Chapter Nine
The truck hit a particularly large bump in the road and bounced on its springs, tumbling Methos onto the floor. He hit hard, unable to save himself effectively with his hands still tied, even though he held them in front now. Ruyz grabbed a handful of Methos' t-shirt and hauled him back onto the wooden bench that lined the trucks' canvas-sided rear. Methos gave him a brief, thankful nod and tried to brace himself with his feet for next time. It probably wouldn't help much.
They'd been traveling in the truck for a few hours now, heading uphill for most of the way and he figured they had to be heading up into the foothills of Angola's vast central plateau. Where exactly, he didn't know and the men for the most part had been quiet on the journey, letting nothing slip about their destination. The long walk from where Methos had been recaptured to the road where the truck had met them had been hard on all of them, they were exhausted, and he could see some of them nodding off from time to time. He could do with some sleep himself -- among other things.…
There were fewer soldiers now -- living ones at least -- three dead bodies, shrouded in blankets, lay at the front end of the space between the benches where he and their surviving comrades now sat. Methos knew that they had to be the casualties of the previous night's ambush by the FAA.
The bundled bodies, blood leaking dark through the gray of their wrappings, had lain like fallen trees beside the road. Josiah had been watching over them, hard-eyed as Methos and his captors had arrived at the road. The red retrieval packs had been there too, propped next to a tree, reminding Methos -- as if he needed reminding -- that his capture was more than just the routine abduction for ransom of a westerner. Clearly, they wanted something specific from him.
It made him somewhat less powerless and that was never a bad thing. Perhaps it was time to venture a question or two.
He looked around; most of the men seemed to be dozing, their heads nodding laxly with the jolting of the truck over the unsealed road. Ruyz was still awake though, leaning back against the metal framing that arched above them with his arms folded across his chest. Methos shifted a little on the seat, just enough to catch Ruyz's eye. Depths and questions were reflected back in the dark gaze that met his.
"Why am I here?" Methos asked at last, keeping his voice just barely above the road noise.
Ruyz narrowed his eyes and Methos felt himself being assessed yet again. "We need a doctor," the soldier said finally, not explaining any further.
Fine, well, if he had to drag it out one detail at a time, he could do that. He could do patient -- if he had to. "Who is 'we'?"
"We are the National Union for the Total Independence of Angola," Ruyz answered, fairly extraneously.
Methos controlled a sigh, but rolled his eyes theatrically. "And why does UNITA want a doctor?"
"There is a sick man at our camp."
Okay, so they were heading to a rebel camp; he'd figured as much. But he still had a lot of questions -- things weren't adding up. "And what of your own medics, your own nurses?"
Ruyz frowned. "They..." He stopped, his eyes sliding away. There was plenty he wasn't saying. "You ask many questions, my friend. Now I ask you one...what is your name?" The frown turned into an ironic half-smile.
Methos mirrored the expression and the slight incline of the soldier's head and replied, "Dr Matthew Booker, at your service ... apparently."
"Lieutenant Toko Ruyz. Perhaps later I will shake your hand, Dr Booker."
Methos flicked a glance down towards his bound wrists. "Perhaps later I will shake it back, Lieutenant Ruyz."
The smile, still wry, widened a fraction. Then thick black eyebrows drew down in the middle above eyes that searched his carefully. "You are not afraid. Why is this?"
Methos shrugged, sending the man a self-mocking grin. "Maybe I'm actually shitting my britches and I just hide it really well."
It took a moment for the humor to filter through and then Ruyz began to shake, just slightly, with silent laughter. Methos smiled back at him, genuinely this time, then leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He dropped his head and rolled his shoulders, ostensibly to stretch them, but in reality to hide the small gleam of triumph that someone observant might have seen in his eyes. Even a small start was still a start.
They bumped along in silence for another half hour or so, as best as he could tell. The atmosphere in the back of the truck was becoming hard to bear; the heat of ten men in the enclosed space was mixing nauseatingly with the rising stink of the dead bodies. Even the gusts of wind that blew through the gaps in the canvas covering did little to dislodge the stench. Methos breathed shallowly and tried not to think about it.
With a grinding of gears and a slam of brakes that threw Methos against Ruyz's shoulder, the truck stopped. One of the younger soldiers, one whose name Methos did not yet know, jumped up and slipped through the split in the canvas that served as a back door. Then the flap was pulled aside, light pouring in, gold-tinted with the afternoon, and Methos blinked as he adjusted to it.
Ruyz had Methos by the shoulder, propelling him towards the tailgate with a barked, "Move!" as he hesitated before jumping down. Methos ignored it and descended as carefully as he could, he'd had quite enough falling down for the moment. When he landed, he straightened and looked around, able to orient himself for the first time since he'd been pushed into the truck.
They were in the hills, not high from what he could tell, but remote enough, judging from the forest all around not yet denuded by the constant use of a substantial nearby population. Another push in the middle of his back shoved him forward and Methos began to walk, passing through the gap between two thorn bushes to see his destination at last.
It was a village, or at least it had been one, simple round thatched huts in the traditional style circled a central compound of bare earth where two women in faded cotton shifts tended a cooking fire in preparation for the evening ahead. There were even a couple of small children playing in the shade of an iroko tree, its sparse branches casting lacy shadows over their game. It was a measure, Methos thought, of how battle-hardened he'd become, that it took him a full minute to realize that neither child had two legs.
Up until that moment, he'd been managing to keep the landmine problem firmly at the back of his mind. That, more than any other factor, was going to make getting his arse out of there in one piece damned difficult. The compound would be safe, probably the road, too, depending on how often -- if -- it was swept and for how far. But the rest of the area was far too uncertain to risk, not without a better reason than being detained by a bunch of rebels requesting his professional services at gunpoint.
He was far from ecstatic about the whole situation, but not nearly enough to risk life and limb over it -- not just yet, anyway. A firm hand at his back pushed him forward again and he went unresistingly, walking across the dusty compound. The women paused in their work and stared at him in open curiosity, their dark eyes wide. But Allessandro stalked past him, his gaze fixed firmly in front, not acknowledging Methos in any way. Which was fine with him. The captain headed straight for the largest hut, set well back from the others, its thatched roof and sides looking solid and in good repair. Several steps behind, Methos and the phalanx of guards followed.
As they came closer to the hut, Methos' heart began to knock against his ribs; adrenaline surging in a quick, hot flood, making his palms sweat and his gut tighten. There was no clear reason for him to be afraid so suddenly and yet he knew without doubt that there was something very wrong here. No matter what his head was telling him, he knew to trust the instinct. Too many times it had been all that had stood between him and death. Consciously, he tried to relax and tease the meaning from his reaction.
Undercurrents of fear, pain and death were flowing around him, as real now as the smoke on the breeze. He breathed in steadily and let the formless impressions resolve. The furtive glance of one soldier to another, the tightness of a woman's grasp on a water pot, even the unnatural quietness of the playing children and even more so, as he drew closer to the largest hut, the reaction of his own body that he could not afford to ignore, all told him that danger was very close by. Yet still he could see nothing.
"Wait!" Despite Methos' alertness, Allessandro's shout made him jump.
Methos paused where he was, turning to face the captain where he stood, just in front of the hut's door. He waited.
The captain's voice was harsh and low as he hissed, "You will treat him. Make him well or it will not go well for you!"
Not going to win any originality awards, are we, you little pissant? The irreverent thought popped unbidden into his mind, displacing the amorphous fear for a second, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop his mouth from twitching in response.
Maybe he could just irritate Allessandro into taking him out the back and shooting him, after all. At least then he wouldn't have to listen to this drivel. But...the captain's hand was hovering over the handle of his machete again; his eyes going unfocused as if he was wondering how well a one-handed doctor would fare. Considerably better than a one-handed Immortal, Methos concluded, pushing down his annoyance at being trapped and restraining himself from snorting impatiently. He would treat whoever 'he' was in the hut, as well as he was able, no matter how he felt about it. For now.
"I will try," he answered, with as much sincerity as he could muster. He held his bound wrists out in front of him. "But I will need my hands free." He kept his eyes downcast, trying to seem respectful.
With snort and a sudden quick movement, Allessandro unsheathed his blade and sliced through the thin ropes, freeing Methos in an instant. A shocked gasp made it halfway up his throat before he suppressed it ruthlessly; he could not afford to show Allessandro any fear, no matter much how the sudden movement had surprised him. The rope had worn away the skin in places and Methos rubbed his wrists, feeling the healing flicker over them and doing his best to conceal it, while he brought himself completely under control once more.
"You! Stand guard!" Allessandro snapped to another of the nameless soldiers, then turned on his heel and stalked away to disappear inside one of the opposite huts.
Methos watched him go, then twitched aside the ragged curtain that served as the door of the hut and slipped inside, closely followed by his guard. Moving into the cool, rank dimness, distinctly relieved by Allessandro's absence, Methos breathed deep, then wished he hadn't. He bit down on the urge to gag. The scent of decay, of an unwashed body and the lingering odor of past incontinence gathered in the unmoving air of the hut's interior.
As Methos' eyes adjusted to the low light, the details became clearer. A still, skeletal figure lay on a low cot against the far wall of the hut. It was a man, a tall, gaunt African man, naked but for a thin cloth that covered his groin. He was so emaciated that almost every bone in his body stood out in high relief, even the bones of his shaven skull. After a moment or two, he turned his face to look at Methos, giving him the dull, unquestioning stare of those for whom life has become a burden.
Methos turned to the soldier standing guard by the door. "You! What is your name?" he asked impatiently, receiving a terse -- "Cheya" -- in reply. "Cheya," Methos went on, "what happened to this man, when, who has been looking after him and what have they done? Do you know?"
The young soldier frowned, looking puzzled for a moment and it was hard for Methos not to snap at him impatiently. When at last the man spoke, his Portuguese was halting and ponderously slow. "Serao...maybe one month...I do not know...." He stopped and looked lost.
Methos controlled his impatience with effort. "Cheya, I need to know more than that," he began, speaking as slowly and distinctly as he could. He wasn't ready to give up the small advantage of being able to eavesdrop in the conversations the soldiers held in Umbundu by revealing his knowledge of it, no matter how frustrating it was proving to be. "Can you go and find me someone who knows what's been happening? And bring me the red bags, please." Cheya hesitated, looking torn as his glance swung back and forth between Methos and the doorway. "I won't run away," Methos promised him with a reassuring smile. "Go on ... find Lieutenant Ruyz for me."
Cheya gave him another searching look, and then, apparently satisfied, nodded and hurried out the door. When the lieutenant returned a minute later, Methos was making a preliminary examination of his patient. The man had no fever to speak of, no sign of malaria or jaundice that he could see, but discounting those few things made almost no difference at all, except to frustrate him further. Methos finished taking the man's pulse -- also normal -- laid down the hand he held and turned to look at Ruyz. "What happened here, Ruyz? What do you know about him?"
Ruyz's face was shadowed in the hut's gloom, but Methos could see the tumble of thoughts in the expressions flickering across the African's face. He motioned Methos to follow him outside and Methos went.
"His name is Serao, but he is brother to Captain Allessandro," Ruyz answered quietly.
Yes, indeed...this day could get worse. And just had. A bead of sweat dripped down the center of his spine. His earlier fear reappeared from the recesses of his mind to prickle up the back of his neck.
"Do you know what happened to him? How long has he been like this?" Methos pressed.
"I will tell you what I can...." Ruyz paused, his frown deepening.
Inappropriately, into the following silence, Methos' stomach growled -- loudly. Of all the times...
"Come," Ruyz said, with a small snort of laughter. "I will get us some food and tell you what I know when we have eaten. He will be all right for a little while." He sniffed in the direction of the doorway, wrinkling his nose. "I will get one of the women to wash him."
He led the way across the compound and Methos followed him gratefully. The women smiled shyly as they approached and Ruyz greeted them in a soft voice, giving them the respect due to older women. One woman nodded deferentially and disappeared in the direction of Serao's hut. Her companion remained and gave the contents of the cooking pot one last stir before serving it out.
Whatever lurked low in the bottom of the huge iron pot smelt wonderful, and vaguely familiar; Methos' mouth watered as Ruyz took two dishes of it from one of the women and walked over to a mat under the lengthening shadows of the iroko tree and sat down. Methos sank down opposite him and accepted the dish with briefly nodded thanks.
It was wonderful -- fiery peri-peri, spicy and delicious, served with a stiff paste of maize meal beside it. And if the meat was not one that he immediately recognized...well he wasn't going to complain. With the fingers of one hand, Methos rolled the paste into small balls to be dunked into the stew and popped quickly into his mouth as deftly as if he'd never stopped eating this way. Bloody good food, but he was sure they didn't always eat this well. Someone's hunting trip had been successful.
Ruyz did not speak until he, too, had finished his meal. He scraped up the last of the orange-red liquid from his dish and looked across the mat at Methos. "Four, maybe five weeks ago," he began without ceremony, "Serao came to this camp, although we did not expect him. His clothes were torn -- here and here --" he paused and gestured over his own clothing at the chest and belly, "and there was blood on him but we could see no wounds. He was afraid, jumping at the slightest sound...always walking around through the night, not sleeping..." Ruyz sighed and looked up as if trying to find inspiration in the tree branches. "I thought he was mad," his gaze flicked to meet Methos' candidly, "but of course I said nothing of that."
Methos nodded, understanding perfectly. "Of course. But what of the sickness, the weight loss?"
"That came soon after. He would eat, but still he grew thinner every day. The women gave him medicine for a worm in the belly, but it was no good. Soon he lay down and could not get up...could not do anything for himself. I have a little medic training, but nothing has done any good."
"Did he ever say anything, tell you anything about what was wrong with him?"
"I asked him many times, but always he says that nothing is wrong." Ruyz shook his head and offered nothing more.
Nothing Methos had heard was at all reassuring. He was still back at square one. It could have been any bloody thing: HIV (now there was a definite possibility), cancer, parasitic infestation, some other internal infection...or any one of a hundred other things he didn't have the facilities to diagnose or treat. "Why has he not been taken to hospital? Surely there must be a clinic in one of the areas that UNITA holds that could do something for him, you must know there is probably little that I can do for him out here with virtually no equipment or supplies. You are asking a lot of me." It would do him no good to get their hopes up; from the little he had seen there didn't seem to be a lot he could do for Serao. "Is there anything else you can tell me that might help?" Methos asked as Ruyz took the dish from his hands and stacked it on top of his own. He didn't miss the long pause that the other man took as he fiddled with the dishes and avoided Methos' eyes.
"No. There is nothing," Ruyz said at last.
Lying, Methos thought as he stood up. But I wonder why... "I should get back to him."
Ruyz made an assenting sound and walked back to the hut with Methos. It was almost fully dark now; the other soldiers had come back out of their huts and were gathering around the cooking fire being served their meals by the women. They stared in undisguised curiosity at him as he walked past them, a ripple of silence falling over the small group, ending as he went into the hut and passed from their view.
Serao smelled a little better when Methos entered the hut, but he lay so still that he looked as if he was not breathing at all; his unmoving body lit only by the yellow light of an ancient hurricane lamp. Methos stopped in his tracks for a second, and found himself holding his breath as he waited for Serao's chest to move. Seconds stretched and still there was no movement of the great, bony chest. Shit! With almost no conscious recollection of how he came to be there, Methos found himself at Serao's side, calling his name, shaking him quickly and pressing his fingers to feel for the carotid pulse.
It was there, beating a little quickly, but there, and as Methos shook him again, Serao opened his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. The relief that washed over Methos was so complete that he almost staggered. That had been too close.
Ruyz was still there; relief clear on his face, too. "He is all right?"
"He is still breathing, and his heart still beats, but I think 'all right' might be stretching it," Methos answered under his breath. "Has he done that before?"
Ruyz looked away for a second. "Once or twice in the night time," he admitted.
Methos rolled his eyes and sighed loudly in his exasperation. "I need to know things like that, Ruyz.... I need to know everything that's been happening -- including whatever it is you aren't telling me about what you think is really wrong with him." Impatience edged with more than a little fear was making him incautious, making him react instead of think.
"I have told you everything I know!" Ruyz hissed.
"I don't just want to hear about what you know," Methos hissed back. "I want to know what you think. Let me decide what's important -- not you. Which piece of you do you think Allessandro will decide you don't need if we let his brother die?" His temper was in full spate now, and he had backed Ruyz up until the African stood against the hut's front wall. "I like all my bits exactly where they are, and I'd like to keep them that way if it's all the same to you." He was revealing too much, leaving himself open, letting his temper run away with his mouth, and he pulled back, reining himself in forcibly. He dragged in a deep breath and asked, more calmly, "Now, will you tell me what you think, or not?"
Ruyz sighed and looked at the ceiling. "I think..." he began slowly and coldly. "I think that this man is very sick and it is you who must heal him and not I." His gaze descended and met Methos' at last, steady and obdurate.
Methos could have killed him where he stood. Instead, he snarled, "Get out," spun on his heel and turned away. He had pushed too hard, too fast, assumed more than he should have. He knew better...really.
He waited until the lieutenant had gone -- the faint rustle of the cloth across the door and the scrape of footsteps on earthen floor marking his exit -- before forcing himself to relax and get down to work. He had been stupid, but not irretrievably so, and nothing would be served by brooding about it now.
The packs had been delivered in his absence; stacked neatly beside the door, looking decidedly out of place and reminding him of things that he couldn't afford to think about. There were some blankets too, his own bedding, he assumed. So it seemed he was to sleep here. He gave a mental shrug and thought little more of it. It beat the tree he'd slept under the night before by a long shot.
Methos picked the bags up, carried them to the bedside and got down to work. Serao didn't even acknowledge his presence this time, passively submitting to a thorough examination, lying still but pliant, with all the animation of a fresh corpse.
***
Methos hung the IV bag from a bent nail in one of the rough-hewn posts that held the hut together. The fluid ran down the tubing and he stopped it as the first drops appeared at the other end, bending to attach it to the cannula he'd inserted in the back of Serao's hand. At least the drip made it look as if something was being done even if all it would really do was stave off dehydration. The exam had gone poorly, or well, depending on one's perspective.
He could find nothing wrong with the man. No lesions, lumps, thickenings, sore spots, rashes, not even a bruise marred the dulled black regularity of Serao's skin. The organs palpable beneath were completely unremarkable as were the sounds of his heart and lungs. His nervous system seemed normal and intact, as far as Methos could tell with such an unresponsive patient. His pupils, though unfocused, reacted to the flash of the small penlight that Methos shone in them, contracting evenly. More negatives, more possibilities excluded that, in the end, told him less than nothing. He gritted his teeth in frustration and tried to think.
Perhaps it wasn't physical at all, but some kind of catatonic depression instead. That might explain the agitation and the other symptoms that Ruyz had described. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to fit. Or was he simply grasping at straws, trying to make the symptoms fit the diagnosis and not the other way around? That worrying episode of sleep apnea earlier really didn't fit with anything else he was seeing. He sat down on a crudely carved wooden stool beside Serao's bed and looked at him closely once more.
"What the hell happened to you?" Methos whispered, not expecting an answer.
And none came. There was only the slow, steady whoosh of breath flowing in and out of Serao's body as he relaxed into sleep and the sound of the swirling thoughts in Methos' own head. Five hundred years ago, give or take, he'd have had to rely on his own intuition to work this out. Modern medicine had made him dependent on gadgets and tests, and he knew only too well that they were no substitute for careful observation and examination. But right now, he thought as he sighed, rising to pick up his blankets and improvise a bed for the night, a basic pathology lab would be nice.
He placed one folded blanket on the floor against the wall that ran at right angles to Serao's bed and arranged the other blanket over the top. As he sat and pulled off his boots, bone-deep exhaustion rose up, washing over him like a dumping wave and making him yawn widely, his eyes watering. The fear, the constant watchfulness, the hyper-alertness, not to mention the unending calculation going on his mind, were wearying him to the bone. It had gone very quiet outside the hut; sometime when he hadn't been paying attention, which in itself told him just how desperately he needed some sleep. He rolled himself in the scratchy woolen blanket, turned down the lamp and fell into unconsciousness.
***
A rustle of movement startled him awake, going from deep sleep to alertness in a hammering heartbeat. He paused for a second, frozen in place until he placed the sounds, adrenaline rushing fiercely through his body. It was Serao, thrashing about in his bed, and Methos sat up, fumbling for the lamp, turning it up to see what the hell was going on.
Serao shook and tossed from side to side on the narrow cot, his face and body contorting as if caught in a nightmare -- or a seizure. Sweat beaded his bare skin and dripped like tears down the sides of his nose as his head flipped from side to side. His hands struck out at some unseen enemy and his legs flexed and extended as if he was running. He gasped for breath in harsh, shuddering rales. Then, with a low, desperate moan, Serao rose off the bed, his back arched like an overdrawn bow. It had to be a seizure... Methos was just reaching for some Valium to inject into him, when a sudden shout stilled his hand.
Just two words, torn like pain from the other man's throat, echoing around the tiny room, raw with despair. Two words, cried out in desperation: "She comes!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~