“Best not to dwell on what you can’t help,” Robards replied.
“I guess you’ve seen a lot of stuff like this,” Wade said thoughtfully. “I see a little of it in my work. But I don’t think I could ever get so casual about death. I think it’s important to, well, respect a person’s passage.”
“You’re here until you’re not. Respect don’t change it any.” Robards’ tone was clipped.
Wade was quiet for a minute, struggling with a question he hesitated to voice. “Is that the way you feel about faith?”
“You mean religion?” Big shoulders bounced once. “If it helps you get through the day, fine. Otherwise it ain’t nothin’ but excess baggage.”
“So you don’t believe in anything?”
“You know, I’ve met guys like you everywhere I’ve been. They get close enough to smell death, they start thinking about what comes next, which leads you to all that God stuff. Let me tell you something, Sport. It’s a great big world out here. A lot of questions just don’t have answers. One place I’ve been, they keep an empty chair at the table for the dead, leave it there for a year. Another place, folks make up this hefty wooden tablet, cover it with words, keep fruit and fresh flowers in front of it, and bow down to it every time they pass. After a month or so they take it out and burn it, then the spirit’s been released to wherever it is spirits are supposed to go. Far as I can see, all that stuff’s meant to help the ones left around here, not the spirits.”
“So you do think people have spirits, souls?”
“Maybe they do and maybe they don’t, but what I think’s not gonna change a thing, now, is it?” Robards jutted an angry finger at the next curve. “You just keep your mind on the road up ahead, Sport. Whoever it was that didn’t make it out of there is weeks beyond the point of no return. Talking about it with me ain’t gonna change things a bit.”
Wade drove for a time in silence, then asked, “So what do we do now?”
“That’s for you to decide,” Robards replied. “But you gotta know that my nickel ends when we get back to the compound.”
Wade eased them around a cliff side, determinedly not looking out into the void. “You’d just leave me there alone with two trucks?”
“This is the age of capitalism, in case you haven’t noticed. You’re just lucky you got yourself somebody who stays bought.”
“An honest mercenary.”
“There are more of us around than you’d imagine.”
“I don’t have enough money left to pay you more than what we already agreed on.”
“That stuff we’re carting around is worth its weight in gold to the right buyer. You give me a script for payment, with a note saying I can take medicines instead of money if that old geezer back in Grozny decides to make trouble.” Robards pulled the clip from his gun, flipped out the round in the chamber, and dry-fired the trigger. “So what’s it gonna be?”
“I’ve got to think.”
“You do that, Sport,” Robards said, and set the gun down behind the seat. “Just keep in mind, the meter’s running.”
When Mikhail saw them coming, he hefted his gun high and shouted something that was lost beneath the engine’s rumble.
Rogue climbed down, walked to the other truck, maneuvered it around until it was straight, then motioned Wade to back in beside him. As soon as Wade cut the engine, the old man climbed up on his running board. “I have a favor to ask of you,” he said formally.
Surprise filtered through Wade’s confusion and fatigue. “Of me?”
“There are members of my clan who live here. One has a sickness, another a cut which has not healed clean.” The old man’s gaze was strong, direct. “I and my clan would be in your debt.”
The stars were welcome strangers when Wade returned from treating Mikhail’s kin. He unrolled his bedding behind the truck and lay enclosed by its captured warmth, too tired to sleep. He searched the silver river overhead, wishing he could leave behind his uncertainty and live with the assurance that ruled Robards’ days.
Perhaps the man was wrong, but at least he lived by what he felt to be right. There was no wondering where Robards stood on anything or where anyone stood with him, and this assurance gave him a solid strength.
Wade allowed his eyes to finally close as he wondered how it would be to feel such strength about anything. He then began to pray for the patients who had made it out of the clinic—and for the families of those who had not. He recalled Rogue’s words, and wondered if he was only using prayer as a way of handling the presence of death, until sleep crept up and swept him away.
Wade did not awaken until the sun rose over the truck and lanced directly into his face. He squinted against the sudden brilliance, rolled over, and found Robards leaning against the compound wall and cradling a steaming mug with both hands.
“It’s almost noon,” Robards announced. “Ready for some coffee?”
Wade rolled from his bedding, struggled to his feet, rubbed his face. His three-day growth felt rough as sandpaper. “Noon?”
Robards handed him a mug. “You were doing a right fair imitation of the truck engine.”
Wade sipped the scalding brew, rolled the ache from his shoulders. “I was pretty tired.”
“There’s a bathhouse down the street. Not the cleanest place on earth, but there’s plenty of hot water.”
Wade scratched at his matted hair. “I could use a shower.”
“Better hop to it, then. There was a reception committee here an hour or so ago, but I wouldn’t let them wake you. One of them spoke enough English for me to work out the basics. It appears that word has gotten around about your deft touch as a healer.” Robards squinted and looked out over the encampment. “Looks like there are a few others who could use a helping hand.”
“I’m no doctor,” Wade protested, fully awake now.
“You’re the closest thing they’ve got,” Robards answered, “and a darn sight better than nothing.”
Wade bent over the cooker, poured himself a second cup. “We still haven’t talked about what comes next.”
“There’s time enough for that after you see to your new friends. You go get cleaned up. They’ll be back before long.”
The bath stalls were rudimentary in the extreme. Generations of insects nested in every corner, and the floors were blanketed with slippery green slime. Still, the water was hot and plentiful. Wade stood and let the water drum down on him and savored the simple pleasure of washing.
The Carcash compound covered the better part of twenty acres and contained almost a thousand trucks. As Wade walked the central avenue, he passed vehicles of every make and vintage. Many had their cowlings opened while grease-stained arms and heads busied themselves with repairs. Guards strung with bandoliers and well-oiled guns lounged with deceptive ease.
The dusty concourse was packed with hawkers. Shepherds tugged at bleating sheep, stopping to haggle with the timeless patience of Asian traders. When a bargain was finally struck, the sheep was lifted and its throat cut with a single motion of a razor-sharp knife. This was done before the buyers to assure the meat was fresh and the blood properly drained according to Muslim tradition. The smells and sounds of death caused a momentary panic among the sheep and chickens not yet sold. Their bleats and shrill cries joined with the laughter and shouts of the buyers, the engine noise, the drunken revelry, the heat, the dust.
As Wade walked the busy passage, he noticed that more attention than normal was being cast his way. Bands of drivers paused in their talk, opened their assemblies to permit his passage, murmured greetings. Wade returned the quiet words and wondered at this courtesy offered to one so evidently a stranger.
Robards waved to him from the midst of a group clustered before their two trucks. “Far as I can make out,” he said when Wade walked over, “this is a delegation of drivers. Maybe you’d better take over.”
Wade offered them a greeting and saw relief appear on their faces. A gray-bearded man with the unbroken whiteness of o
ne blinded eye said, “It is indeed the blessing of Allah that we find a healer among us who speaks our tongue.”
“I am not a doctor,” Wade warned.
“Doctors are bloodsuckers,” spat a younger man.
“It is said you have the touch of a healer and the voice of a trusted friend,” the elder continued. “There are those among us who suffer much.”
Wade glanced at Robards, who responded with a grin and the words, “You best get busy making friends and influencing people. We’ll leave Mikhail here with the trucks, and I’ll tag along long enough to make sure everything’s straight.”
Wade turned back to the elder and said, “I will come.”
In the course of a day, Wade found that his basic medical skills were enough to grant him entry into a secret, unseen world. Entire families, whole clans, traveled together in scores of trucks. Their tales came out in bits and pieces as he worked. They remained banded together through desperate need. Petrol and spare parts were often impossible to find. Bandits and thieves preyed along the length and breadth of the crumbling empire. Food was a constant problem.
Children were everywhere—silent, watchful, solemn-eyed, never far from an adult. Wade counted it a major accomplishment when he was able to make one smile.
He would be brought in for one problem and find a dozen others. A child with a lingering cough had pus-covered scabs on his legs. A young woman with a poorly set finger had infections in both eyes. Pains that would have crippled a Westerner were endured in silence; here there was no other choice. Wade offered what help he could, and for a time forgot all but the pleasure of giving, of helping, of performing the only act that brought him peace.
They spoke because he showed them the quiet patience of a good listener. They told him of a country that was falling apart at the seams. They described voyages over thousands of miles of empty wilderness, the convoy guards ever vigilant for bandits who nowadays hunted prey from horseback because of a lack of petrol. They talked of distant lands where the Siberian bears and leopards prowled around city perimeters at night and filled the air with their howls. They shared their fears, which were many, and their hopes, which were few, and dealt mostly with their children. Their gratitude was humbling in its intensity.
It was dark when Wade made his weary way back to the trucks. Robards received him with open arms. “Got us a regular gold mine here.”
Wade dropped down beside the softly glowing stove. “Is there anything to eat?”
“Anything to eat, the man asks.” With a flourish Rogue swept back a canvas tarpaulin to expose a vast pile of wealth. “We’ve got smoked ham. We’ve got dried beef. Roast lamb, boiled lamb, lamb stew. Two Turkestan carpets. Motor oil. Caviar. Pity you’re not a drinking man, on account of we got ourselves almost a case of vodka and some premium Russian champagne.”
“It’s too much,” Wade protested. “These people don’t have enough even to feed themselves.”
“They’re traders,” Robards said, settling the canvas back into place. “Traders are the same all the world over—they hate nothing worse than an unpaid debt. Let these people say thanks the only way they know how.”
Before the meal was completed, a group of men appeared from the gathering shadows and demanded, “Is this the place of the healer?”
Wade raised his head from his plate and asked wearily, “Can it wait until morning?”
“Perhaps,” one of the men replied, coming into the lamplight. He was heavily armed and bore a deep cut running from forehead to chin. The eye that lay in the slashed path was matted shut. “But there is also a chance that he may not see another dawn.”
“Careful with this one,” Robards hummed with deceptive calm, his eyes remaining on the cup in his hands.
“He’s got somebody who may be dying,” Wade replied.
“Man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do,” Robards said, his tone almost bored. “Take Mikhail with you for safety’s sake.”
Wade thought it over, then declared, “One of your men must remain here until my return. And one of my own will accompany me.”
The man hesitated only a moment, then nodded. “It will be as you say.”
Their way took them far beyond the compound’s periphery and into the gloom of a night untouched by public lights. Their flashlights bobbed and wove down litter-strewn paths. Twice they gave way to crowds of drunken men shouting obscenities and seeking trouble. Wade and Mikhail followed the example of their guide and stepped quietly into waiting shadows.
Their destination was a hovel that was part wooden shack, part well-patched tent. A surly voice challenged them as soon as their lights came into view. The guide shouted back and led Wade and Mikhail to where a trio of armed guards kept vigilant watch.
The guide motioned Wade through the low doorway. “In there. Your guard remains here.”
Wade hesitated until he heard a soft groan from within. He nodded to Mikhail and stepped through the door. The stench that greeted him almost drove him out again.
Wade took a gasping breath and forced himself forward. In the candlelight he saw a form curled on a makeshift bed of burlap matting. There was no furniture. The room’s only light came from a sputtering candle. The stench came both from the body on the bed and from a bucket by the far wall. Two other men remained huddled in the far corner, watching him with the dull eyes of bone weariness.
Wade squatted down beside the inert form, gently eased the body over, and saw a young man with pale European features. He turned to the pair against the opposite wall. They too had fair features and watchful western eyes.
Wade asked, “Do you speak Russian?”
That brought a glint of humor. “What else would we be speaking?”
“What is wrong with this man?”
Instead of replying, the man cocked his head to one side and said softly in heavily accented yet understandable English, “Could this truly be an American who has found his way here?”
The scarred man stepped through the doorway, and immediately the glimmer died in the other man’s eyes. He lowered his head to his knees and went on in Russian, “He has food poisoning. You would too if—”
“You talk too much,” the guard hissed.
“How long has he been like this?” Wade demanded.
“Four days,” the guard replied, his eyes on the other man.
“He has not been able to eat or drink anything for two,” the man said to the floor by his feet.
The form on the bed shuddered, moaned, and made a retching sound. Then he subsided.
Wade turned to his satchel. He inserted a thermometer in the man’s mouth, checked his pulse, took his blood pressure, fitted a stethoscope and checked lungs and heart. Then he reached for a pen and paper. As he wrote he said, “This man is extremely weak. I must set up an intravenous drip to get some fluids into him.” He tore off the sheet, handed it to the guard, said, “Have one of your men take this back to the truck and give it to my friend.”
“Your own man—”
“My man stays with me,” Wade replied firmly.
“They will never find your truck.”
“Then you must go yourself.”
The guard glowered at him, started to object. Wade cut him off with a strength he only found when working. “This man is very near death. I do not know if I can save him. Every moment is precious.”
The guard spat a bitter curse, then turned and stomped from the room. With electric swiftness, the man who had spoken in English leapt forward, swept up Wade’s pen and paper, then returned to huddle in the far corner, his back now to the room. His companion sidled up closer to him and blocked his actions from view.
Outside the hovel the guard barked orders to his men, then marched into the night. Another man, shorter but broader in girth with arms as thick as Wade’s thighs, came up and filled the doorway.
Wade prepared one injection of antibiotics and another to stop the nausea. The man made no protest as the shots were administered. Wade turned to the guard an
d said, “I need water and a clean towel.”
The guard hesitated, then retreated a step. As soon as his motion carried him from the doorway, the other man was sliding silently across the floor toward him. But the guard had not left, rather simply told his companion what to bring. The man froze into his position beside Wade as the guard turned back around, then said in a tight voice, “Can you save my friend?”
“I will try,” Wade replied, his heart in his throat. “Will you help me strip and wash him?”
“Of course.” Together they rolled the inert form over, lifted off the sweat-stained clothes, then bathed the fever-heated body first with water and then with alcohol.
As they were finishing and covering the man with the cleanest of the blankets, the scarred guard pounded up the path. There was a moment’s confusion at the door. Clearly the burly guard did not wish to enter too far into the room’s fetid depths. As the two men traded places, the Russian slipped the square of paper from the folds of his clothes and into Wade’s palm. Wade pocketed the paper with the speed of one handling a live coal.
He set up the drip, taped the needle into place, hung the plastic bag from a nail in the wooden part of the wall, and adjusted the flow. He set two additional pouches beside the Russian and said, “You must change the drip when the level reaches here. Just turn this handle so, take off the empty pouch and replace it with a full one.”
“I will do as you say,” the man replied, his eyes never leaving Wade’s face. They shouted a mute appeal.
“And bathe him once more with the alcohol,” Wade said, packing up his satchel, wanting nothing more than to be away.
The guard demanded, “Will he live?”
“I will return at dawn,” Wade replied. “By then we should know.”
Robards listened with the stillness of a hunting cat as Wade described the scene. He then rose and with casual ease checked their periphery. “All clear. The old man’s on point guard. Let’s see the note.”
Wade plucked the slip of paper from his pocket. It was in Russian. He translated, “We were to be delivered to new guides here. They were supposed to pay the men who have brought us this far. They never arrived. We are being held for ransom, but there is now no way for money to reach us here. Save us. We will pay and pay well. Otherwise we shall die.”
Riders of the Pale Horse Page 9
