned ominously behind them. Rossi and his squad didn't move when Sorotki touched down, leaving room for Baird, Cole and Mitchell to jump out. Hoffman and the Pesanga woman rushed forward with the gurney as Mitchell and Cole gently pulled Sam and the stretcher out of the crew bay. Baird stood uselessly by, feeling stupidly powerless.
"How's she looking, Harua?" Hoffman asked, his voice taught.
The Pesanga woman examined Sam as Mitchell and Cole transferred the stretcher onto the gurney. "Not good, Hoffman sah. Lost a lot of blood. We need transfusion and to stop bleeding."
"Right." Hoffman turned to Mitchell. "Radio Hayman and Mathieu in triage. Tell them to get out the transfusion kit." He rubbed the corners of his eyes. "Goddamn, we desperately need a blood bank."
Mitchell, Cole and Harua took off running with the gurney; Dizzy jogged behind them. Baird wanted to follow, but found himself unable to move. Bernie appeared suddenly beside him.
"Come on, Baird." She threw an arm around his shoulders. "If Hayman tries to kick us out, I'll treat her to my drill sergeant's vocabulary."
Bernie steered him in the direction of the infirmary. Hoffman trailed behind them, followed by Carmine, Rossi's squad and the injured Martens. It was a long, uncomfortable walk. When they finally walked through the door of the infirmary, Baird's stomach churned.
The sterile smell hit him like a wall. Everything was disturbingly white and tidy. The room was quiet, except for a murmured conversation at the back. Baird's eyes were drawn to the sound and he felt sick. Doc Hayman and Harua were huddled around Sam on a hospital bed, with Dizzy and Cole standing a few feet back; Mitchell had disappeared. Cole looked up when he heard their footsteps. He waved them over.
Rossi helped Martens to a cot closer to the entrance, and Harua went over to attend to him. Baird walked past them, feeling numb, while Bernie and Hoffman stopped to check on Martens. He could see Sam better now, as Hayman moved to work on her shoulder. Her skin was ashen. Had there always been blood splattered on her cheek?
Hayman turned around, and dropped something tiny into a metallic container. She faced them, her lab coat spotless and her face hard. "I hope no one's squeamish about blood, because you're all getting your fingers pricked. I need to find a compatible blood type."
"Don't you have records on file?" Baird asked. As soon as he'd said it, he realized what an idiotic question that was.
Hayman shot him a cringe-worthy glare. "No, we don't have any goddamn medical records. When Sovereign blew up, we were a little more concerned about getting people ashore than boxes of fucking paperwork."
Baird's mouth snapped shut at his own stupidity. Before he realized what he was doing, his feet carried him towards Hayman. The doctor didn't hesitate for a second. She grabbed his hand roughly, positioning it over a Petri dish that she seemed to produce out of thin air, and wiped his thumb with some sort of alcohol. She produced a scalpel and without so much as a warning pressed it into the pad of his thumb. A thin line of crimson appeared, which quickly welled up. The blood spilled from his thumb to the dish below. When Hayman was satisfied, she shoved a band-aid into Baird's chest and pushed him away.
The curt doctor then turned her attention to another vial of blood sitting on a nearby tray table; it was labelled "Byrne". With an eyedropper, she extracted some of the fluid and dropped it into the Petri dish. Hayman quickly positioned the dish under a microscope and watched it. Baird wrapped the band-aid around his thumb, feeling impatient, frustrated and anxious all at once. And his stomach was still churning, which added confusion into the cocktail of emotions. He'd been in wards before and had never felt so sick.
Suddenly, Hayman backed away from the microscope and shook her head. "Next."
"What do you mean 'next'?" Baird blurted.
Hayman turned her death glare on him. "I don't have time to explain the concepts of blood groups, antibodies and antigens to so-called geniuses. So, by 'next' I mean shut the hell up and do as I say."
Baird's winced, but there was no point in verbally duelling Hayman; the old hag could castrate a man by looking at him. Cole went forward next, and whispered "Smart choice," as he passed Baird. The procedure was repeated with the same outcome. Baird expected Dizzy to go next, but instead Hoffman brushed past him.
Hayman sized him up, probably debating whether or not to turn him away. Baird's fists clenched again, but she yanked Hoffman forward none too gently, before Baird's temper boiled over. After a few moments of staring into the microscope, Hayman looked up.
"You're a match, Colonel."
Without any more delays, Hayman went to a cabinet and pulled out an archaic-looking transfusion device. Baird glanced at Bernie; she looked apprehensive. He didn't feel so good about this either. Baird was no biology expert, but he knew the strain a transfusion would put on Hoffman's heart: the man was no spring chicken.
"Are you sure about this, Vic?" Bernie asked.
But Hoffman's face was set. "Absolutely positive. Besides, we don't have time to test every Gear and civilian looking for another match. It'll be all right, Bern."
Baird had to look away as Hayman pressed the needle into Sam's arm. He turned his eyes to Hoffman's face as the old colonel rolled up his sleeve. A sudden realization dawned on Baird. He'd heard the stories about the siege of Anvil Gate from Bernie and, more recently—in random snippets—from Sam. Oh yeah, he understood Hoffman's resolute expression and his willingness to step forward.
One Byrne had already died at Anvil Gate under the colonel's watch. Hoffman would be damned if he let history repeat itself.