Fever Dreams

by Laura Resnick

  “God, I wish I'd been able to bring those cigarettes with me. Here,” he said hoarsely, looking worse than ever. He handed her his shirt. “Since this'll hurt me a lot worse than it hurts you, just think of all those times you wanted to hit me and didn't.”

  Realizing that he was right, that she'd have to hurt him, she clenched her teeth and muttered, “I can do this.”

  “God, I hate getting shot,” he ground out as she applied pressure. “I really, really hate it.”

  “We'll have to stay here for a while, you know,” she said, trying not to look at his agonized face. “You'll just start bleeding if we start walking again.”

  He ignored her words, staring hard at her. “What happened to your face?”

  “What?” She glanced down and saw the dried blood on her blouse. “Oh. That man hit me. It doesn't hurt.”

  “You—”

  “It doesn't hurt,” she repeated, scrubbing self-consciously at her face. “How many ... how many of them are left?”

  He didn't have to ask who she meant. “El Martillo won't be walking any time soon. One of the men I shot is probably dead. The other may be,” he shook his head. “but I'm not sure. But he won't be running through the jungle today, that's for sure.”

  “That leaves two.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She swallowed. “Have you ever ... ever killed anyone before?”

  “No.” He didn't look away. He let her see what was there; the mingled revulsion and acceptance. “No,” he repeated, “but I spent years being prepared to do it, Maddie.”

  “Are you—”

  “I'm all right,” he said. “Or I will be. That's the first thing you learn about a gun, you know. How easy it is to kill someone. You learn to respect that.”

  “Oh, God, Ransom.” She started shaking again. She tried to concentrate on the problem at hand, tried to force the schoolyard scene out of her mind. “I—I think the bleeding is slowing down. Tell me what to do now.”

  Following his instructions, she balled up the shirt against the wound as best she could and tied the sleeves tightly around his leg. The pathetic, blood-soaked bandage would do him very little good, she realized, fighting tears.

  He stayed still until she was done with her task. Then he handed her the gun. “Take it.”

  “No, you—”

  “Take it.”

  She did so with great reluctance, tucking it through the back of her waistband, beneath her shirt. “Where's your .38?”

  “I dropped it back in the schoolyard. It's empty anyhow.” He grabbed her hand with sudden, surprising strength. “Listen, Maddie. If you hear them coming, you've got to leave without me.”

  “No. I won't.”

  He buried his hand in her hair and gripped the back of her neck, rough where he had always been gentle. She met his eyes without wincing or blinking. “You have to,” he said fiercely. “They'll just kill us both.”

  “I won't leave you,” she repeated stonily. “And you can't make me.”

  He almost laughed, but it turned into another grimace of pain. “There's no point in both of us—”

  “Or even one of us—”

  “I can't run anymore.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Damn you, just do what I tell you!”

  “No.”

  “You can't let them get you,” he said desperately, weakening even as they argued.

  Realizing how this was taxing his strength, she sat next to him, eased him into her arms, and said, “Just rest now, all right?”

  “Maddie...”

  “Shhh.”

  She kissed his sweat-soaked hair and tried to soothe him. When he went still, she wasn't sure if he had fallen asleep or passed out.

  * * * *

  He slept for over an hour. When he awoke, he insisted they move on. She protested, knowing he would start bleeding again, but he was adamant.

  “They've probably given up looking for us by now,” he admitted, “but we've got equally serious problems. We're lost, Maddie, and we've got no supplies. We need drinking water, and I need help. If we sit around here so that I don't bleed to death, then I'll certainly succumb to infection. But by the time that happens, you'll be too dehydrated to get out on your own. We've got to find a farm or village as soon as possible.”

  Realizing he was right, she relented, only delaying their departure long enough to look for a big, sturdy stick he could use as a cane. When he rose to his feet and put weight on the wounded leg, she saw sweat bead his forehead. He told her he'd be all right and irritably insisted they get going. She guessed that his leg hurt far more than he was willing to tell her; she vaguely remembered some long-ago classroom where she had learned about the bundles of nerves running down the inside of the thigh.

  Not knowing this region, they decided to try to head toward where they thought the road ought to be, hoping that the LPM rebels wouldn't be travelling that same road. Although the thick jungle disoriented his sense of direction, Ransom figured the road should be due west of where they were now; they adjusted their course as the sun started lowering in the afternoon sky.

  Their progress was laborious. Ransom's wound and growing weakness kept his pace slow, and they were both hampered by the thick bush. Madeleine finally understood why heroes in jungle movies were always hacking their way through everything with a machete. She couldn't see three feet in front of herself half the time, and they were both covered in scratches and welts from all the thorns and branches and sharp-edged leaves that lashed out at them as they passed. Madeleine forced Ransom to don her poncho, seeing the abuse that his bare torso was taking—on top of the bruises left by the beating he had endured. He resisted at first, and only the argument that she couldn't afford to let him get any weaker managed to sway him. She didn't like him going bare-chested in this climate, anyhow. It was cooler this high up, and very damp. He's soon take a chill, the way he was sweating.

  She studied him during their increasingly frequent rest stops. He looked terrible, worse than she could have imagined. Beneath his three-day growth of beard, his face was drawn, sweaty, and haggard. He was so pale that his cuts and bruises stood out sharply. His eyes were glassy with pain and—she feared—the start of a fever. He, who was so fit he seldom drew a deep breath for anything besides sex, was breathing hard all of the time now. Wading through the river this morning had washed a considerable amount of the blood out of his pants and left them a murky, muddy color; but she could still see the red stain slowly spreading around the shirt she had tied over his wound.

  She wanted to fling herself at him and weep. But she knew how much he appreciated her stoicism, and how a show of weakness from her would only require more strength from him, so she confined herself to seeing to his comfort whenever possible.

  Unwilling to risk drinking from the streams they occasionally encountered, Madeleine realized they could keep their bodily fluid levels up by consuming fruit. She collected whatever fruits she could find as they tramped along—mostly mangoes—and forced a grumbling Ransom to eat one every time they stopped to rest.

  “I hate these things,” he said. “They're so sweet and messy and—”

  “And full of sugar and vitamins and fluid,” she said. “Eat it.”

  “I want a cigarette.”

  “Eat your mango.”

  Afterwards, they'd be sticky from mango juice, and flies and other insects would buzz around them until they found a puddle or stream in which to wash.

  By sunset, they still hadn't come to the road, and Madeleine wondered if it really was where they thought it was. It was so hard to get your bearings when you were surrounded by bush everywhere you looked, even overhead! And the thought of spending the night in this damp, misty, chattering jungle terrified her. But, with her own vision failing as darkness descended, and with Ransom badly in need of rest, she knew that they had no choice. Summoning her resolve, she announced that they were stopping for the night.

  “I can keep going,” he lied.
r />   “I can't,” she lied. “And who knows what we'd walk straight into in the dark?”

  He relented, too exhausted to argue anyhow, and started helping her search for a likely shelter. They finally found a little dome of bushes growing together, with soft earth beneath it. After ensuring that nothing else lived there, Madeleine lined the ground with enormous flat leaves, then urged Ransom to come inside and lie down.

  “And eat this,” she added, handing him a mango.

  “Oh, Christ.” He tried to shove it away.

  “Eat it,” she ordered inflexibly.

  “I'm going to turn into a mango soon,” he complained.

  “It could be a distinct improvement,” she told him.

  * * * *

  The macaw swooped overhead, its lovely scarlet and indigo wings blurring in his vision as it flapped and fluttered. The woman at his side admired it, but he was busy admiring her. She was so lovely, even with blood on her face.

  Blood?

  Why was there blood?

  He tried to ask her, but he couldn't get enough breath to speak. His chest burned as he ran, and he couldn't get enough air.

  They were running? Running. Running. Trying to escape.

  The macaw followed them, circling and plunging. It turned into a vulture and swooped down on the woman. He ran faster, trying to reach her, but he couldn't breathe and his leg wouldn't work. Paralyzed, he watched in horror as the vulture turned into a leering Montedoran, carrying a gun and dressed in rags. The man attacked the woman. She fought back wildly, but without sufficient strength or skill.

  Desperate to save her, Ransom shouted with terror as he tried to force his unresponsive limbs to move.

  “No,” he moaned, trying to reach her.

  “Ransom.”

  “No!”

  “Shhh. It's all right.”

  It's not all right, dammit!

  “Wake up.”

  “No, no...”

  “Ransom!”

  He awoke gasping for air. A whimper caught in his throat, humiliating him. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.

  “Oh, God, oh, God,” he murmured brokenly, burying his face against her.

  They were lying somewhere dark and damp, smelling of earth and greenery. Her arms were around him, and she was stroking his back. As he lay panting and shivering with reaction, she slipped one hand between them to unbutton her blouse and unfasten her lacy bra. He gratefully pressed his face between her bare breasts a moment later. She didn't smell as sweet and clean as usual, but she smelled like her, and that was what he needed right now.

  “Tell me what you dreamed,” she whispered, stroking his hair.

  “I was trying to ... trying to get to you ... and I couldn't move ... I couldn't help you...”

  “Just a dream,” she murmured, shifting to hold him more comfortably. “You help me every time I need you.”

  “I couldn't get to you, I c—”

  “But you always do,” she whispered. “You always will.”

  He recognized she was humoring him, soothing him; he let her. He needed it. And he realized she was seeing him as no one in his adult life ever had—helpless, scared, weak. And he let her. He tightened his arms around her fiercely and rubbed his face against her soft skin, heedless of his scratchy beard.

  After a few minutes of her stroking and murmuring, he calmed down enough to ask a rational question. “When did I fall asleep?”

  “The minute you lay down.”

  “Oh. Has it been long?”

  She shrugged. “A few hours. I doubt if it's midnight yet.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You were bleeding.”

  “Just my nose. It's fine.”

  He shivered. “Aren't you cold?”

  “Are you?” she asked.

  “I'm freezing.”

  “Your skin is hot,” she said slowly. “I think you have a fever.”

  “Great.”

  She chuckled at the disgust in his tone. “But you're starting to sound more like yourself.”

  “You could try to make that sound like a compliment.”

  “No, I couldn't.”

  “Hmph.”

  They lay silently for a while. Then she said, “You know, there's something I keep wondering.”

  “What?”

  “What's your name?”

  “You know my name.”

  “Your first name.”

  “I'm not gonna tell you. You're just malicious enough to put it on my tombstone.” He felt her stiffen and realized what a bad joke that was, under the circumstances. He burrowed closer, seeking her warmth, and said, “We'll find the road in the morning.”

  “Uh-huh.” He had a feeling she didn't believe him. After a long, silent moment, she sighed, “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.”

  He frowned. “About what?”

  “Everything. About leaving you alone at the Hotel Tigre. About bringing you back to Montedora with me. About—”

  “Maddie, it's—”

  “About your getting shot.”

  “That's hardly your fault,” he pointed out.

  “But I ... Oh, God...” He was surprised to hear tears in her voice. “I was so mad at you when we left New York, I told Preston I hoped you'd get shot by rebels,” she blurted guiltily.

  “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  Yeah, she was definitely near tears. And if he was kind and understanding, it would probably only make her feel guiltier. So he said, “Jesus, I can't believe you said that!”

  “Well, you were being so awful to me,” she said, sounding a trifle defensive.

  “A little, maybe, but, I mean, what kind of a person are you?”

  “The kind who doesn't like be goaded and bullied,” she said. Yeah, she was definitely defensive now.

  He tried to hide his grin. “Goaded and bullied? Oh, come on.”

  “You were the one who threatened to tell people about us. You were the one who said you could prove you'd seen me naked because you knew about the birthmark on my bottom. You were th—”

  “It's a really sexy birthmark,” he drawled.

  He heard her sharp intake of breath when he fondled her bottom. A moment later, she laughed shakily. “Why don't you just let me wallow in my guilt?” she asked ruefully.

  “Not in the mood.”

  “Well, I'm sorry, anyhow.”

  “They didn't shoot me just because you once upon a time wished for it, Maddie.”

  “No, but ... Does it hurt?”

  “Of all the stupid questions,” he grumbled sleepily. “Of course it hurts. I can tell you've never been shot.”

  “Well, no, actually.”

  “It hurts.” He left it at that. Why mention that his leg throbbed like it wanted to fall off, or that a red-hot poker seemed to be piercing his thigh again and again and again?

  “A farm or a village won't be enough,” she whispered. “We need a real doctor and real medical facilities.”

  “One thing at a time,” he murmured, drifting away. He was so tired, so incredibly tired. Even listening to her wore him out. Snuggling into her as he gingerly kept his thigh from touching anything, he slipped over the edge again.

  * * * *

  She made him take off his pants at dawn so she could get a good look at the wound. She didn't know anything about such things, but it looked awful to her: angry, oozing, and swelling. Considering the wound and the hot flush covering his skin, she had no doubt that infection had already set in.

  He was slower today, and obviously in even more pain. Putting his pants back on was an ordeal. Within a half hour of their setting off, he was drenched in sweat and breathing like he'd just run a marathon. Madeleine helplessly watched him struggle to master his weakness and conceal his pain from her. The terrible, insidious fear that he wouldn't make it started settling into her bones, chilling her with cold dread.

  Realizing that, at this rate, dehydration was a more serious concern than additional infection, she insisted he dri
nk from the next stream they found. The water was moving sluggishly, but it was cold and clear, and she harbored some faint hope that it bore no parasites or disease. Feeling lightheaded, she decided she'd better drink, too.

  A couple of hours later, he seemed to have reached the end of his rope. He sat down, refused the mango she tried to force on him, and regarded her with serious, glassy eyes.

  “When you find the road,” he said between long, exhausted breaths, “don't get into a vehicle with more than one man in it, unless there are women, too. Or women and children.” He closed his eyes for a moment as a wave of pain washed over him. “You know. A family.”

  “When we find the road,” she corrected, her stomach churning. She knew what he was about to say, and she didn't want to listen.

  “I might not be there.”

  “Then neither will I.”

  He sighed sorrowfully and finally said it. “I can't go on, Maddie.”

  She could see what it cost him to admit that. She could see that the wound was bleeding again. She could see him close to collapse.

  “Then neither can I,” she said simply, meaning it.

  He seemed too tired to discuss it for a moment. Finally, he said, “Look, if I wait here, and you leave a trail that you can follow back to me after you've found help—”

  “No.”

  “Maddie, you—”

  “No! I'm not going on without you. I'm not leaving you here. I'm not discussing it.” Her voice shook, but not her resolve.

  “You have to,” he said, too weary to get mad at her. “I'm sorry,” he added.

  “Save it. I'm not going.”

  “I'm not giving you a choice,” he explained. “You're going on without me.”

  “What are you going to do? Pick me up and hurl me through the bush?”

  “I'm in charge,” he reminded her. “When it comes to your safety, you agreed to do what I tell you.”

  “I don't remember ever agreeing to that, regardless of what your contract with my father says. Besides, wouldn't you say these are rather extraordinary circumstances?”

  “Maddie, you have to do it,” he said gently.

  “Why?” she demanded. “Why do I ‘have to’ to go off and leave you to die?”

  He held out his hand. She was so accustomed to his forcefulness and aggression that it took her a moment to realize he was asking her to hold it. She scooted closer and took his hand.