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Disclaimer: I don't own the FK characters, Sony/Tristar et al. do; I just get to play with them.
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Natalie awoke on her living room couch in the pearl-grey predawn light. She had been covered with a blanket from her linen closet while she slept. Nick was sitting quietly on the loveseat beside her head, reading a notebook she recognized as her own, containing notes from her research in Toronto, years before. He sat inhumanly still, only his eyes moving, flickering across the page. She rolled her head forward to ease the tension in her neck, and he turned immediately to look at her. "Natalie. You're awake. How do you feel?" He set the notebook down and rose to come to her side.
"Um, fine. Stiff." She felt disoriented for a moment. What was he doing here? Why was she on the couch? Her eye lit on the now-darkened television, and memory abruptly flooded back. "Marcus." Suddenly she felt hollow and sick. How could she have forgotten? "He's dead, isn't he." Nick said nothing, but when she threw off the blanket and started to rise, he touched her shoulder.
"Nat, take a deep breath. You need to stay calm."
"Why? I - " Nat wanted to say that it felt like an insult to Marcus' memory to think of remaining calm. She stood up, ignoring Nick's assisting hand. She was furious with herself. She had been out enjoying herself at a silly movie while Marcus was being murdered, half a world away. She felt as if she'd betrayed his memory just by sleeping. While she lay comfortably unconscious, he lay in the dirt outside his clinic, cold and unburied. She wanted to scream and cry, throw things, mourn Marcus as he deserved to be mourned. Be calm? Was he insane? She was abruptly, unreasonably, enraged with Nick. What was he doing in her living room? How dare he intrude on her world, on her grief? She opened her mouth to order him out of the apartment.
Nick glanced warningly at her abdomen, and the rest of Natalie's half-awakened memory suddenly returned. She looked down at herself, her mouth still foolishly open. One hand automatically went to her stomach. "Of course. You're right. Though it's never been proved that an emotional shock ..."
"I'm sure you don't want to take any unnecessary risks," said Nick.
Natalie nodded numbly and sat back down heavily on the couch. Her legs were rubbery. "Thanks for staying," she muttered, her attention on herself. No cramping at least. That was good. She only half-heard him speaking.
"I didn't want to leave you alone, in case you needed to get to the hospital quickly. I think you're all right though. I can smell a little fresh blood, but not much."
Nat nodded. "It feels okay." She rubbed her forehead wearily between the eyebrows . Her brain felt foggy. Too much had happened at once. It was hard to think. "I better check." She stood again, this time accepting Nick's hand to rise. She felt wobbly and nauseous. Morning sickness. Well, that was a good sign too, she thought stoically. The motion abruptly made her feel much worse. She barely made it to the bathroom.
It was some time before she left it again, pale, red-eyed and shaky. Nick rose as she entered the kitchen. "Are you okay, Nat? Is that normal?"
Nat nodded. She took a saltine out of the box on the counter & sat down at the table to nibble it. The sooner she got something into her stomach, the better. "It's well within the normal range. Worse than usual this morning." She made to rise again and Nick waved her down.
"Let me get it - what do you want?"
"Water. With a little apple juice. Thanks." She subsided thankfully as Nick mixed the glass and handed it over. The first sip was ambrosia. Certainly better than the way her mouth tasted before she drank. She cautiously sipped a little more. Her stomach seemed to have settled down. She relaxed in the chair and closed her eyes.
"How are you doing?" Nick asked.
"Otherwise? I think it's okay." She brought the glass to her lips and sipped again. The foul taste was almost gone. Bliss. "There's a little fresh blood though. After work I'll get Sanjit to take a look."
"Are you sure it's wise to work today?" Nick's voice was hesitant, but Natalie's eyes snapped open indignantly. How dare he question her judgment? Did he think he could just step back in and take over her life?
"I'm perfectly capable of deciding whether I can work!" she snapped.
"What would you tell one of your patients?" His voice was quiet, patient, and Nat paused.
"I'd tell them to see me right away," she said. "But Sanjit won't be available until tomorrow morning."
"And if you couldn't see a patient in your condition until the next day?"
Nat hesitated. "I'd tell them to take it easy," she said unwillingly. "But that's different."
"Because it's not you?"
"No, because - " she paused again. She didn't want to think about any of this.
"Ignoring the symptom won't make it go away, Nat." Nick's voice was gentle. Her shoulders sagged as she recognized the truth of his words. She looked at him miserably.
"It's just - " she gestured helplessly. "If I act as if everything's normal, then maybe everything will be normal again." And maybe Marcus won't be dead, she thought. The image from the evening news rose again in her interior vision. The body slumped across the burning doorway, the watch she'd given Marcus bright on its wrist. Sudden tears rose to her eyes and she brushed them away, turning her face from Nick. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I'm just tired." She took another sip of juice to hide the sudden thickness of her voice.
"Nat." Nick touched her shoulder and she looked up at him. His face swam in a veil of tears. "It's okay. You're allowed to cry. How could you not?"
She nodded and closed her eyes again, this time against the sudden rush of tears. "I don't mean to - " she choked on the words and couldn't continue. She breathed deeply, getting control, and tried again. "He's such a good man, Nick." She stared past him, unseeing, at the kitchen cabinets. "He does so much good. How could they - how could anyone ... all he ever does is help people!" Nick nodded, watching her with sympathy. She set down her juice and leaned her head on her hand and began to sob. He sat down in the chair beside her and took her other hand between his, holding it as she cried. After a moment he hesitantly put an awkward arm around her shaking shoulders.
"It's okay, Nat," he murmured. "It's okay."
She shook her head angrily through her tears. "No it's not okay! He doesn't deserve this!" After that he sat silently, letting her cry uninterrupted. When her sobs tapered off at last, he got up and found her a tissue from the box on the counter. She accepted it with a wordless nod of thanks and wiped her wet face, sniffing unromantically. She looked up at him, her eyes puffed and red with weeping.
"Thanks. Sorry to - "
"No need", Nick said again.
"Sorry to subject you to it", Nat insisted. "You just meant to go to a movie with an old friend, and suddenly all this - " her gesture took in the last eight hours.
"I'm glad I was here to help my old friend, in any way I can," Nick said quietly.
"Well, I appreciate it." Nat scrubbed at her eyes again with the wadded-up tissue and sat up straighter. Time to figure out what to do now, she thought. She began to mentally sort through her tasks and options, choosing and discarding alternatives. Breaking down a task into a series of steps, and choosing an approach, never failed to calm her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a trace of a smile cross Nick's face. "What?" she said with annoyance. There was surely nothing amusing about her present situation.
"Sorry," Nick said. "I just felt reassured. I've seen that look on your face before. Whenever you grasped a problem and were working out what to do next. It means you're dealing with things."
"What choice have I got?" said Nat. It was a little disconcerting to find that after all this time, he still knew her as well as he did. "I was just thinking," she went on. "I don't need to wait for Sanjit; I can order my own emergency ultrasound, and get it done today, if they're not too busy. Probably there's nothing wrong, and it will reassure me. It's still too early to call Claire - " she checked her watch; it was not yet 7 a.m. "I'll see if I can set up the ultrasound right away." She rose from the table and set her juice glass on the sideboard.
Nick rose with her, glancing out the balcony window. The sky was lightening perceptibly in the east. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked.
Nat shook her head. "'Thanks, but no. I appreciate your staying last night. I'll be fine now."
Nick looked at her uncertainly. "I do need to leave now to get to the hotel. But I don't like to leave you alone. Will you be ok?"
"Don't worry," said Nat. She knew he was trying to be helpful, and tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. How like Nick to assume he was still essential, after a five year absence! "I have friends I'll call if I need to," she added. "But the best thing for me will be to go in to work."
"You won't over-work yourself." Nat inhaled audibly, seeking control, and Nick stepped back and raised his hands. "Sorry. Of course you won't. I shouldn't worry." He smiled engagingly, seeking to defuse her, but something in Nat cracked and blew open.
" Damn right you shouldn't. You lost the right to worry about me when you left town without a word five years ago. And I'm in no condition to deal with your misplaced concern now. I'll be fine without your help. I've been fine for five years. Thanks for hanging around last night, I appreciate it. But I truly, sincerely, do NOT need further help from you now. "
Nick looked at her without speaking for a long moment. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "I'll leave then."
Nat opened her mouth to apologize and the words stuck in her throat. She could not speak for fury. She was appalled at herself. She couldn't remember the last time she had been this angry. It was all the worse for being irrational. Nick turned to go and she tried again to speak. He was halfway to the door before words came. "Nick," she managed. "That was uncalled for. I'm sorry."
He turned with his hand on the doorknob. "No, you're not. You're furious. I don't blame you. I'll call you this evening and see how you're doing. If you don't mind," he added courteously.
He waited until she nodded, speechless. With a farewell nod in return, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.
Nat stared at the door. What had come over her? He was only trying to help. He had been helpful. Inexplicable tears welled to her eyes again and she angrily brushed them away. She had no time for this. As she moved to the phone, she caught sight of the coffee table. She found her voice and cursed fluently. Nick had forgotten his files again.
§§§
It proved impossible to schedule an ultrasound before Monday. It was very tempting to stay on call and submerge herself in work, her favourite way of dealing with emotional crisis for how many years. In the end, however, Natalie realised it was too much of a risk, and booked off for the day.
She spent her unscheduled free time with Marcus' sister. Claire and Marcus had been close, and she was in a state of shock. Any mention of Marcus was obviously too painful for her, and she could barely get through a sentence on any other subject without breaking off in tears. Natalie was forced to set her own feelings aside in order to provide Claire with what support she could. She sat with her, made her cups of tea, and did her best to distract Claire whenever she saw that terrible bleak look settling on her friend's face.
Grief shared is halved, she thought as she drove home in the early evening; something her grandmother used to say. It was true that in caring for Claire she had forgotten her own unhappiness. But the effort had left her limp. When she opened her apartment door the first thing she saw was a First Nations carving of a killer whale hanging on the near wall. It had been a gift from Marcus early in their relationship. Suddenly his death descended on her like a cold weight. He was gone. She could never tell him about his child. She would never speak to him again at all. Only two months ago he had been so alive, sad to be leaving her, but so enthusiastic about returning to the field that she hadn't had the heart to try to talk him into staying. There was so much good he wanted to do. He deserved so much better than this pointless death.
She hung her coat on the hook by the door and turned on a couple of lights as she headed for the couch, and sat down heavily. She remembered eating Chinese food on this couch with Marcus, letting it grow cold while they had a spirited argument about the political role of the medical profession. "We can't change the world," she remembered saying. "All we can do is heal the sick."
"And you don't think that changes the world?" he'd answered. "Didn't you ever want to change the world, Natalie? Even just for one person? Didn't you ever believe you could?"
She'd paused for a second before she laughed it off. "In my idealistic adolescence, like everyone else, I suppose," she'd said. But she knew he'd seen her stricken look. He'd tactfully changed the subject and never inquired farther. How like Marcus not to pry. What a good man he was. Had been. Tears welled up in her eyes again and she blinked them away.
I should eat dinner, she thought, and stood up. She felt too miserable to be hungry, and was tempted to fall into bed without dinner and try to forget everything in sleep. But the doctor in her insisted that she must eat something. She moved into the kitchen and microwaved herself a bowl of lentil soup. She brought it back to the living room with a glass of apple juice and tried to distract herself by watching television while she ate. Of course there was nothing on. She had a choice of Australian rugby or a bowling tournament on the sports channels. Some moronic love story with an implausible happy ending on the movie channel. Reruns of Friends, Frasier, and the Simpsons. A spectacularly dull Canadian history special on CBC. She turned off the television and picked up the Trollope novel she'd begun months before. After a few pages she realised she couldn't remember a word of what she'd just read. Some English vicar with angst. There was no point; she wasn't in the mood. She let the book drop to the carpet, and had nearly dozed off when the phone rang.
"Nat? I'm sorry, were you asleep?"
"Wha? No, I was just ... Nick? Where are you?"
"On my way to the airport. How are you doing?"
Nat surfaced, blinking groggily. That's right, he'd said he'd call. Right after she'd thrown him out of the apartment that morning. "Oh God" she said as memory returned. Her earlier anger had long since evaporated, and she hastened to make amends. "Nick, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. I had no business speaking that way. You were trying to help, I know. I was on edge, but that's no excuse."
"You don't need an excuse, Nat", came Nick's reassuring voice. "You had a lot on your mind. And I did walk out without a word five years ago. You have every right to be angry."
"But I thought I'd forgiven you."
"Doesn't mean you're not still angry."
"Uh..." Nat was still too sleepy to think clearly. Didn't it mean that? "I still had no business speaking to you that way."
"I feel lucky that you're willing to speak to me at all, Nat."
"That's another question entirely. But if I'm going to speak to you, I should be polite."
"Okay, so next time you can throw me out politely." Nick seemed amused. "I accept your apology, but it's unnecessary. I really did call to see how you're doing. I hope you'll forgive me for being a little concerned. You've had a lot to deal with all at once."
"I do appreciate your concern, Nick." Though I still don't really understand it, she thought. "I'm - " she was going to say 'fine', but honesty prevented her. "I'm feeling pretty low, to tell the truth. I spent the day with Claire. It helped some, but I'm home now and - I just can't believe he's dead. He brought a room to life by walking into it. And he made other people feel more alive when they were around him. I can't believe he's gone."
There was a silence at the other end of the line. "Nick?" she asked. Had the phone cut out?
"Sorry", came Nick's voice. "I was just thinking. Nat? Forgive me for asking, but - are you sure he's dead?"
Nat stared at the blank television screen. The image of the burning clinic was sharp in her mind. "How could I not be? It was his clinic. You saw the fire. The, the body. "
"Yes. But are you sure it was him wearing the watch?"
"Who else could it be?"
"Someone he loaned it to. Someone who stole it. Someone he sold it to for antibiotics. I don't know. But it wasn't necessarily him."
Nat closed her eyes and lay back on the couch. Her head had begun to ache again. "Pretty thin grounds for hope, Nick. Why hasn't he shown up alive anywhere else then?"
"How do you know he hasn't?"
"They'd have told Claire."
There was another brief silence. "Maybe he can't get to a phone."
Nat exhaled. She was beginning to feel irritated. Such faint hope hurt even worse than certainty. "And maybe a good fairy transported him to Club Med. Come on, Nick."
"I wouldn't suggest this for no reason, Nat. How big is Marcus?"
"Don't you think that's a rather personal question?" she answered automatically. "Sorry, old joke", she added when he didn't respond.. "About your size, maybe a little taller. He looks a lot like Sean Connery in Goldfinger." Now he had her speaking in the present tense, she noticed. She hoped he had a reason.
"Sean Connery? And here I thought you loved him for his mind."
"That too. So?"
"Forgive me, Nat, but if you think about the body in the doorway, didn't it look quite small to you?
Nat thought back unwillingly. She replayed the scene in her mind. Did the watch look a little large for the wrist that wore it? "Maybe", she said at last. "I don't know. It was too far away. And." She swallowed. "Burning would reduce the body mass." She didn't want to imagine what he might have suffered. Oh Marcus, she thought. I hope you were already dead.
"But not the size of the skeleton. My memory is pretty good," Nick said. It's eidetic, Nat thought; you just don't want to say so. "And to me it didn't look like the body of a Western man. I'm not even sure it was an adult. If I had to guess, I would have said it was the size of a twelve-to- fifteen year old boy. "
Nat mulled this over. This was probably a vain hope, but what if it wasn't? What should she do? Alternative scenarios raced through her head. Was there any point in going to Sierra Leone? She dwelt on that option before regretfully rejecting it. It would be good to feel as if she was doing something, but it would be irresponsible in her present condition. Should she talk to Claire, or would it be cruel to raise her hopes without more certain information?
"Nat?" Nick's voice broke in on her thoughts. "Are you there?"
"Sorry. I was thinking what to do next. I don't think I should talk to his sister just yet, but I'm not sure MSF will investigate further for me, not on such thin evidence. Or the Sierra Leone police, for that matter."
"Assuming there are any," Nick agreed. "Nat?" He sounded hesitant. "Would you like me to look into it for you? I still have some Interpol connections. And the deBrabant Foundation contributes to some MSF projects. I don't mean to intrude, but if it would help - "
"Oh, would you?" The words escaped before Natalie recovered herself. "You don't need to do anything like that, Nick. I - "
"I know I don't need to. I want to. It would please me. " Nick's voice was firm and unhesitating.
Nat closed her eyes again. "Now I feel really lousy about throwing you out of the apartment this morning."
"Of course. That's why I offered." She could tell he was smiling, and smiled unwillingly herself.
"Well, if you could, I would really appreciate it. Hugely. Even if - even if it is him, I'd rather know for sure than wonder."
"Anyone would. I'll see what I can find out this week while I'm in Paris. Do you mind if I phone when I have more information?"
"Please do. " Inwardly Natalie was pleased that he'd asked. He wasn't making the mistake of assuming she would be pleased to hear from him. She liked him the better for the care he was taking not to intrude unasked in her life.
There was a rustle at the end of the line, and his muffled voice said "okay, thanks". Then he came back on. "Sorry. My cab's here, I've got to go. I'll talk to you later this week. Take care of yourself, Nat. It's been good to see you."
"You too." He rang off, and Nat replaced the handset in its cradle. She felt worn out, her emotions in turmoil. If Marcus was alive, where was he? No point thinking about that now. She would contact MSF herself in the morning; perhaps by then they would have more information. She stood up, rubbing her back, and headed for bed. She had an early ultrasound appointment the next morning; better to get to sleep early. Of course once she was in bed she could not sleep, and lay staring at the ceiling for what seemed like hours before she finally dropped off, her thoughts circling endlessly, returning always to the same image. The burning clinic, the body in the doorway. Was it too small? Was it Marcus? Her last thoughts as she dropped off were a sleepy half-prayer. Marcus, wherever you are, I hope you're okay.
§§§
He came to with a splitting headache. The weak light from the window sent a jagged lance of pain through his skull, and he turned his head away, groaning with the motion. A quiet voice beside him said "here, Marcus", and guided his hand to a bucket beside him. Suddenly he realised he needed it. He sat up on one elbow and retched violently into the bucket until there was nothing more to bring up. When he lay down again a hand patted his lips with a damp cloth. "Wipe out your mouth", the voice said. "I used drinking water to wet it."
Marcus nodded feebly in thanks and did as he was told. "Where am I?" he asked when he finished.
"My best guess?" said the voice. It was a pleasant woman's voice with a faint Dutch accent. He knew he recognized it, knew it well, but the name evaded him. "We're in a rebel camp about thirty miles from Magburaka. South, I think."
Marcus struggled to focus on the words. It kept his mind off his head and his roiling stomach. "Near Yele then."
"I guess. Though we went over some pretty rough roads to get here. I think we were avoiding the towns. There were a lot of turns."
"So we could be anywhere really."
"Anywhere within a two-hour rough ride from Magburaka."
Marcus fell silent. The pain in his head was beginning to localize; waves of pain radiated from the back of his skull. He felt it gingerly and found a tender, egg-shaped swelling. It was covered with a pad of cloth held in place with another strip knotted around his forehead. The pad felt faintly sticky. Blood, probably. "I hit my head?"
"Your head was hit. By the driver of the pickup that brought us here, I think."
The voice was tantalizingly familiar. "Anneliese," he said suddenly. The sound of an explosion, flames shooting into the sky, came back to him. "You weren't in the clinic. You're safe."
"Well, I'm alive," she said. "The clinic's a writeoff."
"What about Edgar? The supplies?"
"I think Edgar got away in the confusion. Last I saw he was running through the scrap yard, and I didn't see anyone chasing him. The supplies are gone. Everything went up. We had just finished unloading and storing the shipment in the back."
"Damn! That's an unforgivable waste." Marcus felt genuinely angry. "Couldn't they have at least stolen it? Someone would have got some use from it."
"I think we've got more immediate problems, Marcus." Anneliese' words restored Marcus to a sense of his surroundings. He opened his eyes again, squinting against the light.
He was lying on the dirt floor of a low, plastic-roofed shed. From the signs, it had until recently been used to shelter livestock. A bucket of water, encrusted with mud and vegetable matter, stood in one corner. A small smudged window at the back of the shed let in the early morning light. "How long have I been out?" Marcus asked.
"About twelve hours," she replied. "You've been asleep, not unconscious, judging by your breathing. You're mildly concussed, and you have a few bruises from being thrown into the back of the truck. You'll be fine in a few days." She looked around her. "Depending on what they have planned, of course."
Marcus grunted acknowledgement. He looked around. A burlap sack hung over the entrance. He nodded to it. "Guarded?"
"There's been someone standing out there most of the night." She shrugged. "I couldn't really leave you here to go explore in any case."
Marcus felt an enervating lassitude creeping over him as they spoke. Somehow it was too hard to think. He yawned. "Any idea why we're here?" He wondered if there was a blanket somewhere.
"I think we're hostages", said Anneliese. She appeared above him, holding a stained, odoriferous, moth-eaten saddle-blanket. "Do you want this over you?"
"You are a true friend." He smiled gratefully as she covered him.
"Get some sleep. We'll figure out our next move once you've recovered."
Marcus nodded sleepily. "Thanks. For everything." He was asleep before he could hear her answer, if there was one.
§§§
When he next woke he could tell from the slant of light through the window that it was evening. The atmosphere in the shed was suffocating. The heat, the humidity, the lack of ventilation, the - "Dear Lord. What is that smell?" he asked.
He turned his head, wincing, to find Anneliese. She was sitting, slumped and colourless, on a low wooden bench near the door, the only furniture in the shed. There were dark circles under her eyes. A ghost of a smile touched her lips at his words, and she turned towards him. "Incontinent goats", she said. "I've had the day to analyse it. How do you feel?"
"Better than you look. What happened to your shirt?" he added, noticing that it was missing a sleeve.
She glanced at her arm. "It's tied around your head."
Marcus felt the band around his skull. It was still tight, and the formerly sticky pad over the bump on his skull had become rigid. At least he was no longer bleeding. The bump seemed to have shrunk a bit, too. "Thanks. You do look like hell though. Have you had any sleep?" he asked.
"Not much. I'm amazed you slept through the noise outside. I think something went wrong. There've been trucks coming in and out all day, and a lot of shouting and general commotion."
"Any idea what about?"
She shook her head. "How's your Krio?" she asked. "You might be able to make out more."
">Roll up your sleeve.< > How long has your son had this cough?< > Take this three times a day for three days<," Marcus said in Krio.
Her smile broadened. "Your accent is atrocious. Even worse than mine", she said. "You'd be better off speaking English."
"Generally I do," he admitted. "If they don't understand, there's usually someone around to interpret."
"Let's hope that works here." She looked at the curtain over the entrance. "I keep hoping they'll bring us food. They may have forgotten us. Can you sit up?"
Marcus succeeded on the second try, though he felt woozy and weak. He put one hand to his head. "Is there any water?" Anneliese handed him her canteen. "I think they mean us to drink the water in the bucket, but I don't trust it." He nodded and sipped slowly from the canteen. He gave it back about half full, feeling considerably better. "I was knocked over the head and dumped into a truck?" Anneliese nodded. "How did you get here?"
"I was in the truck already, tied to the side with a burlap sack over my head," she said. "We'd just finished unloading the supplies into the clinic when two truckloads of teenagers pulled up. They were all carrying guns. They grabbed me and Edgar and took our valuables. One of the kids put on Edgar's watch and my crucifix. I think he was the one in charge. They brought some explosives into the clinic and started to wire them up. They took us outside. Then the clinic blew up. They looked scared. I don't think they meant it to happen then. Edgar made a break for it then and I think he got away. I wanted to try too but the guard kept his gun on me and I decided not to. There was a lot of running around and shouting. I could hear police sirens, and I guess they decided to avoid them. The guard tied me up in the back of the truck and put the bag on me, and we took off. A little bit up the road we stopped for a few minutes, and I heard someone else being thrown in beside me. Then we came here. It turned out to be you."
"Where's the guy in charge?"
"I think he was in the clinic when it went up."
"No wonder they were scared. They must have had no idea what to do." Marcus' headache had subsided to a dull throb, but thinking was still an effort. "I wonder what they want with us."
"I wonder if they know themselves."
"Maybe it's time we drew some attention to ourselves", said Marcus.
"Okay, let's draw straws for who sticks their head out the curtain and asks for dinner", Anneliese said. "I'm starving."
"And if they don't just shoot us, maybe they'll tell us why we're here." Marcus unfolded himself shakily from the ground and stood up, stooping under the low roof of the shed. "Might as well be me, I've got a head injury already."
He pushed the curtain aside and looked out before she could respond. A boy no more than twelve years old was sitting beside the entrance, rifle propped up on the wall behind him. He looked up at Marcus in surprise and scrambled to rise, grabbing for his rifle with one hand while he waved at Marcus with the other, shouting "Back inside! You go back inside!"
Marcus barely looked at him. Before the shed was a scene of carnage and devastation. Small groups of youths toiled up the road towards the main camp, most of them visibly injured, or assisting someone else of their number who was too badly hurt to walk. At intervals along the road lay several collapsed forms of youths who had come to the end of their strength. Moving slowly up the road behind these, hampered by the foot traffic, was a pickup truck carrying more wounded; in the distance Marcus could see two or three more of these. He turned to the guard, who was now bringing his rifle up to train on Marcus, and said "have you got a doctor?"
The boy frowned at him. Marcus jerked his head towards the stream of wounded. "Because you need one. Let us help."
The guard looked at him without expression for so long Marcus feared he had pushed too far. Then he jerked his head at an uninjured youth on the road, who came over to join them. There was a brief, heated conversation in Krio, both youths glancing at Marcus as they spoke. The guard handed over the rifle to the newcomer, and turned to Marcus. "I will ask." He nodded up the road to the main camp. Marcus raised one foot to step towards him, and the newcomer immediately raised the rifle towards him. Marcus stood stock still, and slowly replaced his foot where it had been. "You stay here", the guard added unnecessarily.
Marcus nodded and held up his hands in submission. He stooped slowly under the entrance and backed into the shed. Outside he could hear their former guard beginning to run up the road.
Inside Anneliese was looking at him, baffled. "What did you just offer? These children are killers, Marcus."
"Exactly. And the moment they decide we're no use to them, they'll kill us. I think it would be wise to show how useful we can be. They look like they've just lost a big one. I think they'll take any help they can get." He sat back down wearily on his folded blanket. After even a short absence, the heat and the smell hit him like a physical blow. "If nothing else, it will get us out of this shed."
"And maybe they'll feed the help."
"If they've got any food." Marcus rubbed his face. "I'm going to lie down again until the guard gets back. Unless you'd rather use the blanket."
"It's no real improvement over the dirt. I'll stretch out on the bench." She did so, adding "unless you want to try to escape?"
Marcus shook his head. He was bone-tired and still felt sick. "I'm not up to it. And it's too light out there, too many people. I don't think this is our moment."
After a moment she shrugged agreement. "Let's keep our eyes open, though."
"Agreed."
Marcus began to feel himself floating, the precursor to sleep. He had nearly dozed off when Anneliese said "damn, I forgot." He opened his eyes and looked over blearily. She was feeling through the pockets of her trousers. "I had a - here it is." She pulled out a battered envelope. "This came for you to the Freetown office. "
Marcus checked the return address as he took it, and began to smile. "It's from Natalie. In Vancouver. I told you about her." He crossed to the window as he opened the letter, and held it up to the fading light, scanning the lines rapidly, and then reading through it again more slowly. The effort hurt his eyes, and when he had finished he closed them and sat down on the floor under the window, rubbing the spot between his eyebrows as he thought over what he'd just read.
"She's okay?" Anneliese asked, noting his silence.
"She's fine." Marcus folded the letter neatly and replaced it in its envelope. "She's - " he inspected the postmark - "oh, I guess about eight or nine weeks pregnant by now."
"I take it this is unexpected?" Anneliese said after a pause.
Marcus nodded. He leaned his head against the wall of the shed and exhaled. "Yes." He thought back to his time in Vancouver. It seemed not just eight weeks, but a whole world, another life away. Natalie was wonderful; everything he could ask for in a woman. It had felt like a holiday from his real life to be with her; every day a new and unexpected pleasure. But for all that, a holiday. Something to remember fondly when it's over. He realised for the first time that perhaps he had never seriously considered staying there. And now she was pregnant.
"What are you thinking?"
Marcus looked over at Anneliese. "It's a lot to take in. She's offered to marry me. She thinks it would be best for the child." He paused. "She's right, of course."
Anneliese nodded. "A child needs a father."
"She's willing to have me spend six months in the field, six months in Vancouver, if that's what I want," Marcus continued.
"That could work."
Marcus looked at the envelope, still in his hand. "It could."
"Do you want to marry her?" Anneliese had always had a gift for getting straight to the point. Which was, she claimed, how she and her husband Willem had come to be married only six weeks after they met. 'Why waste time once you know what you want?' she'd said. She couldn't imagine not knowing what you want, Marcus thought. She wouldn't understand his confusion now.
"Natalie is a wonderful woman. Amazing," he said slowly. He looked past Anneliese in the gathering darkness. "I'd be very lucky to marry her." He drew a long breath. "It's a lot to think about."
"Well, you'll have time to think while we figure out how to get out of here", said Anneliese. Neither spoke of the obvious. It was pleasant to think of a future in which Marcus might marry Natalie. Much more pleasant than contemplating the ugly probability that they had no future at all.
§§§
It was past full dark when noises outside the entrance announced the reappearance of their guard. Both Marcus and Anneliese had dozed off, Marcus stretched out on the blanket, Anneliese curled on her side on the bench. The sounds of a brief argument outside awakened them, and both were sitting up, blinking groggily, when the barrel of an Uzi pushed aside the burlap curtain covering the entrance. It was followed by a flashlight, which shone first in Marcus', then Anneliese' eyes, dazzling them in the darkness. "Get up! Come!" said the guard, as they struggled to their feet blinking, and motioned them outside with a jerk of the gun.
It had cooled off since nightfall, and the air was almost pleasant. Once they were outside the guard snapped off the flashlight. The moon was full, and the landscape brilliant with light. The potholes in the road were lunar craters of deep ink-black shadow. The guard motioned silently with the gun that they should precede him on the road.
"Where are we going?" asked Anneliese as they set out. The guard hit her across the back with the barrel of the gun. She staggered and gasped, more with surprise than pain. Marcus caught her and set her upright.
"No talking," said the guard. They passed the rest of the journey in silence.
The base of operations seemed to be an old clapboard farmhouse set in the middle of a broad open field. The upper windows were boarded up. Armed youths sat or lounged and smoked, slumping with fatigue or perhaps just the heat, on the sagging verandah before the front door. Conversation was subdued. Those on the verandah seemed for the most part uninjured, and Marcus wondered where the parade of wounded youths he had seen on the road that morning had gone.
His question was answered as they rounded the house and approached the back entrance. In the field behind the house an entire shanty-town had sprung up, of tents, lean-tos, roofed plastic sheds, anything that would protect the inhabitants from the sun. There were few lights in evidence, and an attempt seemed to have been made to camouflage most of the rooves with some kind of vegetation. There were more than a dozen shelters; Marcus estimated the population at perhaps 150, not counting however many might be living in the house. A faint but pervasive odor of human waste wafted towards them from the makeshift camp, and the sounds of people moaning in pain or illness. Inwardly Marcus shuddered to think of the hygiene problems they faced, before they even began.
The guard motioned towards the farmhouse door with the gun. "Inside," he said. The two doctors made their way up the back steps and entered what proved to be a kitchen door. They stepped through into the light of a kerosene lantern, set on a kitchen table in the center of the room. A man in his twenties sat at the table, bracketed by two armed adolescents, who swung towards them as they entered, guns at the ready. The older man raised his hand and they lowered their weapons, but remained alert and focussed on the intruders. Their escort nodded to the older man and stepped back out into the yard. His voice was just audible beginning a low conversation with someone outside. Marcus noted all this with difficulty. As they came through the door the smell of hot groundnut stew, bubbling in a large pot on the charcoal-burning stove to one side of the kitchen, had drawn his immediate attention. He had not eaten in more than a day. It was difficult to think about anything else. He could not resist looking at the stewpot, and swung his head back only when he heard the older man's voice, speaking Krio. He replayed the man's words in memory.
>How good is your Krio?< he had asked.
>Not good. Only for clinic work< answered Marcus. The leader looked at Anneliese, who returned his gaze blankly. The man at the table frowned at her, and Marcus added >I can say, please may we have some stew. We have not eaten since yesterday<. He waited uneasily for a response, hoping the distraction had worked. In fact Anneliese understood Krio quite well, much better than she spoke it. Perhaps it would be useful if that fact were not discovered.
In the flickering shadows cast by the lantern Marcus was not sure he saw a trace of a smile on the leader's lips, vanishing as soon as it came. >Get them some stew<, he said, and one of the guards set down his gun and got out two chipped and mismatched crockery bowls from the cupboard beside the stove. Marcus' eyes remained on the older man, but his real attention veered constantly to the food preparations the guard made, as with what seemed tortuous slowness he found a ladle, poured portions of stew into the two bowls, rummaged in a drawer for spoons, and carried the bowls and spoons over to the table before them, where he set them down. Marcus and Anneliese did not move until the leader inclined his head toward the bowls. >Please eat< he said. Marcus picked up the bowl and spooned the watery contents into his mouth. It was ambrosial.
>Thank you< he said after the first spoonful. >You are very kind.<
"You can't work if you're starving", said the man at the table, in English. "I will speak English to make sure you understand," he said to their surprised looks. "Finish your stew; then we will talk." When their bowls were empty, the work of a few moments, he continued.
"I am Commander Clarence Perkins of the Revolutionary United Front. You are Dr. Marcus Mackenzie?" Marcus nodded. "And you are - "
"Dr. Anneliese Eckhardt", supplied Anneliese.
Perkins nodded. "Also a doctor. That's good. I knew only that you had driven the supply truck." He turned his attention back to Marcus. "We bombed your clinic yesterday. That act shows the world our determination in the struggle against our oppressors."
"But we're not your oppressors", interjected Anneliese. Marcus stepped quietly but firmly on her foot and she fell silent.
The commander nodded without apparently taking offense. "Not you personally. But your work in the clinic aided them, by pacifying the population. And you are Europeans. Your captivity will gain international publicity."
"Are we hostages?" Anneliese spoke again, ignoring Marcus' pressure on her foot.
Perkins nodded again. "A list of our demands has been sent to the government and the newspapers. You will be held until the R.U.F. has been recognized as the legitimate government of Sierra Leone." In other words, we'll be here until we die, thought Marcus. But Perkins went on.
"In the meantime, I understand you have volunteered your services as doctors. We have a number of wounded. In addition, many soldiers have fallen ill. You will cure them."
"What medical supplies have you got?" asked Marcus.
"Very few. We intended to take supplies from your clinic, but some of the troops were unfamiliar with explosives." Perkins paused. "We have some sheets. You may use them for bandages."
"That's all? We'll need - " Marcus thought quickly about the injuries he'd seen earlier in the day - "surgical needles and thread, scalpels, disinfectant, a way of sterilizing the instruments, anaesthetics, a clean place to work ..." he trailed off before Perkins' unblinking dark eyes.
"We will get you what we can, doctor. For the rest, you will have to make do." He waited until Marcus nodded.
"When do we start?"
"Now, doctor." He turned to the guards behind him. "Cooper. Show the doctors to the wounded. Stay with them. Maddox, collect what medical supplies we have and put them in the front room." He turned back to the doctors. "You may use the front room as a clinic. I will have lanterns placed there. Tell Cooper what you need, and we will see if we can get it for you."
He turned away, and the audience was over. Marcus saw as he turned that what he had misinterpreted as a smile was a twisted lip, raised in a permanent half-sneer by a puckered scar that ran from one corner of his mouth across the bridge of his nose. One of the guards, presumably Cooper, came forward and motioned them out the door. In a moment they were walking across the field to the first of the lean-tos.
The smell of human waste grew stronger as they neared the shelters. "Where are the latrines, Cooper?" asked Anneliese suddenly, and the guard pointed to an outbuilding some distance away, around the corner of the house. "But the sick do not go there", he said. "It is too far away."
"Then where - " Marcus started.
"In their beds, or on the ground," Cooper said simply. He brought them to the first lean-to; a shed formed of corrugated plastic sheeting on three sides, propped up on the open side with a length of metal rail, bent to support the roof. Inside the stench was so intense Marcus nearly staggered. Cooper flicked on his flashlight and passed the cone of light over the faces of the inhabitants. They lay on makeshift cots, old mattresses, and pieces of matting, so close together there was barely room to move between them. None had any immediately visible wounds. As the light passed over one he turned his head to the side and vomited weakly on the ground between his mat and the next patient, who seemed oblivious. Marcus stared, appalled, and held out his hand to Cooper. "I need the flashlight."
He entered the lean-to, and crouched beside the first cot, holding the light over the patients' face, a young girl whose hair, clothing, and sheets were caked with vomit. She did not respond to the light except to moan faintly and turn her head slightly away. Marcus examined her carefully, looking at her eyes, pinching a fold of her skin and watching, troubled, while it sank slowly back into her arm, touching her forehead to assess her temperature, and delicately inserting a finger to feel the inside of her lip and cheek. Finally he stood up, and shone the flashlight slowly around the other patients in the shed. Some were twitching restlessly; others lay still. In the light of the flashlight their eyes were dark and sunken. Marcus turned and came back to the others.
"How many more shelters like this one?" he asked. "Sick people, not wounded?"
Cooper pointed to three more shelters. "We began to get sick three days ago", he offered. "At first only a few, then more and more. Now almost fifty."
"Cholera?" asked Anneliese in a quiet voice. Marcus nodded.
"Severe dehydration, at least. Her eyes are sunken; high fever but no sweat, skin elasticity is low, dry mouth. The others look no better. And when there are this many, cholera seems a reasonable guess. The water supply must be contaminated."
Anneliese looked around her at the reeking field in which they stood. "Very likely." She turned to Cooper. "Where do you get your drinking water?"
"In the house. Or at the pump." He nodded to an old iron pump on one side of the field.
"You must stop drinking from both immediately, until the water has been tested. All drinking water must be boiled. Can you tell Commander Perkins that?"
Cooper looked troubled, and Marcus was struck, once again, with how young he was; with how young all these child soldiers were. He was barely old enough to begin to grow a beard. "Would you rather one of us told him?" he asked, and the guard nodded. Whether his fear was of his commander, or of the responsibility, he was clearly relieved.
"Let's look at the rest of this mess and get together a list of what we need before we go back to Perkins," Marcus muttered to Anneliese, and they set out for the other shelters, Cooper in tow.
There were, as Cooper had said, three other shelters full of cholera sufferers in various stages of dehydration, some actively vomiting and moaning in the grip of constant diarrhea, some lying deceptively peaceful, and closer to death, who had already lost so much fluid that they had little left to give up. The other eight shelters held the wounded. These were paradoxically in better shape, possibly, as Anneliese remarked, because any who had managed the trek back to camp had not been too badly hurt to begin with. But some of the wounded were also showing the initial signs of cholera, clutching their stomachs, groaning, and retching. When the doctors had completed their tour they stood on the upwind side of the camp and compared notes.
"When was the last time you did field surgery?" asked Anneliese.
"Not for a few years. I've been concentrating in public health."
"Then if you don't mind, I think I should start dealing with the wounded. I've run three field hospitals in the last couple of years." Marcus nodded, and she turned to Cooper. "Cooper, I need disinfectant, bandages, surgical implements, anaesthetic if they've got any, and a couple of healthy soldiers to help get the wounded into the house where I can take a look at them. A good light, if you can. Lots of boiled water. Can you do that?"
Cooper nodded. This was obviously the errand he had expected to run. He waved to one of the other young men lounging by the fence along the edge of the field, who ran up and after a brief conversation, took Cooper' gun and replaced him as their escort.
"I think Perkins cares more about the wounded than the sick," said Marcus quietly. "Cooper isn't afraid to ask for supplies to help them."
"The wounded are the least of his problems," said Anneliese. "Perhaps you'd better go impress that on him. I'll take our escort and triage the wounded. Anyone who's still bleeding goes first."
Marcus set off across the field towards the house, only to be stopped by a shout from their new guard, who motioned him angrily back towards Anneliese. Marcus made exaggerated hand gestures to show his intentions. I'm going to the house. I will come back here. >I must speak to Perkins< he added in Krio. >I will return. The other doctor will see the wounded now.< At last the guard nodded and waved him away to the house, but stood with his rifle ready, watching Marcus until he had gone up the steps.
Inside the commander was still sitting at the table, going over a list of some sort. He stopped and raised his eyes to Marcus when he entered.
"You have cholera in the camp," said Marcus without preliminaries. "All drinking water must be boiled. Everyone must be warned, or many will die."
Perkins responded to his urgency without argument. "What else must we do?"
"Cook all food and eat it hot. Wash your hands in clean water, after using the latrine or touching an infected person, and before handling food. If everyone does those three things, the disease will not infect more people. Though many have already been infected, and will fall ill in the next week or so."
"And what of those, and the ones already ill? Will they die?"
"If I can have help with nursing, we can save most of them, I think. We need to act quickly."
Perkins nodded. He called over his shoulder into the other room, where Cooper and Maddox were setting up lights and tables for Anneliese' surgery. "Cooper, go and round up five - " he looked at Marcus, who nodded - " five men to assist the doctor with the ill." He looked back to Marcus. "What do you need?"
"Clean water, first. Do you have any chlorine bleach?" Perkins inclined his head to the sink, and Marcus crossed the room and rooted in the cupboard underneath until he located an ancient bottle of Javex. He frowned. "This may be a little old. We can use it, but I'd like to boil some water too." Perkins pointed to the cupboard by the stove, where Marcus found two ten-gallon pots. "Excellent. I'll use bleach in one, and boil the other." Cooper returned with two youths, and Marcus set them to filling the pots and heating or bleaching the water. That done, he rolled his head to release the tension from his neck. His head still ached. How long it seemed since yesterday.
"Do you have sugar and salt?"
"We haven't many supplies, doctor, but those we can give you." Perkins motioned to the cupboard above the sink, where Marcus found large bags of both. "We have more if that is not sufficient."
"It'll do for now." Marcus was already pouring sugar into the pot on the stove, explaining what was needed to one of the assistants Cooper had recruited. A double cupped-handful of sugar and two pinches of salt per gallon; twenty double handfuls, 20 pinches, per pot. Boil the water for three minutes. Let the bleached water sit for half an hour before using it. Perkins assisted with brief translations when there seemed to be confusion. When the water was nearly ready, Marcus rinsed a jug with the bleached water, and paused to drink a cupful himself, then another. He would be no use dehydrated. "We will need more jugs. Do you have any paper cups?" he asked.
"Today is your lucky day, doctor. Maddox, go and find the cups we retrieved last week from Yele." As Maddox departed, he asked Marcus, "what are you going to do?"
Marcus closed his eyes, feeling weary in advance, when he contemplated the work ahead of him. "Cholera kills by leaching the body of its fluids. If we can keep replacing those fluids during the acute phase of the disease, and afterwards, using water with sugar and a little salt, most patients will survive. But it requires constant nursing through the acute phase, to keep giving them fluids as they lose them." He paused, and looked at Perkins directly. "Some of the sick are already too far gone. In a hospital I'd give them intravenous fluids. Here - " he turned his palms up helplessly - "with our best efforts, we will not save them all. I'm sorry."
Perkins looked at him unreadably. "Do your best, doctor. I take it the woman will be handling the wounded?"
Marcus nodded. "She has more experience there. They are in good hands."
Maddox returned, sliding a large case of paper cups along the floor in front of him. "Excellent," Marcus said. "Now, if you would gather the assistants together, I will explain what they need to do."
With Perkins' help, the procedure involved in keeping the patient hydrated during the height of the cholera attack was explained; pour water into them, and when they vomited, wait a few minutes, and give them some more; keep it up through the twenty-four hours of the attack, and after, until they were well enough to drink for themselves. The youngest assistant, no more than a boy, was left in the kitchen, to keep replenishing the supply of rehydration solution. The others, with Marcus, departed for the shelters, each armed with a jug of solution and a stack of paper cups.
§§§
The next days passed in a blur, punctuated in Marcus' later memory by random isolated events in sharp focus. Gently pouring rehydrating solution into a young boy's mouth at 3 a.m. one night. Watching him vomit it up. Wiping his face, and pouring in some more. Realizing that he had been repeating this action, with patient after patient, for so long he could not remember when he started, or imagine a time when he would stop. Directing the construction of one new lean-to, and then another, out of corrugated plastic, as more cholera victims, and yet more, entered the camp. Helping carry wounded to Anneliese' surgery. Pausing for a drink of rehydrating solution himself, standing on the kitchen steps in the heat of the afternoon. Anneliese touching him on the shoulder late one night, herself haggard with exhaustion, saying "I've done what I can with the wounded. Why don't I spell you on the cholera cases. Go lie down." Trying to stand from his crouching position by a young man's mat, and finding that his legs had seized; he couldn't rise without her assistance. Taking the handle off the field pump, to prevent anyone from using it for drinking water. The endlessly boiling vats of water on the stove, and the youths painstakingly adding sugar and salt, and carrying it out to the shelters for the nurses to use. Looking into the eyes of a soldier with the scars of a veteran of many combats, his eyes sunken in his skull, desperately dehydrated, and suddenly realising as he helped the soldier drink that under the scars he was no more than eleven years of age. Catching Anneliese as she staggered and nearly fell with fatigue, and persuading her to sit down by the back door and eat something while he continued in her place. The neverending, hopeless attempt to keep the sick clean, even to change the matting as one left a shelter and the space was taken up by another body, to at least wipe down the area and remove the worst of the filth. And on, and on.
Twelve days after the clinic had been bombed, he sat in the cool of the evening on the back steps, eating some boiled rice, and realised that he had had five minutes to himself without interruption. The worst was over. There had been only five new cases today, and they were all doing well. He scratched his forehead, remembering vaguely that he'd taken the makeshift bandage off his head and given the cloth to Anneliese to use as a splint some days before. He rolled his neck and stretched out his shoulders. Abruptly he realised how bone-tired, truly exhausted, he was. Every muscle ached. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep. He looked around for a guard. The mandatory escort on the two of them had been tacitly removed days ago, as all able- bodied troops were pressed into service as nurses. Still, he thought it politic to keep Perkins informed of his movements. He stood up and located Maddox, inside the kitchen door. "Maddox? I'm going to catch a quick nap in the side room, if anyone needs me." The young man looked up from brewing what Marcus hoped would be the last, or perhaps one of the last five, pots of rehydrating solution, and waved.
"You go get some rest, doctor. We'll call you if anything comes up."
Marcus walked through the kitchen and the hallway down to the side room where he and Anneliese had slept in exhausted, short snatches during the worst of the crisis. He found Anneliese already dozing on one of the two battered couches which, along with a broken-backed chair and a three-legged table leaning against one wall, were the room's sole furniture. He lay down on the other couch and closed his eyes. Anneliese spoke to him without moving or opening her own. "You know, I think we actually did it. We stopped an epidemic."
He grunted. "And patched up a flock of wounded too."
"Damn we're good." He could hear her yawning. "How many, did you keep track?"
"183 the day before yesterday. I'm not sure after that. Around two hundred?"
"That sounds about right." She sighed. "But five died."
"I know." Their faces were vivid in his memory. They were so young, all of them. Looking up to him in fear, in hope. The foreign doctor who would save them. Only he hadn't. He shook his head. "If only we'd had hospital resources. Even a single IV drip..."
"Might not have made a difference. They were too far gone when we got there." Anneliese too was troubled, he could hear in her voice. She wanted reassurance.
"They were. We did everything we could."
He could hear the rustle of her head against the upholstery as she nodded. "I'm beat", she said drowsily. "Going to try to sleep."
Marcus closed his eyes. "Good idea".
When he awoke it was to the smell of goat stew, not long after sunset. He raised himself on one elbow and found Anneliese setting a bowl on the chair beside him.
"You're up", she said in a low voice. "Eat this. We have to talk."
He sat up and took the bowl from her. "What's up?" He began to spoon the stew into his mouth.
"I overheard some conversation outside the window while I was in the surgery just now. One of the soldiers broke his arm climbing the verandah roof", she added to his look. "I heard a couple of soldiers, talking among themselves. The window was open, and you know they don't realise I understand Krio." Marcus nodded, and continued to eat. "Perkins said we're hostages. That they've sent ransom demands." He nodded again.
"The first night. I remember."
"It's not true. The guards beside the shelter I was working in were bringing a new guy up to date. He wanted to know what white doctors were doing in the camp.
"Apparently they never intended to take any prisoners at all when they bombed the clinic. They were just going to steal the supplies, probably kill you. But they had a lot of wounded and sick on their hands. When the clinic went up too soon they lost the supplies and the leader of the raid too. They didn't know what to do. So the second in command decided to grab you, and me too just for luck, and came back with us instead. Perkins thought we were too dangerous to be useful, and he was just going to kill us. But a lot of wounded came in from another raid inland, and then you volunteered us to help, and just then the cholera cases began to climb. So he figured he'd get what use he could out of us."
"So there never was a ransom demand." Marcus had finished his stew and set the bowl down on the chair.
Anneliese shook her head. "Nobody on the outside even knows we're alive. And now that the epidemic is pretty much over, well - " she made a chopping motion with one hand.
"We probably won't be for much longer," Marcus agreed.
She nodded soberly. "Perkins doesn't trust us, why should he? And once he has no more use for us ..."
Marcus wiped his hands on his trousers and stood up, beginning to pace. "I wonder how much longer we've got."
"I've volunteered us to train the ones who assisted us during the epidemic in some basic first aid", said Anneliese. "That should buy us a day or two."
"Good." Marcus thought. "It's the new moon tomorrow. I vote we eat and sleep as much as we can in the next twenty- four hours. And then tomorrow night, we head down the road, and hope we find help before Perkins finds us."
"You call that a plan."
"You've got anything better?"
Anneliese shook her head.
"Then let's go do the ward rounds and turn in." They headed through the side door and out into the field, where they split up by unspoken consent, Anneliese to check on the progress of the wounded, Marcus to see to the remaining cholera victims.
They met an hour later at the far side of the field both relatively pleased. Anneliese's surgery patients were healing as well as she could hope for in the circumstances. No new cholera patients had appeared in the last six hours, and the remaining victims were all on the mend. Whatever else, Marcus thought, we've done good work here. Anneliese too was looking around the field hospital with satisfaction. "I suppose it would be too much to expect a little gratitude", she said.
Marcus shrugged. "It would be nice. But suffering doesn't ennoble, you know. You suffer enough and it numbs you. Whatever turned these kids into soldiers didn't leave room for gratitude."
Anneliese leaned against the fence rail beside him and stared at the ground ahead of her. "What an appalling thought."
"Maybe some will recover. If circumstances change. If foreign nationals stop funding their war. If, if. At least more of them will be alive to take a second chance, if one comes."
"That's as much hope as you've got?" Anneliese looked at him curiously.
He shrugged again. "It's enough." Marcus straightened up and shook himself. "Let's go get some rest." She followed him across the field to the house.
An unfamiliar soldier carrying an automatic weapon stood before the kitchen door. They looked at him curiously. Guns had not been much in evidence during the worst of the epidemic, but military discipline was beginning to reassert itself. He stepped forward as they came towards the steps. He seemed older than the majority of the troops, in his twenties perhaps. A ranking officer, most likely. "Dr. Mackenzie? Dr. Eckhardt?" he asked. "Come with me." He motioned them away from the kitchen door and walked with them around the house towards the front. With a slight jolt, Marcus realised that they were walking - were being escorted - down the road they had come up on the first night.
"Where are we going?" he asked. Their guard said nothing, even when he repeated the question, and he realised that he was not to be answered. They continued on for what seemed a long time, their footsteps muffled in the soft dust of the roadbed. The moon was a mere sliver in the sky. In the near-total darkness he stumbled more than once in a pothole. The second time he nearly fell, but the guard caught him by the elbow and wordlessly set him upright again.
There was something unearthly, outside time, about the night journey down the darkened road, the muffled footfalls of the guard falling in cadence behind them, without shadow or any other sound to confirm his presence there. The darkness seemed to shroud not only vision but sound; it separated them from the camp, from the epidemic, from any other human being. The ties that bound Marcus to his previous life all seemed severed by the blackness into which they walked with an unwavering tread. Everyone that mattered to him, his friends, his family, Natalie, all seemed to lie, brightly lit but tiny and far away, on the other side of an immense dark divide. It was hard to believe that he would ever reach them again. The only reality was himself, Anneliese, and the guard, travelling on together through the night. Suddenly Marcus knew he would remember this moment for the rest of his life.
He rubbed his elbow without thinking, where the guard had caught it. It would be bruised come morning. He's our executioner, Marcus thought abruptly. Perkins brought in an outsider to do the job. It's all over. We are being led to our deaths. He felt, oddly, peaceful. There was nothing about the man behind him that aroused fear.
Beside him he heard a strangled swallowing sound, and looked at Anneliese out of the corner of his eye. She too looked straight ahead, but he could see starlight dimly reflected from the track of a tear, rolling down her cheek as he watched. She knew it too. He reached out a hand to her for comfort, and she took it. The guard said nothing, and they continued on, hand in hand.
They came to a low shed near the road, no more than a dim shape in the darkness until they were nearly upon it. The guard went ahead of them and pushed aside the burlap curtain over the entrance. It was the same shed they had slept in the first night, Marcus realised. He's going to kill us here, away from the camp, and stow the bodies in the shed, he thought. The guard gestured with the gun.
"Go in."
They obeyed him without argument. Was there a moment when he could have jumped the guard, grabbed his gun, and made an escape? Marcus didn't see one. They entered, Marcus first, muscles taut with the expectation of a bullet through the back of his skull as he went through the door. He almost didn't hear the guard's next words.
"You sleep here tonight."
The guard dropped the curtain back into place after Anneliese had entered. They could hear him taking up his position in front of it, guarding the door. It was pitch dark inside. Marcus groped until he found Anneliese' shoulder. She gripped his hand with both of hers and began to weep.
"I thought we were dead."
"I think we are, pretty much", Marcus whispered, jerking his head towards the guard, outside the door. "They must be keeping us for another day, or until morning at least, just in case there's another outbreak."
"Why wouldn't Perkins leave us in the house then?" Anneliese whispered in turn.
Marcus had had time to think about this in the walk down the road. "Too many people know us there. They saw us working to save their lives. Maybe killing us would be an unpopular move. This way he can say he just let us go."
He could feel her head move in a nod against his upper arm. "What are we going to do?"
"I don't know." Marcus crouched and felt around on the floor with one hand. The blanket was still there from two weeks before. "I think our best bet is still to get some rest, if we can." He sat down on the blanket. "If he'd been told to kill us tonight he would already have done it. I think we're safe until a runner comes with a message for him. So let's sleep until we hear footsteps."
He lay down and after a moment she joined him, curling up beside him on the thin mat. "And then?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I pretend I'm James Bond, and you can be Pussy Galore? I'll knock the first one through the door over the head. You tie up the next one with your silk stockings. We retrieve the guns, come out shooting, and jump on the ladder of the CIA balloon as it swings by overhead, leaving our foes in the dust. "
She rewarded this sally with a watery giggle, and he was pleased to have been able to distract her, if only for a moment. "You look like him, you know. James Bond."
"So I've been told." He thought of Natalie. He'd hardly had time to do so since the beginning of the epidemic. All this and you look like Sean Connery too, she'd said. I can't believe my luck. In the dark, his mouth curved in a reminiscent smile. But he would never see their child, he thought. Natalie would never even know he had received her letter.
"What are you thinking about?" whispered Anneliese in the darkness.
"Natalie," he whispered back. "I hope she's okay. I wish I could do something for her."
"Like staying alive?"
"For a start." He sighed. "She's a resourceful woman. I'm sure she'll be fine whatever happens. I always admired her strength."
"When we're out of here you can tell her so," Anneliese whispered firmly, and he nodded. She was right. It was best to maintain a positive outlook. He was doing his best to do so as he slid uneasily towards sleep.
He had nearly dozed off when he realised that Anneliese was shaking beside him. He struggled out of slumber and realised that she was silently sobbing, trying not to disturb him. Marcus rolled over with difficulty and put an arm around her.
'It's all right, Anneliese," he whispered. "It's all right."
She shook her head. "It's not", she whispered fiercely. "I promised Willem I'd be careful. He didn't want me to make this trip. If we get out of here I'm never coming back. I've had enough."
Marcus squeezed her with his free arm. "Whatever you want. But rest now." Gradually he felt her breathing slow as she dropped off. Soon after, he followed her.
Raven image courtesy of Lisa Konrad, who retains copyright, and whose clipart website can be found here.