Chapter 17 - 17: "Boy scout"
The wind howled through the snow-laden trees, a mournful dirge that seemed to echo the weight of their journey. The air was sharp, biting at exposed skin, and the ground beneath their feet crunched with every step, a brittle reminder of the unforgiving cold. The group stood scattered, their breaths visible in the frosty air, each exhale a fleeting ghost of warmth in the icy wilderness.
"Back to formation!" Eli's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and commanding. His words were a lifeline, a call to order amidst the chaos that had threatened to consume them. The driders—those monstrous, spider-legged abominations—had been repelled, but not without cost. The formation, though imperfect, had saved them from annihilation. It was a fragile shield, a desperate strategy born of necessity, and now it was their only hope of survival.
One by one, they moved, their steps heavy with exhaustion and grief. Dena, the child elf, trudged back to Hano, her small frame sluggish, her spirit weighed down by the horrors she had witnessed. Her eyes, once bright with curiosity, now seemed hollow, as if the light within her had been extinguished. Lyra, too, returned to Kira, her gaze distant, her eyes rimmed with red from tears she could no longer shed. She stared into nothingness, her mind perhaps wandering to the friends they had lost, to the innocence they had sacrificed.
Neil stood apart, a solitary figure shrouded. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, the memory of Piku's death. Rowa, the child orc stood next to Aleck, slightly remorseful over the young elf's death but waiting for the groups next move.
Micah, ever the pragmatist, stepped away from the smoldering remains of Piku's cremation. The flames had consumed the child elf's body, leaving behind only ashes and memories. He jogged over to Petra, his boots crunching against the snow, his breath coming in short, visible puffs. She sat on the ground, her massive frame hunched, her legs injured and useless.
"Can you walk?" Micah asked, his voice steady but laced with concern. He stared down at her, his eyes scanning the wounds that marred her legs. Petra, the warrior, now sat vulnerable, her strength compromised by the brutal encounter.
She tried to rise, her muscles straining against the pain, but the sharp, searing agony forced her back down. Her face contorted, a grimace of frustration and despair. She tried again, her determination unwavering, but the pain only intensified, a cruel reminder of her helplessness.
"I can't," she admitted, her voice low, almost a whisper. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. She knew what this meant. She would be a liability, a burden they could not afford. The mission's success depended on speed, on agility, on the ability to evade or confront whatever dangers lay ahead. And she could no longer contribute.
Her death did not frighten her. Petra had faced mortality countless times, had stared into the abyss and emerged victorious. But the thought of leaving the two young orcs—Mer and Rowa—in the hands of the plague doctors, unsupervised and vulnerable, filled her with dread. She had seen what Neil was capable of, had witnessed his callous disregard for life. She could not bear the thought of what might happen to the children in her absence.
"What's taking so long, Micah?" Hano's voice broke the silence, sharp and impatient. He stood at the edge of the group, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger.
"She's injured on both her legs!" Micah responded, his voice tinged with fear. The words sent a ripple through the group, a collective realization of the gravity of their situation. Petra could feel their eyes on her, some gazes filled with pity, with resignation. She was no longer a priority. Her life was expendable.
"Damn it! We don't have time for this! We'll leave her behind!" Hano's words were harsh, but they were born of necessity. To carry Petra would slow them down, would put them at greater risk. It was a cruel calculus, but one they could not ignore.
Eli and Aleck exchanged uneasy glances even through their lenses, their discomfort evident. They did not like the idea of abandoning her, but they understood the logic behind it. To move with Petra in such a condition would be to invite disaster. They could not argue, not this time.
Micah, however, was torn. His mind raced, his heart heavy with the weight of the decision. He knelt beside Petra, his hands trembling as he reached out to her.
"Listen to me, boy," Petra said, her voice firm despite the pain. "I need you to promise me that you'll take care of those two children."
Micah stared at her, confusion and dread warring within him. "What? What are you saying?" he asked, though he knew the answer. He knew what she was asking of him.
"Their names are Mer and Rowa," Petra continued, her eyes locking onto his. "If the glimpse of hope you've shown me is really true, you'll make sure they get home. Promise me."
Her words were a plea, a final request from a warrior who had given everything. Micah's mind reeled, his thoughts a tangled web of fear and determination.
"Please don't leave her," Mer pleaded, tears streaming down its face. The child clung to Eli's hand, its small frame trembling with fear and sorrow.
"Micah!" Hano's voice was sharp, impatient. Time was running out, and every second they delayed increased the danger.
"Fuck it!" Micah yelled, his decision made in an instant. He slid his arms under Petra, his muscles did not strain as he lifted her off the ground. She was massive, seven feet five inches, four hundred pounds of muscle and bone, but Micah held her with a determination that defied logic.
"What are you doing?" Petra asked, her eyes wide with surprise. She had never been carried like this, never been so vulnerable.
"We're ready to move!" Micah yelled, his voice carrying across the frozen landscape. The others stared at him, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief.
Petra blushed, her face turning a deep shade of crimson. She looked away, unable to meet Micah's gaze. She felt strange, exposed in a way she had never experienced before. A warrior, a protector, now cradled like a bride. It was absurd, yet she could not bring herself to protest.
"We should get going," Micah said, his voice steady despite the weight he carried. The group turned, their footsteps crunching against the snow as they pressed onward.
And so they moved, a fragile alliance bound by necessity and hope. The journey ahead was uncertain, the dangers many, but in that moment, they were united. For Petra, for the orcs, for each other, they would endure.
The snow continued to fall, a silent witness to their struggle, as they disappeared into the white expanse, their footsteps fading into the wind.
The autopsy room was cold, sterile, and silent, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Willem's body lay on the steel table, a stark contrast to the clinical brightness of the room. His form was mummified, his skin pale and paper-thin, stretched taut over bones that seemed too prominent, too fragile. His mask was gone, revealing a face frozen in a grimace, teeth clenched tightly together as if in defiance of the fate that had claimed him.
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Above him stood two plague doctors, their presence ominous, their masks casting long shadows across the room. The taller of the two, clad in an ostrich-beaked mask, loomed at six feet seven inches, his broad frame exuding an air of authority. Beside him, the shorter doctor wore a mask resembling a pigeon's beak, his movements precise and deliberate as he examined Willem's remains.
"Most definitely a drider," the pigeon-masked doctor said, his voice muffled but clear. He pointed to two puncture wounds on Willem's shoulder, the holes large and jagged, unmistakably the work of a drider's chelicerae. The creatures were notorious for their gruesome feeding habits, draining their prey of all fluids and leaving behind hollow, mummified shells.
The taller doctor leaned in, his gloved hand hovering over the wounds. His voice, deep and measured, broke the silence. "I want to run more tests," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The pigeon-masked doctor nodded, though his hesitation was palpable. The room seemed to grow colder, the weight of Willem's death pressing down on them. Somewhere, in the shadows of the plague medical school, the truth of what had happened—and what might still come—waited to be uncovered.
The room was a tomb of cold steel and flickering fluorescent light, the air thick with the acrid scent of antiseptic and the faint metallic tang of blood. Willem's skin, pale and brittle like parchment, clung to his skeletal frame, and his face, frozen in a grimace of clenched teeth, seemed to silently scream the horrors of his final moments. The two plague doctors moved around him like shadows.
"Chitin, can't be all there is to it," muttered the doctor in the ostrich mask, his voice stiff and stern, as though the words were forced through clenched teeth. The slit throat on making him especially disturbed, an unusual trait by driders. He leaned over Willem's body, his gloved fingers carefully extracting a fragment of chitin from a wound near the ribs. The shard was jagged, its edges sharp and iridescent under the harsh light. He held it up, turning it slowly, his eyes narrowing behind the glass lenses of his mask.
The doctor, known as Killian, was a towering figure, his broad shoulders and imposing height commanding the room. But beneath his slightly stoic exterior, there was a simmering unease, a disturbance that gnawed at him. Willem had been more than a colleague; he had been a friend, a mentor, and now he lay lifeless on the table, reduced to a mummified husk. Killian's hands trembled slightly as he set the chitin fragment aside, his mind racing with questions.
In the background, the other doctor, Pete, worked with mechanical precision. His pigeon-beaked mask gave him an almost whimsical appearance, but there was nothing lighthearted about his task. He moved between a steampunk centrifuge and a cluttered table of vials and chemicals, his movements quick and efficient. He drew a syringe of what little remained of Willem's blood from his underside, the dark liquid sluggish and thick. Mixing it with a series of reagents, he placed the vial into the centrifuge, the machine whirring to life with a low hum.
"We barely have much to work with," Pete said, his voice muffled but tinged with frustration. "The drider that got him sucked him dry." He glanced over at Killian, expecting a response, but the taller doctor remained silent, his gaze fixed on Willem's lifeless form.
"Dr. Killian?" Pete called, sharper this time, snapping Killian out of his trance. The taller doctor blinked, his shoulders stiffening as he refocused.
"Don't get lost in this," Pete continued, his tone softening slightly. "If you'd rather someone else take over—"
"I'm fine, Pete," Killian interrupted, his voice firm but edged with something darker. "You focus on what you're doing. I'm waiting for the results."
His eyes returned to Willem, and there was a distaste in them, a bitterness that went beyond grief. Willem had been the chief surgeon among the plague doctors, a man of unparalleled skill and discipline. The idea that a mere drider—a creature he had faced countless times—could have brought him down was inconceivable. Killian's jaw tightened beneath his mask. There had to be more to it. Something they were missing.
Pete sighed, turning back to the centrifuge as it continued its rhythmic spinning. "Well, this may take a while," he said, his voice carrying a note of resignation. "I'd advise you start a full post-mortem interval procedure while we wait. Might tell us a thing or two."
Killian nodded, though his movements were slow, deliberate, as if every action carried the weight of Willem's death. He reached for a scalpel, the blade glinting in the cold light, and began the meticulous process of examining Willem's body. He started with the external wounds, cataloging each puncture and laceration, his mind racing to piece together the sequence of events.
The chitin fragments were scattered throughout Willem's torso, evidence of a brutal struggle. But as Killian worked, he noticed something unusual—a faint discoloration around the edges of the wounds, a subtle whitish hue that didn't match the typical markings of a drider attack. His brow furrowed beneath his mask, and he leaned in closer, his gloved fingers brushing against the discolored skin.
"Pete," Killian said, his voice low but urgent. "Look at this."
Pete turned, his pigeon mask tilting slightly as he approached. He followed Killian's gaze to the discoloration, his gloved hand reaching out to examine it. "That's... unusual," he murmured. "Could be a toxin. Or something the drider injected."
Killian's mind raced. If the drider had been carrying some kind of venom or poison, it would explain how Willem, despite his training and experience, had been overwhelmed. But it raised another, more troubling question: where had the drider acquired such a toxin?
The centrifuge hissed loudly , signaling the completion of its cycle. Pete hurried back to it, extracting the vial and holding it up to the light. The blood had separated into distinct layers, one of which was an unnatural, murky green.
"Killian," Pete said, his voice tense. "You need to see this."
Killian joined him, his eyes narrowing as he studied the vial. The white substance was unlike anything he had seen before, its consistency thick and almost oily.
"Whatever this is," Pete said, "it's not natural. And it was in Willem's system before the attack."
Killian's hands clenched into fists, his mind racing with possibilities. This wasn't just a drider attack. It was something far more sinister, it had to be. And as he stood there, staring at the vial, he sensed one thing for certain: Willem's death was only the beginning.