Fracture (2 page)

     Bandages. Antiseptic. A packet of antibiotics. What’s left looks so forlorn and abandoned. He’ll need an ultrasound or something to check for internal bleeding. Crutches. A sling. Plaster if his leg is broken. The rebels took the ultrasound machine and the government appropriated the crutches.

     Someone’s here. The scuffling coming from the front entry is too loud to be rats. Murat and Ismael, the doctor and the patient. Faster than I’d anticipated.

     Sure enough, Ismael and Murat shove their way through the door, the injured man hanging between them, his face twisted in pain. Agony, really. He’d probably appreciate it if he could just pass the fuck out.

     “Is the water ready?” The doctor raises a brow and I scurry off to check. I know the drill. Ladling a portion into a small bowl, I bring it in and the doctor’s metal implements to be sterilized. They clank against the sides of the pot. The autoclave crapped out a long time ago, back around the start of the skirmish. Replacement medical equipment is even harder to come by than replenishing medical supplies. Hopefully whatever incisions need to be made are minimal.

     A moan. Thrashing. A yell, followed by babbling. It’s worse. So much worse than sitting in the street, watching the life drain from Ryan. This man is trying, and maybe failing, to live. My ears wish he’d give up.

     “Nora.” Ismael appears in the doorway. “Gudelj needs you.”

     The scalpel and tongs haven’t sat in the water long enough, not by the doctor’s exacting standards, but it’ll have to do if he’s calling for them already. Scooping them from the water, I wrap them in a towel and hurry across the hall to the exam room.

     Sweat’s popped out on the man’s forehead, his skin grey in the dull lights. “Bandages, yes? We have some?” the doctor asks.

     “I left them in the other room.” Ismael slips out to get them, leaving Murat standing at the man’s head, holding him down by one shoulder. I shift my attention to Doctor Gudelj. “You still need me?”

     “Yes.”

     This is not from the doctor or Murat, but the man lying on the table. It’s a hoarse, dirty rasp, one that makes me cringe. His hand flails around, groping for something. Someone. Me? “You. You should have left me. You didn’t.”

     Oh god, he needs to stop talking. Fierce stabs of grief slice through my stomach, tearing me open with every tiny word. “Shh.” Without thinking, I take his flopping hand in both of mine. “Calm down,” I whisper. Please please please calm down. Please stop talking.

     “There. That is better,” says Doctor Gudelj. Murat’s hold loosens and the doctor resumes cutting away the man’s jeans. “Tell me, what is your name?”

     I don’t want to know his name.

      “Declan.”

     Definitely not Slavic.

     “Yours. Tell me yours.” His eyes slit open and all I see is black — dark pupils bleeding into irises, eclipsing them. His hand tightens in mine as pain twists his mouth.

     I have to go. The past wants to swallow me whole, make me drown, swamp me cover me kill me. He won’t let go of my hand, those slitted eyes holding me hostage.

     “Nora. My name is Nora.”

     “Fuck! Bloody fucking hell!”

     Declan’s refusing to surrender to the pain, which means he’s fully conscious of having his leg set, his shoulder shoved back into its socket, his torso palpated and a myriad of other necessary tasks while Doctor Gudelj tries to get a complete assessment of the damage.

     I
know
the doctor’s got a syringe. I saw it earlier. A syringe of sanity–saving bliss, something that may not knock Declan out but will take away some of the pain, make him let go of my hand, allow me to escape. My part here is done.

     Declan won’t let go.

     His hair’s matted now, thin rivulets of sweat running down his temples like tears. Stray locks flop over his forehead, the dark strands stark against the sickening pallor of his skin. My free hand moves unbidden, pushes them up and off. The bruises are coming into their own, showing their full range of purples, yellows, reds, and an angry, ominous grey. He curses again as his fingers are wrenched back into place and taped together. No splints. Those went almost as quickly as the inhalers.

     “There. I think we are done.” The doctor rolls his stool away from the bed. “Now, Declan, you have family here? Friends?”

     “No,” he mumbles.

     “No? You are alone here?” Ismael, leaning against the doorjamb, frowns at the thought. It’s not so unusual to be completely alone in this city. I am. I am completely alone in this city.

     “No,” Declan answers, the word a little firmer than it was before. “There is no one.”

     “Surely, there is someone. You will need help for the first few weeks while you heal.”

     Declan winces as he turns his head toward me. “She can help me.”

     No way in four hells am I helping him. I’m not a nurse.

     His slits for eyes latch on to mine, and though there’s so little that I can see, what I do is challenging me. “She can help me,” he repeats, even as my head shakes no.

     “Ah. Yes. Nora can help you. Nora, this is okay, yes?”

     Not okay. Not okay at all.

     He’s tugging on my hand. Tug tug tug, his hand working its way up my arm to my shoulder. Along the curve, to the back of my neck, the pressure of his fingers insubstantial after the crushing blows he’s dealt to my hand. “A few days.” The words come out through gritted teeth, his breathing labored. “A few days, then you’ll be rid of me.”

     Painful words, words I don’t have defenses against.

     “Good! It is settled. Murat and Ismael will help you get him to his flat.” The doctor bustles around, tossing his tools into his bag without care.

     “No.”

     “No?” What the hell does he mean, no? “You can’t stay here.”

     The hand on my neck tightens. “I can’t go back to me flat.”

     And I’m not taking him to mine. My haven. My sanctuary. Where no one can find me and I hide for days. The solitude is the only thing that makes this war bearable, knowing the people out there dying aren’t people I care for. Selfish, yes, but it keeps me sane.

     “You must go somewhere.” Murat pulls out his intimidating face, but it doesn’t work on Declan. “The clinic is not safe. You will not return to your flat? We take you to Nora’s.”

     “No!” The hold on my neck breaks as I surge up. “N-n-no, he can’t. I can’t have him there.”

     The room quiets, everyone’s eyes on me. Staring. Waiting.

     There’s one place I can take him. It’s likely cold and dusty and stale–smelling, but no one will find him there.

     I push the air from my lungs. “If you’re worried people will come looking for you, I know where you can stay.”

 * * *

     I’m right. It’s cold and dusty and stale–smelling. Full of ghosts. Haunting laughter and sighs, and harsher, sharper sobs. Echoes of a dying and dead relationship. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t his. It was
theirs
. The rebels and their stupid war took my fiancé from me. All I’ve got left are these shreds that I’m forever trying to pull into a whole.

     “Wow. This place has not been used in a while, huh?” Murat helps Declan across the small room to the even smaller bedroom.

     I shrug. “Wasn’t any reason to.” Not after Ryan died. This place was supposed to be nothing more than a weigh station. I’d never imagined it would be the mausoleum to our dream. “Bedroom’s through there. The blankets are probably in terrible shape.”

     The three men make their way into the darkened room, Declan muttering in pain. The guys were probably maneuvering him onto the bed. He’ll need food. Water. Clean clothes and soap. Towels and better blankets that aren’t dusty and possibly moldy. “Hey, Murat?”

     He sticks his head out, wincing as Declan curses. “Yes?”

     “I need to go out, grab some stuff. Can one of you stay with him until I get back?”

     He narrows his eyes. “Maybe I should come with you. Ismael can stay here.”

     His concern is touching, if misplaced, considering I’ve been running around this city mostly unseen for almost two years. “I’ll be fine.”

     “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

     
Oh
. “I’m going to come back. I promise.”

     “Do. Or no vodka for you.”

     I flip him the bird. “Get his address for me. I’ll grab some of his stuff while I’m out.”

     Murat disappears into the gloom, the low rumbles of conversation rising to frantic shouts. “Where is she? She can’t go!”

     Sighing, I walk into the room, squinting as my eyes adjust to the shadows. “Someone has to. There’re no supplies here, and someone’s got to go get them. If you want clean clothes, you give me your address.”

     “So send one of them.” His accent’s more pronounced now that he’s not wheezing with pain every three seconds.

     “I could.” But they can’t blend like I can. They’ll attract attention. I don’t. Or, at least, not much.

     No one speaks. It’s an audio version of a Mexican standoff, but I have no stakes in the outcome. If Declan wants to spend days sitting around in his dirty, torn clothes, he’s free to do so.

     “Dolac Malta,” he says at last.

     Dolac Malta’s some distance from here. How he ended up in our streets is something most people would be curious about, but asking questions only leads to more questions and conversations I’d rather not have. I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut.

     “I’ll be a while, then.” An age, if I can. Being in the flat is making me twitchy, and the less time I spend in it, the better. The weight of all those memories is suffocating. Coming here was a terrible idea.

     A few days. Until the worst of the pain passes and he can move about more freely. Or as freely as you can with a broken leg, a multitude of bruises, a dislocated shoulder, a sprained wrist, and several broken ribs. Oh, and let’s not forget the possible concussion.

     Maybe more than a few days. Dammit.

     Murat and Ismael are used to my coming and going without so much as a word, and I swing out of the flat, down to the street, planning my route. The encroaching twilight will both help conceal me but make the trek more dangerous. Shutting down my thoughts, I draw in a frosty breath and focus on the route that will take me to my flat. Two blocks down. Through the alley. Three blocks over, a block back, another five blocks down. A crack-like alley. A passageway between buildings, cross the street, a block back. All so I’m invisible. All so I can’t be found. Ridiculous, at first, then necessary when Cristian found me. Now I have a reason not to be followed.

     Being followed means he can find me whenever he wants. I hold all the cards so far by being unreachable, and I intend to keep it that way.

     My flat is cooling and dark by the time I reach it. I can’t take much. Too heavy a load cuts down on the response time, and with bullets flying out of nowhere, a half-second is the difference between living and dying.

     Clean sheets, an extra blanket. A change of clothes for myself. Food. Water. Another blanket. The sweatshirt I swore I’d left in Murat and Ismael’s flat and they claimed they didn’t have.

     I have too much stuff. The growing bundle is heavier than I’d like, and I’ll need to move quickly to get to Dolac Malta before it gets too late. It’ll have to stay here for the time being. I’ll pick up Declan’s clothes and come back for the blankets.

     Inefficient. But necessary. Declan’s choices are grubby clothes or going naked, and I’d rather not have to deal with a naked Declan. Or any naked man, for that matter. So clothing. Nice, clean clothing.

     His shoulders are so broad. How had they managed to take him down, take him by surprise? The dark hair should have allowed him to blend in, as long as he kept his mouth shut. Irish. He must be Irish, with a name like Declan. Declan of the broad shoulders and pain–roughened voice.

     My swirling thoughts are the only excuse I have for why I run right into Murat the second I open the door. “Jesus!”

     “I thought you might need help. Declan would not shut up until one of us went after you.” He peers around me into the flat. “You are not close, are you? And you walk home in the dark, after the vodka.” The scowl on his face shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. “Nora. No more. You drink, you sleep on our couch. Or we take you home.”

     The wall around my stinking well of emotions has too many cracks and patches in it. His words threaten to undo me because, as mean and chastising as they sound, it means he cares. It means they both care, and I can’t have people caring for me.

     Murat’s a big guy, and his hands make my arms look like matchsticks as he clasps them, moving me to the side and scooping up the bundle I’ve dropped by the door. “Let’s go. And you will tell me why you led me on a duck chase.”

     “You mean goose chase. It’s so I won’t be followed.” Because he’s here, I clatter down the stairs instead of slink, not bothering to muffle my footsteps. It’s not hard to do; just contract your leg muscles and hold everything stiff. “Obviously I need a different route.”

     “But why do you do it in the first place?” He pushes open the door to the street.

     
Because if I don't, Cristian will find me. I'll never know peace again.
“There are—” A pause. “—people who think I’d be useful. And they refuse to accept I’m of no use to anyone.” It’s true. I’ll never be a spy. A thief, a runner, a broken human, a shell of the girl I was, but never a spy. Never for
him
, no matter how enticing his promise of a way out of the country is.

     Murat stops me with a hand on my shoulder, and again there’s the sensation I could be snapped into tiny pieces. I’ve seen Ismael in full temper, chasing off rebels and soldiers alike, driving them from the neighborhood, but never Murat. Ismael’s buddy is the friendlier of the two, though just as fierce in a fight. “You are in trouble? You need help?”

     I can’t help it. I stiffen. “No.” His hand drops away at the ice in the word.

     The streets are quieter than I’d like, a distant rat–a–tat–tat warning us of a firefight some streets over. Too faint to be close enough we’ll run into it, loud enough for nerves to kick in my belly. My feet are itchy and my hands twitch along with my shoulders and my hips. We’re moving too slow.