Time had lost all meaning. Dakota drifted in and out of consciousness, and the pain followed him, even in his dreams. His fever hovered dangerously high. His blood pressure had dipped below shock levels, and a disturbing congestion had developed in his chest. His arm was, beyond a doubt, infected. Bubba did what he could, but it wasn't much.
He felt abandoned. Was Montana looking for him? He knew in his heart that Montana would come for him eventually, but the more time that passed, the more despair took hold. He was beginning to believe he had become, like Michael Ricco, one of the forgotten ones—one of the fallen.
The overhead lights flared to life, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He had quickly learned that any change in his environment only brought more pain. He heard the familiar sound of heels clicking on concrete and braced himself for the worst. The door to his cell opened, and the clicking heels came to a stop near his head.
"My, my, Doctor, you really don't look well."
Dakota ignored the General. A hand touched the side of his face, and he flinched.
"What are his vitals?"
"Heart rate 150, blood pressure 80 over 40, and his temperature is 103."
Dakota realized, in a strange detached way, that the numbers Bubba rattled off were about him. He was in worse shape than he'd thought. The logical part of his brain that was still functioning, voiced concern. I shouldn't be this bad this quickly. The illogical part just wanted them to turn off the lights and leave him the hell alone.
Even in his feverish daze, he heard Bubba say, "Sir, he needs fluids, at the very least."
He heard papers shuffling before the General said, "I had hoped he would prove a little hardier, but I agree, Sergeant. He's no use to me dead. Do what you have to, just keep him alive."
There was a brief silence. Believing the General had left, Dakota opened his eyes. The lights were still glaring down on him, and the General was still standing over him, watching. Just watching him.
That scared him, that silent observation.
"Doctor..." The General took a step closer and squatted down next to Dakota's mattress. "It's fascinating, isn't it, the amount of pain a human being can survive?"
Under the General's clinical gaze, Dakota felt like a bug under a microscope. He found both humor and comfort in that odd image as memories from his childhood invaded his brain. The pictures that played inside his head felt safe and he retreated deep within himself, trying to find a place where no one could hurt him, a place as far removed from reality as he could manage. He closed his eyes and tried to play dead.
The General was having none of it. "Did you know Ricco survived over thirty-six hours of electric shock? The pain he endured must have been beyond comprehension. Yet it took him less than a day to recover. That was an amazing thing to watch. He has had every bone in his body broken, some more than once. I would bet that none of those injuries is apparent on radiographs. He is, in a word, miraculous. Don't you think?"
When Dakota remained still and quiet, the General slapped his face. Not hard, but it had the desired effect. Dakota's eyes snapped open, and he raised his right hand defensively.
"Are you with me, Dr. Thomas?"
Dakota slowly lowered his hand. "What do you want?" He glared, and let all the hate he felt show on his face.
The General tutted softly. "You really should do something about managing your temper. Considering your present circumstances, losing it is not healthy."
Just then Bubba entered the cell. His hands were full of familiar equipment, and Dakota stiffened with fear at the thought of what the man might do with it.
"Relax, Doc. I'm just going to get some fluids into you."
For some bizarre reason that Dakota couldn't understand, Bubba's presence calmed him. The man had broken his arm without mercy, but he had also been the only source of compassion in this hell. Bubba took away his pain. Bubba cooled his face. Bubba cared whether he lived or died.
He felt the familiar tourniquet around his arm, the needle that slipped effortlessly into his vein, and watched as the IV was established and hung above his head on a small hook. He tried to smile, but only succeeded in wincing as pain rippled through him. He couldn't ask Bubba for anything, not with the General in the room. Their secret would be blown, and Dakota would lose his only salvation.
"I do hope you will learn to behave yourself, Doctor. You will find that positive behavior is rewarded. Perhaps something for the pain, or maybe I will allow the sergeant to set your arm. It looks extremely painful."
Dakota forced himself to smile. "I won't be here long enough for that. You've made a huge mistake."
The General's face took on a look of exaggerated comprehension. "Ah, I assume you are referring to your brother, the Ranger?"
The room began to spin again. The General's face came in and out of focus and nausea threatened to overcome him. Dakota swallowed and blinked several times before finding the strength to glare up at him." You have no idea the trouble you're in for." He had no more energy, and he turned his head away from the General, and sought that place deep inside himself once more.
The General sighed, and more gently than Dakota would have expected, took his face and turned it back.
He would have jerked away from the contact, but it required more energy than he could summon.
"Yes, well, I'm afraid I have some distressing news for you, Doctor. I did contact your brother to arrange for your release, but unfortunately, he decided not to play by my rules. My men killed him a few hours ago, along with Private Ricco." He paused, as if to let the information sink in. "It is a pity; he would have made an interesting subject. I don't believe we have ever studied brothers before."
The General seemed genuinely bereaved. "His death wasn't necessary. Private Ricco put that bullet in his brain just as surely as if he had been the one to pull the trigger. We have disposed of their bodies, and they will not be found. So you see, any hopes you may have harbored of a rescue attempt, died along with them.
"I am sorry, but there will be no eleventh-hour pardon, no rescue, and no trade. No one knows you are here, Doctor Thomas. You are mine, just like Ricco was mine, to do with as I please."
Dakota almost giggled at the thought of Montana being bested by the General. "No." That just wasn't possible. "I don't believe you. You're lying."
"I understand completely. This is difficult for you." The General softly stroked Dakota's cheek as if he were pet. "It will take a while to get used to the fact, but this is your home now. The sooner you accept that, the easier things will be for you."
Then the monster returned. He dug his fingers deep into Dakota's cheeks. "Your brother is dead, and you belong to me!"
Your brother is dead. The words echoed through Dakota's mind like the slow tolling of a funeral bell. Your brother is dead...your brother is dead.
As they faded, silence filled the room. Lying flat on his back in a dried puddle of his own vomit, with his face in the General's vice-like grip, he felt time seem to slow and come to a staggering halt.
Through a blurred veil of tears the General's face morphed into visions of his childhood: He and Montana raising hell, causing trouble at every opportunity, with Montana, laughing and giving high fives for successful schemes and devious plots. How their hearts had raced as they ran from a bellowing Sheriff Tremont. He saw them hiding from their mother, hiding from the world, taking the blame for each other's sins, and then turning around and setting each other up for the fall; escaping into the desert for a taste of freedom. He heard them sharing secrets in little boy whispers with only the dark of night as a witness, remembered how he had vowed to make his serious older brother smile more and his pride that he was the only person able to do so. He still felt the unbreakable bond between confidants, conspirators, friends, brothers...his brother.
Your brother is dead.
The past dissolved, leaving only the present. As the General's face came into focus a mere six inches from his own, something primal snapped inside him. He felt no fear, no pain, no grief or self-pity. Only an empty, hollow numbness. His soul burned with more than just the fever raging inside him. It burned with a savage hatred.
He ripped his face from the General's grip and struggled to sit up.
The General cocked his head. "Now, see Doctor, that's the spirit. I was right. You will make—"
From somewhere Dakota found the strength to swing a sweeping backhand at the General's face. The murdering bastard's arms pin wheeled as he fell backwards, to land hard on the cold cement floor.
Bubba caught him as he fell back to his knees. "Jesus! Doc, what the hell do you think you're doing?"
Dakota heard Bubba's voice through the buzzing in his head, and his vision grayed, but he wasn't done yet.
The General was on his feet by then, rubbing his jaw. "Perhaps I have not given you enough credit, Doctor. I think you will make a fine replacement for Private Ricco."
Dakota lurched out of Bubba's grasp and almost made it to his feet. "Fuck you! I'm not...you're not...oh, God." The room folded in around him and he collapsed.
Carlson caught him and carefully laid him down on the mattress. As he assessed the damage Dakota's unexpected outburst had caused, the General looked on with a sense of admiration. "He is stronger than he looks."
"Maybe, but he's at the end of his endurance. Sir, he needs the serum soon if he's going to survive."
"What, exactly, was he infected with again, Sergeant?"
"A version of Avian Influenza, sir. It was administered with the sedative when he was acquired. He'll die in the next few hours if we don't do something soon." It was as close to begging as Carlson would ever get.
"Why, Sergeant, don't tell me you have developed an attachment to the good Doctor?"
Carlson seemed insulted by the insinuation. "No, sir. I did what you instructed me to. He trusts me. He would believe anything I told him at this point...sir."
The General noted his indignant tone with satisfaction. "Good. You have been giving him pain medication?"
"Yes, sir. He thinks you don't know about it."
"Very good." The General was impressed with the sergeant's ingenuity. He had obviously underestimated Carlson. "When do you think you can begin transfusion of the serum?"
Carlson reestablished the IV Dakota had dislodged. "I'd like to get a couple liters of fluid into him first. At least get his blood pressure up, to give him a fighting chance. Maybe an hour."
"Whatever you need to do Sergeant, you have the go-ahead. You take care of the Doctor..."
The General turned to leave and said, more to himself than to the sergeant, "And I'll take care of his brother."