a/n: Thank you so much for the reviews and feedback! It makes such a difference to me. I hope you enjoy this next chapter. Be warned, it's a little intense.
Chapter Eight: Hauntings
After stripping us of any weapons (including my knife), the rebels dragged us to some trucks about a mile or so from the field. The pain in my leg grew, mainly from just being jostled over uneven ground; so I was actually relieved that we reached transportation.
Lake and I were shoved into the back of one of the trucks, with our escort. The leader disappeared inside one of the other trucks, and then we were moving. Lake pitched to the side with the motion. I tried to steady him with my bound hands.
His eyes were shut, but I heard him whisper: "Thanks."
"Lean against me," I whispered back. He did, flickering a glance my way, and then going quiet. He might have passed out again.
The soldiers chattered. I wanted to ask them who they were, where they were taking us, if they planned to kill us, and a dozen other questions, but I . . . I was afraid there would be some sort of punishment if I said anything.
-0-0-0-
What happened later will haunt me forever.
They took us to some sort of building on a sparsely-constructed compound. It might have been a military base for the rebels. The drive there was long enough that morning dawned and in the distance I could see a city skyline. Even so, I didn't feel we were in the safety of civilization.
We were put into a bare room with a shoddy roof that shed a little bit of light. It was dark otherwise, but I could see well enough.
We were left alone, and I was so glad.
"Lake, are you all right?" It felt good to finally talk without fear—as much fear, anyway.
He was awake, which was a feat in and of itself. He smiled faintly.
"Good enough."
He was lying. He was trying to be cheerful. I went speechless as it sunk in what that meant.
"Lake . . ." I swallowed. But then I saw his radio, the collar—the soldiers hadn't removed it! I scooted closer to Lake, and hit the radio button.
Lake chuckled.
"No one will hear us. We're too far out of range."
My shoulders sagged, and I released the talk button. Lake was watching me.
"Jane, listen," he said. "This guy, the leader? It's Colonel Sadick. He killed Azuka." Arthur's father . . . the president of Nigeria. My immediate thought after that was 'oh crap.' What the heck was I in the middle of? The man who overthrew the government now had me and Lake captive. I looked back to Lake. He swallowed hard. "If you have a chance, run for it."
I was going to ask what would happen to him if I ran. But I got the feeling Lake didn't see himself being around that long. The idea chilled me further.
"Jane?"
I couldn't find my voice, so I just nodded. He seemed satisfied with that. He shut his eyes. I stared at him, noticing now how weak he looked. It was a far difference from how strong and threatening he seemed when he found me in the jungle. Dried and fresh blood stained his clothing. It was a lot of blood, but maybe not as much as I thought. I just didn't know.
And then a bunch of people burst through the doors, and two overhead fluorescent lights came on.
Four soldiers, and two men in white masks. The men in white masks wheeled in a cot. A cot?! Were they giving us 800 thread-count sheets too? It didn't make sense.
One soldier grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away.
"Hey, careful," I heard Lake object, but it sounded so weak that I wasn't sure anyone else heard it. The other soldiers grabbed Lake and lifted him up by his limbs. He struggled a bit, not as much as he would have otherwise. They cut away his bindings and laid him on his back on the cot. Then they strapped him to it with thick leather strips for his wrists, legs, chest and hips.
I froze. One of the men in white masks brought in something else. It was a cart, also on wheels. I saw flashes of metal instruments. I looked to the white masks and realized what they were—surgical masks.
Three soldiers stood guard around Lake and the cot. The men in the white masks began picking up instruments. They cut away Lake's shirt, and there was this thick, wet sound of the cloth peeling from Lake's wounds. I nearly lost it then.
"What are you doing?" I asked. The words helped me control my stomach somewhat.
They kept cutting away his clothes, cutting the wires of the radio, and removing the collar. I could see Lake's chest rising and falling rapidly. He pulled at the restraints feebly.
"Hold still," one of the men said to Lake. And then I saw a scalpel in his hand, moving for Lake's torso. A soldier shoved a piece of leather in Lake's mouth right before the knife cut into him.
He screamed, but it came out muffled due to the leather. The three soldiers stepped closer, holding Lake down. I struggled against the soldier holding me back.
"No, no, don't!"
Was this some form of torture? Lake wouldn't survive it! He couldn't struggle anymore with the soldiers and straps holding him down. I knew he was in agony though; he was screaming non-stop. Though muffled, it still pierced me to hear.
"Stop it!" I yelled. The soldier holding me shoved me hard against a wall. My leg hit it, and I crumpled to the floor with a yelp.
"Quiet," he said, in a clipped, heavy accent. "They fix him."
Fix him? Were they? The men in masks moved steadily, apparently unmoved by Lake's cries. Their hands quickly dug in with instruments where they'd cut Lake. I saw blood seep from the cut, though one of the men dabbed at it with some gauze.
"Doctors," the soldier next to me added. While they looked like doctors, they didn't act with the ethics of one.
"Then give him anesthesia," I said.
The soldier didn't bat an eye. "They cannot."
What? "Why not?"
"Colonel Sadick's order."
Maybe this was torture. I looked at the horrific scene before me. Lake stopped screaming, but he still groaned with each poke and prod from the "doctors." Please, pass out. I was afraid the pain would finish him off.
"What about blood?" I asked. "He's lost so much."
"No blood here," came his uninterested reply. How could none of them be repulsed by this? These are men who butchered the village. I felt tears wet my eyes. I should have been furious, but I was beyond that. These people were past feeling—maybe they considered this charitable.
"What about my blood?" I asked. I shuddered—I hated needles, but I couldn't be a coward about such a little detail. One of the "doctors" looked up. His eyes locked with mine.
He said something in Nigerian to one of the soldiers, and they removed the leather from Lake's mouth.
"American," the doctor called to Lake, looking at his washed-out face. "What is your blood type?" I was surprised at how good his English was. He sounded educated, almost foreign, like a European accent. It gave me hope that he was asking.
Lake didn't answer. His head rolled from side to side, and he moaned. A soldier patted him on the face, trying to get him to focus. I clenched my fists but waited.
"Blood type, tell me," the doctor repeated. The other doctor just kept working, not missing a beat. Maybe Lake was passing out.
"Lake," I called out. His eyes opened in my direction. "Do you know your blood type?" His eyes started to roll back, and then they shut.
"AB+."
Hope surged through me. I looked to the doctor.
"I'm A+." I only knew that because I almost signed up with the Red Cross for a humanitarian assignment, and it was one of those things that came up in the interview process. How grateful I was for that now.
The doctor stared hard at me. And then he nodded.
Lake went still, but I saw the doctor check for his pulse. He was alive.
While one doctor continued working, the other instructed that I stand next to Lake. I did, cringing at the pain in my leg. I hoped my blood wasn't infected from the bullet wound, but given the alternatives, I didn't think Lake would complain. The soldier guarding me gave me a little support.
After they cut the bindings around my wrists, the doctor inserted a needle into the crook of my arm. My lip quivered at the stinging pain, but I didn't want to be so cowardly right now. Behind the needle was a clear plastic tube, and the other end was another needle. They inserted it right into Lake's arm. I thought they'd filter it or something, but I guess they didn't care. My blood just siphoned directly to Lake's veins.
I stood there for ten minutes, giving blood in a way that would make any Red Cross worker faint. I started to feel weak, but that might have been because of the bullet the doctors pulled from Lake's stomach. They dropped it on the floor.
I think I passed out then.
-0-0-0-
I woke up to blinding pain. I tried to fight it, but it just hurt more.
"Hold still!"
I froze, but my eyes shot open. A man in a white mask sat by my leg, a sharp utensil in hand. I was out of it enough that I thought he was a cannibal.
But it was a scalpel in his hand—the doctor.
I clenched my fists and teeth. My whole body was tense. The doctor put down the scalpel and picked up some thin forceps. I whimpered as he put those in my left leg.
He brought them out again with the bullet that hit me back at the field by Cameroon. I stared at it, the bloody chunk of metal. Without a smile of victory or any expression, the doctor dropped the bullet on the ground. It instantly reminded me of Lake's bullet, and I whipped my head around to see him.
I made myself watch him while the doctor stitched and bandaged my leg.
Lake wasn't awake, but his chest moved with his breathing. The cot was lower now, I guess one of those adjustable beds you see in an ambulance. There was an ugly stitched-up gash across his stomach, some of it jagged from the wound itself. It was still bloody, but there were wipe marks, like someone had tried to clean up a little.
The rest of Lake's shirt was gone. His shoulder was bound better now. I hoped they cleaned it out a little. His left arm was wrapped too.
"Will he be all right?" I asked. I looked to the doctor.
He finished tying off the gauze on my leg, and shrugged. With that, he left. Two soldiers who I hadn't noticed left as well. The overhead lights turned off, and Lake and I were alone again.
I examined my leg. There were slits cut in the pant-leg, showing off the bandage. I didn't want to think about how my flesh would scar, but at least I was fixed up. I tried to stand, and then thought better of it. Guarding my newly fixed leg, I scooted over to Lake.
His color looked better. That surprised me. He wasn't as tan looking as he normally was, but the deathly pallor was gone. I glanced at his hair and it brought a smile to my face. The mohawk was suffering from bed-head. My eyes moved to his chest. I frowned. The leather strap was still in place. All the restraints were.
I undid them, carefully leaning over Lake to get the ones on his left side, and then scooting down to undo the ones at his feet.
After that, I wasn't sure what to do. Outside I heard thunder, and then rain started to drop through the questionable tin roof. It was still daylight out. I couldn't see the sun though.
What now? I'd been putting the question off. Colonel Sadick was still in control. I wished the air support back near Cameroon had finished him off. But why did he take us alive? And also try to fix us up? For a brief moment, I wondered if he was as bad as Lake said. You are so naïve. Sadick was bad, and there was a reason he took us alive. Probably not a good one.
I wondered if my parents knew what was going on in this part of the world. They would worry, if they found out. With good reason.
What about Lake's family? Or his team? I didn't even know who was still alive. I meant to ask Lake . . . Someone made it, right? I tried to remember if Lake had said anything, but I don't think he told me who answered our call for help. Whoever answered, though, did they know we were captured now?
More importantly, would they be able to find us? The uncertainty of it all really ate at me. Every person relies on some security or stability in their life. I felt like I had none left.
I glanced to Lake. No, maybe he was the only sense of security I had. Without thinking, I reached for his hand and placed mine on top of it.
The rain dripped down, echoing in the near-empty room.
