Jo Graham - Death Game

“No radio?” Teyla said.

“That’s what I left in the jumper,” John said, grimacing. “I knew there was something. I was wearing the headset and it must have gotten knocked off in the crash.”

“I have mine,” Teyla said, proffering it. She winced as she moved.

“How about some ibuprofen?” John said, patting his pockets again and coming out with a plastic box. “That should help with the pain and the swelling.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed the caplets down dry and passed the box back to him. “You?”

“I can’t take it with a head injury,” John said. “It’s a blood thinner. If I’ve got a brain bleed it will make it worse. So I need to grin and bear it.”

“As long as you can grin,” she said.

“I can grin.” John picked up the radio. “Now let’s see if we can get Ronon.”

Twilight was coming. That, in itself, was not particularly interesting. What was interesting to Rodney McKay was the fact that the jumper had not returned. How long could Zelenka take looking at the ruins on the island? It had been hours.

Rodney sat in the shadow of the DHD, the only shelter from the setting sun, in the middle of a barren stretch of desert.

And what was with building a Stargate in the middle of deserts? Or in the middle of forests? Or in Antarctica? Or otherwise out in the middle of nowhere? Why didn’t the Ancients put Stargates in the middle of cities? It’s like building an airport in Saskatchewan. Why? Wouldn’t you want to put a main interplanetary terminal somewhere people could get to?

But no. The Ancients didn’t think like that. The Ancients loved to put Stargates in remote and inaccessible places replete with assorted dangers.

So here he sat, in the middle of a desert, with the gate, waiting for the jumper to get back. No doubt they were taking their sweet time on a tropical island, maybe getting in a little swimming, hanging around eating pineapples or something. While he sat waiting at the gate like an obedient dachshund. Maybe it was all an elaborate practical joke, and any minute they’d show up and have a good laugh.

He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of thinking they’d gotten to him. No way. He’d be busy, like he hadn’t even noticed they were gone. When they showed up. Any minute now.

Rodney sighed and checked his watch again. Nine hours. This was getting absurd. Before long Elizabeth would be worried in Atlantis and would dial in to find out what was wrong. And what would he tell her? That everybody had wandered off, leaving him with the gate? How nice.

Somewhere in the sandy hills off to the east there was a long howl.

Oh bad. So very bad. Like a wolf. Only there probably weren’t wolves in the desert. Maybe a jackal. But it didn’t sound good. The long sunset was fading and it would be night soon. And then here he’d be, jackals and all.

This was not turning into Rodney McKay’s day.

He picked up his radio again. “Sheppard? Come in, Sheppard. Sheppard?”

“So what have we got?” John asked, propping back against the firm pillows of the bed. “Dinnerwise.”

It was full night, and the bronze oil lamp cast a warm glow over the room as it swung back and forth on its chains. A few minutes before the soldiers had returned, bringing a large flat loaf of bread, a plate with several kinds of fruit, a covered dish, and a bowl. The bowl proved full of some sort of vegetable puree. Teyla had wrinkled her nose at the strange texture, but John licked some off a morsel of bread experimentally.

“Kind of like baba ghanoush,” he decided, and dipped the bread more lavishly.

“You are not supposed to eat much,” Teyla admonished.

“This isn’t much,” John said, tearing off another piece of bread. “Besides, if I was going pass out, wouldn’t I be unconscious by now?”

“How would I know?” Teyla said. “Do you think that I am suddenly become a doctor?”

John stopped, the bread in hand. “If I’m brain bleeding, there’s not anything to do about it. If you think I’m going to have these guys trepan me, you’re crazy. And if I’m not brain bleeding, then there’s not much point in missing supper, is there?” He lifted the lid on the round covered dish and an aromatic steam escaped. “Some kind of tea or thin soup,” he said.

Teyla lifted the dish and took an experimental sip. “Tea, I think. It is sweet.” She looked at her watch. “It has been nearly eleven hours. I suppose you should eat and drink something.” She handed him the warm dish.

“Unless you’d rather have me die of dehydration than concussion,” he said. John was grinning, which was better. He must be feeling at least some better to be able to joke about it. He took a cautious sip, then a longer one.

Teyla busied herself with the fruit, familiar sila and rannin , rare and expensive on Athos, but common to tropical climates throughout the Pegasus Galaxy. Here, this probably registered as an ordinary meal, not the kind of thing one would give prisoners but not the way one would entertain honored guests either. This was probably the meal the household was eating. She found this obscurely comforting. It suggested that their hosts weren’t sure of their status and had not decided their fate. Perhaps in the morning they could meet formally with Tolas and convince him that they deserved his help. Certainly these people lacked many things that could be proposed in trade. Jitrine had the training to understand many of the medical supplies Dr. Beckett used, and would surely be eager to try them.

Medical supplies. Teyla had put antibiotic cream on John’s stitches from the tiny first aid kit she carried in her pocket, but there were only three packets. There were more in her backpack, but without it they were very limited.

John had clearly been thinking in the same direction, as he put down the piece of fruit he was eating and leaned back. “We should inventory our stuff.”

“Agreed,” Teyla said, setting the chewy bread aside and sitting cross-legged opposite him.

John took his nine millimeter out of its holster and laid it on the sheet. “Pistol. Two clips for it in my pocket. A spare clip for the P90, but since I don’t have the gun…”

“Hunting knife and eating knife,” Teyla said, putting the larger and smaller side by side. “Another clip for the P90.”

“Let’s empty the pockets out,” John said, and started unbuttoning them. Two energy bars. His wallet, which he carried more out of force of habit than anything else. It wasn’t like they were going to ask him for his driver’s license. A pen. A flashlight. Sunglasses. Mini first aid kit. Swiss Army knife. Three packets of salt. Multi tool. One more field dressing. A magnetic compass. A packet of tissues. He looked at the pile on the bed. “Not so much, really. Everything was in the pack.” John looked up and boggled at the pile around Teyla.

Three packets of crackers, four granola bars, two juice packets, a chocolate bar, a bag of fruit leather, a bag of salted corn kernels, a flashlight, four field dressings, a flat box of pills, a compression bandage, a box of toilet tissue, lip balm, sunscreen, rubber bands, note pad, magnetic compass, water bottle, screwdriver, pair of socks, ball of yarn, two small candles, a lighter, and a paperback copy of Watership Down. John smiled at the latter.

“I have two MREs in my pack,” Teyla said. “And fifty feet of rope.”

“Do you always plan for the apocalypse?” John asked.

“Usually,” Teyla said serenely. “It is always better to be prepared.”

There was the sound of the bar at the door being moved, and they hurriedly repacked their pockets. It occurred to Teyla that it was very interesting indeed that their captors had let John retain his pistol. Perhaps they were so unfamiliar with firearms that they did not perceive it as a threat. Surely a pistol and two spare clips for it would be enough to end almost any confrontation their way.