Fever Dreams

by Laura Resnick

  “Don't let me fail,” he whispered.

  “What?” She didn't understand the non-sequitur. Was the fever affecting his wits already?

  His face paled, and she knew he was in the grip of another wave of pain. Then he said, “I came here to protect you. The moment ... I knew who you were and that you were coming back here ... I would never have trusted anyone else to take care of you.”

  Her throat felt tight. “Ransom...”

  “Only reason I came,” he murmured. “To keep you safe. Please...” He held her hand against his burning cheek and closed his eyes. “Please stay safe.”

  “We'll both stay safe,” she said firmly. “We must be close to the road by now.”

  “Maddie, I can't help you anymore.” His voice was thin, wispy, unfamiliar. “I can't protect you.”

  “Then I'll protect you,” she said fiercely.

  “Christ, do you think that's what I want?” His snap lacked its usual crackle.

  “Apparently not, but you'll just have to let go of some of your pride.” Her snap was as sharp as ever. She was almost pleased to see him glare at her. Fighting all the softness she longed to give him, she forced steel into her tone as she added, “Now shall we just sit here and wait to die? Or are you going to make a little effort, get off your butt, and keep going?”

  “God, you are so fucking stubborn!” But he was pushing against the ground, trying to get back on his feet.

  “I prefer to think of it as resolute.” She helped him get up, relieved that this crisis was passed, terrified about what the next one might bring.

  “You can think whatever you want, but you have the disposition of a mule.”

  She almost smiled. Right now, a flare of temper from him was even more welcome than tender words.

  * * * *

  The blood loss and infection continued to weaken him, however. He soon couldn't walk alone, and they made slow progress with his arm draped over her shoulder and his weight dragging her down. A lifetime of self-discipline kept her going, but she knew her body would eventually quit under the strain, especially without sufficient food and water.

  When he finally collapsed, they both fell down. She lay there winded and dazed, too exhausted to even examine him for the first few moments. When she finally rolled over to look at him, he was unconscious. She knew, with a certainty she railed against having to accept, that he wouldn't go any further.

  “Ransom,” she breathed, devastated, lost.

  He no longer looked like the smooth seducer from the Hotel Tigre, or the quietly alert bodyguard who had saved so many lives from a terrorist attack, or even the deadly combatant who had engineered her escape from certain death. Her chest hurt as she looked at him and saw how much it had taken to bring this man to his knees. She brushed his hair off his forehead and simply stared, too stricken to know what to do now.

  And perhaps because she, like he, was now pared down to nothing but the essential, basic qualities of her character, striving for nothing more glorious than survival, she finally knew what her misconceptions and preconceived notions and stubbornly narrow self-image had kept hidden from her: she loved this man with all her heart.

  Now that she acknowledged it, she couldn't imagine why she hadn't realized it sooner. What other explanation could there be for all the passion and honesty and acceptance between the two of them? In the short time she'd known Ransom, she'd shared more with him than with anyone else in her life.

  There was no one else like him, never had been, never would be. Not for her. He was the one. How tragic, how brutally unfair, that she should only realize it as he lay dying in a patch of mud, hungry, thirsty, feverish, and in terrible pain, thousands of miles from home.

  She was so exhausted, she couldn't even weep as her heart was breaking. She could only stare dumbly at him, wishing she could give her life for his. She would do anything for him, anything. But she couldn't think of a single damned thing that was within her power now.

  “Oh, Ransom,” she whispered in stark misery. She slipped her hand into his unresponsive one. She gripped hard, needing him, needing his strength and resolve and endless courage. Lips trembling, she whispered, “Please, don't let me fail you. Please.”

  He never moved, never stirred.

  But a moment later, she heard the faint rumble of a car engine.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Madeleine blinked, not believing her ears.

  An engine? A car!

  “The road,” she choked, stumbling to her feet. “The road!”

  She didn't even realize she was running until she tripped over a tree root and fell flat on her face. She jumped up without even pausing and kept heading straight for that sound.

  “Help! she screamed, not sure how far away the sound was, terrified that the car she heard might pass by before she reached the road. “Helllllp!”

  As it happened, she nearly got hit by the vehicle—an ancient pick-up truck with less-than-reliable breaks. It rounded a bend just as Madeleine stumbled into the road, which was so narrow that she didn't see it until she had plunged right into the middle of it. She jumped just in time to avoid being hit, then turned and ran after the truck as it skidded to a shuddering halt in the slick, unpaved road.

  “Help! Help! Please, you must help us!” Madeleine cried, running to the driver's window.

  The driver, a grizzled old man, looked at her with obvious alarm. The young man next to him got out of the truck and rounded the hood. They both looked wary and shocked. Realizing she had to get control of the situation, Madeleine tried to coax some Spanish out of her hysterical mind.

  “Ayudame! Por favor, ayudame!” Please, help me!

  The young man got a good look at her head-to-toe appearance and seemed appalled. He said something to the old man, who nodded and tried to ask her who she was and what had happened to her.

  “Americana,” she explained, gesturing to herself. She nodded when he asked if bandits had done this to her. Why bring politics into it, after all?

  The two men exchanged some more comments. Madeleine realized they were father and son. The warning that there were bandits around here frightened them, and they urged Madeleine to get into the truck so they could depart immediately.

  “No, no, mi esposo,” she insisted. My husband. The lie would simplify matters, she decided.

  She pointed into the jungle. The two men looked at her doubtfully. Afraid they'd refuse to help her, she suddenly plunged a grimy hand into her pocket and pulled out about fifty dollars worth of Montedoran pesos. She held it out enticingly, seeing their faces light up with interest, and repeated that she wanted her husband. After brief discussion, the son decided to go into the jungle with her while the father ostentatiously pulled out his shotgun and said he would cover them.

  Madeleine tried to guess how much ground she had covered in her frantic dash for the road. One hundred yards? More? She suddenly realized that she hadn't paid any attention to where she'd left Ransom. Terrified that she might not be able to find him again, she tore through the jungle with careless haste, leaving behind her companion as she ran forward shouting Ransom's name. All the trees and plants looked indistinguishable now. Which way should she go?

  Mercifully, Ransom groaned in unconscious pain. Madeleine scrambled wildly toward the sound, tears of relief streaking down her face when she dropped to her knees by his side. She took his hand, kissed it, and looked up at the young Montedoran.

  “This is my husband,” she said. “He's very sick.” She pointed to the wound in his thigh. “Necesita un medico.” He needs a doctor.

  “Si, senora.”

  She had trouble understanding his accent, but she realized he was promising to help her. She nodded gratefully, accepting his reassurance. Then she helped him lift Ransom and drape his inert body across his shoulders. All the way back to the truck, she chanted prayers of thanks and of hope. Please, please, let him live, please, let him live.

  The young man shouted something to his father when they reache
d the road, and his father opened the truck's tailgate and helped them lay Ransom down in the flatbed. It smelled like live chickens, but Madeleine supposed it smelled better than she did right now. She climbed in with Ransom and held his head in her lap as the truck set off.

  * * * *

  They were on the road for nearly two hours before Madeleine saw the refugees and began to understand the scope of what was happening in Montedora. When the little road they were on met up with another road coming from the east, their progress was slowed to a crawl. The road was packed with thousands of refugees heading west with whatever worldly goods they could carry.

  Donkeys, mules, horses, and occasionally men hauled carts loaded with family possessions. Some people travelled in battered cars or on motorbikes, but most were on foot. Babies and toddlers were carried by their mothers and older sisters, but small children had to walk. Everyone Madeleine saw looked stoic and tired. No one paid any attention to her, and she realized that as filthy and ragged as she was, and travelling in this old truck, she undoubtedly looked like one of them. Even the color of her hair was dulled by dirt.

  The young man who had helped her stuck his head out of the truck window to chat with her every so often. His name was Pedro, and he and his father—Tito—lived in San Remo. Madeleine didn't understand what kind of business they were involved in, though she gathered that they had intended to go to Montedora City; when the fighting had broken out, they had immediately turned around and headed back home. The trip was apparently a financial loss. He thanked her for the money she had given them, adding gallantly that they would have helped her even so.

  Madeleine nodded and smiled. The thousand US dollars that she had stuffed inside her underwear clung damply to her skin. It was a veritable fortune in Montedora, she knew. As long as she didn't let anyone steal it from her, she ought to be able to get whatever help she needed.

  When Pedro asked her about herself, she relied upon her poor Spanish as an excuse to keep her answer vague. She'd been accompanying her husband on a business trip, she said. Now she just wanted to get help for him, and to go home. Pedro nodded sympathetically.

  “Where are these people coming from?” she asked, gesturing to the sea of refugees around them. She had heard him occasionally exchanging news with people walking alongside the truck, though she hadn't understood anything.

  The army was splitting into factions, Pedro told her, some loyal to Veracruz, others to Escalante. They were fighting east of here now, and, of course, didn't care whose villages they destroyed, whose homes they burned, or who they shot in their effort to conquer each other.

  “Ransom was right about the army, then,” Madeleine murmured, tightening her hold on him. Still unconscious, his skin was burning hot. “Necesita un medico,” she told Pedro.

  He nodded and said something. She had to ask him to repeat it. Then she said, “A mission? In San Remo?” When he nodded again, she asked how soon they would be there.

  He gestured to the muddy road and the throng of people congesting it, and he shrugged. Madeleine gritted her teeth, knowing that nothing she could say would make a difference to their speed.

  * * * *

  They finally reached San Remo at sunset. It was a small, unremarkable town set in a lush valley, but it had apparently undergone some changes since Pedro and Tito had left it a couple of days ago; they seemed shocked by what they found there. Refugees had been streaming into the area since last night, and rumors said their numbers would increase tenfold as fighting continued east of here. Within days, they would outnumber the inhabitants of San Remo.

  The Catholic mission was the destination of most people pouring into San Remo. As Tito drove her there, Madeleine could see hundreds of people camped around the mission's walls. Some erected simple shelters to mark their space and protect themselves from rain, but most hadn't yet had time to do this. The noise and confusion was overwhelming, but nothing compared to what was actually going on inside the mission. Tito drove the truck right up to the gates. Madeleine watched Pedro get out of the truck and speak to a couple of teenage boys guarding the entrance to the mission. Beyond the gates, she could see a dense crowd of milling people. Many others were lying down, right there in the middle of the courtyard. And children—there seemed to be more children here than in all of Montedora!

  The two teenage boys came back to the truck with Pedro. Madeleine tensed, recalling the LPM rebels and feeling afraid, but their manner was serious and gentle. They took one look at Ransom, conferred together, and then studied Madeleine. Then one of them spoke to her.

  “You are American?”

  “Yes,” she said with relief. “You speak English!”

  The boy smiled modestly. “A little. Your husband is ... shooted by bandits?”

  “Yes. Yesterday. He needs medical attention or he will die.”

  The other boy shook his head and said something she didn't understand. The two of them started arguing. Pedro interrupted them and delivered an impassioned speech. Seeing that nothing was being solved, Madeleine said, “I can pay for medical help.”

  “Payment is not—” The boy was interrupted by his companion, who seemed to be saying something negative again. Something about too many people. The boy cut him off and told Madeleine, “You will need to speak to Sister Margaret.”

  “Where is she? Can I speak to her now?”

  “I will bring you to her.”

  She hesitated, afraid to leave Ransom. Seeing this, Pedro reassured her; he would watch over her husband until she returned.

  Jorge, the boy who spoke English, led her into the mission's main courtyard. His gloomy friend stayed behind to guard the busy gate. Once inside the walls, Madeleine started to realize the extent of the problem. There must be a hundred sick people lying around the courtyard. The mission apparently wasn't prepared to handle a disaster of this size. Some of the injuries Madeleine saw as she passed through the crowded courtyard looked superficial, but there were several people who looked as bad as Ransom. Fear tightened her belly as she realized that he probably couldn't get priority treatment here.

  She followed Jorge through a confusing series of courtyards and small buildings. He asked for Sister Margaret everywhere they went, and they always seemed to have just missed her. Sister Margaret, Madeleine reflected irritably, must be one hell of a sprinter; Madeleine was getting breathless just looking for the damn woman.

  There seemed to be an inordinate number of children here; they were everywhere she looked. Jorge told her that the mission was an orphanage. The mission had been overcrowded even before the refugees started arriving, he told her, and they still hadn't figured out where to put all these people. The children were willing to vacate their dormitories for the wounded, but Sister Margaret hadn't figured out where they would sleep instead. And with so many strangers descending upon the town, she wasn't willing to let the children run wild.

  “How big is your hospital?” Madeleine asked, following him into yet another courtyard. The mission was old and simple, but big and well-tended.

  “Twenty beds.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “And the speciality here is the maternity.”

  “Maternity?” she repeated after he finished asking yet another person if they knew where Sister Margaret was.

  “Yes. The hospital is really for mothers, to help them have safe pregnancy and to have a baby safe.” He showed her into a schoolroom. “Otherwise, the work here is to care for orphans and teach them school.” His face brightened and he cried, “Sister Margaret!”

  “Yes, yes. Just a minute, Jorge,” said a tiny, ancient woman with a strong Irish brogue.

  Madeleine approached the woman and stared at her with something approaching awe. She couldn't be five feet tall, and her tiny figure was so adorably chubby that she looked like a cartoon character or a doll. Her curly, pure white hair was cut short, and most of it was modestly covered with a utilitarian blue veil. Her calf-length dress was made of similar material, now filthy and w
rinkled. As Madeleine watched, this tiny woman gave instructions to a young man three times her size. He was lying on the floor, covered in sweat, and clearly in terrible pain. He nodded and grunted something at her. Then Sister Margaret placed a dainty, sensibly-shod foot against his ribs, grabbed an arm which lay at an odd angle, and yanked with all her might. The man screamed horribly—and then stopped, blinking with surprise.

  A dislocated shoulder, Madeleine realized.

  By the time the man's face cleared and he said his shoulder had stopped hurting, Sister Margaret was already turning away to sign some papers that one person handed her while simultaneously giving orders to a young nun waiting nearby. She dealt with four more people in that efficient manner, then started heading out the door. Jorge ran after her, as did Madeleine.

  “Sister, Sister!” Jorge cried.

  “Yes?” she said over her shoulder, not even pausing.

  “This lady needs your help. She is a lost American, and her husband dies.”

  That was apparently surprising enough to get her full attention. Sister Margaret turned around and looked at Madeleine. After a quick assessment, she said, “Where is this husband?”

  “Outside the gates,” Madeleine said quickly. “He's been shot. He's very ill. We were lost in the jungle for over a day, and he'll die without medical attention.”

  Sister Margaret nodded briskly, instructed Jorge to get help and bring Ransom into the mission, and told Madeleine to come with her. While dealing with a dozen other people and problems, the Sister extracted the salient details of Madeleine's story from her.

  “The Argentine border?” the Sister said while calming a hysterical child. “You'll never make it now.”

  “I know. Can we contact the American embassy?”

  “Not until communications to the capital have been restored. Nor can you contact the United States until then. Not from here, anyhow.”

  “Is there someone here who can help my husband?”

  “I can.” Madeleine didn't doubt it, but her heart sank when the nun added, “But I'm afraid that we've already run out of almost all of our supplies. And what's left must go on a first come, first serve basis to those in need.” Her features softened for a moment as she added, “I'm afraid there's a long list ahead of you.”