Page 71 of Peace Under Fire

He was dead.

Helplessness hollowing him out, Squish tossed the pitchfork, vest and all, into the corner of the room and dropped to his knees beside his buddy’s neck. To his shock, Grumpy’s pulse beat strong and steady against his fingers.

What…the…hell?

He slowly rocked back on his heels, staring down at Grumpy’s tranquil face.

“He dead?” Crusher’s voice remained calm, but it was so tight the words seemed stretched thin, ready to rupture.

Squish leaned over, taking Grumpy’s pulse again. It beat steadily beneath his fingers.

“Doesn’t appear to be.” Squish could hear the doubt in his own voice. Like he didn’t quite trust what his fingers were telling him.

Apparently, Crusher didn’t trust Squish’s assessment either since he leaned closer to Grumpy and placed two fingers against the dude’s neck to check for himself. “I’ll be fucked,” he breathed.

JoAnn kept pressing down on Grumpy’s chest. And Grumpy just kept lying there…breathing…that weird mask of tranquility stretched across his face. The dude looked drugged or, yeah…dead. Squish rocked forward to have another go at Grumpy’s pulse. It throbbed beneath his fingers, steady and strong. Just like the dude’s breathing. No gasping. No gargling. No groaning. No signs of pain.

Squish almost expected the blood pooled between JoAnn’s fingers to sink back into Grumpy’s body, as if time had reversed itself. But it trickled down the side of Grumpy’s chest instead, pooling in a crimson puddle on the mat beside him.

“He’s alive?” Billy rasped. His voice was full of disbelief. Hell, he sounded like he was questioning their combined intelligence and field experience.

Squish didn’t blame him. He was questioning his own sanity.

“I’ve got a pulse,” Crusher said slowly. But disbelief rang in his voice too.

The evidence might be right there in front of their eyes and beneath their fingers, but—fuck—that evidence was damn hard to trust.

Were they caught in the grips of a shared hallucination? He’d heard such things were possible. And Christ knew the bastards who’d attacked the compound had filled the buildings with an unknown gas. Did that gas have psychotropic properties?

Were they imagining what JoAnn was doing? None of this seemed possible.

“We still calling for the med-flight?” Billy asked. He sounded confused. Suspicious.

“He doesn’t need one now,” Mandy said. “JoAnn?” Concern sharpened her voice as she studied her sister’s face. “You look exhausted. Can you leave him yet?”

Squish frowned and looked up from Grumpy’s peaceful face. He was beside JoAnn, so all he could see of Mandy’s sister was her profile and tense shoulder. But her forehead was lined, the left side of her face tight, and the corner of her mouth flattened. Sweat had soaked the woman’s hair and started running down her temple, and there was a wet half-circle beneath her armpit, staining the fabric of her t-shirt. She looked completely drained.

“Almost there,” JoAnn huffed, her voice breathless. “Just…a…few more…seconds.”

Jesus, the woman sounded like she’d run a marathon. Mandy shook her head, although Squish doubted JoAnn saw it.

“You need to disengage now. You’re exhausting yourself. He can heal the rest of the way on his own.”

“But I’ve almost—”

JoAnn broke off when Mandy reached over, grabbed her wrists, and wrenched her blood-drenched hands away from Grumpy’s chest.

“Sure, I can stop now,” JoAnn wheezed, without trying to rip her hands free from Mandy’s grip. She slumped, then straightened, only to lose her balance—or perhaps her strength—and plop over onto her ass.

She looked sick as hell. Her face was gray and lined, her eyes dull and glassy.

Frowning, Squish glanced down at Grumpy’s peaceful face. His eyes were still closed. “Why isn’t he waking?”

“Because being conscious takes a lot of energy, and right now, his body is conserving its resources so it can heal him,” Mandy said.

With a heavy sigh, JoAnn pulled her hands from Mandy’s grasp and scooted back until she could stretch out her legs and lie flat. She looked gaunt now, her face drawn, with deep crevices bracketing her mouth and forehead. Whatever she’d done—Squish shied away from acknowledging exactly what that was—had taken a physical toll on her.

He turned back to Grumpy. The blood had thinned and spread, soaking into the fabric of his tactical shirt, which was stretched taut across his chest and abdomen. It was easy to see that he wasn’t hemorrhaging anymore. His chest was rising and falling beneath deep, even breaths. There was no tension on his face. His muscles looked flexible and loose. Hell, he looked relaxed. Sleeping like a damn baby.

---