Four Days Until Dawn

Installment 2

Blackness

XXX

"Think we should?" Two-Bit asked, uncertain. It was massively late – not that time of day had ever stopped anyone before, but this wasn't like a typical visit. The house even looked different, felt different; the curtains closed, the door shut. Granted, this was autumn and the chill in the air was unmistakable, but something about the house seemed unnaturally still.

"'Should' is relative. No, we probably shouldn't. But we are. C'mon." Steve insisted, taking one last drag before flicking away his smoke, then stepped off the curb to cross the street. Two-Bit followed suit, taking a long, concerned drag of his own from his stick as well.

Steve opened the door slowly, listening and looking around before letting himself in. The place was unusually quiet. Normally, this house was a hotbed of activity. Laughter, music, television and people all sounding off together to make the house alive. For some, this was home; but for so many others this was their hang-out. A guys -being- guys sort of place. Hell, even the rugrat tripping over his own coffee table was part of the norm here; but for the last week, nothing had been normal in this house. Nothing.

The pall still hadn't lifted.

"You sure about this?" Two-Bit asked again. Steve glared at him and caught the screen door behind them, for once keeping the doors from slamming as they shut. Down the hallway, Soda – hair mussed and eyes dark with fatigue, came out of one of the bedrooms.

"Hey bud. So uh, how's the kid?" Steve asked, jutting his chin out towards Soda's closed bedroom door.

"No change, still out."

Two-Bit had wandered down the hallway, compelled to take a gawk for himself. The pale face of his young friend laying motionless on his pillow brought a lump to his throat. Images of Johnny laying just like that only a few days before raced across his mind before he could help it. He swallowed gruffly, looked around the room once then returned to the kitchen, searching for a longneck to open. He had to settle for one of the kids Pepsi's. It wouldn't give him the feeling he was looking for, but would give his throat something more meaningful to swallow besides emotion.

Looking over the selection, he realized the fridge was getting bare; shopping had been put on hold last week, forgotten amidst other - more pressing - issues.

"... no idea how we're gonna get him to eat. I dunno, man. I just don't know." Soda had been saying, whisps of smoke floating off the end of the lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. Steve listened, letting his friend get it off his chest but thought hard on it too. He had to admit, he had no ideas either. Steve didn't care for the kid as much as Two-Bit and Johnny did; hell, even Dallas had been more outgoing with the runt, but that didn't mean he didn't like him. He was just... younger. And naive. And annoyingly smart. And goofy. And..... and a whole lot of stuff. Enough for him to turn a cold shoulder to the kid, at least that's what he hoped.

"How much weight has he lost?" Steve asked absentmindedly. He'd noticed the way the kid's clothes had hung off him yesterday before the rumble; but it wasn't his place to say stuff like that to Darry. The kid was Darry's problem. He had no stake in the kid's welfare, at least he still tried convincing himself of that. Now it worried him that if, maybe, he'd mentioned it to Darry, Darry would have been more adamant that the kid stay home during the fight. And if the kid had stayed home, he wouldn't be in the fix he was in right now.

"Since last Saturday? I ain't sure. A lot." Soda snuffed out the butt and stared at the wood grain finish on the table. When he was a kid, he'd taken his knife and carved his initials on the underside of the table. It was a month before his mother had found it, and skinned him good for it. Why that thought happened in his head, he didn't know. He scrubbed his face, blinked and looked around.

"You're, um ... you know you're scheduled to work tomorrow." Steve mentioned, flicking his own dying embers into the ash tray. "You gonna show?"

Soda looked down the hallway, his instinct to not leave his brother's side warring with his understanding of how dire their finances were right then. "Yeah, I'll be there," he answered blandly a moment later.

Steve nodded. "If you can't, call me. I can cover."

"You've covered for me enough. It ain't fair to you." Steve had gone in for Soda for most of last week while he and Darry combed Tulsa searching for their brother. Soda didn't find out until last Friday that Steve had used his timecard and not his own to punch in, effectively giving Sodapop Steve's pay for the week.

"Fuck that. I got enough, and you need the dough more than I do. If you need the time, take it."

Soda said nothing more. Steve had always been there for him like this. There was no point in arguing about it.

"Mom?" A quiet, questioning call came from down the hallway, causing all the boys to look. Soda was on his feet first.

"Pone?" he gently called out, crossing the threshold into their room. The boy lay on the bed, head slowly turning side to side, fingers stretching against the sheets, reaching out for someone who wasn't there.

"Momma?" he whispered into his darkness. His eyes remained closed, but over the lids Soda could see his iris's moving, searching. Heat radiated from what little skin was exposed; beneath the blankets, he was roasting.

"Get Darry," Soda called over his shoulder as he took the outstretched fingers into his own hand.

"Dad? Please … I … can't …" Pony mumbled in his confused sleep. His forehead crinkled, his chin quivered.

"Shhhh, Pone. I'm here." Soda cooed. The anguish faded as fingers of two separate hands intertwined. Darry was suddenly behind him, peering over his shoulder. Soda looked up. "He's hot," Soda said, answering Darry's questioning eyes.

Darry reached down and felt for himself, once again doubting his decision to remove him from the hospital. Bankruptcy and foster care was certainly a better alternative to forever losing what was left of his family. "I'll be right back."

Darry fished out the scrap of paper, dialing the number. It rang three times before being answered.

"Hello? Is … Marge Pendelton there?"

"Hold on. Maaaa! Phone!"

Darry shifted his stance while waiting. Then the nurse picked up.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Pendelton, this is Darrel Curtis. I brought my brother home today.... Ponyboy? You uh, you said..."

"I remember. What can I do?"

Twenty minutes later, Marge was pulling up in front of Darry's house.

"He's back here," Two-Bit said, letting the lady in. He gawked at her, surprised. He wasn't sure what to expect, but this wasn't at all what he'd pictured. She was dressed in denim jeans and a red pull-over shirt and tennis shoes. In her hand she carried a bag.

"Thank you for coming over..." Darry started. She nodded and went right to the boy's side.

"Ponyboy?" she called. There was no answer. His mumbling had stopped a few minutes ago. None of what he'd said made sense to anyone.

She stuck a thermometer under his arm and listened to his chest. The guys stood back and watched, waiting anxiously. Eventually, she turned back to Darrel.

"He's got a really high temperature. Do you have any Tylenol?"

Darry conjured the contents of his medicine cabinet in his mind and nodded. "Sure, I'll get it." He came back with a bottle of pills to which she took two out. Giving the boy a glance, she frowned.

"You wouldn't happen to have a mortar and pestle around here, would you?" Her weak attempt at humor fell flat as the blank stares answered that question. "A knife, perhaps?" she tried again more seriously.

Instantly, Steve and Two-Bit both flicked out blades. She jumped a bit, not expecting weapons to be presented in that manner; but upon closer examination chose the one Steve had. It was wider.

"Your kitchen?"

Soda led the way. She sat the tablets on a napkin and crushed them, using the flat side of the blade. Then she got a glass and mixed the powder with a little water. Returning to the bedroom, she fished a new syringe out of her bag, sucked the solution into it and coaxed the boys mouth open.

"Swallow, Ponyboy. Come on, swallow, honey," she urged. Little by little she sent the mixture down his throat, the fingers of her free hand trailing down his neck with each small squirt of the solution. She felt his throat jump as he swallowed the medicine a few drops at a time, until eventually it was gone.

"I'm going to leave the syringe here. His fever should break within the hour. If it doesn't, call me back. You can give him two more pills in around five hours. Just dribble it down the inside of his cheek slowly, he should swallow it okay. Anything else?"

"No, thanks," Darry said. She nodded and got up to leave. "Do I owe you anything?" Darry asked as he walked her to her car.

She smiled but shook her head. "Just call me if you need help. And if anyone asks, this didn't happen."

Twenty minutes later, sweat started to bead on Ponyboy's forehead. Soda was there with a washcloth, wiping it off.

"No! … fire...." he mumbled. Soda leaned in, listening closer while Steve and Two-Bit were stopped motionless in their tracks. "Don't … don't … go …. in!" Silence for a moment, then his voice rose sharply, his hands twitched. "Johnny!" Beneath the closed lids, his eyes darted at things unseen.

The police report laying on Darry's dresser filled in the gaps. He knew there'd been a fire, and he knew Ponyboy and Johnny had run into the burning building to save some kids while Dallas worked to do his part on the outside. Facts on paper held no emotion. To see and feel the emotion one only had to gaze on the boy, hear the pleas whispered aloud. In his head, the events were like a screwed up 8-track tape, never ending, just going on an endless loop.

Later, after the guys had left, Soda sat with him while Darry made a midnight dinner. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. While Darry was busy in the kitchen, Pony struggled with demons only he saw. In his mind, the scene had changed and he was being hit again, slamming against the door. What Soda saw was Pony moving his head sharply to the right, his hands jerking simultaneously. Then he lay motionless as Soda soothed his forehead.

The vision changed again. His mother was there, tending to him as she had when he was seven, sick with the chicken pox. Darry, who'd already had the pox, had carried it home to Ponyboy after a wrestling match with an infected friend, but none of them knew that. He was itchy and achy for over a week and his mother insisted he wear socks on his hands to keep from scratching. Through that misery, though, she was there. Always there. When he woke from one painfully itchy dream after another, her face was the one thing he could count on. In his mind, she was there again. Brushing his hair from his eyes, smiling down at him. Patting his shoulder and rubbing his back.

"I love you, momma," he mumbled at her. She smiled at him, kissed his cheek and tousled his hair some more.

Soda worriedly looked at him, unsure what to do.

Later, as the soups cooled and the sandwiches were slowly bitten into, Pony's mind turned to fight an unseen battle, one he'd already lost. He once again felt himself being lifted and slammed headfirst into the frigid water; struggling ... frantic. Darry, sitting next to him, nearly spilled his soup as Ponyboy jerked defensively, almost knocking the bowl free from his hand. He hastily sat his bowl down and grabbed Pony's arm as the boy slammed it into the headboard, arching his back against the mattress and pillows in his struggles. He kicked once, twice – refusing to breathe, terrified of the water again.

Strong hands held him, but he couldn't discern these that fought to protect from those which had sought to harm. His eyes flew open but saw nothing, still captive to the terror of his vision. Soda – on his other side, held his flailing brother, speaking softly to him until Pony sucked in a deep, choking breath, shuddered and collapsed into a heap. They waited a moment, anticipating him to flail about again, but Ponyboy didn't; his only movement being the harsh ragged intake of air back into his body. As he settled his brother back against the pillows, Soda wiped away a tear from his own eyes that refused to be held back. If Darry saw it, he never said.

"One of us needs to stay with him." Soda surmised later. Darry was in agreement. If he tossed himself out of bed, the results could be disastrous. Darry got the armchair and brought it into the bedroom, making the cramped room that much smaller, then looked at Soda.

"Go sleep in my room. I'll stay here with him." Darry instructed. Soda started to protest, but Darry shook his head. "You're going in to work in the morning, remember? You won't be any good like you are. He'll be fine." Soda gave him a look of disbelief, to which Darry dismissed. "Soda, look – if he has another outburst, I don't want to struggle jumping over you to get to him. I'll call you if anything happens. Now go on."

Soda attempted one last look of defiance before turning towards Darry's bedroom. He'd sat on his brother's bed many times before, even slept on it once in a while. He never remembered it being this soft before. He curled his arm around the spare pillow, holding it tightly to his chest, and drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

XXX

Calla Lily Rose