Separate But Together (WIP)

Another explosion shook the ground under Marc’s feet. He didn’t hesitate this time and ran down the street. He ducked behind the crushed, burned out car. It straddled the curb, the front end smashed into a dented light post. Marc counted to ten and ran out from cover again.

Up ahead at the end of the street he could see the trench the soldiers had dug. A low barricade blocked off the road beyond. Marc saw the bobbing heads of the soldiers as they moved along the trench. One of the men stole a glance back at Marc and waved him over, yelling.

“Medic! We need a medic over here!” he screamed, his voice already raw and tired.

Marc ran forward, staying low with his arms up close to his face. He desperately tried to ignore the snap, whiz sound of bullets passing him. The last few feet Marc slid on his knees and stumbled into the trench.

One of the soldiers, Marc recognized him – Torres, helped him to his feet and directed him to a badly injured soldier. The man took some shrapnel in that last barrage; a jagged gash ran down the side of his neck. Marc quickly shuffled through the contents of his satchel until he found the bandages. He looked at the soldier’s jacket, at the name tag stitched over the left breast pocket.

“Anthony? I need you to look at me, focus on me for a second,” Marc said as calmly as he could. He continued to clean and dress the man’s wound as he spoke. “Are you hit anywhere else? Squeeze my hand. Anthony?”

The man’s eyes stayed unfocused and wide, staring at the smoke filled sky overhead. When he began to convulse Marc and another Torres held his arms down. He was a big man, which made it difficult.

“His name’s not Anthony,” Torres said through clenched teeth. “It’s Clemmons. Will. Anthony bought it last week and didn’t need the coat no more. It’s the middle of winter, if you hadn’t notice, doc.”

Marc lay on Clemmons’ arm and finished the bandage around his neck. He continued to hold the big man’s arm and pointed to the communications tech.

“Get me some kind of transport, ASAP. I need an EVAC for this man, right now!” Marc yelled at the wide eyed soldier.

Marc had Torres help prep Clemmons while the young radioman requested a vehicle. Within a few moments they had the wounded soldier up out of the trench and were crouched over him, covering him from any stray shots from the other side of the barricade.

A small four person ATV, resembling an armored golf cart, suddenly appeared from a side street about thirty feet away. It slid to a halt, staying behind the cover of the brick wall of a coffee shop. The building, now just a shell, only served to provide cover for situations like the one Marc found himself.

The driver fixed his helmet and waved at Marc. Torres grabbed Clemmons under the arms, nodded at Marc that he was ready. With a grunt, they lifted the wounded soldier and hurried to the ATV. Bullets sent dirt and chunks of debris flying around the men as they ran. Once safely behind cover again, Marc breathed a sigh of relief, but didn’t relax as he still needed to get Clemmons to the nearest CSH. A second later, they had secured Clemmons to the back seat of the little vehicle and were ready to move.

Marc felt a hand slap his shoulder as they drove off. He tried not to turn around and see Torres. He didn’t want to see the man jump back down into the trench, going back into the path of bullets and explosions. Marc closed his eyes, keeping a protective hand over Clemmons’ chest as they bounced on the ruined asphalt.

Just before going around the street corner, Marc abruptly opened his eyes, looked back over his shoulder, and saw Torres crawling back into the hole next to his companions. Another wave of relief passed through Marc then, to see someone that he knew was safe, or as safe as they could get in their situation.

After swerving around more corners, past other barricades made from debris and broken concrete medians, they finally arrived at a grocery store. It had been fortified, just barely, looking like something left over from a hurricane; all the front windows were boarded up, more piles of rubble provided cover for the few soldiers left to guard the front entrance. The sign over the door had long since been blasted off, and Marc wasn’t sure what the store used to be before. Now a dirty, tattered white sheet with a red cross spray painted in the middle of it hung where the original store sign had been.

A nurse ran out of the makeshift field hospital just as Marc jumped out to help Clemmons. He hesitated though and looked twice at the nurse. She was young, his age, and much shorter than him. Her short dirty blonde hair was pulled back, held in place with a handkerchief. Marc knew this woman, and was shocked to see her on this side of the wall.

“Sam? Samantha,” he said, not hiding his surprise.

She saw him for the first time at the sound of her name. She was pulled out of whatever auto mode she was stuck in, and other than blinking, showed no real emotion at seeing him.

“Marc,” she said flatly. She motioned to Clemmons. “Are you going to gawk or help me here?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied. Marc was taken aback at her reaction, but pushed it to the side to focus on the wounded soldier.

They moved Clemmons to an unfolded stretcher that Sam was carrying. They hustled him into the hospital and Marc gasped, almost stumbled from the sight. Rows of cots filled the main floor. Most of the shelves had been removed or pushed to the side, against one wall. Flimsy folding screens separated small pockets where Marc could hear soldiers moaning, some yelling in pain. Volunteer nurses ran up and down the rows, into makeshift operating rooms. Marc had heard the radio traffic, all the EVAC requests, but was shocked to see the number of wounded in front of him.

They transferred Clemmons to an empty cot they found near the back of the store. Sam began to check his wound, and wipe away as much blood as possible. She touched the name patch and patted at his chest for his ID tag.

“His name ain’t Anthony,” said Marc, motioning to the name tag. “It’s Clemmons.”

“I see,” Sam replied as she looked over the ID tag. Marc noticed one of tags red band.

“He’s got something else wrong with him?” he asked.

“You didn’t check?” she sounded surprised.

“Didn’t have time. There were lots of bullets,” Marc said. “What’s it say?”

“He has heart disease. Did you give him anything?”

“SAFA. That’s all I got,” he said with a shrug.

She spun around and said sharply, “One or two?”

“Just one,” Marc said defensively. “Supplies are low. I don’t have many painkillers left. I’m not about to pump them all into one guy.”

“He have a seizure?” she continued, checking Clemmons’ eyes with a penlight.

Marc nodded.

“Okay, fine. Thank you,” Sam said dismissively. She waved at a passing nurse. “Grab Dr.Maher, and hurry.”

Marc backed away, wiping the blood onto his jacket. He turned and walked out the back, pushing through the thick plastic strips that covered the delivery door. Marc stumbled when he saw the men loading a large cargo trailer. They loaded bodies tightly wrapped in bloodstained sheets, arranging them in rows inside the trailer.

Next to the trailer were three piles, of boots, clothes, and miscellaneous items that had been removed from the dead. The men stopped momentarily, looking over their paper masks at Marc as he stood watching them.

Marc hurried past them, and leaned against the wall. He emptied his stomach until it hurt. He coughed and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

Sam cleared her throat behind him. Marc sighed and slowly turned to face her. Her expression had softened, she looked sad now. She held a water bottle out to him. The plastic clicked as he opened it. He turned away for a moment to rinse his mouth out.

“He’ll live,” she finally said. “That guy you brought in. He’s steady, and Maher said what you did most likely saved his life.”

Sam started to walk away from the hospital, and motioned for Marc to follow.

“Come on,” she said. “There’s a spot over here that doesn’t look like a war zone.”

She led him through a series of containers, cargo bins that he assumed to be filled like the first. They went up a small hill to a tiny grove of leafless trees. Stumps stuck out of the frozen ground sporadically all around. Only small trees remained, some barely taller than Marc.

A few chairs that circled a fire pit. The charred remains of the previous fire lay crumbled and blackened in the middle. Sam picked up a few broken pieces of wood, two by fours and other debris, and started rebuilding the pile. Marc bent over to help. She lit a firestarter and tossed it in the middle. They sat in silence, watching the small stick burn and slowly catch on the rest of the wood.

“I’m kind of surprised to see you involved with all of this mess,” Marc finally said.

“I’m not. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not wearing a badge declaring my position on some absurd agenda,” she said with a quick glance at his sleeve.

He looked down at the tattered stitching, the frayed edges of the patch.

“I’m a volunteer. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m just…” Marc started to speak. “I don’t know. I don’t like to see people get hurt.”

“Then why are you medic?” she said.

“Because, I’m good at what I do.”

Sam put her hands out to the fire. She rubbed them and wiggled her fingers as they got warm. Marc kept his own hands close and pulled up into sleeves, with only his cold fingers poking out. She looked down at his hands. His fingers were filthy, rust colored from dried blood and dirt.

“I remember. You always knew how to take care of people,” Sam said. “Grandma once said you had the gift of healing. That Jesus worked through you.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Marc said quietly with a little smile. “How she doing?”

“She passed before…” she motioned all around them. “All of this. She spoke of you at the end. She missed you.”

Samantha reached for Marc, tucked her hand into his. Her fingers were warm against his palm.

“I’ve missed you,” Sam said softly. She sniffed and wiped her cheek with her free hand.

Marc squeezed her hand.

Listening to Soundtracks for Everyday Adventures by Lullatone and Dreams by Oliver Tank at bandcamp.com.

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