by Amy Cross
“She's already gone through a lot,” Donald continues. “Do you remember how hard it was to get her into the cart in the first place? She was screaming with pain, and there was blood everywhere, but... Well, we still did it, right? We did it because we had to, and now we're at the other end of the journey and we have to move her again, but once she's on the bed... This is the last time we'll have to move her, I promise.”
“Swear to God?” she asks.
“I swear to God. After this, if she gets up, it'll be under her own steam.”
There's a pause.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Let's just get it over with.”
Finally!
I feel their hands reaching under me from either side, taking hold of my torso and waist. Their fingers struggle to find a proper grip, and already the pain is extreme. Damn it, I can't even bear to be touched anymore, and I can feel my flesh getting pushed against the ragged bones that are trying to twist their way to freedom. Fortunately I'm too weak to cry out, so all I have to do is wait, and I'm quite certain that the actual moment of moving me will only take a couple of seconds. Hell, it'll be so quick, it'll merge right into the relief of the whole thing being over. That's the theory, anyway. The cart is probably right next to the bed and -
“Ready?” Donald says suddenly.
I hold my breath.
“Ready,” Marnie replies.
“Okay,” he continues. “On three. One.”
I feel them both adjusting their grip.
“Two.”
I grit my teeth. This is going to be agony.
A brief pause.
Get on with it, you pair of -
“Three.”
As soon as they start to lift me out of the cart, I'm struck by a jagged arc of pain that bursts through my body from several points, filling me with such agony that all other thoughts are blasted from existence. It's as if my body is not so much being lifted as torn apart limb from limb, and in the midst of the agony I can hear my own voice screaming in my mind. For a moment, I start to worry that something is going terribly wrong, that after spending two days in the cart my body has become so badly damaged that I'm literally falling to pieces in their hands. I wouldn't be surprised to feel myself fall down and see them standing over me, holding my arms and legs. At the same time, I can feel a shudder of movement as I'm lifted up, suspended in their grip. My eyes are open, but the intense pain is bringing flashes of bright, searing light to my eyes; a moment later, my head tilts back and my mouth falls open, and an involuntary gasp emerges from my throat.
I can hear Donald and Marnie shouting at each other, but their voices are indecipherable. It sounds as if they're at the far end of a vast, echoing chamber, and rippling pain is shaking my body with such force that I feel I'm being torn from my own mind.
I gasp again.
Suddenly I realize I can feel myself being lowered, and a moment later there's some kind of cool, rough fabric against my ravaged back. I feel Donald and Marnie slipping their hands out from under me, letting my body rest now on what must be the bed. The pain is still intense, but at least it's no longer getting stronger and with my head still tilted back all I can do is wait as the agony ripples and throbs through my every nerve-ending, pulsing in my mind and threatening to rip my thoughts apart. It's as if the pain has forced every other concept from my mind, leaving me as a being of pure agony for a few more seconds until I feel it all starting to subside. A sense of calm, of peace, is starting to flood my body, and each passing moment brings a little more relief until I'm finally able to take another shallow breath. I'm still in pain, of course, but compared to what I felt while I was being moved out of the cart, it's nothing.
I wait, and I feel my body falling still again. Just the old pain now, the pain I know so well.
Slowly, another involuntary gasp slips from my throat.
“Is she...” Marnie starts to say, before her voice trails off.
“Rachel?” Donald asks after a moment, leaning over me with obvious concern in his eyes. “Rachel, are you okay? Can you hear me?”
I stare up at the dark ceiling for a moment, before turning my eyes toward him and meeting his gaze.
“That's a yes, right?” he continues with a faint, forced smile. I feel him take my hand in his. “If you can hear me, and if you understand what I'm saying, give me a sign. Blink once, or squeeze my hand. Either will do, just... Give me a sign, Rachel.”
I wait, trying to summon the necessary strength, before finally I manage to blink again. This time, for good measure, I also squeeze his hand.
He smiles with obvious relief.
“Now what?” Marnie asks.
“Now...” He pauses, squeezing my hand in return before letting go and stepping back out of my field of vision. “Now we wait.”
“For what?”
“For her to get better.”
“Do you really think she -”
Donald hisses something. I'm not sure what he says, but it's enough to make her stop talking.
“We're going to take another look around,” he continues, leaning back over me, “and we'll let you rest for a little while, and then we'll think about trying to give you something to eat. We'll bring water, too. I don't...” He pauses, and for a moment he looks absolutely helpless. “We're going to make you comfortable, Rachel,” he adds, “and we're going to give you the peace and undisturbed quiet to try to heal yourself. I know that's a big job, but we both believe in you, we both know you can do this.” He forces a smile. “The most important thing is that you're home. You're back at the church, and you always said that if we could get you back here... Well, you said there'd be a chance. That's all we can ask for, really, but we'll be praying for you. We'll be praying like we've never prayed before and I'm sure those prayers will be answered.”
Silence falls between us for a moment.
“I'm going to sweep around the altar,” Marnie says finally. “There's so much dirt there, it's not right.”
“I'll help you,” Donald tells her, before leaning down and gently kissing my forehead. “Marnie and I are going to be real close,” he continues, “and we'll check on your constantly. I promise, Rachel, everything's going to be okay now.”
As they walk away, discussing things in low tones, I stare up at the ceiling and take a series of slow breaths. I'm in so much pain, I know there's no way everything is ever 'going to be okay', but I understand that Donald and Marnie have to keep telling themselves such things. They can't face the truth, that this is the end, that there's no way I can recover from my injuries; even more than that, there's no way I should recover. After everything I went through, I should have died on the battlefield, and I fully expected that to happen. I was ready for death. Instead, for some reason that I still don't understand, my life was allowed to linger for a little while longer, albeit with my body now wrecked and devastated. I refuse to believe that such a miracle would happen purely by chance, so I can only assume I've been left on this earth for some purpose that I don't yet understand. The forces must have wanted me to come back to the church one final time, but why? I hardly think it's a sentimental matter, so there has to be another reason.
After a moment, I feel something bumping against my left leg. It's just a brief touch, almost nothing, but it's just enough to let me know that the unseen visitor, whoever or whatever it is, remains by my side.
Two
I see him up ahead, standing on the ridge with flames burning all around. As I climb to the top and rise to face him, he turns to me, his eyes bulging from his flesh-ravaged face and -
Letting out a gasp of pain, I open my eyes and try to sit up, before I feel all the bones in my body starting to grind against my meat and organs. The pain builds for a second before I let myself sink back down against the sheets, dripping with sweat and breathless. I gasp again as images from the nightmare flash through my mind, stamping themselves on my thoughts as if they refuse to die. Even as I stare up at the dark ceiling above this bed, all I ca
n really see is the inferno that burned on the ridge. For a moment the flames threaten to overwhelm me, just as they threatened during the battle itself.
Finally, however, the nightmare starts to fade and I'm left gasping in darkness.
Nearby, footsteps are hurrying closer.
“Rachel?” a male voice says, as the face of a worried-looking middle-aged man leans over me. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“Is she hot?” a female voice asks from nearby. “Check for a fever.”
“Rachel,” the man says again, more firmly this time as he leans closer. “Give me a sign, Rachel, let me know you're okay in there. Like before, remember?” He takes hold of my hand. “Blink and squeeze.”
Staring up at him, I feel a sense of panic starting to spread through my body. I have no idea who this man is, and I don't know where I am or how I ended up here. Hell, I don't even know my own name, and I certainly don't know anyone named Rachel. I push his hand away and try to sit up, only to feel as if my bones are locking together, holding me down. I let out a cry of pain as tears start streaming down my face, and a moment later the man places his hands on my chest, trying to push me back down onto the sheets. Why's he doing that? What's wrong with me?
“You can't get up yet,” he tells me. “Rachel, please, just try to stay calm.”
I try to reach out and push him away, but my body refuses to obey. Despite the panic in my soul, I can barely move at all and I'm already starting to feel as if the last of my energy is draining away. I don't know what happened to me, but my entire body seems to be failing and I can't even summon the strength get up from this bed. I try to cry out, but that too seems to be beyond me and instead I start trembling with pain and fear and frustration. All I want is to scream, to get someone to come and help me, but the only sound that comes from my throat is some kind of long, drawn-out hiss that makes the back of my mouth sting and brings a taste of blood to my tongue.
“Rachel!” the man says firmly, reaching down and holding my shoulders. “Rachel, what's wrong? Rachel, look at me!”
“Is she dying?” the female voice asks.
“Of course she's not dying!” the man snaps. “Don't say things like that.” He leans closer. “Rachel, you have to stay calm. Rachel, look at me! It's me! It's Donald!”
I tilt my head back and try to scream, and this time I manage to let out a long hiss that almost starts to form words.
“Rachel!” the man shouts, grabbing my head and tilting it toward him, so I can see him staring at me. He looks so worried, but I swear I have no idea who he is, I have no idea who either of these people are; I don't even know why he keeps calling me Rachel, but it's definitely not my name. “Focus!” he continues. “You have to focus on me!”
I squint, but I can feel fire behind my eyes, as if my head is burning. Sweat is dripping down my face, mingling with my tears and falling onto my chest as my entire body continues to tremble.
“Rachel, we're at the church!” the man adds. “The church in the south, remember? The church at the end of the causeway! It's exactly as you described it! You wanted us to come here, you said we had to come here! Rachel, we brought you home!”
Home.
That word seems to stir something.
I open my mouth to try calling out again, but this time I hold back. Staring up at the man's face, I start to feel as if maybe I have seen him somewhere before, and the name Rachel is starting to become familiar, as if some sense of memory is slowly rising through the void of my thoughts. I let out a faint gasp as I reach out and place a hand on the man's shoulder, and a sense of calm starts to settle throughout my body. Donald. The man's name is Donald, and the woman... It takes a moment longer, but finally I remember her name too. Marnie. And I am Rachel, and this place is a church and I am home. Somehow I managed to forget all of that while I was sleeping, and it took a moment after I woke before my memories settled back into my mind, but they're there now, flooding back into my thoughts.
I let Donald ease me down onto the sheets.
I take a series of slow, steady breaths.
My body is no longer shaking so much, although I feel very cold. A moment ago I was burning up, but now I'm almost shivering. Still, at least I remember who I am now. I can't afford to forget again.
“Everything's okay,” Donald continues. “You obviously had some kind of nightmare. Were you dreaming about...” He pauses. “Well, never mind.” He takes my hand again. “Rachel, do you -”
I squeeze his hand as tight as I can manage.
“That's good,” he says, with obvious relief. “I was actually starting to worry that we might be losing you for a moment. It's good to have you back.”
“Is she okay?” Marnie asks, from behind him.
“She's fine,” he replies. “As fine as she can be, anyway.” He lets go of my hand, slipping his fingers free from my own. “It's getting late, Rachel,” he continues. “Marnie and I were just discussing everything we have to do before nightfall. I've already made some adjustments to the door, and I've checked all the windows and they seem sturdy enough. I know we'll be fine, but the storm's going to get worse before it gets better and...” He pauses. “Well, the causeway is already mostly flooded, if the sea gets any rougher we'll be cut off from the mainland. I don't know if that's what you want but...”
I try to reply, to tell him not to worry, but my exertions of the past few minutes have taken a toll and I feel far too weak. I just have to focus on making sure my memories don't start fading again. Those moments of amnesia, just after I woke, were terrifying.
Rachel.
My name is Rachel.
Trying to stay calm, I take the deepest breath I can manage.
I know who I am.
“Your bandages are soiled,” Donald continues. “We're going to have to change them, and I think we should take a look at your wounds too. Maybe clean a few of them, see if we can...” His voice trails off for a moment. “Well, you get the idea. I know there's not a lot we can do, but we should at least try to maintain your body in some kind of decent state, and we have a medical box so we might as well use it. In fact, Marnie and I were preparing some warm water and fresh bandages just now, when we heard you crying out.” He turns away from me for a moment. “Maybe you should fetch the items? We can tend to her now, while she's awake, rather than disturbing her later.”
I hear Marnie walking away, and a moment later Donald turns and leans closer to me.
“She's struggling,” he tells me, keeping his voice low so he won't be overheard. “She's usually so strong and she believes in the cause, but after everything she's seen...” He pauses. “Well, everything we've both seen, really. I have to be strong, for her sake as well as for my own, otherwise I think I'd be going the same way. Don't worry, though, I'm managing to hold her together. Just about, anyway.” He sighs, and I can see the tiredness in his eyes. “I don't mind admitting,” he continues, “that there was a moment back there, the other day, when I thought it was all over. It's not that I didn't believe in you, Rachel, you know I believe in you without even a hint of doubt, but still, when I saw what you had to face, I truly felt that there was no way anyone could survive. Despite all the injuries you've suffered, the fact that you're here at all... Well, it's a miracle, and that has to mean something, doesn't it?”
He pauses, as if he's waiting for me to say something that'll make him feel better. Reaching out, I take his hand again and squeeze.
“Of course it means something,” he adds finally. “It has to.”
A moment later, I feel something brushing my left foot again. The visitor is still here, it must be watching everything that happens. Hearing footsteps nearby, I realize that Marnie is already coming back, and then I hear her setting something on the floor, perhaps a bowl. She makes no mention of there being an extra figure in the room, so once again I can only assume that she and Donald are unable to see the visitor. Clearly it's something that is choosing to make itself seen to me and only me, although in that ca
se I don't understand why it doesn't attempt to establish communication, or if it wants to kill me then it should just get the job done. Something about this visitor doesn't feel right, and I need to regather my strength soon, at least enough to allow me to turn my head and see the damn thing.
“Okay,” Donald says after a moment, “this might be a little uncomfortable, but I'm afraid it's very important. Just bear with me, Rachel. I'll be as careful as possible.”
“Don't hurt her,” Marnie whispers.
“I'll try my best.”
A couple of seconds later, I feel him pulling gently on the bandages that are wrapped around my chest, and then I hear the sound of a pair of scissors cutting through the fabric. There's a pause, and then I can feel the bandages being lifted from my damaged skin, and every few seconds I feel the cold metal of the scissors brushing against my flesh as they move down to my belly and then all the way to my crotch. I hear the scissors being set down onto the stone floor, and then I feel the bandages being peeled aside to expose my bare, ravaged torso. I can only imagine how I look, but I'm quite certain that most of my flesh must have been burned away, leaving damaged muscle and perhaps even fragments of bone poking through. I can only hope that there's no infection, and given Donald's skills as a care-giver, I'm sure that's the case.
“It's actually not looking so bad,” he says after a moment, with a hint of genuine relief in his voice. “I think there's some sign of healing in a few places, maybe even some new cell growth.”
“It's awful,” Marnie stammers. “Oh God...”
“Quiet!” he hisses, before pausing. “Rachel, Marnie's right, it's still not good, but there is progress, you have to trust me on that. We have to focus on the positives right now.”
I feel him cutting the bandages a little more and then slipping them out from under my body. “We're going to have to change these at least every day, maybe twice a day for the first week. We don't exactly have state-of-the-art supplies out here, and what we do have is going to run out pretty fast. Maybe if we're still here in a week, I can send Marnie off to find a town and she can see about getting some fresh bandages, although the sea air might also do you some good.” I feel him dabbing at my wounds. “In a few days' time, you might be strong enough to go outside for an hour. With this type of injury, fresh air is very useful.”
