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Mice and Men 1 Episode 14 written by
Gerry
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| Disclaimer: The
characters in the following fan fiction do not belong to me. They belong to CBS and Viacom
and other powers that be. I am only using them for the purpose ofwriting this story. No
money is being made from this writing it is for entertainment purposes only. And now on
with the show...
I would also very much like to thank Krys for graciously allowing me to take her idea and run with it, apparently right down a mountainside, but it's hard to stop those characters once they get started. I hope you enjoy this, Krys. "The best laid plans o' mice and men/Gang aft
a-gley Prologue From far away, he could hear rain; not a torrential storm, nor a mild drizzle, but dreary, unpleasantly regular, tedious dripping, just hard and cold enough to soak and chill the skin to the bone for any unfortunate caught in it. The steady splattering finally forced him to rouse and take notice, and he gazed about in consternation at the wreckage around him. There was a suspicious wetness trickling down his forehead. As he reached to investigate, he started as the hand of the unconscious passenger next to him came along. He stopped, puzzled, contemplating the handcuffs connecting his right wrist to that of his neighbor and pondering the reason for their existence. Who was this guy, and what was he doing there, he wondered, struggling to make some small degree of sense of his surroundings; but he was still too weak, and they faded away from him even as he strained to remain awake and aware. Act One "Dad, guess what I've got!" Steve Sloan crowed as he arrived home. Mark Sloan glanced up over his glasses, laptop open on the table before him, papers with lesson plans scattered along the wood surface. "Hi, son. What's up?" Steve walked over to his father and ceremoniously placed two rectangular pieces of cardboard on the keyboard. "Friday night. Front row center. Your favorite." "Wow," his father breathed, impressed. "Tony Bennett. At the Bowl. How did you manage that?" Steve grinned. "Oh, nothing too difficult -- just being in the right place at the right time -- with the right person who owed me just the right favor." He pulled out a chair and settled comfortably, obviously pleased with the effect of his surprise. "I thought maybe some barbecue before the concert -- what is it, Dad?" Mark had an odd expression on his face, as if he was recalling a vaguely unpleasant memory. "Ummm -- that's the 25th, right?" "Ye-es," Steve answered slowly, an unwelcome suspicion taking shape in his mind. His father's look acquired a faint tinge of sheepishness, and he groaned. "Don't tell me. I've succeeded yet again in selecting a night you're already tied up." Mark sighed. "I'm sorry, son. But I'm already committed to the Helping Hands Center that night, and I'm doing a presentation on the importance of establishing a relationship with a doctor before visits to the emergency room become necessary. And Angela's expecting a lengthy question and answer period afterwards..." his voice trailed off; Steve's face had taken on that frozen look his father had seen all too often lately, and his heart sank. "Son...I'm sorry. Can I have a..." "A rain check?" Steve interrupted, a sarcastic edge to his voice. "I'm already waiting for a monsoon." His father's head jerked up in shock at the cynicism Steve hadn't bothered to hide. "Son...I said I was sorry. I'm sorry you're out the cash, or whatever you did to get them, for the tickets. I promise..." Steve turned away. "Promise what? That next time you won't forget we've had almost this identical conversation how many times over?" Nettled, Mark snapped, "That gives you an excuse to throw a temper tantrum like a five-year-old?" Steve opened his mouth, then closed it and started to shrug on his jacket. But his father's expression bit deep, and he turned back. "Dad, for the last three months you've done everything you can possibly think of to exhaust yourself, for reasons I don't understand. You've lengthened your hours at the hospital, you're teaching extra classes, you've doubled up on your charity work, and I've hardly seen you. God knows I should probably appreciate the irony, considering there were plenty of times when the shoe was on the other foot. But you're not twenty years old anymore, and I worry about you, and every attempt I make to find things for us to do, games, theater, movies - if I didn't know better, I'd start to develop a complex that you don't want to spend any time together." Temporarily distracted by the lengthy speech from his normally taciturn offspring, Mark forced himself to focus. "If you know better, then you shouldn't be having a problem, and you certainly shouldn't be fussing so much." So much for trying to reason with the old man, Steve thought with sudden renewed irritation. He took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten. It didn't help; the choking feeling of helpless resentment refused to fade. "Dad, I still don't understand. But obviously you're not going to share your reasons with me. You just -- well, until you deign to enlighten me, this is the last time." The telephone rang, and he snatched it up. "Sloan here. What? Yes, as a matter of fact, I can." He glanced over at his father, who studiously attempted to look as if he hadn't been paying attention. "Yeah. My schedule just freed up. Fine." He spoke for another minute, then hung up. "I have to go, Dad." The argument lay between them like a concrete weight. Mark watched his tall son move towards the door and felt a sudden trickle of dread at his words. What did he mean, the last time? "Son..." Steve hesitated, then turned, waiting, not quite trusting himself to speak. Mark tried to keep his tone light. "Are you going to be home for dinner tonight?" Relief at the revival of their long-standing joke mixed uncomfortably with residual resentment, but finally won out; he had never been able to stay angry at his father for very long. "No, Dad. I'm going to pack a bag, then I'm off to the station. Captain Newman wants me to escort a prisoner to San Francisco to testify at his former employer's trial, then bring him back." He sighed. "Talk about irony. Instead of listening to Tony sing about it, I get to go there." The hall clock chimed, and Steve automatically checked his watch. "I need to get moving. I'll see you Saturday night, Dad." The fear was still clutching the back of his neck, unimpressed by Steve's nonchalance. "Be careful, son," Mark called, hoping his anxiety was unfounded. "Be careful." Act Two Rain was still halfheartedly speckling the windows of the Cessna, which sprawled uncomfortably in the lower reaches of a scrubby mountain range, one wing distorted beyond repair and the other wrenched off altogether. Steve Sloan lifted an eyelid, started automatically to stretch, and groaned as pain stabbed through his right leg. What limited inspection he could perform, given the impediment of his neighbor's shackled wrist, indicated that his right thigh was well and thoroughly lacerated. Tentatively, he moved his leg sideways, hoping he would feel the effect of any remnants of whatever had done the damage. There was no corresponding spike of pain, and he found himself hoping that was a good sign. A glance at the man next to him showed that he was still unconscious, with some facial lacerations, but there didn't seem to be any substantial injury. Steve sighed. He should have realized that the looming disaster, which commenced with the doomed plan to see Tony Bennett, had not resolved, that more trouble lay in store for him. A simple plan to remove Luke Brewer from jail and transport him to San Francisco, so the ex-petty thief turned accountant could testify against his much more important former boss. And here they were, stuck somewhere in the Diablos by the look of it, with a crippled, no, a defunct plane, and a pilot who was either dead or severely injured. Which reminded him. Even though he was fairly certain he hadn't seen any evidence of life in the cockpit, he needed to make sure that the man wasn't lying there bleeding to death. Unthinkingly, he started to move, and swore at the reminder of his original assignment. With a sigh, he fished awkwardly in his pocket, trying not to jar his wounded leg any more than necessary, and retrieved his keys. After a moment, his wrist was free, Brewer was attached to the arm of the seat, and Steve was standing, with difficulty, in the aisle, balancing carefully, unsure exactly where the plane had landed in its unplanned descent. A quick inspection of the cockpit reinforced his impression of the pilot's chance of survival; Mattingly would not be needing any assistance from any earthly power. Nor did it look like the plane was going to be salvageable, as the instruments were smashed beyond repair, probably due to the nose having crushed its way backwards into the cockpit like a battered accordion. A quick glance showed that the radio had suffered a similar fate; from bad to worse, Steve thought grumpily, and stiffened as the faint but definite smell of overheated oil seeped into his nose. Time to get the hell out of there, with whatever might be useful, before the damn thing ignited. The supplies in the small storage area were meager. Some containers of bottled water (Steve sent upwards a silent appreciative prayer to the gods of the California lifestyle); some trail mix (here he was less thankful for the pilot's dietary habits), and various types of dried fruit. He bundled the less than appealing supplies into a makeshift backpack, then returned with understandable reluctance to the cabin, where the other passenger snored still, even as Steve unhooked him from the armrest and secured the convict's wrists together. "Brewer! Come on, wake up! We've got to get out of here!" These exhortations were punctuated by grabbing the unconscious man's shoulders and shaking him hard. Steve could hear the slight tinge of fear in his own voice as the hot, oily smell intensified, and shoved it back with an effort. "Come on -- the plane's going to explode." His prisoner stirred, and blinked at him with blurry eyes. "What -- what happened?" he asked, understandably confused. Steve was not inclined to be patient, however. With a profane comment, he flung the pack over his shoulder and wrenched the other man out of the seat, literally hauling him towards the door, which luckily already hung open. "I don't know how much time we have. Come on." In his anxiety, he missed the sudden narrowing of Brewer's eyes as he took in the scene and the wreckage of Steve's pant leg, concentrating instead on shoving the convict out over a luckily short drop, then negotiating it himself, trying not to wince as his bad leg hit earth with a little more force than he had hoped. The smell of burning oil was much stronger on the ground, and both men stared in fascination at the spreading puddle, rapidly becoming a pool, underneath the shattered fuselage. Then a tell-tale hissing started, and Steve jumped. "Run!" he ordered hoarsely, and they started off at a stumbling, shambling pace, trying to put as much distance between them and the doomed plane as possible. The noise grew louder, and Steve knew with a cold certainty that they weren't going to get as far away as he would have preferred. The explosion, when it came, was substantial, knocking them off their feet and propelling them upward and forward. As he became temporarily airborne, Steve found himself wondering curiously how such a small plane could produce such a large blast; then he was slammed hard earthwards. Dazed, his body skidding along over a myriad of small rocks and scrub which tore at his skin, he was unable to stop himself before a large stump did it for him, hard enough to knock him briefly out of time. Act Three Something or someone was rooting around in his pockets, first the back, then a hand snaking around to feel in his right front pocket. He started to object, only to feel the heavy weight on his back which he had assumed was the world which had fallen in on him shift with agonizing pressure to the back of his right leg. Something metallic touched the back of his neck, and then he heard the voice. "Try anything, and I'll blow a hole in your head." Steve stiffened, then moaned as the weight pressed down on his leg again. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Brewer?" The convict snickered. "First I'm going to get the keys to these handcuffs. Then -- depending on how much trouble you try to give me, I'll either leave you here -- or shoot you." The gun dug into Steve's neck a little harder. "Pull out your keys, real slow, and toss them to your right." Steve hesitated, and the gun pushed in again in dreadful synchronization with the sudden pressure on his wounded leg. His options were at best extremely limited; growling, he retrieved the keys and followed the other man's instructions, and groaned with relief as the weight suddenly lifted. "Enjoy it while you can, Sloan." Brewer swiftly picked up the keys and unlocked the handcuffs while somehow balancing the gun enough to have a good chance of hitting Steve if it fired. "Your turn." He returned and stared down at the wounded man. "Stay on your stomach and put your hands behind you." His gorge rose. Bad enough dealing with the handcuffs for prisoner escort; but the last thing he wanted Brewer to see was his pathological aversion to the damn things. "No." Brewer's eyebrows rose. "Sloan, I'm the one holding the gun." "That's right," Steve retorted. "Luke Brewer, petty criminal, not exactly a master killer. You didn't even own one when you were arrested." The brows came down. "And your point?" Steve shook his head. "You're not a killer, Brewer. Dixon is. You're looking at getting out in less than five after you testify against him as it is. Why would you want to make it worse?" He noticed the other man's involuntary glance at the surrounding desolation and interpreted it correctly. "You may think you have a chance to get away, but you can't run as far, or as long, as you think. It may take a little while because of the weather, but I can assure you San Francisco already knows we've gone down. It's just a matter of time before we're found." Brewer absorbed the unwelcome information. "I take it you think I should just hang around here and wait?" he asked, with some sarcasm. Steve shrugged. "Here if you want. Personally, given the looks of the sky, I'd want to find some kind of shelter. They're still going to find us." "And I suppose you expect me to haul you along?" The tone was unchanged. Steve shrugged again. "They track you down by yourself, you've got a good chance of stopping a bullet. If I'm with you, I can intercede. At this point, you haven't really done anything -- yet." Okay, he thought, assault on a police officer, but I'm willing to overlook that for now. Brewer obviously was thinking the same thing. He flicked a glance towards the handcuffs, then down at the gun in his hand, then returned his gaze to Steve, who reciprocated as guilelessly as he was capable, waiting with barely controlled patience. "All right," the convict said finally. "You go with me. But the handcuffs stay." Trying to conceal his desperation, Steve pointed out mildly, "I've got a great big hole in my leg, Brewer. Walking's going to be difficult enough; I can't compensate if I'm off balance with my hands behind me." He held his breath, hoping that Brewer would simply let him limp along unrestrained, which he suspected was already going to be problematic. No such luck. Brewer's face hardened, and he shook his head. "I'm not taking a chance on you jumping me, leg or no leg. Cuff 'em in front of you, and I catch you trying for me, I'll shoot, whether you think I'm a killer or not." He'd have to settle for this small victory, although his stomach still twisted sickeningly as the metal clinked shut. Then he yanked at his shirttail until it gave enough for him to tear a long strip, and reached clumsily for the pack. "What are you doing?" Brewer demanded suspiciously, starting to move forward to stop him. Steve gave him a weary look. "I need to do something about this -- and you might want to do something about those lacerations on your face. There should be enough water for us to see to our wounds and still have plenty for drinking." Brewer stood irresolute, then apparently decided to take Steve's word for it. "All right. But then we get moving." He squatted down and, after following Steve's example, began to wipe away the blood and grime, his eyes sliding over to the other man periodically. Who was not enjoying himself very much at all. The gash was long, wide and deep, and it hurt like blazes; if he were at CGH, Jesse would have promptly socked him full of some kind of joy juice and he would have awakened with a leg full of stitches. He wondered idly what had hit him, and decided the effort of speculation not only was unproductive but made his head hurt. Slowly, painfully, he cleaned the mess as best as he could, made a pad of part of his shirt remnant and wadded it against the wound, then wrapped the remaining strip around his leg to anchor it. How effective his makeshift work was going to be, he had no idea; he found himself wishing pointlessly that he'd had the presence of mind to retrieve the first aid kit from the plane. No good obsessing over what was done, he thought grimly, and began the agonizing process of trying to pull himself to his feet. After what felt like hours, a hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him upward. "Don't expect this all the time," Luke Brewer said brusquely. "Which way?" One look at the other's grimly determined expression was enough. Steve glanced around at the rocky chaparral and scrub on their hillside, and the grey-blue mountains farther off, noting with disgust that the rain was starting again. "Down," he said laconically, then amended his response. "And west. Toward those hills; if we're where I think we are, we've got a good chance of finding a town once we cross this ridge and the next." Without waiting to see if his unwelcome traveling companion followed, he limped off, gritting his teeth against the pain and the intensifying rain. Act Four They had stopped briefly to rest after the fourth consecutive time Steve had stumbled, the last time losing his balance altogether and crashing to the ground. Brewer uncapped one of the bottles, took a swig, and passed it down to the other man where he sat, injured leg stretched out stiffly in front of him. Steve scowled at the bottle, then drank anyway. No point in being a hero just yet, he thought, with miles between them and any type of civilization, and forced himself to say it. "Thanks." Brewer retrieved the bottle and subsided to the ground himself, secretly glad of the opportunity to stop, as he was still feeling dazed from the crash. "D'you have any idea where we are, Sloan?" Steve considered. "I think the north Diablos, could be anywhere along that range. I know we had to divert east because of the weather -- Mattingly said something about going around to the northeast, approaching San Francisco from that direction to avoid the thunderheads." He glanced up in irritation as raindrops started once more to dribble down from overhead. "Somehow I don't think he got as far as I would have liked." Brewer sighed and unfolded himself. "So we go -- ?" "West and down still. We need to find a water source before we run out," Steve said tiredly. Reluctantly but patiently enduring Brewer's help, he got slowly to his feet, forcibly ignoring the protestations from his bad leg. "We've also got a better chance of finding some shelter in a lower-lying area." "Shelter?" Brewer asked involuntarily. Steve laughed, a short, ugly sound. "No one's likely to find us in this stuff. And, from the look of the scenery, we're talking at least another day or two before we happen on any kind of sign of other people. Maybe you don't mind camping out on the hillside with the stars bright above you, but that really doesn't appeal to me in weather like this." Brewer started to retort, then stopped. Sloan's face was gray and drawn, trickles of sweat evidence of the difficulty he had had rising, even with Brewer's assistance. Somehow the gun and the handcuffs didn't seem like enough protection if he riled the lieutenant enough; Sloan had the look of a man concentrating fiercely on one thing and one thing only, and who would not appreciate being distracted from it. And he certainly didn't want to find himself carrying the wounded man if his strength gave out. "Yeah, all right," he said grudgingly. "Makes sense." He swung the pack over his shoulder and motioned Steve along with the gun. "Let's go." Act Five After another couple of hours, which Steve, nearing exhaustion, would have bet his badge had lasted actually three times as long, they crested a stumpy ridge and found themselves gazing at a narrow stream winding its unconcerned way ahead of them. Small woods marched almost all the way down to the bank on the opposite side and stretched out leafy branches invitingly. The wanderers stopped, contemplating the scene; then Steve spoke. "Looks like that's our best bet for the night." Brewer glanced at his unwilling companion, then back across the water. "It's only four. We've got another hour or so of daylight." Steve grimaced. "Maybe. But these streams don't tend to run too close together in these hills. We may not find another one before dark." He glanced up at the still uncooperative sky. "And the rain's only going to get worse." For some reason, Brewer had to try to make an issue of it. "So what are you afraid of? Wild animals?" The other man made a disgusted sound, and started off towards the copse. "As a matter of fact, this is a favorite stomping ground for several kinds of mountain cats. If one of them jumps you, you'd better be ready to fire that gun and fast." Brewer stared at him, unsure if the lieutenant was joking. Somehow, the cold blue eyes didn't look particularly humorous, and he shivered suddenly. No point in looking for unnecessary trouble, he thought, and shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "All right. But then we're on our way at first light." Steve muttered something derogatory under his breath about survivalist dilettante wannabes, and kept moving, half afraid if he stopped before he got across the water, he'd fall down and not be able to find his feet again. Once safely in the shelter of the trees, he gratefully let go of the grim determination which had fueled the last hour or so and sank to the ground, wincing despite himself at the relief of taking his weight off of his injured leg. He closed his eyes, barely noticing when Brewer started rooting through the supplies, until a profane exclamation disturbed his reverie. "What's your problem now, Brewer?" Steve inquired, not especially politely, then laughed as he saw what the other man was holding. "I gather the pilot was into health food," Brewer said with disgust. The expression on his face matched the tone of his voice as he held up one of the trail mix packages. Steve had to agree. Right now, a Snickers bar would have been a lot more appealing, and the chocolate would certainly have made him feel better. And along those lines -- he sat up reluctantly and started to unwind the wrappings on his leg. The movement attracted the other man's attention. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked, hastily moving in Steve's direction. Steve gave him a remote glance. He didn't have the energy to worry about whatever was making Brewer tick at the moment, nor was he inclined to discuss his condition at any length. "Hand me one of the bottles, would you?" Brewer complied, watching silently as Steve worked on removing the bandages, his hands moving more and more slowly as the pain intensified. "Here, let me take care of that, you'll never get it off at this rate." That got him a startled look from the wounded man, which he ignored. "Why should you care?" Steve asked, his voice slurring slightly, as he continued trying to deal with the recalcitrant bandages. Brewer shrugged. "I'm just a penny-ante thief, remember? I don't need a murder or manslaughter charge hanging over my head. So if you think I'm going to let you die of exposure or gangrene or something like that out here, you're crazy." He would have laughed, but his leg was starting to really hurt, and his weariness was adding to the weakness; it was too much trouble to even try to smile. Steve barely resisted as Brewer gently pushed him back, forcing the cuffed wrists out of the way, and took over the unpleasant job. A few minutes later, he had succeeded in uncovering the wound, which looked even uglier than it had earlier. The edges were red and puffy, still oozing blood; Brewer pressed down lightly in one discolored spot and caught his breath as the injured man's hand closed on his wrist with unexpected speed and force. "What the hell are you doing?" Steve gritted. The convict swallowed, then turned his attention to prying the locked fingers loose. "Breaking my wrist is not a viable option at this point," he pointed out through clenched teeth. Steve seemed to surface for a moment. "Oh. Sorry." The blurred eyes focused, then dilated again. "What were you doing?" he repeated. Brewer tried his examination again, more carefully, trying not to precipitate a similar reaction. "You've got some infection going on here," he said finally. "There are some areas of pus, which I think I can clean out if you'll let me." Steve stared at him, blue eyes once more intense. "Meaning how?" Brewer took a deep breath. "You're probably not going to like it." Steve waited patiently, a small crease beginning between his eyebrows, and Brewer added reluctantly, "I can make a compress, draw some of the pus out that way." There was a short and potent silence. Then Steve said slowly, "You mean by pushing on it." No point in mincing words. "Yes." Steve started to object, then recognized the futility of maintaining any such opposition. Even if he was able to prevent Brewer from manhandling his leg right now, he wasn't likely to be able to stay awake much longer. And Brewer had already declared his intention of ensuring Steve's survival, more or less in one piece. He sighed, and closed his eyes. "Just do it and get it over with." It wasn't pretty. Brewer was sweating massively and wishing ardently that the pilot had been an alcoholic instead of a vegan, and Steve was out cold, having lost consciousness about halfway through the process. He had managed to maintain a fragile control until then, but Brewer's explorations had found a particularly nasty spot, and the fire which had streaked up Steve's leg at that point was several times more vicious than the earlier pangs; it had wrenched an involuntary exclamation from him, his body convulsing, despite his best intentions. White-knuckled hands had reflexively reached for the injury, getting in the way, and Brewer, blinking away drops of sweat as he recovered from his own shocked reaction, had been forced to stop what he was doing and hold the other man down until Steve finally lapsed into unconsciousness. The unpleasant chore finished, Brewer rose stiffly and staggered over to the stream to rinse his hands, then his face, trying to rid himself of the metallic smell of Sloan's blood and the muskiness of his own perspiration. He dumped the remaining contents of his water bottle down his throat, regretting it contained nothing stronger, then refilled the container from the stream. Munching morosely on some of the dried fruit, he settled down against one of the trees, with the vague notion of keeping watch. Act Six Brewer's eyes snapped open suddenly as he woke. The sky was definitely light, and his stomach growled. Alarmed, he glanced around, and saw that Steve had barely moved during the night; his hand involuntarily sought the handcuff keys in his pocket, but it looked like the other man was still secured as before. Nevertheless, he rose silently and circled around until he could get a clear look, then tugged cautiously at Steve's arm. The sleeping man muttered something which sounded vaguely critical, if not insulting, and tried to turn over, then woke with a jerk, the movement bringing his weight down on his bad leg. Brewer scooted hastily away, barely escaping being kicked in the knee as Steve's body contorted into a massive paroxysm of pain. From that secure distance, he waited until the other man had regained some tenuous control of himself, muttered curses making themselves heard. Finally, Steve seemed to have achieved some degree of calm, and he raised his head. "Help me up." Brewer stared at him, shocked. "What?" "Help me up," Steve repeated, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. "If I don't get up now, I'm not going to be able to." His expression doubtful, Brewer wordlessly returned and proffered an arm, trying not to wince as it took Steve's entire weight briefly. Still without comment, he guided the other man over to the icy-cold stream and helped him clean up as best as he could, then persuaded him to eat some fruit. Steve choked the unappetizing fare down more or less obediently, trying not to gulp water to wash it down, until he finally shook his head at any more. Brewer sighed and put the rest of the fruit in the impromptu backpack. "Which way, keemo sabe?" He had to ask twice more before Steve's eyes focused on him reluctantly; they had been fixed on some far point off to the left. Slowly, Steve glanced around, then nodded, presumably to himself. "That way," he said shortly, pointing off to the west, and started to stumble off. After a short interval, it became blindingly obvious to both men that whatever energy had been driving Steve onwards the previous day had more or less abandoned him. His pace slackened, footsteps growing ever more uneven, and he had already barely caught himself from falling several times. Brewer started to examine the scrubby small pines as they walked, with vague notions of locating and adapting a suitable branch as a crutch or cane. However, none seemed to have quite the length or solidity which was needed until they finally stumbled around a bend in the stream and found a more heavily wooded area. Brewer put out a hand to stop Steve and eased him down to the ground. "Time to rest. I'm going to see if I can find a halfway decent branch over there." Although he would not have tolerated an argument from the other, he was disconcerted to be allowed to keep to his plan without objection or interference. Sloan's color was bad and his eyes dull, his breathing uneven; Brewer once more wished there was something stronger in his water bottle. He was going to need it to get them out of there, he thought ruefully. For the first time in this disaster-laden trip, luck was on their side. Brewer found a long, fat, solid limb reasonably quickly, and returned with haste. "Here, Sloan. You can use this as a cane." He didn't want to get up. His leg had progressed from radiating misery to blessed numbness, and putting his weight back on it was going to bring the pain back. Steve shook his head mulishly, mumbling something to that effect. Brewer was unmoved. The injured man's color had gone from bad to worse, and, while he was not about to admit it, he was starting to experience the odd twinge of fear that Sloan might not be able to help him once they were found. This panic made him reckless; with no concern for the other man's protests, he hauled Steve upright, wrapped his hands around the branch, and grabbed an arm. "Come on." Without waiting to see if Steve was moving, he started off, more or less forcing his reluctant companion to stumble along next to him. Steve tolerated this mistreatment for about a half hour, but then he seemed to come to himself. Resentment edged out discomfort briefly, and he wrenched away from Brewer with a scowl. "Do that again, Brewer, and I'll see they double your sentence." The convict stopped, his hand seeking the reassurance of Steve's gun of its own accord. "I can still waste you and take my chances, Sloan." Steve's response as he turned away was inarticulate, but the general sense of scorn was clear. Brewer's other fist clenched, and he released his grip on the gun with an effort. "You're going to push me too far, Sloan." Steve ignored him, concentrating on the herculean task of putting one foot in front of the other, with or without the improvised walking stick. His skin felt hot and dry, his throat like sand, and he was certain that he needed appropriate medical attention, and fairly soon at that. Mercifully, his leg had opted for a sort of throbbing, which, while it alarmed him in its dullness, was a relief after the fiery stabbing he had experienced earlier. Maybe he'd be able to cover some distance after all, if it didn't get any worse, he thought hopefully. Hope wasn't listening. A bit of uneven ground, ground mud-slick after the recent rains, his uncertain footing, and the sturdy branch couldn't begin to compensate. Steve overbalanced, and toppled, only to find himself on a declining slope as the stream took a downward turn. Unable to stop himself, he hit hard and rolled, each protrusion yanking a groan from him as his abused body absorbed each shock. Then a sharper drop flung him down even harder; he cried out as he landed, the sudden shock driving the breath from his lungs and his wits from him altogether. An appalled Brewer scrambled in his wake, negotiating the gradient as quickly as he dared. He fetched up at Steve's sprawled body, and rolled him over carefully. There was a large bruise on the side of Steve's face and his breathing was ragged; tentative efforts to wake him were unproductive. After water failed to revive the unconscious man, Brewer sat back on his heels and tried to subdue his own anxiety. The question of how long Steve might survive without competent medical treatment was rapidly becoming critical. It was also clear that the injured man had gone as far as he was going to go without that help. Frantically, Brewer glanced around, wishing for once something in his less than stellar career would turn out properly. Nothing to the west, or to the north. They had tumbled over the drop from the east, so Brewer turned his head in the last possible direction, and caught his breath with a start. Unless his eyes were deceiving him, there seemed to be a dirt road heading off to the south. He jumped to his feet, energized, to find what were clearly recent tire tracks, most likely a tractor by the looks of the tread. And it was highly unlikely that anyone would be driving any great distance on a tractor, so clearly someone lived somewhere reasonably close. He was debating his options, wondering whether to walk in that direction, to find help, or simply to go that way and pretend he was the sole survivor of a plane crash, when the decision was taken out of his hands as the sound of an engine disturbed his thought process. Brewer looked up to see a tractor heading towards them, then glanced back down at the unconscious lieutenant, noticing absently that the handcuffs had chafed against the skin of one wrist. Sorry, Sloan, he thought with some irony, you're going to have to be my prisoner, or I'm a dead man. The tractor drew up, and a man leaned out. "Morning. You two in some kind of trouble?" Luke Brewer nodded and pulled out Steve's badge. "Steve Sloan, LAPD. I've got a prisoner here I was taking to San Francisco when our plane crashed, and he was hurt. We could use some help." The newcomer's eyes narrowed as he took in the situation, and he nodded. "All right." He stopped the engine and climbed out. "Good thing I had the trailer hitched up; we'll have to put him in there." He stuck out a hand. "Grant Ryan. We've got a place up the road a ways." Act Seven In a large, luxurious office in the middle of San Francisco, a well-groomed, well-dressed man absent-mindedly rubbed a well-manicured finger across an unfortunately jowly chin as he frowned at a computer printout. A younger man removed a cell phone from his ear and approached him quickly. "Boss -- Jason's on the phone from L.A." Mervyn Dixon glanced up, irritation at the interruption briefly creasing his brow and vanishing as quickly at the expression on his assistant's face. He nodded and took the phone. "This had better be good." The far caller's voice was quick and anxious.
"Brewer's plane went down. Somewhere south of there; my contact at LAPD seems to
think in the northern Diablos. Search parties are already on their The frown reappeared and deepened. Dixon asked a few more questions, then disconnected and looked up at the waiting aide. "Send out a team. Brewer's going to have to miss his moment in the limelight. Permanently." The other man looked at him inquiringly, but waited without comment. Dixon contemplated him coldly for a moment. "Problem?" A hasty headshake. "No, sir. What about his escort - assuming there are survivors?" Mervyn Dixon grunted and picked up the printout again. "Make sure there aren't any." End Part I home | vs home | season one | season two | season three | join dmvs | e-mail us | guestbook |
