Into the Wilderness

Into the Wilderness by Katie Militello
Status: Chapter 3 out of 11 completed
Warnings: Some violence and blood, language
Summary: A man who has lost his family finds a way to cope with his grief, by taking an unplanned journey into the wilderness where 'hunters', savage bandits living in the abandoned lands between cities, reign supreme. Although his motives are unclear it becomes apparent that only by heading into the wilderness can he discover what his purpose in life is.
1. Falling
He had the striking feeling that this was the right time to leave. So he hoisted his backpack up and clipped the strap shut before adjusting it so it fit snug against his chest. It was heavy, though light when he thought of what was in it. All his worldly possessions, he mused, could fit inside one backpack. This thought was so strange as to be alien to him. He had never known what it was like to live inside a big house or eat particularly well but he always could be assured of the fact that a meal would come eventually, and that he had a future.
He could remember watching his father and his mother interact. Could remember her crying and bruises his father had left. His father had hit him, he could not remember when it had started or fit the pieces together in his mind. There was no why, no how. He survived it intact, even as his father went too far. He had his brother, and his mother loved him even in her ruined state. What they had been through was worth it, for it had finally ridded them of his father. He remembers the steel in his hand, a murderer then at such a young age. But they were away from the house for good, and he never went back.
He had been forced to leave his home. And he could remember the sickly smell and cold walls of the orphanage. His mother had died in the hospital, wispy looking and frail. His brother had drifted away, finally leaving him. He had grown up and left, and he took the bus away and never looked back.
He had met Elizabeth and they had made a home and he could remember his joy when he learned that she was going to have a child. It was so strange that he had helped to create a life, but it was right. And then Emily was born and she was the most perfect thing he had ever seen. And then he had heard that there was another miracle and Elizabeth was pregnant again. That was all in his past, a separate universe from the one he inhabited now.
He could remember watching the flames consume what was left of his home, although that was hazy in his mind. The shock had gotten to him. But he had Elizabeth and it was fine. Staying with Elizabeth's family was humiliating but all right. He could stand that. He was healthy; he could work for he was still very young. His beloved family could recover.


When Elizabeth died his world fell around him. Murdered, not died. His whole family murdered by some madman. He could remember how fast his anxiety grew. He had arrived back to the small home where they had finally ended up living to find a bloody mass pooling fluid out onto the pavement of their driveway. It was only after he followed the bloody trail indoors and seeing with half clouded eyes Elizabeth lying dead in the center, did he at last begin to understand. And when he saw pink entrails protruding from her sliced open belly did he understand.

He had run out to look at the sickly looking creature that would have been his second daughter. He did not cry, for crying required the ability to feel something and he was numb. He felt laughter bubble its way out and he knew he was hysterical.
He had squatted down next to it and finally his legs gave way from the strain and he sat in the grass bordering the concrete of the drive. He continued to stare at what was left of what should have been his child until darkness fell.

There was one thing that could have made it bearable. And so he got up at last and went inside to check if Emily was alive.
He could see that the small house looked peaceful, as if the killer had caught them unawares. Around he went seeking out his daughter until he realized she was gone. The little stuffed armadillo he had gotten her as a joke was lying next to her bed and he knew that she must have been sleeping when she was taken. She would not have willingly left her toy behind.

It was seeing the little splash of blood on the armadillo that at last allowed him to feel something. At that moment he wished that he would never feel anything again. He sank down onto the carpeting and lay on his back staring at the ceiling as he felt hot tears slide down his cheeks.

He had gathered up what he could and then burned the house. He never wanted to see it again. He felt calm as he watched the fire burn everything. He set out carrying what he could in his backpack, the one Elizabeth had guilt tripped him about buying, reminding him that it would be a while before they should go camping and the money was needed. Emily had been delighted at the sign that they might go camping now when mama had told her they had to wait until she was 12.

Emily viewed 4 years as being eternity. The thought of her counting down the days until they could go camping now instead of in forever made him smile, but only briefly before it was chased away from his face. It was another reminder that his family was gone forever to him.

~*~*~

He had not slept since he had come home that night. It had not been a long time but the lack of sleep and his inner agony made it feel like forever. He could not remember if he had eaten. He was determined to find out what happened to his family. It was as he nearly got himself run over that he was stopped in his drunken weavings.

It was his slightly glazed and empty expression that caught the cop's attention. He had a vague recollection of being asked if he was all right. His mind barely registered the cop's suspicious gaze.

"I have to get to Jersey," he said lightly. Too far northeast for most people's tastes, for it was out in the woods where the hunters roamed. He did not care; he had made it from the woods of Ohio to whatever city he was in now just fine on foot.
Of course that was only a few miles, but he had no doubt he could do it. He was used to surviving the wilds anyways.

"Are you all right?" The question was repeated, more loudly this time.

"I haven't slept since Friday."

The cop looked at him strangely. "What's your name?"

"Jack" came the reply. Then a pause.

"Last name," the cop responded irritably.

"I don't have one." Once he had a family, but now he had nothing. That was the last thought before the blackness swallowed up the edges of his vision. He was completely unconscious before he even hit the pavement.


2: Comfort

Trish McMann hated being a nurse. The smell of the disinfectants they were forced to use liberal amounts of at times made her nose feel aflame, while her eyes watered in sympathy. Worse still was the smell that sometimes even the disinfectant could not mask; a mixture of vomit and urine and fecal material. No, Trish had not entered this position willing. Not to say she was forced of course, she did it because she could no longer stand to see the wounded lying around unattended. The hospital was badly understaffed, for no one wanted to linger this close to the border. She had picked up the basics gradually gaining knowledge as she helped the more experienced staff members.

So they called her a nurse, handed her a tag, and paid her in food, shelter, and a salary that barely covered the extras.
But she knew it was better than nothing so she did her work willingly. Of course, she mused wryly, there were unexpected benefits. Benefits that had nothing to do with the free healthcare.

Benefits which had more to do with the fact that lying on a cot surrounded by at least twenty other patients was the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life.

He had hair that seemed not quite golden and not quite brown, although now matted and roughly cut it was clear that after a good wash it would be magnificent. His face, while undeniably feminine also had a sort of ruggedness to it, even without the stubble covering it. He was one of those men who managed to be thin and yet muscular looking at the same time, an unusual feat to be sure.

Then she noticed that he was staring back at her, and she nearly fainted. Though she did manage to notice that his eyes were spectacularly blue.

~*~*~

Jack awoke and realized that he was in a bed. The second thing he noticed was that he was in a bed that was very low and uncomfortable. A very stark looking white ceiling swam into his vision and he suddenly felt choked by an overpowering smell of some sort of disinfectant. It took him a while, several seconds in fact, to notice he was not alone but in fact there was a woman in a lab coat staring back at him in a very frank manner.

He cleared his throat, and discovered that it was quite parched and dry. He retched at the taste in his mouth, and the woman seemed to come back from whatever planet she was on. She looked quite young, and a little frightened at his being awake. He wondered why as he stared back at her placidly.

"Water," he choked out. And it was then he realized that the pain in his wrist was from the tape holding down the IV line in his arm. He wriggled his arm experimentally and then winced at the pain that shot through it. His attempts at sitting up were even more unsuccessful. Besides the pain in his head he didn't find anything wrong with it, being out for a while seemed to do that to a body.

He tried to organize his thoughts into some kind of coherent order. He wondered how long he was out, and how long he would have to stay in what he presumed was a hospital. He hated hospitals, for they brought back memories of his mother and the worst part of his life, but he could handle it. He was in pain, he felt dizzy from the effort of moving, and he faced a whole lot of problems when the bills came but he guessed that he might as well stay put and enjoy the food. Despite the fact that it was a step below Elizabeth's cooking, and that was really saying something.

That brought him back down to earth. Suddenly it seemed to him that he was lying in a hospital room alone with no one to come and wish him get well. Dammit, how was he supposed to pay the bills? He choked and wheezed and managed somehow to sit up without passing out. He found the nurse timidly holding out a cup of water for him, a cheap looking plastic cup that also reminded him of his mother's fate.

He accepted it with bad grace, snatching it from her hands and swallowing as much as he could despite the difficulty. When he had drained it he handed it back and sat in this bed realizing that he was in a small cramped cot with a rusted metal headboard in a room he shared with three others. No, not a room he shared with three others. A corner of a room he shared with three others. The room itself had about 21 people crammed inside.

“Make you sick . . .” he heard.

He turned to the woman in the patched and worn lab coat.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I said it will . . .” then what he had said seemed to register. “Trish McMann.”

“I don’t care . . .” he coughed, for the pain in his throat had flared suddenly. She waited patiently for him to finish trying hack up his throat (at least that’s what it felt like) and then he told her, “I don’t give a damn what your opinion is, of what I am assuming is how fast I drink my water.”

His stomach gave a kind of gurgling noise and he felt slightly sick.

“Nice one,” she said, staring back at him completely unfazed.

“I don’t want your name, who are you? I mean, what are you?”

“You should really rest,” she told him.

“No shit Sherlock,” he responded irritably. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

She looked at him.

“The cop thought you were drugged or something. He didn’t think you looked drunk, rather clever of him I think,” she sniffed.

“I was just a little tired. Not sure why that constitutes . . .” He remembered passing out. He gave a low “Oh.”

She nodded, catching his drift.

“You were dehydrated. I mean, did you escape from somewhere? Staggering around like that, without water or food for what had to be days.”

“I was trying to run from my life.”

She obviously had noted that he has said ‘run from’ and not ‘run for.” “A lot of people do that you know. Did it work?”

“What do you think?” he snapped. He hated babbling airheads. Even if they were entertaining, in an annoying kind of way.

But he was saved by someone in a bed across the way groaning in pain. It sounded dreadful and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Hair? He reached back to feel at his hair and realized it was cropped short, and badly at that.

He cursed and was about to demand why they had cut his hair but then he had a nagging suspicion that he had done it. He felt suddenly cold at the though of himself weaving through the woods like a drunken idiot with a backpack with all his worldly possessions. He had to ask how long he was out, and what the date was. For he had simply left the burnt home, and had neither ate, drank, nor slept at all, he was sure. He had also cut his hair and done god knew what else.

He remembered torching his home afterwards, with all the bodies inside except for his second daughter which he had hastily scooped up on the first flat object that had come to his hand – in this case a piece of metal that had come off the garage – and buried it in a small hole.

No doubt the worms or some animal had finished the job for him. But he did not feel any sadness. He felt no grief at all actually. He wondered if he was still numb.

He certainly was when he burnt the house. For he could see burn scars on his arms that had certainly not been there before.

I was careless, he though with dismay. I did not know anything I did.

That thought made him feel angry and he was determined to sulk. He also noticed that the nurse was back, and that made his expression turn increasingly sourer the closer she got to his cot.

“We’re going to need your cot,” she said. “We need to keep an eye on you for a while but it’s obvious to me that we are going to be short on beds again.” She had an expression of concern and he was sorely temped to take out his rage on her.

He liked being angry though. It felt better than the constant numbness of the past few days.

“Fine,” he said. And he got up without a second thought. The sudden rush of blood to his head made him wobble and nearly pass out again, but he managed to keep on his feet and rode it out. His legs couldn’t support him terribly well but he was determined not to show weakness and staggered off to nonchalantly lean against a wall.

It was to her credit that McMann made no comment to him about his weakness.

“Where are my clothes?” he demanded. He hated being in a revealing hospital gown, hated the feeling that he was ready to pass out, and hated everything about waking up. He wished he could go back to sleep and never wake up.

“They’re in storage; they were filthy and quite worn.”

“And my backpack, which I will point out as everything I own? It better be in storage too because if it’s not . . .”

“It’s not.” He felt like crying.

“It wasn’t brought in, so chances are we won’t get it back.”

He felt himself slide down the wall.

~*~*~

Trish felt a great deal of pity as she watched Jack huddled against the wall and looking as if his world had suddenly exploded in his face.

“What was in it?”

“Everything,” he said.

“I’m sorry; can your things be replaced?”

“Want to know exactly what was in it?” he demanded. “Everything. The only clothes I have left, my food, my gear . . .”

“Tell me where you’re headed,” said Trish. “I could maybe help you with it?”

He snorted in disbelief, and she felt suddenly quite determined. “I can snatch you some non-perishable food, and we have clothing and things.” Trish tried to sound as kind as possible. “People die, a lot more then you’d maybe guess, and we keep their stuff for a time.”

“And what do hospital regulations say?” he asked, sounding skeptical.

“I never pay much attention to them.”

He cocked his head, a smile creeping up on his face. “Then we are alike,” he said.

~*~*~

“I’m really not sure why this supposed stuff of yours never got brought, it must have been left behind and after that it was hopeless.” Trish turned to him. “But why was it all you have? You came from the east and I’m guessing you’re not one of the numerous people who lost their homes to the hunters?”

“My family died,” was all he said. “And I burned the house down after that.”

“I’m sorry,” Trish told him, obviously digesting that piece of news. “But why did that make you head for Jersey?”

“I had family there.”

“And they’re worth dying for? Well, if you’d already lost part of your family .I guess I see why. Though that’s a pretty dumb thing to do.”

“Well, I don’t have any good memories of growing up.” His father’s fist against his mother’s face. His brother always getting away unharmed, sacrificing Jack to keep himself out of trouble. The feel of the belt on his back until he felt ready to pass out. Four years old, locked away in a dark basement for crying too loudly.

Worst still was the steel knife in his hand. The blood, the joyful feeling he got when it sank up to the hilt into his father’s chest. Torn between his mother’s bloody face and fear of his father. He had committed murder so young. All the years of abuse, and his worst memory was ending the reign of terror for good.

His brother had stood up to his father. He had finally shown backbone and called the police behind his back. Too late for his mother, her mind had snapped along with his body. Too late for Jack, who was forced to intercede the best his weak teenage body would let him.

He saw Trish looking at him, concern written all over her face. He felt disgusted.

“The only good thing in my life happened when a family let me work for them. I had been old enough to leave, you see and . . .”

“Leave what?” Trish asked him.

“The orphanage – my father had beaten my mother until she was in no fit state to care for me. I was an adult but the Murays let me stay with them for low rent, I did work around the place and they fed me.”

“Oh,” said Trish. She was about to tell him how sorry she was but then she stopped. She knew now that he wouldn’t accept any pity from her.


~*~*~
They rumaged through the clothing piles, trying to find things in his size. This was made more difficult by his long torso and his legs which seemed to go on forever. He wasn't tall so much as unsually skinny and stretched on in proportions. His actual height was only a few inches higher then normal.

Trish made another stab at conversation.

"So where are you from, anyway?"

He sighed. "I was born in New York." She blinked and then said. "Not to be rude but . . ."

"Yes I am sure about where I was born," he told her. "It was still safe to live up there then."

She nodded. "How old are you actually." if he was telling thr trush he had to be older then he looked.

"Honest answer is I don't know."

"Any clues?"

"Well, it was after World War II."

Now it was her turn to laugh. But she did not push the issue.

"You were wandering around, probably for quite a while. Do you know what day it was?"

He shook his head, that part of his life was rather fuzzy. But wait . . .

"It was Friday," he said. "Or about that time."

She nodded. "So you were wandering for several days, brought in, and stayed out for another day or two." She chewed her lower lip. "You must have felt pretty ill."

"I don't think I noticed at all."

Trish said nothing but bent down and pull out a shirt that looked like it might fit him.

"Too big," he said.

"Man," she said. "You're going to keep us looking forever."

"Us?" he asked, and turned back to his pile of clothing.

"Look, Mr. Whatever-your-name is, you could at least appreciate the effort I'm putting into this. Frankly given your size the only shirts that will fit you will either be way too tight or be too large, with your skinny little body and your long torso you're pretty much stuck with overlarge t-shirts, got that?"

"The jeans are fine," he told her, adding it to the small pile of suitable clothing they ahd found.

"I've traveled this route before, I can do it again."

"I'm guessing that was before the hunters took over the area."

"Let's just say they were just getting settled, and leave it at that. Okay?"

She rolled his eyes at him.

"Look, I need clothes suitable for the type of weather and enviroment I will be encountering. That includes clothing that won't snag and rip."

"Whatever you say."

"This will do," he said. And without further ado he dropped the hospital gown and began to dress himself from the pile they had already made. She had seen plenty of naked men before, but she noted the scars on his back and resolved to eventually coax the full story out of him.

The shirt he had chosen was way too tight on him, but he didn't seem to mind terribly.

He turned to her. "You know I could really use a trenchoat." God help her, she hoped he was just joking.

~*~*~

Trish thought they had done rather well. She knew that this was probably well out of order, but she couldn't make herself care. So many deaths, so much clothing and such lying around that couldn't be used by anyone.

He had been joking about the trenchcoat it seemed, but he did insist on taking of the few pairs of boots they had.

The chaos this close to the border was incredible. Rules were therefore doubly important in their own way, but she felt that she was doing good and so she pushed aside any qualms. She knew she had work to do so after a few minutes she stood up and told him she had to go.

"I promise I'll sneak you into the storage areas where they keep the doohickeys they pick up, all right?"

"Is that what they call it nowadays?" he asked her. She ignored the sarcasm.

"Later though," Trish said. "It'll be worth it. They have a few knives and a flashlight and some other useful stuff."

Now he looked interested. She walked off hoping he'd stay out of the way but then she noticed he was following her.

"Stay out of the way," she snapped.

"I'm not in the way," he snarled. "I can help."

"Doubtful."

"Only someone was who was mad would pass up free help. I can do gruntwork can't I?"

"Some people would say only someone who was goatfuck insane would head for Jersey."

"If I'm crazy you should keep an eye on me." One of his eyebrows was raised. "I'll show you I can help, and if I get in the way tell me and I'll go."

"Sure, some other time."

"You're telling me you're qualified for this job?"

"If you want a job, go to the desk and tell them . . ."

"It's not what I mean."

"Then what, pray tell, do you mean?"

"You're understaffed, I can't pay the bill. If that was it I would go to the desk but frankly I'd like to do something other then sit uselessly on my ass while people die. I've already wasted enough of your time anyway."

"Fine," she snapped. It wasn't worth arguing.

Somewhere along the line their roles had switched. He had gradually went from annoyed to reasonable. Like he was at home being yelled at and ignored.

She sighed. "Fine. But don't let them know what you're up to." That time her voice was soft.

~*~*~

She looked at the clock and realized that more time had gone by then the few minutes it had felt like. She could have blamed the nameless man but she didn't.

"Give me your name," she demanded.

"Not mine to give." He was acting awfully cheeky. Curse him, and he looked actually quite nice in that lab coat she had given him.

"Look, you only told that cop your first name . . ."

"I told him why. I don't have a last name. I don't have a family left."

"So I just put Dr. Jack on your nametag?"

"Like you'd do that anyways."

"No. I wouldn't." She marveled at him, there was something about him that drew her in dangerously. She wondered if what he had told ehr was true at all. How could he be here, this man who had spent the last few days avoiding the fact that his family was dead be here arguing with her over relatively petty things.

He's still not admitting it, she reasoned. Just because he wasn't killing himself slowly didn't mean he wasn't still denying it. He was functioning, but it didn't mean he was any closer to reality.

She resolved to keep a close eye on him. If what he had been through sank in suddenly at a bad time he would be crippled again. So she walked a step ahead of him, saying nothing but glancing back now and then.

She passed Dr. Michaels and gave a wave but stoped when she noticed he was running. He started when he saw the man following her but wisely declined to comment.

"It seems that we have a problem McMann."

She faltered at the expression on his face.

"What is it?"

"The hunters hit some people at the edge of town, you'd better head downstairs with me."

She nodded and made a U-turn back down the hall they had just come down. Jack, she had mentally begun to use his name, followed close by. The three of them made a right and then made their way down the stairs.


~*~*~

The room as crowded with people, several of them nurses and a few professionaly trained doctors. The cried of pain and the smell was more then Trish could take. She had seem some barbaric cases but this took the cake.

She turned to look at Jack, but his face was impassive. He wrinkled his nose as if he smelt something bad, but then he purposely strode over to a man who was bleeding from a gash on his arm. The rather pudgy man seemed to be one of the few who could handle sitting up without a problem.

Trish tried to keep an eye on Jack as she began to tend to the worse of the patients. She quickly realized that she would simply have to hope he didn't do anything that would get either of them into trouble.

"What happened?" asked Jack harshly.

"They've never been so bold," the man babbled. "Never. I was lucky, I got out of the way before anything happened. I got this keeping out of their path, not from them."

"I thought as much."

The man looked at him as if wondering where he had come from. The man yelped as Jack steralized the wound. Jack bandaged it up quickly and expertly.

"Hey," said the man. "You're pretty good."

Jack snorted.

"Shouldn't you be tending to worse off patients?" His tone changed when Jack began to push him out of the way.

"I could have a broken arm or soemthing and you're just leaving me here." Jack turned back. "It's not broken. And there are, as you say, much worse off. That was to stop you from bleeding to death, idiot that you are. Get it stiched when the fuss dies down if you insist upon it."

The fat man started at Jack, slack-jawed, as Jack moved casually off to deal with patients that required unskilled care.

The next person Jack dealt with was a person who seemed to be slightly dazed but otherwise unharmed. He looked closed, searching for any kind of wound. Unable to see one immediately he began a more thorough search.

"Who are you? And what do you think you're doing?" asked a voice. Jack looked up to see Michaels standing there with a frown.

"Searching for the wound."

"You shouldn't be here."

"People are dying as we speak, go back to work."

"I can't leave you here."

"Even if I was here to snap their necks it would be an act of mercy. You haven't told on me because you've been keeping an eye on me and you know I'm not doing too badly. I saw you sometimes from the corner of my eye."

"Even if I did think you bandaged the arm well, I just don't see . . ."

Jack smiled. "Doctor," he said smoothly as he spotted a familiar face moving towards him. Michaels turned to see Lurin striding towards him.

"What is it?" she asked him. Michaels noticed with some trepidation that she was looking at him strangely.

"This man's been drugged."

Lurin looked at him. "How can you be sure?"

"Look," said Jack. He held up the man's arms and showed her the small marks on them. "They kept him in a drugged state for some reason."

Michaels looked annoyed. "This man is clearly mad."

But Lurin was nodding at Jack. "Wright, I believe you."

If Michaels's jaw had dropped any further it would have been dragging on the floor. "You know this man?"

"Certainly," said Lurin. "Wright, I give you permission to help the doctors to your fullest abilities."

"Can't do much," said Jack. "I can't do much medically as you well know."

"Well, you've never made a mistake yet, I hope it holds. And if we are dealing with hunters, well you'll be a real asset since you know . . ."

"You should be off," said Jack abruptly.

"We'll discuss it over coffee later," suggested Lurin.

~*~*~

3. Deliberation

Jack kept an eye on the drugged man. Although the man was partially in his own world, it seemed likely that he would suffer no long-term effects. Michaels, despite being told off by Lurin several times for neglecting patients in favor of watching Jack like a hawk, seemed determined to spite him. If anything, being scolded by Lurin seemed to further his determination to prove Jack wrong. Michaels was the sort of man that Jack knew, and Jack was not going to let the uppity bastard get the better of him.

Michaels had searched the patient furiously, and then glare at him as if it was his fault for not having a wound. He then snarled at the patient and told him to go up to the psych ward. He then stalked off, presumably to antagonize any patient that Jack had touched.

Trish kept her eye on Jack too, but for her own reasons. She had noticed that Lurin had revealed Jack’s last name, and she filed it in the back of her mind. But Lurin had almost revealed something critical about Jack, and that caught her interest. Sure, if he had grown up when the hunters were beginning to gain a foothold then he would know a little about them. But Lurin only called someone an ‘asset’ if he really meant it. So what made Jack so special, anyways? Trish’s curiosity had been piqued, and she was about to demonstrate to Jack why her nickname was ‘the Bulldog’.

She had a name though, and it was enough to start a search. The computers in the Jersey area were probably destroyed, but she might be able to check the paper records and see if he had medical records with them. He might have even worked as a staff member, in which case his file would be on the network, and that would be undestroyed.

Trish realized that she was slipping when she heard a cry of pain and realized that she had poked the patient in the ear with her otoscope. She was glad that it wasn’t an othalmoscope or else the patient would have been short an eye. Luckily the patient was healthy enough to grumble at this mistreatment, and was sent on her way. Her hearing would at least partially return, if she was given time.

The nurses and doctors, still working frantically as yet another load of patients was dropped practically at their feet, did not complain about Jack. On the contrary, anything simple enough for him to do they gave to him. Although far from medically-trained he did know much more then the average layperson, and was better for more then simple first aid. For instance, Trish discovered that his stitches were neatly done, if not slow and methodical, and he kept everything sterile. He could stop difficult bleeding with pressure, which bought the doctors precious time.

One man caught his attention by being waspish and demanding. Trish would have interceded on Jack’s behalf but was kept busy by a small child who was bleeding profusely from a dangerous looking scalp wound. She needn’t have worried. Jack spoke to him in a sickly sweet tone. “Oh of course dear, you are looking a little bit pale now then I have taken a look at you. We really should take your temperature.”

Jack then trotted off, and came back moments later with a thermometer in hand, and a jar of Vaseline in the other. The man started at him in visible shock, as if trying to process what was going on. His mouth was hanging open.

“Oh you silly dear,” Jack bubbled. “Not in there. We’re all out of the oral kind. Now drop your pants.”

~*~*~

It had been a difficult day, but they had done it. The patients were all either dismissed or sent up to the proper wards, or the closest one that still had room. Even the annoying man had been dealt with. He had left after Jack’s offer to take his temperature, and had not been seen again. Only twelve patients had died that day, which was a miracle. Many had only minor injuries, haven gotten then from the chaos as they fled. Some had been hurt by the loud noises from the guns and explosives used, and many who had been exposed suffered partial hearing loss.

The ones who had been caught by the bandits were the ones with truly horrific injuries. Out of those almost three-quarters were in the morgue at the moment, joining the bodies of those who had died hours, or even days ago. They had enough to worry about trying to treat the living, and had no time to deal with the dead. They had no time to worry about the fact that diseases were running rampant, nosocomial infections caught from bad food, un-clean vents, overcrowded rooms, and badly sterilized equipment.

Many of the patients wheeled into surgery died. They had to wait too long for treatment, and the rushing doctors often missed critical signs. Although they sterilized the equipment they re-used in the OR, mistakes did happen and the patients paid dearly. Not to mention they were badly under-funded. They were far from the worst-off, and resources of any kind were becoming scarcer and scarcer.

Trish thought about all this as she drank her coffee, which tasted like burnt cat-piss, and reflected that she was lucky to even have such a luxury. Actually, if she stopped and thought hard it reminded her of the coffee she bought once at the expensive store down the street. That was the first, and only time she had gone there. But now the place was probably smashed, its owners gone and anything valuable looted.

“This might help the taste, if you want some,” said a voice. She shot up in her chair, but settled back down she saw Jack sitting next to her, holding up a small glass text tube filled with white powder.

“Pardon?” said Trish, unable to think clearly for a moment.

“It’s sugar,” said Jack. “I had found it hidden under the sink in the lab. The moisture clumped it together but I smashed the lumps out first. Nobody was in the labs, too busy elsewhere.”

How long had it been since she had tasted real sugar? Trish had been living off of artificial sweetener, and had counted herself lucky. She took the vial and dumped several tablespoons worth in.

“I’ll pay you back later,” she said.

“No need,” he said, smiling his cheeky smile. She wanted to simultaneously hug him, and punch him in the jaw.

“Hey, are you sure it’s sugar?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t some strange toxic chemical, or some cleaning solution.

“I know ‘cause I tried it first. I know some chemicals can taste sweet, but I’m sure this is the real stuff. Plus it was labeled, and at the bottom of a bag that strangely enough was labeled sugar.” Trish smiled, and drank her coffee. It tasted like ambrosia to her now.

“Probably hidden there by someone,” said Trish slyly, from over her glass. “Well if they ask I’ll tell them you took it.”

“Now, is that any way to show your gratitude,” Jack drawled, scratching at the stubble on his chin in a lazy manner. He was staring at her with such mock egotism, that she had to stifle a giggle. He had the audacity to wink at her, as if he could tell what she was thinking.

“Hello Miss McMann,” said a voice from somewhere behind Trish. Trish recognized it immediately as her boss. “Hello Mrs. Lurin.”

Lurin sat down in the chair opposite Trish and Jack. “Now Wright and I need to discuss a couple things, so I think it would be better if you were to leave.”

Jack held up a hand in a pacifying gesture. “I think she should stay. It might answer her some questions, before she goes digging and finds things out for herself.”

Trish paused, halfway out of her seat. “If it’s something private or business related I don’t think I should stay.”

“Nonsense Diana,” said Jack. “Pandora was given that box with specific instructions for a reason you know. If she had been told what was in it, she would not have opened it.”

“It’s up to you Jack,” said Lurin. Trish observed that they had both used each other’s first names, but did not comment. Jack merely indicated that Trish should sit back down.

“I expect you want to make an offer?” said Jack.

“Jack, I appreciate what you have done for us so I would like to offer you a limited position at this hospital.”

“Thanks, but no,” said Jack.

“It’s not like you to say no before you’ve heard the full offer. We can give you a bed, feed you, and even take care of your bill.”

“See, other than the bill nothing else really interests me. I can’t pay it, but once that’s taken care of I’m taking off. And you know I can earn the money quickly enough to be out of here in a couple days at the most. With the hunters encroaching on the land there will be plenty of work for me to do.”

Trish had watched the brief exchange, but Jack’s late statement was new to her. Sure, with the hunters slaughtering people right and left there’d be need for him. But he didn’t seem to be the kind of person to just state the obvious unless he had to. No, thought Trish. He meant something else. Somehow the hunters fights meant more money for him. And given the ways things were going, the only kind of person getting any real benefit from the situation would be a mortician.

“Jack,” said Lurin, sounding exasperated. “You’re obviously stuck here. So why not settle down? You’re not the type to just run away.”

“I’m not stuck here at all,” said Jack. “And I plan on leaving as soon as I can.”

Lurin looked politely puzzled. “Then why are you here? You wouldn’t be this close to the hunters unless you had no other choice. You wouldn’t endanger your family like that…”

Jack snapped up so fast it almost had Trish leap out of her chair in surprise. He was just so fast. One minute he was lounging in his chair, almost catlike, and the next moment he looked ready to pounce.

“His family is dead,” Trish filled in helpfully. It looked like Jack wasn’t going to say anything, and she felt the need to break the uncomfortable silence that followed.

“I am so sorry,” said Lurin. And she looked genuinely sorry too. “It was wrong of me to just assume.”

But Jack didn’t relax. He remained seated stiffly in his chair. Trish hoped that he wasn’t going to have a mental breakdown. Lurin looked horrified at whatever mistake she had made.

“Right,” Jack growled, after what seemed like an eternity. “You just assumed.”

“It was just an honest mistake,” said Trish. “She was only trying to help. She just assumed that you’d need a place to stay.”

“Would you like to tell her why,” Jack forced out. “Why you just assumed that I would need your help?”

Lurin paused, licked her lips nervously, and began to talk. “Jack loved his family, and hated the hunters. He would never come here unless he had to leave behind his family for some reason…” Jack glared at her. “My assumption was that he was on the run, and therefore needed to stay in a dangerous area.”

“Who would he need to run from,” asked Trish. “Is he a draft dodger? Did he get in trouble with the mob? I mean, why would you assume that was the reason he was here?”

“Because everyone smart is going in the opposite direction” said Jack, breathing heavily. “But I’m an ex-criminal myself, and I have enough skills to catch the hunters’ attention. So the borders would be a logical place to go.”

“So with your family dead, you wanted to join those murdering cretins?” Trish shrieked.

“No,” snapped Jack with a bite of impatience. “I wasn’t thinking clearly earlier and my first thought was to try and find out what happened to the Murays. I still want to go and see if they survived.”

“It’s possible Jack, but not probable. It’s doubtful they would have escaped the area, but they could be among the survivors.” Lurin wasn’t hopeful.

“How could they possibly be alive?” asked Trish.

Lurin answered part of her question. “Parts of land were hard for the hunters to take over for various reasons, mostly geographical. The survivors eke out their living as best they can.

Jack added to Lurin’s explanation. “They’re country folk so they have a better chance then most (I’m not sure an urban kid could hunt deer, for example) and the hunters aren’t too interested in risking their necks chasing down rednecks. But the same reason they survived is eventually going to kill them. They’re cut off from civilization, or any kind of help, and the hunters slowly closing in.”

Trish sighed. “So there is actually a population who has survived the hunters, and numerous untold dangers, but after all that struggle they’re just going to die and they can’t do anything about it.”

“Ever read a whale for the killing, by Farley Mowat?”

“In grade school I started to, but I was crying at the end and a boy made fun of me for it so I tossed it at him and never finished.”

“Well, this is not the best analogy but it’s the first thing that popped into my head. So you have this trapped whale, and the lagoon keeps it safe from a deadly ocean. But it ends up dying because the enemies on land are worse, and it’s trapped so it can’t swim away.”

Trish was nodding but looking as if she had no clue where he was coming from. He might have been spouting off in as of yet undiscovered language for all she cared. Jack sighed.

“Let’s just skip the analogy. I’m just the idiot determined to save them, somehow.” There was yet another uncomfortable silence. Lurin looked crestfallen.

“Listen Jack, I am truly sorry,” said Lurin. “I’ll waive your hospital bill. You can check out whenever you need to.”

“Wait, wait,” said Trish, who couldn’t stop herself. “So, he goes off to play hopeless hero and you won’t stop him? Tell him he owes us ten MRI scans and DNA tests, that’s a couple million there.”

“I’m not a hero,” snapped Jack, desperate to get that point across. “I’m an arrogant asshole who has nothing to lose, I have military skills and no problem killing a man in cold blood, and I play really dirty. A hero doesn’t have a chance here, I do.”

“Don’t you care for his life at all?” shrieked Trish, who thought that this had to be a nightmare. Although why she cared so much was beyond her.

“I care for him very much,” Lurin told Trish calmly. “I also know him very well. I may not have seen him for well over a decade, but I’ll bet he hasn’t changed. I can’t stop him, and he is right. He might have a ghost of a chance, but that’s better than what anyone else has.”

~*~*~
A/N: This will be continued in a new static item.