by Nikki Landis
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered quietly.
I dare not answer him but continued to eye him warily.
He sighed, but it was more a huff of agitation. “Huh.”
I wobbled but managed to stay upright. “Yeah.” There might have been a hint of sarcasm in my voice.
He stood there for a moment, assessing me with those cold gray eyes, and then suddenly picked me up by my waist and sat me down in the center of the only table in the room, taking me by surprise as he bent down to look at my knee. For a brief second I considered kicking him in the head and making a run for it, but something held me back. Curiosity? Maybe. I winced as he pulled my pant leg out of my boot top and pushed it easily up my thigh. His fingers were gentle but strong, confident in their ability.
The guard said nothing as he set to work, cleaning the gash and applying antibiotic ointment, and then bandaging it up. He wrapped a strong thick gauze around my right knee and pinned it in place. When he finished my right leg, he then pulled the pant leg back into place and examined my left leg. It was certainly in worse condition.
“You need stitches. It’s going to hurt like hell.” He warned.
I was unprepared for the pain. There was no anesthetic and I am unsure it would have helped much. He tried to be gentle but I just shook my head and bit my lip to keep from screaming.
“Almost done now.” He whispered again.
Even so, it hurt like someone was ripping my skin apart with their bare hands. I grit my teeth together from the pain, my chest rising and falling quickly from the exertion, and I collapsed all the way back against the table. My eyes sealed shut of their own volition.
Minutes ticked by. I drifted in and out of consciousness. The pain and constant emotional turmoil of the night was taking a toll. Slowly, he took my hands and held them, palm up, and with the same methodical care he cleaned and wrapped them in bandages. He only released my fingers once he was satisfied they would heal.
At last he was finished. He stood slowly and put away the supplies. Something in his demeanor prevented me from being frightened. I believed him when he said he would not hurt me. If he was going to torture me, why patch me up? I hid my surprise when he handed me a couple of pain relievers and a cup of water. I accepted them gratefully and gulped it down.
The next few minutes ticked by slowly. The guard stood in front of me and stared, looking into my eyes for a long time. I was confused by his kindness. By his generosity. Why would he care? What agenda did he have if not to bring me here to torture for information? I was the enemy. Hated. Despised. Worthless. It did not make any sense. I frowned in frustration. What were his motives?
Curious, and unable to stop myself, I gazed back at him. Through the whole unending night he never removed his bandana. It covered most of his face, entirely obscuring his looks from my view. As I watched, his eyes softened momentarily, like he had a distant memory, some recollection of long ago, some good and happy vision that existed before there was nothing but death and war. I could see the change as it happened and I understood.
We all had memories. Some haunted us. Some gave us hope. Others lingered on nothing but pain and death and loss. And war. War was always a prominent memory. What existed before, what made us who we were, none of that mattered now. War was all that existed for most of us in this world. It was all that existed for both of us in this room. He seemed to think of it too because his eyes quickly became more guarded.
“How is your leg? Do you think you can walk on it?” He asked, his voice husky with emotion.
I did not pretend to understand his thoughts or the rush of emotion he tried to hold back. I simply nodded. He walked over to the door, gesturing me to follow him. Silently he put his finger to his lips and led the way, exiting into the narrow hall once more.
Dirty and peeling wallpaper lined the corridors. Layers of dust blew around in the air as we passed, settling on abandoned furniture. This was not a place in regular use. The guard knew where we would be unobserved and able to tend to my wounds. He seemed to know every nook and cranny, and every spot to duck and hide. Nervously I tried to keep up.
I made slow progress. My body was weak and tired. It had been a stressful day and a long night. My mind was fatigued, my stomach was empty, and my thirst was terrible. I started to stumble more. Wherever he was taking me had to be the longest route in history. I finally sagged against the wall and closed my eyes, unable to take another step. He must have sensed my inability to protest because he scooped me up into his arms and held me against his chest.
“Not much farther now,” he murmured.
I must have passed out. When I awakened he was staring down at me, his brows drawn together in concern. I blinked a few times to clear the cobwebs from my brain and struggled to keep my eyes open.
“I know you want to sleep. I think you should eat and drink something and then I will let you rest.”
I sat up slowly with his help and managed to eat some cheese and bread and drink another cup of water. My eyelids kept trying to shut. Exhaustion was going to claim me again and I hardly had the strength to resist. He helped me lay back against the pillows. Where did pillows come from? And a bed? I was laying on a soft mattress. Something warm and comforting covered me and I sighed.
The next time I awakened bright light was filtering in through a large rip on the right side of the window shade. Ironically enough the beam of light was directly centered on my forehead. I had to adjust the pillow and move to the left or be forced to go blind from the brightness of the light.
Feeling weak I decided to stay in bed. There was no sign of my captor. Or should I say savior now? That was a bit generous. Perhaps healer was good enough for the moment. No sense in getting too comfortable around him.
The room was painted in a faded beige and gold, decorated with several paintings of scenic rivers and mountainsides. A landline phone was plugged into the wall by the bed and I was half tempted to check if it worked. A long rectangular light, currently not in use, was anchored to the wall above my head. Across from the bed was a door that stood slightly ajar. I could hear the faint drip of a toilet. A fake green house plant sat across the room seemingly out of place and in isolation.
I realized suddenly where I was. This was a hospital room. An old and abandoned one by the looks of it. The rails on the side of my bed were lowered but still able to raise if needed. I took advantage of being alone and snuck into the bathroom. I felt much better afterwards but weakened from the exertion. My knee did not appreciate any amount of use. It took considerable effort to make it back to the bed. I had just managed to lay back down when the door opened and the guard walked in.
He rushed to my side and his fingers quickly found my radial pulse.
“You look pale.”
That was all he said. Nothing else. Not even after we stared at each other for about five minutes in silence. Something must have been going through his mind. I could literally see the wheels working. Whatever secrets he had, he kept. I finally glanced away.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” I whispered, my throat hoarse and dry from thirst.
“You’re welcome.”
He dropped a large pack onto the bed between us. Food, water, medicine, maps, and several small weapons covered the bed.
“These are all for you. Once you are healed enough I will help you leave. Until then you must be able to protect yourself…just in case.”
“Will I be alone until then?” I asked, suddenly a little afraid.
He shook his head and I think he smiled, but the bandana hid his expression. “No, I will be in and out to check on you. Don’t leave.”
Satisfied I drank from the canteen and ate some of the food he provided. He remained silent, his gaze falling on my face every now and then. Curiosity ran rampant in my brain. A thousand questions formed only to never be asked.
“Put some of your weight on that knee as often as possible or it will become stiff.”
I nodded, nervousl
y chewing my bottom lip.
“I will return this afternoon.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Every day for three days he visited me. Each morning he arrived with fresh supplies. There was always food, water, and medicine. He sat beside my bed in an old chair. The upholstery was ripped apart like something had chewed on it, which for some reason humored me, and he asked how I was feeling.
We would sit in silence and then he would leave. In the evening he would return and repeat the process. Oddly enough his silence did not bother me. It was peaceful. Almost nice. I relaxed easily in his presence, almost as if I knew him. If he intended any harm toward me I firmly believed it would have been accomplished already.
Each moment I spent with him increased my curiosity. What sort of soldier took care of the enemy? What sort of person set aside their own beliefs or differences to care for someone who was injured? Did he lose anyone in the war? People he loved? Perhaps a girlfriend, wife, or lover? Loss was the one thing I could understand. Loss was familiar. Somehow I sensed it in him, and knew at least in that regard we were kindred. Perhaps he also noticed that loss in me. He would not be the first.
The third afternoon he finally told me we would leave in the morning. His grey eyes looked almost sad, more guarded, less determined, than usual. Irritatingly enough he never removed that bandana. His military grade hat was always pulled low over his eyes.
I sensed a struggle beneath his calm exterior. His fingers twitched on the bed next to mine. His right foot tapped an inconsistent but constant rhythm by the metal rail. He cleared his throat more than once. I nearly asked him what was wrong a dozen times.
“I trust you will sleep well. Good night.”
I fully expected him to jump up and leave. Instead he rose slowly and paused, his eyes lingering on my face. When he finally met my stare I almost forgot to breathe. There was an intensity that caused the butterflies in my stomach to flutter and stir. It was not entirely unpleasant.
Five, ten, maybe even fifteen minutes he continued to watch me, searching for something. Perhaps he was trying to figure out me as much as I was trying to figure him out. I almost wished I could give him what he was looking for but I could not. I knew nothing of what he wanted. I knew nothing about him. And then, just as swiftly as before, he was gone.
Long after he left I continued to stare at the door. I hoped the wooden planks would give me answers to my swirling thoughts. Part of me wanted his tall frame to enter the doorway again. Part of me was frightened that he would.
I almost wondered what would happen if I peeked out the door. Would he be close by? Did he watch the building? Would he swoop down upon me and chastise me for my inquisitiveness? I almost tiptoed to the door to find out. Almost. Instead I sat in lonely silence until sleep finally claimed me.
Morning arrived swiftly. I was ready when he arrived, having little to do to prepare. Everything I owned was in my backpack. We exited the room quietly and made our way slowly out of the dimly lit building, stopping periodically to avoid militia soldiers making their rounds. The pace was a relief. Rushing would only have injured my knee further.
I followed close behind my guard protector, anxious to avoid detection. Despite the rest of the last few days my body felt weak and strained. The effort of walking was fatiguing. I dare not entertain the idea of how much longer I needed to go. Base camp for the refugees was miles from here, miles from Refugee Road.
We left the building minutes later, greeted by a winter wonderland of white. Nervously I scanned the perimeter hoping I wouldn’t be shot. Against that startling white we stuck out like black marker on a whiteboard. His navy blue uniform was crisp and clean, covered in medals that glittered in silver and gold, and shining in the morning rays of sunlight. In my fatigues and borrowed combat boots, there was no mistake what group I belonged to.
Shoot first. Ask questions later. It was my body that would become riddled with bullets, not his. I knew by now how the militia guards took shifts. Every few minutes they walked past this part of the compound. We did not have much time. My life depended on his discretion and speed.
He quickly grabbed my hand, his fingers grasping mine tightly, and dashed into the tree line. I have no idea why I let him take such liberties. I immediately should have yanked my hand from his but I let it linger, savoring the connection and thankful for his speed.
Crazy thoughts scrambled in my head. Was I so desperate for human touch? For kindness from a stranger? I barely knew him. I had never even asked him his name. For all I knew he was just as lethal and cunning as the rest of the militia. What if I became trapped or worse? But something deep down, something tangible and real, told me he was different.
In this instance, I obeyed my gut. It told me to trust him. And so I did. He put me at ease, ironically, and I suddenly wanted to know who he was. It was my last chance. Any minute I would be leaving and I would probably never see him again. The least I could do was thank him. No harm in that.
Out of breath, we rested and paused in our frantic rush to leave the soldiers behind us. I leaned against a frozen tree for support and surveyed my surroundings. Briefly, I hoped to catch a glimpse of someone I knew. Any of my companions. Anyone left hiding to round up stragglers. But no one was around and of course, they would not be. Another of Darren’s dictates. It was too dangerous. Too risky. I knew that. And yet I had almost dared to hope.
I looked at the guard, wondering what his next move was going to be. I considered saying something, breaking the silence between us, but he pulled me along before I had the chance. The cold instantly penetrated my body and I started to shiver. I let him lead me by the hand again, his steady and strong grip keeping me from stumbling and falling on the uneven ground.
My knee ached at the constant use. The only warmth came from his gloved hand in mine. Snow sloshed, covering my legs to the thigh and left our footprints etched into the surface. We would be an easy trail to follow.
He must have read my mind.
“I will remove the footprints when I return. No worries.”
He seemed rushed, winding us quickly through the labyrinth of trees and forest, darting us under cover as much as possible. Only when I saw the street sign did I realize where we stopped. I had come full circle.
This was where it had all started, only a few short nights ago. This was where I had awaited the militia delivery caravan. The place where blood and violence had ripped me from my friends. Where the night had taken such a drastic turn. I dare not let my eyes linger upon the ground, uncertain of what evidence may lay behind…
All at once we were standing a few feet short of the broken and dilapidated road that remained one of the few safe paths the refugees dared to travel. Those who fought for freedom from tyranny held their ground here. The militia could not secure this road. Oh they had tried. Numerous times. It was a liability to them, this small stretch of pavement.
We never gave quarter. Never let them have a reprieve. We always attacked them on this road. A warning. A promise. We would not be dismissed so easily. We were here to stay. I knew what the sign said before I raised my eyes, even with its faded and nearly forgotten black letters: Refugee Road.
The guard cleared his throat and looked into my eyes. Slowly and carefully he pulled off his hat and bandana, revealing his face to me for the first time. For a split second I wondered why he chose now, at this moment, to make his identity known. For days he had the opportunity. In the end his reasons did not matter. The fact was that he did reveal himself.
Stunned I stood in place, afraid to move, afraid even to blink. If I did he might disappear. I gasped as my hands flew over my mouth in shock and surprise. It was him.
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About the Author
Nikki Landis is the author of the Freedom Fighters and Fight for Light novels. She holds two degrees, graduating summa cum
laude in her class. Nikki loves to write romance, especially in the paranormal, post-apocalyptic, fantasy, and young adult genres. She lives in Ohio with her husband and amazing family. In her spare time she enjoys watching sunsets and curling up with a good book. Nikki loves to hear from readers.
Thank you for your support!
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