James Axler - Separation

“Need to get a fire going, try to get warm, dry. Gather some wood. Blasters are useless, so need knives.”

Jak nodded, understanding immediately what Ryan meant. Hands dipping into the hidden recesses of his camou jacket, he produced two leaf-bladed throwing knives. One of these he kept in his own palm, the other he gave to Krysty. Now all of the companions that were conscious had a weapon of some sort that could work. And in the close quarters of the woodland, the knives and the panga sported by Ryan would be much more effective than any blaster that could alert an enemy of their position.

“Dean, Krysty, stay here and keep guard over Mildred and Doc. The rest of us will gather wood for the fire.”

And as the younger Cawdor and the red-haired woman took up defensive positions, the remaining three companions moved into the darkness to gather small wood and kindling for a fire. Even if it was kept small, it would still give away their position when lit, but at least they would be able to establish a solid line of defense.

Jak, despite the battering his wiry frame had taken, was recovering more quickly than the others and he moved with speed to gather firewood, his blazing red eyes scanning the darkness as his nose and ears tried to pick out the slightest sound to identify it. He was sure that there was something—someone—out there, but he couldn’t be sure what it may be. Whoever or whatever it was, it had a gift for concealment and disguise that made it a match for him. The albino youth gritted his teeth and judged the amount of wood he held—enough for a small fire on its own. He nodded briefly to himself. It was enough for him to get back to the clearing. There was safety in numbers, and it wasn’t through any kind of cowardice that he wanted to seek that. Rather, it was the knowledge that J.B. and Ryan were tired and may be carrying more injuries than himself.

For Jak had been able to tell that the Armorer had been limping, the legacy of a long-ago injury thanks to a mutie flying squirrel that had taken a chunk from his leg. It had torn into the muscle of his calf, making it a weak spot that would always succumb first in rough conditions. As for Ryan, the one-eyed man had moved in a way to suggest that movement from the waist up—even from breathing—was painful. Jak suspected that their leader had cracked at least a couple of ribs, and the pain and stiffness would make him much more vulnerable than usual.

While Jak ghosted his way back to the clearing, Ryan and J.B. were both struggling.

As the Armorer collected wood he grit his teeth, his calf muscle feeling as if it were on fire. It had begun as a dull ache and had increased as they had carried Doc through the woods. So much so that he had felt himself begin to drag the leg as he walked, the calf stiffening and refusing to respond before a dull ache began to suffuse it. When they had stopped, instead of a cessation of pain, it had begun to grow in intensity to the point where it now felt as if a red-hot knife had been pushed vertically through it. Sweat spangled his forehead, running salt into his eyes as he continued with his task as quickly as he could manage. He, too, was in a hurry to get back to the safety of numbers and an established camp, being only too aware of the vulnerable state in which he found himself.

Ryan, on the other hand, couldn’t have hurried if he tried. Like the Armorer, he wanted to return to camp quickly, but the notion of rapid movement was, at the moment, quite alien. Every breath, every step, sent pains around his ribs and chest, shooting back and forth like snakes in long grass, never letting him know exactly where they would appear next. Bending to gather wood was an almost impossible task, and although he gathered some pieces, he soon gave up on that. It would be all he could do to get back to the others. Breathing as shallowly as possible to cut down on the pain of muscle movement around his ribs, he began to hobble back, taking small, quick steps to make as rapid a progress as possible with as little effort and pain.

Unlike Jak, both Ryan and J.B.—although keeping triple-red—were unaware of any presence around them, their own pain and difficulty misting their usually razor-sharp faculties.

It made the group relatively defenseless, especially as Mildred was still unconscious when Jak—the first back—reached the clearing.

“Me,” he said simply as he emerged from cover to join Krysty and Dean, dropping his load of firewood on the woodland floor. “Where others?”

“Not back yet,” Krysty replied.

Jak grimaced. “You notice?” he asked.

“Notice what?” Krysty countered.

“Ryan and J.B. both carrying injury—one leg, one ribs. Try to cover, carry on—but must hurt like fuck.”

Krysty trusted Jak’s judgment implicitly. It was typical of both men to try to work through their pain; but given the conditions under which the companions were trying to survive, it was better that Jak had made them aware of this. They would have to pull together more then ever.

Doc began to moan.

“He’s coming around,” Dean said, leaning over Doc as his eyes flickered open. They were unseeing, as though the old man was viewing a different world.

“Heavens to Betsy, is there no one who will rid me of this troublesome priest?” he asked in feeble tones. Then, surprising them, he shot bolt upright and spoke in loud, declamatory tones. “Are we not men? Do we seek to hide in the shadows and not to come into the open and declare ourselves? What is this that makes us skulk in the shadows? When they came, then came again, I said nothing. When they came for me, there was nobody left to save me. Oh, who will save the poor widow’s son? I do not wish to be split from breast to breast and have my entrails spilled across my shoulder, and yet…and yet…” As he repeated the phrase, his voice suddenly quietened and he sank back, eyes still open. “Oh my sweet Lord,” he continued softly, “what has happened to me?”

“It’d take too long to explain, Doc,” Krysty said softly, mopping his brow. “Just know that you’re pretty safe right now, and we’re about to build a fire and get warm. Do you remember being in the raft?”

“I think so,” he said gently, nodding with wide-eyed wonder like a child frightened of the dark and sensing a friendly hand in the blackness.

“Well, that was a rough ride, but we’re out of it now. Just got to dry off and get warm.”

Doc struggled up onto one elbow. “But the good Dr. Wyeth? What has happened to her? I know something must have, for she is always there when I am troubled in the soul and awaken from a nightmare.” He looked around, catching sight of the prone Mildred. “Is she…?”

“She’s alive, Doc, but unconscious,” Krysty answered, holding on to the hand with which he clung to her, tightly and as though his life were dependent upon it. “It’s important that we get this fire built.”

“What? Oh, yes, of course,” he said, suddenly snapping into reality and letting go her hand. “What must I do?”

“You stay there, Doc, while we do this,” Dean answered. “You’re still not a hundred percent and that was a hell of a trip. Just rest a moment.”

Doc nodded sagely. “You are a wise man, like your father, young master Cawdor.” He fell silent as he watched them.

The fire was soon built and Jak began to use a stick rubbed onto dry leaves in a channel cut into a larger branch by his knife. In the dark, the first sparks of fire and the smoldering of the leaves glowed dimly in the dark, brightening as Jak blew gently to fan the flame before transferring it to the pile they had constructed ready for burning.

As the fire took, all four of them suddenly became aware of the fact that J.B. and Ryan hadn’t yet appeared.