by KC Klein
I raced after Quinn.
I ran toward the command center, and before I even turned the corner I could tell something had happened. The volume had been raised to a low roar. Men shouted orders, boots marched on hard ground, and guns were being locked and loaded. I’d never been in the army, never seen a battle or even volunteered for the Red Cross, but the symphony of sounds I heard for the first time in my life was unmistakable. It was the song of war.
My feet slowed as I took in the chaos of men readying for battle. The room, thick with adrenaline, resonated with a low buzz sending goose bumps across my flesh. A blur of green and black camouflaged uniforms merged with faces smeared black with paint. Weapons crisscrossed backs and strapped onto bulging biceps, pockets were being loaded with ammunition and grenades, then Velcroed shut.
There were two groups of men preparing to go topside. The ones in the front were heavily armed and had communication devices wrapped from ear to mouth. The second group consisted of five men, equally armed, but forming a protective circle around a woman in a long, flowing white gown. Though I’d never seen her, I’d no doubt what she was. Soldiers hovered, encircling, though careful not to touch her. A goddess.
She was quite a bit younger than the goddess who had done the mind-invasion on me—barely out of childhood in truth. Her black hair was swept back into a messy thick braid that swayed down her back. She looked nervous, though she tried to hide it. Her white teeth worried on her bottom lip as she twirled whips of hair around a finger and shuffled from foot to foot. She all but screamed, “I’m scared.” I couldn’t blame her. In a room full of men armed to the teeth (one man was actually carrying a knife in his mouth), she was the only one without a weapon or armor. Just long, flowing white robes like a homing beacon in the sea of black and army-green camouflage. An unease blossomed in my stomach; it was like watching a virgin being taken to the sacrificial altar.
Everyone seemed to be running to their destination and duty. And yet there was calm among the chaos, as in the eye of the tempest was one man—ConRad.
He stood apart, distancing himself. The quiet air surrounding him vibrated with authority. The crazier things got, the more heightened—it didn’t seem to matter to him. All the madness seemed to get sucked into his personal black void, leaving him with no emotion, except calm control.
I glanced back over to the goddess. She was licking her lips, which seemed overly red against the paleness of her face. Regardless of the cause, children shouldn’t go to war. My decision made, I rushed into the fray and almost ended up on my butt after crashing into a soldier. I maneuvered through a line of men and ran over to where I’d last seen ConRad. He was barking orders at a few soldiers.
I softly placed my hand on his arm. I knew I had no pull with ConRad, so it couldn’t hurt to drizzle my words with a little honey. I put on the charm, kicking my voice up a notch, hoping I came across sounding sexy and a bit helpless. “ConRad, I mean Commander, where are these men going?”
As soon as I said the words, I knew it had been a mistake. His arm tightened as if I’d struck him. He stopped talking midsentence, and with the precision of a surgeon, cut his hardened ice-gaze to mine.
I removed my hand, letting it flutter self-consciously at the base of my neck. In self-defense? I felt my throat move hard as I swallowed the lump that had formed. “I mean, I know why they are going up, but I’m not sure there could be a strong enough reason to the allow men—and one child,” I said, emphasizing the word child, “to go topside and . . . fight?”
I couldn’t break the gravitational pull of ConRad’s glare. But out of my peripheral vision I saw one soldier’s mouth slack open. Quinn’s face loomed behind ConRad’s, eyes huge in her panic-strickened face. It was as if someone had hit the mute button; the volume quieted.
“Are you inferring that I don’t place the life of my men in high enough regard?” His voice was all taut control. His jaw muscle flexed, probably at the thought of snapping small, delicate finger bones—like my own. Honestly, I hadn’t meant to question the Commander in Chief of the compound, but that’s exactly what I’d done. In front of all his men no less.
I shook my head. The thunder clouds were brewing, and I knew what every experienced sailor knows—sometimes you need to cut the sails and ride out the storm.
“It sounded to me like you were questioning my authority. Because I assure you,” his eyes narrowed, and the creases at the corners deepened into grooves, “I’ve weighed every life and take no man or woman’s sacrifice to be worthless. But as to the ‘why now, why this time’—well, that’s an excelle ks Quinnnt question.”
He lifted his head and surveyed our transfixed audience, seeing if any wanted to join our two-man play. “Would anyone be willing to let Ms. Davenport in on why after ten years of meticulous and covert operations we are now going up to engage the aliens?”
There was a silence that no one wanted to fill, except for me, yes . . . stupid, stupid me. He had addressed me as Ms. once before and I hadn’t corrected him. But now . . . “Doctor.”
I sucked in my breath. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud, really. It’s just that the pathway from my brain to my mouth is way too short—it is a disease, a condition. I should come with a warning label.
“Excuse me, Ms. Davenport, I didn’t quite catch that.”
Probably because I had spoken under my breath. “Um . . . doctor. I passed my medical exams three months ago, so that would be . . . um . . . Dr. Davenport.”
He paused for a number of heartbeats, his eyes widened, and his hand came to rest on his chest. “My apologies, please forgive the misrepresentation.”
He waited for a response, so I mumbled something, but my voice broke on the word “fine.” My face felt uncomfortably hot and my ears, I knew, were turning a bright crimson color.
“Well then, please let me be the one to inform you why all my work has disintegrated, and why the aliens are trying to find their way into the mountain.” He crossed his arms and lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. “The aliens have gone berserk over their first smell of a woman in over ten years. So I need to lay bait, a decoy, to lead them away from the drugging, all-consuming, addictive scent . . . of you.”
The word “you” was launched like a fiery missile and dropped right at my feet.
I was the cause, the reason a mere girl and a dozen men were about to risk their lives to prevent the aliens from breaking in. I opened my mouth to protest, but what could I say? Apparently I’d already said enough. I stepped back. My leaden feet were heavy as I dragged them across the floor. I turned slowly, keeping my sight on the ground. I couldn’t bear to see the soldiers’ faces. I didn’t want the memory of them burned into my brain.
With each step I took the volume rose, and soon the march of men was loud eno k wa"-1ugh for me to glance over my shoulder. The men were on the move, one by one crawling through the tunnel. I knew ConRad was there crawling somewhere among them. He’d never send his men and stay behind, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint him in the sea of black. My eyes caught sight of Quinn. To my relief I realized she’d be left behind, since she was busy talking into a com-phone headset and pounding on a keyboard in front of her.
Soon the teams were gone, and a charged hush fell over the compound. The soldiers left behind were pumped with anticipation, and I held my breath, waiting without even knowing why.
“Got it,” Quinn shouted excitedly, followed by a loud crackle over some sort of PA system. “Commander, you are all on Broadcast now. Do you copy?”
There was silence and loud crackling, then “Copy” came across the speakers. “All units are out of entry tunnel. Team One is in defense mode guarding the entrance. Team Two will proceed to the targeted area,” ConRad said.
A sigh of relief swept through the command center. It seemed the most dangerous part of the mission had been leaving and entering the tunnel—logical since the tunnel was only wide enough for one man at a time. If caught, the odds were those of shooting fish in a
barrel.
Stillness settled thick among those of us left behind. We all began to breathe as one, straining to listen for any words between the crackles. Then there was a burst of noise—gunshots? Men screamed, some yelled profanities and others just in pain. Then I heard it—I remembered from before and would never forget—the inhuman roar of an alien. The call reverberated throughout my body and seeped into my very bones. Somewhere in the blueprint of my genetic code, a code older than I’ll ever live to be, my response to the primitive message was clear . . . I was the hunted.
The sounds of battle were deafening, but through the noise were phrases. “There’re coming from behind! He’s gone . . . leave him . . . leave him!” And the worst two words in the English language heard over and over . . . and over. “Oh God! Oh God!” And something more terrifying than even the screams.
Silence.
Chapter Eleven
“We’ve lost contact,” Quinn whispered.
A hush settled nidsen
There was a pounding, a curse, and then a shout from behind the entrance. “Open the damn door. Now!” It was ConRad.
The men recognized their commander and immediately opened the steel door. A small sigh of relief slipped past my lips as I watched ConRad step out. He was hunched over carrying the goddess, whose head was listless, robes no longer white, but dingy like she’d taken a crash course in falling from grace. Two other soldiers stumbled out, blood soaked and haggard as they half-carried, half-dragged a fourth man who bled from the stomach. Two others crawled out on their hands and knees. One wheezed and fell to the ground, holding a wound on his side that oozed black-like tar through his fingers. A smell of singed flesh and hair caught me as another solider turned his head, and I glimpsed an ear and scalp melted as if made of wax and held too near a flame.
All too soon the men stopped coming. The steel door was closed with a resounding thud that echoed through the mountain. A large locking wheel was spun by a soldier and a thick steel bolt slid home with a screeching finality. So few, only six including the young girl, compared to over a dozen that had left.
I watched in horror as ConRad’s gaze searched the room until his locked with mine. The rest of the men followed suit. All eyes on me, pinning me with their stare.
I froze. A kaleidoscope of thoughts swirled through my brain. Why had I made such an issue about being called Dr. Davenport earlier? I wasn’t really a doctor. In the real world I wouldn’t even be able to apply a butterfly Band-Aid without a resident breathing down my neck.
But there they stood. Their eyes huge, faces smeared with blood and dirt. They looked as if they expected miracles, and I was their latest savior.
Savior? Miracles? Didn’t these people know I couldn’t figure out the bill at a restaurant without using the tip calculator on my cell phone? It didn’t seem to matter. I was the only option these people had. A rush of adrenaline pushed the bile back down and sent goose bumps coursing across my skin. I turned and raced toward the infirmary.
“Quinn, I need your help.” But she was already ahead of me, waiting with the door open.
I was nervous, okay scared to complete constipation. I knew trauma medicine—at least on sadob paper I did—but this was a primitive environment, and I was working alone. I scoured my hands through my hair, trying to figure out my first step.
Get it together Kris. You’re the only chance these people have got.
I did a super quick look over the soldiers and decided most of them could be helped later. The solider with the abdominal wound was in the most critical condition.
“Lay him down gently . . . careful. Don’t move his head . . . good.” I went over to clear his C-spine, not that it would’ve made a difference since he was literally thrown about before he got to me, but I relied on my saving mantra—follow protocol.
His face was stained with red, a hematoma swelled, sealing shut one eye. I did a quick exam, which was super quick, considering I didn’t have an X-ray machine, blood pressure cuff, or oxygen monitor. Regardless, the injury was obvious; blood pooled around his midsection and flowed out onto the table. I needed to stop the bleeding, but I couldn’t do it on my own. I quickly surveyed the sea of anxiously waiting soldiers. I pointed to the first man I saw, the one I’d named Tank. “You . . . get a clean cloth and put pressure on this.”
I gestured to the gaping wound and ripped open my patient’s shirt to get the field clear. ConRad stepped from behind and placed a restraining hand on my shoulder. “The girl first,” he said, his voice low, but firm.
“What?” I tried to shake off his grip. I couldn’t spare him a glance. I knew I would have a hard time figuring out the source of bleeding. Were the intestines involved, the liver, the spleen?
He didn’t release his hold, instead squeezed harder. “The goddess first. You need to treat the goddess first.”
Thinking the girl might have gone into cardiac arrest. I ran over to the girl who’d been laid out on the next table. I’d started on the solider first because of the excessive bleeding, but maybe I’d missed something. There was nothing obvious, but a quick check revealed a steady pulse, good respirations, and pupils even and reactive to light. There were no wounds, no bleeding or distorted limbs. She was unconscious, but seemed stable enough. My gut reaction was possible trauma to the head, but it was impossible to tell without doing further tests, of which I had none. With a snap judgment born to all good emergency personnel, I determined the girl was less critical than my first patient. The decision made, I jumped back to the soldier who had already soaked the first cloth and was starting on his second.
The Commander didn’t appreciate my decision. He st scis0em" widepped in front of me blocking my access to my patient. “You need to completely finish with her treatment, before starting on this soldier.”
“Negative,” I said, holding my hands in the air placating my illusion of a sterile field. “He is the most critical patient. If I treat her first, then he’ll die before I can get back to him.”
“It may not matter.”
My heartbeat skipped a beat. “What do you mean . . . may not matter? Of course, it matters.”
“He failed his duty,” he said, pointing to the girl.
Really? I widened my eyes in disbelief. “The way I see it, he protected her with his life. How is that failing his duty?” I pushed my way past ConRad and continued to work. The man bleeding out on the table was my patient, regardless of what the Commander said.
“It’s out of my hands. The Elders will decide, but the status level needs to be followed.” His voice was monotone, as if he’d repeated this line of crap at least a dozen times before.
I was stunned. Who were these Elders? And exactly why did they get to decide? “If you weren’t going to allow me to treat him, why did your men bring him back? Why not just let him die in the field?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw ConRad glance down at the solider whose blood had spilled onto the floor and started to pool toward our shoes. His gaze drifted back toward me and for a brief moment I saw regret flash in his eyes. But then the emotion was gone, replaced with blue ice. “He’s a good man. And there may still be hope for the goddess.”
I looked around the room. Despair dripped like water from a sodden blanket. Quinn’s face had grown pale with worry, eyes huge with fright. The other soldiers stood motionless, not sure whose orders to obey. Each face was etched with pain, eyes dead and hollow.
“But your men thought there was hope for him. That’s why they risked their lives to save his. And I think there is hope, so until I have none . . . I expect full cooperation from you and your men. Cut off his clothes, I need to see what I am working with.” As far as I was concerned, the discussion was over. My ER doctor persona had raised its ugly head. I shouted orders and expected to be obeyed. But ConRad’s presence was doing its standard assault on my brainwaves. I needed him gone.
sor=div“Commander, unless you’re going to help, you need to get out of my way.” My voice was sharper th
an I intended, but I could detect his scent underneath the blood and gore, and to realize how aware I was of this man sent panic coursing up my spine. Expecting resistance, I was relieved when he took a huge step back, allowing me breathing room.
“You need to know, you are disobeying a direct order from the Elders.”
His words had the same effect as if he ran ice down my naked spine. I glanced down at my battered and torn patient, and then the pale goddess. I wasn’t sure I could help either of them. But were they worth the risk? I shook my head; it wouldn’t come to that. I’d be gone before the Elders, or whoever they were, could find me.
I nodded. I understood what he was saying; the responsibility was all mine. ConRad stepped closer to me and whispered in my ear. “I will protect you as much as I can, but they could ask for retribution instead.”
My only reaction was the slight stutter in my heartbeat. “It doesn’t matter.”
I lied; it sure the hell did matter—a lot. He stepped closer. His shoulder brushed my back, his breath tickled the fine hairs along my neck. “I didn’t think it would.”
I sighed. What did he know? Apparently nothing, because I had a plan. Try to save both of my patients and then get the hell out of Dodge.
A spasm found a home deep in my shoulders and neck as I struggled to knit flesh and bone together. Hours had flown by and now only Quinn and I were left with our patients. In the harsh glare of the infirmary the blood glowed orange and soaked the gauze as it seeped through my clumsy attempt at stitches. The work was tedious, his wounds extensive, and to top it off, I wasn’t sure my stitches would even pass for surgery. I strained my Hippocratic oath with the “first do no harm” part, not knowing if, after I was done, he’d even be able to take a leak without squirting himself in the eye instead.
My God, please let him be able to take a leak. Panic caused my hands to shake. I wiped wetness from my forehead with a shrug of a shoulder. If I had been in a “real surgery,” I would’ve been thrown out of the OR for such a non-aseptic move, but then I would at least be wearing gloves instead of bearing cuticles stained orange with gore.
