I flash Hale Ceasar the Look as he asks his dumb questions, "What are you doing?" and "Who is that?" He shuts up, but I can feel the curiousity radiating off of him. He'll have to wait until the gang gets down the hill and they can all gossip like preteen girls.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I turn with you still in my arms to regard Christmas with another Look. "What?"
"What're you doing?" he asks me quietly, without judgement. I feel you incline your head to stare at him. He must've hauled ass to get down the hill before the rest of the gang, just to talk privately. He's lugging my guns, too. Your head shifts again, and you look up at me, expecting an answer, same as him.
"'m not sure exactly," I tell him honestly. He's my best friend: I can tell him exactly what's on my mind - or not, like right now. "I'll update you when I figure it out."
Christmas studies my face for a moment, like he was looking for something. When he turns away, he looks like he's found it. "Saddle up, fellas! If we hurry, we can hit happy hour at Point's!" I do the math on the time, and he's right. A couple-few hours of flight, and we're back on friendly soil. What then?
Despite the concern about my little carry-on, there is a general cry of assent as they splash into the shallows to chickenwing over the guardrail of the commandeered boat. It sits six inches lower with them all on board. I slosh through the knee-high water without a problem, ignoring the skitter of a riversnake across its surface not four feet from me, and eye the guardrail at my chest level. You grimace, like it's your fault.
Ceasar appears. He pauses to look at your bruises, busted lips, and broken nose. "Damn, little lady," he says gently, his tone like one talking to a skitish horse. "I'd hate to see the other guy."
You don't smile. How could you? But your eyes brighten a bit, and my heart with them.
Ceasar stretches out his arms to mirror mine. "Here."
I whip out another, more kind Look to you as your hand twists in my vest strap. "It's okay." Then I hand you off to him.
Your eyes widen almost comically as he hefts you with even less effort than me. Seriously, you weigh less than most of his gear. One side of my mouth tips up, but I hide it in my hop into the boat, flecking those nearby with more water.
I take you back from Ceasar, and you sigh so softly I thought it was the breeze. Apparently, you aren't abiding by my touch for ultilitarian reasons. "Let's motor, guys," I say triumphantly.
The jungle swallows our craft, and the sounds it makes.
The boat ride is easy, except for the occassional bump that jars your fitful dozing in my lap. The guys occassionally sneak glances our way, but hold their silence. That, in itself, deserves a medal.
We troll into a bay with a retracted treeline and skid to a stop up on the coarse sand shore, and Gunnar starts ripping the camo cloth cover from our ride. Santa's smiling face greets us like an old friend as we disembark.
I wonder how I'll pilot the plane with you in my arms. They aren't tired yet, but reaching over you might prove hard.
"Mind if I keep my license current?" asks Yin Yang nonchalantly.
"Be my guest," I rumble. My voice wakes you again. It seems like you're dead woman walking, figuratively speaking. I know that traumatic experiences require sleep: the human brain can only take so much. I know what it's like to crawl into a bunk with worry and strife, pass out and wake up with your heart a little lighter. Maybe that's exactly what you need now. Your eyelids droop and you go out again.
I step onto the plane. Everyone is in their traditional seat: some against the wall, some in the ripped up seats. I settle on a corner, thump my back against the cold metal, and slide down without dislodging you. Success.
Christmas is last in the door, and he latches it with a shriek of metal. Our eyes meet again, and he nods his head. That nod means everything to me, every sentiment without words. I'm with you in this. I've got your back. He hands me a canteen full of water, and I take it, take a swig gratefully, and nudge you awake to drink. You guzzle about half, and promptly fall asleep again, hiccupping at the sudden intrusion on your sunken stomach. I can't help but smile a little.
Yin Yang taxis us off the beach, into the water, and finally into the air. I prop one knee up against some cargo boxes, arrange you against the inside of my leg leaning into me, and wrap you in my arms. It'll be several hours before we land again. I have time to think on flights like this. Sometimes that's a good thing, like now, and other times it's not.
My brain finally sputters out the entire plan it's been cooking since I met your eyes. I'm not just taking you with me: I'm taking you home with me. The ferocity of the thought worries me, in a distant way. A part of me screams that this is not a safe way to feel. I shake it off, but it persists in other ways. This is the easiest part, getting you home, it whispers. What about getting you seen by a doctor? It takes me a minute to come up with that one: it would be rather hard to explain you, much less your injuries, to a VA hospital. But I've got it.
What about getting your mind better? Bodies heal, but minds are tricky. I frown at the seemingly enormous task, but my eternal soldier's mind starts breaking it down into bite-sized chunks that I either address now, or will address when they come.
By the time we're halfway home, I've got about fifty percent of this ironed out. And the rest, little lady, is entirely up to you.
I join you in Snoozeville quickly, soothed by the rasp of Ceasar's whetstone on his straight razor and the good-natured barbs of the men.
Yin Yang is doing an admirable job piloting the ducttape and prayers rattle trap. Christmas is sitting copilot, and everyone else is sleeping. "You think he know what he's doing?" Yin Yang asks softly.
"He wouldn't be sleeping if he hadn't figured out everything there was to figure," Christmas replies. They both rotate to look into the cargo bay, where the incorrigible perfect soldier Barney Ross is asleep with a strange Nepalese woman snuggled against him like a limp doll, presumably still alive, covered in blood and so much more. What little bit of her skin shows beyond the scavenged BDU and Barney's veined arms is covered in bruises, cuts, and welts old and new.
"Bony little thing," Christmas comments, not unkindly. Indeed, the woman's ribs stick out like rebar, even through her shirt, and her dirty, bare feet may as well be under an X-ray for all the veins and tendons and tarsals showing.
Yin Yang is contemplative for several minutes, but eventually he nods and his shoulders visibly relax. That's the type of trust they hold in the brotherhood. "He's got a long way to go," the Asian says simply.
Christmas nods. He knows what he means: a long way to go before Barney figures out he's falling for a fallen angel...and even longer before she is whole enough to reciprocate.
We all wake up within seconds of each other as we feel the plane begin to descend. My body tightens, and that wakes you, too. You look up at me with a silent question, and I realize two things: one, you're not a chatterbox, but that's somewhat expected given your mental and physical condition; and two, I need something pretty basic if we are to go any further.
The pressure of the mission is gone, but the urgency of your wounds still looms. "We're landing," I grumble. "What's your name?" I feel stupid I haven't asked sooner.
You try to speak, fail, swallow, and try again. "Meera." Little less croaky, but hardly a songbird.
Meera. I can't say I've liked many names as far as names go, but that one fits. "Hold on, Meera."
The plane bounces lightly four times as the landing gear makes contact, but Yin Yang is proficient in everything, and so we back into the hangar with no trouble. The concrete and metal structure is both our base of operations and my living quarters. The rear third of the building is cordoned off with a fairly seamless wall of spare timber and courrogated metal. I wrestle myself to my knees, then to my feet, and the movement makes you hiss with pain. I am reminded of the awful state you're in when I regard the bloodstain your ass left on the ground between my legs.
I've got to get you to some medical care, and fast. I give Gunnar a healthy kick as I pass him. "Wake the hell up, Gunnar. We're home." The Swede halts in mid-snore, chokes, and grumbles into action.
I pause to watch the guys start their post-mission breakdown of gear. They're still talking about victory drinks at Point's, and some good greasy bar food. Our bikes are waiting for us in the hangar, covered with burlap to hide them, but I scarcely think you'll be able to straddle a bike. Besides, I'll have to put you down for a minute to lock up my gear. I decide to kill two birds with one stone. I'll have to come back and clean my guns and equipment later.
"Do you want to wash off?" I ask. "For now, I need to pass you off as American. Doctors tend to ask a lot of questions." Yes, you're still bleeding from your insides. Yes, you're tired and aching and abused. You've been though hell. But I need to get you seen by a doctor, and although I have one in mind who can keep quiet, I have to take you out in public to get there. A soldier-looking guy with an ugly face carrying a severely beaten woman? Yeah, that'll go over well.
You see the reasoning, I can tell. Doctors can treat you better when they can see the problems. You also infer, with some evident disbelief, from my statement that I'm not just going to drop you at the nearest opportunity. I watch the realization flicker behind your eyes and try to measure your enthusiasm. But secondary to that, you seem to be weighing the price of ridding yourself of all the filth on your skin versus the hurting it will take to get there. Finally, you nod.
"Hey, guys, I'm gonna pass. See ya." They say goodbye easily, univested as they are, and continue their routines. I don't blame them, hell no. This is my mission, not theirs.
I steer us toward the cordoned off area of the hangar, shoulder open the door, and key the simple digital combination into the lock of the second door. "This is where I live."
In front of us is largest open room, resplendent with GoodWill couch, old TV, a workbench for guns, another for electronics, a shit ton of exercise equipment, and a lot of old crap. In the corner of this room is a set of army bunks, the bottom of which is my bed and the top which is storage. I take you immediately left to the line of showers, and shoulder the curtain open to the only one I use. I put you down gingerly for the first time in hours, and you prop up against the wall, looking like you're about to climb Everest.
"Think you can do it?" I ask. It's actually in question.
Your eyes steel, and I see a bit of that resilience eeking through, and you nod.
"I'll track down some clean clothes. The tap runs hot, be careful." I leave you, trying to hide my reluctance, and I hear the water start. Seconds later, a slopping sound of the shirt hitting the ground outside the stall.
I monitor your progress by way of sound from the storage room to the right of my front door as I strip off my body armor, my uniform, and slap on some civie clothes. Then, I select digital camo BDUs and the smallest pair of boots I have in stockpile. I measure the soles against my palm, reckoning the size against the foot I held in the hut. The pants splat outside the shower, a long minute after the shirt. I grab a drab green woolen blanket to towel you dry, and pause to think. Did I leave a bottle of shampoo in there? A scrub? I know for sure there's a razor. What can I say, I'm a bachelor.
It may be cruel to ask you to wash your own wounds, but I keep hitting the wall of inappropriateness and bouncing off. I patch up the guys all the time, no problems there. In basic, there isn't even walls between the showers, just one long line of shower heads with shitty pressure and cold water. The difference now is that I don't want to further flay your dignity, even if your nakedness is nothing perverse to me.
Suddenly, I hear a mighty THUD. I jerk, that 'oh, shit' feeling gripping me, and dash back to the showers, boots pounding. "Meera, you okay?"
No answer. Shit! I whip back the curtain and you're curled in the bottom of the shower stall in a puddle of pink diluted blood, the water still pelting you. I slap the water off and feel your pulse, an unfamiliar panic rising in me. The throb in your carotid is strong, but you're unconscious. You must've slipped and bumped your head.
Shit, I want to kick myself. I shouldn't have left you alone, politeness be damned.
Wasting no more time, I hustle back to the storage room, stuff all the things I'd gathered into a gunny sack, and grab the green blanket before running back. I wrap you in the warm, scratchy material and in seconds we're in my only vehicle with four wheels: a nondescript '90s blue Ford pickup.
"You'll be okay," I say, more to myself than anything. I'm scared for you, scared because I'm actually afraid, and pissed/beyond-words-furious I let you down. Gritting my teeth as you half-wake and groan with pain, I gun the engine and hit the backroad into town, my headlights cutting the falling dusk.