Page 97 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
I loop Gabe’s arm over my shoulders, taking his weight. “One step at a time.”
“Just like old times.” His voice comes weak but determined.
“Shut up and walk.” The familiar pattern of our interaction grounds me, gives me strength I didn’t know I had left.
We make our way across the rocky shore, a ragged line of walking dead. Every step is an act of defiance against the ocean that tried to claim us, against the enemy who thinks they’ve won.
The cave mouth looms before us, a deeper darkness against the night. Jeb enters first, weapon drawn, clearing the space.
“Clear.” His voice echoes slightly. “Goes back about thirty feet. Dry ground. Defensible position.”
We stumble inside, helping each other over the uneven ground. The cave provides immediate shelter from the wind, and the temperature difference is noticeable even to cold-numbed skin.
We all reek of brine, blood, and exhaustion—except the two pilots laid out near the back, bundled in mylar, recovering from hypothermia.
Three miles in open ocean. In the dark. We nearly drowned out there, but it wasn’t our day to die, but damn if it didn’t try hard to be.
Rigel flops down next to Blake, huffing, dragging a hand through his drenched hair. “This is bullshit.”
Walt moves to Gabe, helping him sit against the cave wall before examining his leg. “Need to clean and close this wound.”
I help Walt clean Gabe’s wound, holding the light stick while he works. The gash runs six inches down Gabe’s outer thigh, deep enough to need stitches.
“Going to hurt.” Walt prepares a needle from his medical kit, the thread already attached.
“Just do it.” Gabe’s jaw clenches in anticipation.
I place my hand on his shoulder, an unconscious gesture of support. “Remember Kandahar?”
“You mean when that farmer’s kid tried to stitch me up with fishing line?” A ghost of a smile crosses his face, focusing on the memory instead of the present pain. “Said I’d live longer if I stopped screaming.”
“You told him you’d live longer if he stopped sticking you with a rusty needle.” I maintain eye contact as Walt begins stitching. “Then you gave him your last chocolate bar.”
“Kid had steady hands.” Gabe’s fingers dig into my forearm as the needle pierces flesh again. “Unlike some medics I could name.”
“Criticizing the guy with the needle?” Walt’s voice carries dry humor despite the gravity of our situation. “Not a smart move.”
The familiar banter helps all of us—gives Gabe something to focus on besides pain, gives Walt a rhythm for his work, gives me the illusion that something in our world remains normal.
Ten minutes later, Walt finishes the last stitch and applies a waterproof dressing. “That’ll hold until we get somewhere with proper medical.”
“Thanks.” Gabe’s face has gone pale, but his eyes remain clear.
“Rest now.” Walt moves to check on the pilots, who look shell-shocked by their ordeal.
I help Gabe into a more comfortable position, arranging one of the emergency blankets around both of us. Shared body heat is the most efficient way to combat hypothermia in field conditions.
“Like our first date.” Gabe’s attempt at humor comes through chattering teeth.
“You wish.” I adjust the blanket to maximize coverage. “Our first date had a lot less blood and hypothermia.”
“Debatable.” His body shakes with cold, muscles involuntarily contracting as his core temperature struggles to stabilize.
“Gear assessment.” Ethan slumps against the wall, voice ragged with exhaustion.
I check my waterproof pack, cataloging what survived. “Emergency blankets intact. Light sticks. Basic medical. Protein bars. Two magazines dry.”
Similar reports come from the others. We’ve lost most of our equipment, but the essentials survived—enough to keep us alive, if not comfortable.
