Supercritical Page 18
Briggs dug in his pack and pulled out a field dressing, which Nick took from him. Seconds later, the damaged Monza rattled off.
Chapter Twenty-Four
We Must Bleed
“So, what did we find?” Nick asked, lighting a cigarette and walking with Christopher and Martin over to the wrecked Hunters.
“Eight rounds of 7.62. Four 9mm. Really, they had about ten seconds left of fight in them before they had to start throwing rocks,” Christopher said, sighing.
“Yeah, we’re not too far from that. What else?”
“I found a whole box of these in the back of one of their trucks,” Martin said, holding up a white sheet of paper.
Christopher took it from him and looked it over for a second. His face set into a frown, and he spat on the ground before he handed the paper over to Nick.
“My Chinese isn’t that great. Does this mean what I think it means?”
Nick quickly scanned the flyer. Pretty quickly, he realized it was a manifesto—an anti-Chinese government screed decrying the war and the People’s Liberation Army. It advocated that the people rise up and stop the Chinese war machine at any cost.
“Yeah,” Nick croaked, blowing out smoke. “It’s what you think it is. As if I already didn’t feel enough like shit about how tonight went—”
Nick moved quickly, kicking at the rear quarterpanel of the destroyed Hunter. The metal dented in, but Nick kicked it again anyway, harder this time. He opened his mouth to swear, to shout, but nothing came out. He tensed his leg to kick at the truck again, but suddenly, he didn’t even want to do that anymore.
“Uh, guys? Kinda out of the loop here,” Martin said after a moment.
“They were freedom fighters. They were on our side,” Christopher told him.
“Well, then why the fuck did they fire on us?”
“Come on, Martin. If we heard some Chinese and Renegade Russians were rolling through our hood with vital intel, we would have done the same thing.”
Nick said nothing as Christopher explained, just took a long drag of his cigarette. This mission had gone pear-shaped in a hurry. Now he had one of his team—his friend—injured, possibly fatally. Nick wasn’t a medic, but he saw way too much blood for it to be a minor scrape. And he’d just shot a bunch of friendlies. A bunch of freedom fighters who could have helped get them into Shanghai, could have made their mission a hell of a lot easier.
What a shitty fucking night, Nick thought, flicking his cigarette out into the darkness. “Right. We’re wasting time, here. Martin, we can’t leave these vehicles here as-is. I want you to burn ’em to the frame.”
Martin’s scarred face twisted into a grin, a sight Nick always found a bit unsettling. “Borrow your lighter, boss?”
Nick tossed the Bic disposable to his demolitions expert, and Martin set about his work.
“Chris. You and I need to find transport. According to my screen, they’re already six miles away and going farther. We’ll never make that on foot before sunrise.”
“Road was pretty abandoned, but I’ll hike out that way and have a look around.”
“No, stay here and get anything you can from those corpses before Martin destroys the vehicles. A radio would be great, but anything. A frequency, email address, phone number. Some way to get in contact with their pals in the resistance, if there are any.”
Christopher nodded his understanding. Nick lit another cigarette and headed back toward the road, which was about a mile and a half away. As he walked, he tried as best he could to convince himself that Daniel would be just fine. They’d all been shot before, he reasoned, Daniel included. It was almost part of the Echo job description. When he caught up with the rest of his crew, Daniel would be conscious and bitching about the pain, but he’d be fine.
The more rational part of his brain, though, knew that they’d all been nearer to decent U.S. military medical facilities those other times they’d taken bullets. And their body armor had usually taken the brunt of the damage. Most of the bullet wounds the team had taken were minor in the grand scheme of things. A blown-off finger here, a lower leg wound there. Nothing that bled like Daniel’s wound had.
Nick absentmindedly scratched at his arm where the bullet had grazed it. He realized he hadn’t even bandaged it up yet. He was still holding the field dressing in his right hand, so he tied it around the wound as he reached the road and looked around.
Christopher was right. The road was deserted. Nick saw no headlights off in the distance in either direction. Wuchuan had to be a good twenty miles away, and Dorobod Qi was even farther. He’d seen a few random buildings on the sides of the road as they drove, but they’d looked abandoned. He certainly didn’t remember any vehicles just waiting around to be stolen.
His best bet was to wait and try to flag down the next vehicle he saw, and Nick hated waiting. He hated downtime. He’d much rather be doing something, anything, especially while half of his team was going farther and farther into the unknown without him.
Nick didn’t have to wait long, as it turned out. A pair of headlights appeared, coming from the same way Nick and his people had. As the car came closer, he stepped out into the road and waved his hands. The car, a tiny new Chery M1, skidded to a stop a few feet from him, and the driver, a Chinese teenager in dark blue coveralls, stepped out.
He looked Nick up and down, his eyes wide.
“You all right, man?”
Nick answered by unslinging his M4 from his back and advancing on the poor guy quickly, his rifle deadshot-aimed at the kid’s forehead.
“Run,” he growled quietly.
The kid didn’t need to be told twice. He took off at full speed, sprinting back down the road the way he had come. Nick waited a few seconds for the young man to get some distance, then got into the micro-car and closed the door.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror as he turned the car off the road and headed back toward Martin and Christopher. It was no wonder the teenager had stopped and asked if he was all right—Nick’s face was smeared with blood.
* * *
Bryce’s truck wasn’t going fast, but the little car Nick stole wasn’t great off road. They weren’t going to catch up to their team in the Chery, not without wrecking the thing. They’d already driven into a shallow ditch and busted out both of the headlights. Fortunately, the car didn’t weigh much, and they were able to pull it out by hand. Christopher drove slower now, piloting with the night-vision display in his goggles.
It wasn’t a comfortable ride on the uneven dirt and sparse foliage, but it probably wouldn’t have been much better on the road. Christopher had his chair pushed back as far as it would go and was still almost steering with his knees. Nick had his seat pushed forward to try and give Martin some room in the microscopic back seat, but all that accomplished was both of them not having any space to put their legs.
“Still,” Christopher said, trying to force a grin over his gritted teeth, “it’s faster than walking.”
“Yeah. Marginally,” Martin bitched.
Next to Martin, just behind Christopher’s maxed-out seat, they’d shoved all three of their assault rifles and packs. Every time Christopher turned his head to the left, he smacked his temple on the barrel of his own AK-47. He swore quietly every time, so much so that Nick didn’t even have to look over at him to know when Christopher turned his head. All he had to do was listen for the “fuck.”
“Which way now, Nick?” Christopher grumbled.
“Straight on. Up into the mountains,” Nick said. “Looks like they’ve stopped about five miles ahead.”
“Can I burn this piece of shit when we’re done with it, Nick? Please?” Martin asked.
“Sadly, we might need it. I don’t know how long Bryce’s truck is going to hold up,” Nick said, sighing.
“Oh, God, no. Once we get out and find the guys, I am not getting back in this thing ever again. I’ll fucking walk to Shanghai,” Christopher spat.
“Everyone just c
alm down, all right? You’re giving me a fucking headache,” Nick snapped.
It went silent in the car for a moment, the only sound the pitiful four-cylinder engine straining to pull the three full-grown men over the broken terrain. The silence was broken soon enough, though, as their radios all clicked on at once.
“Hey, boss. Got Martin’s chip on my screen,” Mary’s voice said. “There’s a dirt road about a half mile east of you. Take that for another three miles then turn off where you see a small house. That’s us.”
“Copy that,” Nick said.
“A house? Way up here in the middle of nowhere?” Christopher wondered aloud.
“Probably some kind of nutbag mountain man’s place,” Martin said. “My younger brother did that. Moved up to a cabin on Pikes Peak and never talked to anyone.”
“What happened to him?” Nick asked, making a conscious effort to soften his tone. He felt bad for snapping at his friends.
“I don’t know. He never talked to anyone,” Martin said, shrugging.
They found the house easily enough, and it appeared Martin was right. It was little more than a one-room cabin that looked like it was built by hand. There was a light on inside, though, so it had power. Christopher pulled the M1 around the back and parked it next to the battered Monza.
Nick and his guys couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. Nick stumbled around a bit, willing the pins and needles out of his legs, and saw that Christopher and Martin were doing the same. As he walked around, he passed the back of the Monza.
The seats were folded down, and the entire interior was red with blood.
Without waiting for the feeling to completely return to his legs, Nick walked into the cabin. Bryce and Mary sat on chairs near the dining room table, and Briggs stood at the window smoking a cigarette. Daniel lay on his back on the table, his shirt and jacket stripped away. His torso was cleaned of all the blood, but he looked much paler than when Nick had last seen him.
“Hey, boss,” Briggs said.
“What’s his situation?” Nick asked.
Briggs walked back over to the front door, motioning for Nick to follow him outside. They walked away from the cabin a bit, and Briggs lit a cigarette. He kept his voice low as Christopher and Martin walked into the house.
“Sorry. Didn’t want to talk in front of Bryce. I get the feeling he and Daniel are…together?”
“Yeah. Probably a good idea. So, where are we at?”
“The wound is fine. I got everything closed up. The bullet’s out. That’s not the problem anymore,” Briggs started.
“Yeah? What is?”
“You saw the back of the truck. Daniel’s lost a shitload of blood. I gave him all the saline I have, but that’s not going to do it. He needs a transfusion.”
“Understood.”
“Problem there, too. Daniel’s got type A blood. No one in the unit has that.”
“I’m O negative,” Nick said.
Briggs exhaled smoke and nodded.
“That’ll work. But understand, Nick—this is going to put you both out of commission for a couple of days. I have no idea how safe we are here, and you’re the only one who speaks the language.”
“What’re our other options?”
“None, unless there’s a blood bank close by we can rob.”
“Then we’re doing the transfusion. Get it set up.” Nick’s voice was flat and hard, and his shoulders were set. He leaned slightly toward Briggs as he spoke.
“It’s not ideal. You could get anything he might have, and vice versa.”
“I’m aware of that, Sergeant,” Nick said. He was already tired of this conversation. “Get to it.”
Briggs apparently caught the shift, noticed that Nick’s voice had turned cold, that he’d called him by rank rather than name. Nick saw in his face that the medic knew the conversation was over, so he flicked his cigarette off into the darkness and went back inside the cabin. After a few moments, Nick followed, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves as he went.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Everything Turns Gray
Before Nick and his brother Stan went hiking alone for the first time in Laurel Canyon, their father had insisted on slapping a piece of duct tape on the toe of each of their right boots. Nick looked down at the tape—it had the words “O NEG” written on it in black Sharpie. Stan’s had “O POS” written on it.
“What’s that?” Nick asked.
“It’s your blood type,” Alex told him. “In case something happens, if one of you falls down and needs to go to the hospital, the paramedics will know what kind of blood to give you.”
* * *
Nick’s eyes slowly opened. He was staring out the window. The sun was up, and Mary sat a few feet away.
She smiled as she saw him open his eyes.
“Hey, boss. How’re you feeling?”
“Sleepy,” Nick mumbled.
“Yeah. Drugs. We’re all secure here. Get some sleep, okay?”
Nick wanted to argue with her, but his eyes slid closed on their own.
* * *
“BP’s still pretty low. But getting better,” Nick heard in the darkness. It was Briggs’ voice, he knew. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids had decided against it.
“And Daniel?” Christopher’s voice.
“Pulse is stronger. He’s a tough kid. But I don’t like just waiting here. Anyone could come up that road and find us.”
“I don’t know. Now they both look like hammered shit, rather than just Daniel,” Christopher said.
“Kid needed a lot of blood. Nick’s the only compatible donor. They’re both running a couple of pints low, and we’re not in the best conditions here.”
“Can’t you give ’em something?”
“Hey, back at base, I’d give ’em both some Depakote and be running IVs of saline and crystalloid. They’d both be up and around in a flash.”
“So why aren’t you doing that?”
“My pack took some fire. Saline flooded out, Depakote fell out somewhere along the way. We’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way and keep ’em hydrated. Their bodies will replace the missing blood eventually.”
“How long?”
“A couple of days before they can move.”
“Right. I’ll let the other teams know.”
* * *
“Why’s he still sleeping?” Nick asked his father. The two of them were sitting in Stan’s hospital room. Nick was five.
“Your brother had surgery. Do you know what that means?” Alex said.
Nick shook his head.
“It means something went wrong inside Stan. His appendix—that’s an organ, like your heart or your lungs—burst, and the doctors needed to go inside and take the appendix out.”
Nick remembered a movie he’d seen on TV a few weeks before, where a bunch of doctors shrunk themselves down and took a spaceship inside some guy’s body. Was that what his father meant? It must have been.
“But why’s he still sleeping? He’s been sleeping all day, and we’re supposed to go to Jimmy Doyle’s birthday party today.”
“He needs to rest a lot to heal. Your mom will still take you to the party, but Stan has to stay here for a couple more days.”
“Will he be okay?” Nick asked.
“Yes, Nick. He’ll be fine. The doctors are very good—they know what they’re doing.”
* * *
It was late at night when Nick opened his eyes again. There was one light on in the small cabin, and Christopher perched on a small coffee table next to Nick, who was laid out on the couch.
“Hey, pal. Have some water,” Christopher said, picking up a bottle from the table next to him.
Nick tried to raise his arm to take the bottle from his second-in-command, but his hands felt like they were made of stone. He only managed to get his right arm a couple of inches off the couch. Christopher uncapped the bottle and held it up to his lips, and Nick drank several long gulps.
“Gotta tell you, Chris, not great. How’s Daniel?”
“Briggs says he’s doing better. He’ll pull through.”
“What’s our situation?” Nick struggled to sit up, but after a few seconds, he realized that wasn’t going to happen. He was weaker than he’d ever felt before, and the back of his throat tasted of sand and ash.
“It’s been quiet. Command’s not happy we stopped.”
“They order you to keep moving?”
“Not so much order as imply that’s what we should be doing. It was that Marine Recon chick, uh, Ortiz. I implied that she should fuck right off,” Christopher said, half of his mouth grinning slightly.
“She’s probably right,” Nick said, sighing. “Military logic says we should have left Daniel and continued on mission.”
“Yeah, but that thought never even occurred to you. I know you, boss. You’d never leave one of us behind.”
Nick didn’t say anything to that, though Christopher had just summed up his feelings on the subject exactly. Leaving one of his people, wounded or not…it just wasn’t going to happen. He could no sooner leave his own brother and, in a way, these people felt closer to him than family.
“The resistance. Any luck contacting them?” Nick said.
“We’ve been monitoring that hand radio we took out of the wreckage. Nothing so far. Might have just been those eight guys, for all we know.”
“I’d hate to think we killed the revolution before it got started.”
“Can’t be helped if we did. We had no way of knowing who they were. Now, get some rest. If you’re up to it, we’re going to try and get moving tomorrow night.”
Nick nodded and almost instantly went back to sleep.
* * *
By late in the afternoon the next day, Nick was on his feet and walking around. His legs felt wobbly beneath him, but he managed to stay vertical with a little effort. Daniel was conscious and moving around too, though he was suffering from what Briggs said was a bevrile non-hemolytic transfusion reaction, a low-grade fever that would clear up on its own soon enough.