Читать книгу Rogue President - D.K. Wilde - Страница 7

The sun had been up for two hours. The rain had finally abated. Two bedraggled figures exited the thick jungle. The dirt road was only wide enough for one vehicle and was extremely overgrown. Wade dragged Sammy along on a makeshift stretcher he had built from branches and vines. Sammy’s shirt was again soaked in blood. Wade held a pistol in his hand and tried to remain focused.

Wade was exhausted. His shoulders were collapsing under Sammy’s weight. His legs felt like jelly. His left arm was numb. His hands and face were scratched beyond recognition from the razor sharp grasses.

Both men were so exhausted they did not see the four villagers walking toward them. The three men and the woman realized the bizarre looking duo were not rebels. They approached Wade, who had his head facing the ground and was only moving by instinct. Two of the men grabbed the stretcher branches as the remaining man and woman grabbed Wade’s arms. With the weight of the stretcher gone Wade suddenly sprang up, eyes wide open he tried to lift his pistol and fell.

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A furnace box of humidity had once again arrived. The sun was setting. Wade opened his eyes. His clothes had been removed and he was lying on an old wire sprung mattress in his boxers. An intravenous drip was in his right arm and his left arm had been bandaged from shoulder to wrist. His face and hands had been washed and covered in a cream. He was lying under a mosquito net. A small fan was blowing across his face. Looking around it appeared to be some form of makeshift tent hospital with dirt floors. A generator hummed in the distance. He heard moans and groans coming from behind cloth partitions. Flies and mosquitos, as thick as soup, buzzed around the netting desperately trying to get to their next victim. Sammy was in the next bed and had also been treated.

“Bon jour,” said the voice behind him as the tall dark skinned man stepped into his vision.

With a stethoscope draped around his neck, he raised the netting, entered and placed his fingers on Wade’s wrist. Neither man spoke. He took Wade’s pulse.

“Where am I?”

“You have been bought to an MSF field hospital. You were extremely exhausted and had large cuts to your left arm. We placed you on a saline drip and you seem to have recovered very quickly,” said the man in broken English.

“Thank you,” replied Wade. “And who are you?”

“My name is Nenwon and I am an intern here with Doctor Prue. She will be along in a moment to check on you and your friend. I will remove this drip for you.”

Once finished and Nenwon had left, Wade groggily got to his feet. He found his clothes, now putrid from blood, sweat and grime. Dressed and having recovered his boots he weaved his way out of the mosquito net.

“Hey buddy. Can you hear me?” he asked sitting on Sammy’s bed.

His friend was caked in sweat. The small fan having negligible benefit against the oppressive humidity and Sammy’s body struggling to fight his injury. His face and arms had been covered in the same cream. A wet, dirty bandage was wrapped from under his armpits to his groin. Blood stained the mattress and antiquated machines whirred, groaned and beeped.

“I think it best you don’t wake him,” said the French accented, American/Canadian sounding voice from outside the netting. “I am Doctor Prue and your friend needs all the rest he can get,” she said as she raised the netting, entered and stood on the opposite side of the bed.

The short, pale skinned, crew cut, flame red headed woman, dressed in her battle worn camouflage greens looked extremely out of place in the makeshift hospital buried within a war ravaged area of the African jungle.

Standing and shaking her small, thin hand Wade replied, “Thanks for helping us. I realize you have done this at great risk so I’ll get my mate and we’ll get out of here.”

“And where do you intend to go with him in this condition?” she asked with Nenwon stepping up behind her.

“I’m not sure but the rebels will come looking. If they find us here, they’ll burn this hospital and kill every last person … can he walk?” asked Wade looking down at his drugged out mate.

“Not without causing more problems,” Prue replied sternly. “I don’t know who you are, why you’re here or what you’re doing. I do know by your accent that you are not American or British. Maybe South African?” She stood studying him intently.

“Australian actually.”

“Australian,” she paused, concentrating and appearing to decide whether to continue. “Well if you’re interested we have a supply plane arriving early tomorrow morning, which could take your friend. The plane can only risk being on the ground for no more than four to five minutes, so there can be no hesitation. Am I clear on that?” came the words more as a command than a statement.

“Where’s the planes return destination?”

“It will make three fuel stops and eventually arrive in South Africa. Johannesburg, I believe.”

“Okay. We’ll be ready. Thanks.”