The Hard Road

Chapter Thirteen

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Beeping. Fucking beeping. His head throbbed from the thick buzz filling his brain. Pain ripped through his chest and something tugged its way out. His eye focused on a male nurse with a single finger crossing his lips. He gave Draco a wink, stabbed another large syringe into his chest, and then disappeared out the door.

Plastic tubes threaded into both elbows. He was reclining in some sort of bed. Wires crisscrossed his burning chest and arms, sending flickers of magic jittering through his body. A muggle television set hung from the ceiling across the room. An attractive woman in a business suit droned on about the controversy over French Army's participation American attacks in Iraq. Dust clouds trailed Muggle tanks as they roared through tomato fields while artillery battalions blasted shells into enemy positions miles away.

Jolts stabbed through his chest and into his brain, forcing shallow breaths. A cough brought tears to his eyes. He tried to wipe his mouth, but his right arm was stuck. A steel handcuff clanked when he shuffled in the bed. Still, the beeping continued. Lightning flicked across the dark gray sky. He stared at the rain slicked windows until his eyes fluttered shut.

Beeping roused Draco. A sturdy looking nurse with a blonde bun wrapped high on her head had his wrist. "Ah, the sleeper lives." Her French was tinged with Provencal.

"Do you mind unlocking me so I can use the restroom?"

She nodded and rapped on the door frame. Two thick shouldered Police Militare came in. The younger of the two snorted and said, "Not going to try anything stupid, are you Pitou?"

"I just need to use the bathroom, corporal."

The world sloshed side to side as he pushed to his feet. His whole body throbbed and every single joint ground when they escorted him into the tiny bathroom. Dark brown piss was not a good sign. Neither was the black and blue wallpapering every inch of his flesh. The older of the two passed him three vials and nodded. His name tag read Rodier. There had been a Rodier marching wildlings last night. This fellow wasn't in werewolf form. He was shorter and his voice had a lazy Alsatian sort of slur, but he moved the same way. The man gave him a wink and pushed his finger against his lips. Draco quickly chugged it all down and shuffled back to the bed. The younger corporal had a distinct swagger and he sneered as he asked, "So, how exactly did you manage to get yourself shot by the guards last night."

"I was cleaning latrines. I was on the way from the mess hall to the admin building."

Rodier cut in. "Stupid fucker got into a fight with that big Russian asshole over stealing food again and got shot by the night watch."

The corporal's eyebrow quirked. "Since when do they give the night watch ammo?"

"Apparently the thief had been stealing it from the firing range. Word is he wanted to be some big shot green beret commando. The next Jean Reno. And it gets worse. The moron shot up the base commander but got killed by a supply truck. The bastard must have been hiding in the engine compartment when the base went on lockdown. Torn to pieces. Last I heard, they were still looking for the head. Let me just tell you, I don't envy the mechanics responsible for cleaning that mess. Go on, Pitou. Tell him."

Draco rubbed his head. "I don't remember much. Koszjek was pissed because they keep giving me his food. He caught me outside. I hit him with a lucky shot. He went down, and then I saw the flashes."

The man clapped Draco on the back. His breath left him and stars filled his vision. "Pitou here should be buying lottery tickets. Took two in the chest. Winged him both times or he'd be dead."

"You see what happened to the base commander?"

Draco shook his head. "He was already dead when I got there."

Rodier clapped him again, sending jolts of pain ripping through his chest and into his head. "See? He's barely hurt. They've already cleared him for another night scrubbing latrines, except, guess who has to escort his lazy ass so Mr Lucky here doesn't get shot again?"

The corporal squinted at the dinner-plate sized red stain on his hospital gown. "That doesn't look like he got winged."

He managed to grunt out, "It's only a flesh wound," which brought a chorus of laughter from the military policemen. His chest was itching like crazy and his stomach was growling. That was extremely good news. The PM snorted and then summoned the nurse. Hospital or not, he was still underweight and that meant double rations. He was so hungry that he couldn't even remember eating until he gnawed the ends off the chicken bones. Logical brain told him to stop, but hunger pushed him through. He crunched and slobbered until every single speck was gone. Most of the purple and black on his hands and arms faded to greenish yellow by the time the nurse returned.

A month without a woman was wearing thin. The light herbal scent of cheap shampoo combined with fake lavender on her hands. She wasn't nearly as alluring as Ada, but that didn't mean he didn't want her. "Have you ever been to La Petite Auberge in Avignon?"

Her fingers caught a blonde lock and tucked it behind her ear. Pink tinged her porcelain cheeks. Five minutes later she was sitting on the corner of his bed, discussing whether Syrian or Thai restaurants had the edge when three camouflage clad generals ambled in. The nurse's eyes bugged out. She flushed and slipped out the door.

They exchanged a few pleasantries and launched straight into questions. His name kept coming up in the investigation. They pressed every single angle. Justify every single calculation and decision he made. They picked apart his maths, made him review every scrap of terrain and the grounds. Heights of buildings, fences, vehicles, and guards. Then they launched into picking apart his responses and the base commander's conduct. What had he said? What had he done? They dragged in a well meaning adjutant sort of fellow and put him to work. The man wrote down every single scrap of detail of Draco's plan and then unrolled a map of the base. Every location was marked and circled with his estimated minimum reaction zones. All the while, the dark mark on his left arm throbbed. The asp slithered in and out of the skull's eye sockets and twined its bony jaw.

"Now, is this exactly where they were?"

"It was the general vicinity. The PM's were given instructions, but they were also instructed to adjust for field conditions."

The generals turned to a short, wiry man with a head full of salt and pepper hair. He had not noticed that one before, but three unevenly spaced black bars on his camouflage uniform indicated a sergeant major. The tallest one asked, "Serge, what's your assessment?"

Calloused hands drifted over the map. "Malbec, why did you bother with this?"

"Frankly, major, I did not want to die." That earned a derisive snort. "I was the only one who did not transform and was likely to be ripped to pieces. Recruits were being injured faster than they could be treated. I had learned some field medicine prior to my enlistment, so I assisted treating the injured. I worked with my sous-officers to implement a scheme they could manage given being short handed."

The man eyed him. "It looks quite pedantic at first. There's obvious access to the clinic and each position in the rear has line of sight to monitor forward positions for keeping up when the group in front of you moves... But, then I notice little things. Subtle details which a commander might miss unless he had studied modern, urban warfare, especially tactical retreats."

Draco was fighting his smile. He wasn't exactly sure where it was going, but he didn't want to tip his hand.

The sergeant major continued, "But it must be a coincidence, because there's only this pioupiou." The man walked knotted fingers over one of the marked positions. "But let us consider this position. The low roof line with an L-shaped alley behind it creates a strong attack position for two or three werewolves while simultaneously providing instant retreats which make use of existing barriers to block and delay attackers who do not have their physical prowess. I'm just an old man who sees ghosts, but the next position just happens to have close fences and parked military transport trucks in front of staggered rows of narrow offices. Werewolves would quickly attack and then bound over, while a chasseur might waste half an hour working their way around and clearing a safe path. The third is similar, providing a retreat path without providing clues to their final destination. I find it hard to believe that a grieveton could put something like this together on the way back from the latrine, but yet this is what my chief sergeants tell me."

"Adjutant chef, I employed significant input from the sous officers."

A twinkle lit the man's grizzled eyes. "They said you requested harsh critique including reasons it would fail and things you had not taken into account, and then adjusted immediately and received their approval. Do you know how many casualties we suffered last night?"

His stomach knotted. "No, mon adjutant chef."

"Three. The base commander, a wandering recruit who took two bullets in the chest, and the shooter. Somehow, everybody else received their treatment and then vanished without a trace, including the entire medical staff."

He let out a deep sigh of relief. The man continued, "I would he very surprised to learn plans like this were created by a novice. Word is our poilu used a fair bit of nasty magic."

One of the generals eyed the tattoo and gave a light chuckle. "This is the British war criminal."

The man gave him side eyes and then snorted. "Doesn't look like much of a war criminal. Ever kill women or children?"

"Yes, mon adjutant chef."

He was certain that at least two of the generals knew about his misdeeds. Certainly, they were in his jacket. The conversation quickly shifted into questions like what he had learned about the effect on the enemy of killing women and children, response to illegal tactics, and such.

Once satisfied, a smirk creaseed the corner of one of the general's mouth. "I'm sure you will be questioned more. The murder of a base commander and the shooting of a recruit by a rogue night watchman is no small matter."

They filed out. Once they were gone, Draco found a manilla folder on the hospital table containing a brief report. It included the testimony of one engage voluntare Malbec detailing his punishment for routine misbehavior which included cleaning latrines on the night watch. The recruit heard gunshots and upon investigating, found the base commander dead. He was running off to notify the authorities when he was shot. He was not wounded severely, but the perpetrator attacked him from behind and beat him, breaking several ribs and knocking him unconscious. He was unable to identify the attacker and had no memory of the incident after that.

He had barely gobbled down another double portion of roast chicken and mashed potatoes when two military police jostled past the doctor. The doctor's face exploded in red when they hauled him out of the chair. "No! This is my patient! You can do whatever you want after I discharge him!"

They passed a stack of paperwork. He paged through it. "I don't know what this is, but while he's here, he's mine!" The doctor stomped out, breathing threats about calling their command. A male nurse snuck in behind him. The man unhooked all the wires and pulled the IV lines while one of the guards tossed him a uniform. A minute later, Draco was in the bathroom while the nurse peeled blood crusted dressings off a pair of of round, pink divots. The mirror revealed how close he really had been. Another three inches and they would have planted him in a hole. He could barely get his right arm up and twisting took his breath away.

The doctor rushed back into the doorway and shoved a pair of fingers into the first police militare's chest. "I told you! Not one more step. While he's here, he's mine. I've got the chief of Gendarme on the way."

The second PM nudged Draco and flared his eyes fiery yellow. Draco groaned. Like it or not, he knew the score. He focused his powers and touched the doctor's arm. The doctor's eyes dilated and rolled back into his head. The first guard caught him as he sagged and sat him on the corner of the bed. Draco focused into the man's eyes and mouthed the Legillimens. "Your skill as a doctor exceeds all expectations. I know there was a lot of blood, but you were right that it was barely a flesh wound. He should never have been brought here. At least these military police are finally here to drag the hypochondriac bastard back to peeling potatoes where he belongs."

The doctor's eyes fluttered. He snapped the manilla folder across the back of his hand. "It's about time!"

The lead PM wrung his hat and passed a short stack over. "Sorry, sir. Just need your signature on the custody transfer."

The pen scratched as the doctor nodded, and that was that. The fellow was off to see more important patients.

The guards snorted out a laugh. "Best day ever. I gotta say, that's pretty damned slick."

Draco winked. "Meh. Saves time." He was in the middle of asking about the agenda for tonight when his stomach rumbled. The guards smirked at each other, then the taller one shrugged, and said, "Sack of bones here is on a dietary plan."

The other one nodded. "Orders are orders."

Ten minutes later, they were sitting around a beige formica table at a small Lebanese restaurant. They were laughing as Draco sopped up the rest of the hummus in a pita, finished the last three falafel, and gulped down the remainders of his second gyro and roast vegetables. The shorter one shook his head. "You know, the best thing about prisoner detail is that old weathervane pays for dinner."

"The Chameleon is a charitable sort of fellow, isn't he."

The food went a long way to easing the throbbing in his chest. The guards chit chatted about tennis matches and girlfriends while escorting him back through the security checkpoint and into Rosencrantz's medical building. The nurses all turned up their noses at the loafer. One paged through his medical files and tsked. "What do Kehrseites think medicine is supposed to do?" The woman returned with two giant syringes and a pitcher of bubbling green that stank of rotten fish.

Draco had barely chugged the wretched slush after being jabbed half a dozen times when the world around him fluttered and twisted sideways. He awoke to moonlight glittering off of the muggle maths stomping and chanting their noisy songs about magnetic field calculations. He craned to stand but the throbbing pains in his chest took his breath. Half a dozen numbers and letters were all yammering at him at once. Some griped about the two silver bullets lodged in his lungs while others criticized his decision to fight Koszjek. The last group complained that this would surely be the death of his poor mother. His Lumos drove the herd of numbers and symbols into the shadows and revealed a dozen bottles of various healing and pepper up potions as well as protein and bone supplements. "The least you lot could have done was tell me this was here."

A shimmery orange greek theta wearing a grass skirt shrugged. "That angry doctor lady left this while you were asleep."

The paperwork authorized him to use them as needed. He downed one of each and charmed his pockets to hold the rest along with the prescriptions. His shoulder ached. It had a strange click every time he exercised it. Overall, this was excellent progress compared to anything Pomfrey and Snape could muster, especially given that a werewolf had nearly ripped it completely off last night. Never mind that he had been shot.

Shimmering moonlight greeted him as he pushed through the door. The rain slicked pavement and the air's cool wetness reminded him of the night before. A hand pressed into his chest. It was Fabbri, the were-aux san from last night. "Nope. Figured you'd try to be a hero." The monster raised his silver snout and sniffed. "No way you're up for this tonight."

"I had orders."

"To scrub the latrines? Have at it if you're really that bored." The werewolf winked his fiery red eye and gave Draco a sharp toothed grin.

He was not that bored. The world swirled half a turn. He grabbed the door frame to keep himself upright. A bright green letter A was tugging at his legs and pointing at the desiccated witch corpse ambling his way. The werewolf snickered as he petted the red hashtag perched on his shoulder. "Stoned wizards are a weird lot."

His brain lagged a bit, but the aux-san's words made no sense. How was the fellow playing with his hallucinations? Rosencrantz was now standing in front of him with her mummified arms crossed. She shined a flashlight into each eye and shook her head. She clicked notes into her computer and pointed straight at the bed he just got out of. "You've still got a severe concussion as well as nerve damage and the blood loss... And will you stop with the stupid letters?"

A lowercase E was gnawing eraser chunks and wood chips off of the end of her pencil. Blue sparks flicked off her finger and a burnt moth hit the ground smoldering. The werewolf cupped his hand over the mathematic symbol nuzzling his furry neck and turned away from her. "I quite like this one."

She shook her head and jabbed two more syringes the size of soda cans into his chest. Gurgles rippled through his stomach and everything in the room smelled absolutely delicious. He snatched the dancing letter A off the floor and stuffed it into his mouth, but was disappointed when it evaporated into a mushy, dirt-flavored lump. She pointed at the medic. "I don't care what he eats. He needs more food."

"I thought I was supposed to assist."

Her hands pushed into her hips. "Luckily, we know just where to find you, don't we? In the mean while, you are under orders. I'm already full up on paperwork from the last fatality. We won't be having another, will we?"

Eating instead of getting himself killed sounded like a fine idea. The werewolf marched him over to the dark mess hall. "Orders are orders, right?"

He quirked an eyebrow, but were-Fabbri had his hands in his hips. "Well? Are we going to eat or not?"

He shrugged. Mundungus Fletcher had been a worthless git, but he had taught Draco one useful thing. He focused his powers on the internals of the lock and twisted his wrist. It hitched for a second and then opened with a metallic click.

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