PicFic Tuesday 01/08/12

[avrovulcan]

In the middle of nowhere, an explosion shook the ground and fire lit up the night sky with an orange glow. Two figures could just be made out retreating from the destroyed satrapy, followed by a group of hostiles hot on their heels.

“Will they never give up?” Illya panted.

“Nope, they like us too much.” Napoleon gasped.

“It must be your charismatic personality.”

A bullet whizzing just past Napoleon’s ear prevented any retort as he dropped down to the ground; twisting and shooting  one of their pursuers, hitting him square in the chest.

They continued to clamber over the rocky ground, desperately trying to reach the relative cover of a small stand of trees not far away.

Illya returned fire and dropped a second THRUSH guard, reducing it down to two chasing them.

“That’s evened up the odds, “Solo quipped, “if we can just get to those trees, we should be in a better position to defend ourselves.”

“You go, I will cover you.”

“Don’t leave it too long, tovarisch.”

The American made it to the small copse, and finding a good wide trunked tree to get behind, lay down covering fire to enable Illya to join him.

Just before the last goon was felled, the Russian was hit in the back, the force sending him sprawling to the floor.

“ILLYA!” Napoleon yelled, rushing to his partner’s side.

The slug had gone in just below his right shoulder. Gently he lifted him up and felt for an exit wound, he found none.

“Damn, it’s still in there.”

“Help me up, please?” Kuryakin asked, rubbing his head where he’d hit it on the ground.

Solo knew he must be feeling bad to ask for assistance, so he helped Illya to his knees, before sliding his arm under his friend’s uninjured shoulder and getting him to his feet. Slowly they made it to the stand of trees.

Rooting around in his rucksack, Napoleon found some surgical dressing; wadding it up, he placed it against the wound in the Russian’s back and leaned him against a tree, hoping the pressure would help to stop the bleeding. He knew his friend needed help and quickly. Pulling out his communicator he activated it.

“Open channel F.”

The American received only static.

“Channel H.”

Still no signal.

“Channel D then…. Anybody?”

Sighing he put the silver pen like device back in his pocket.

“No help coming from there, at least we’re not in danger from THRUSH for the moment, but I need to find some help. Stay here and I’ll see what I can find.”

“I think there is a small village to the East,” Illya suggested.

“Yes, but I don’t think you’re going to make it that far, we need something nearer.”

Standing up he peered into the darkness, something shiny momentarily caught his eye, he tried to look directly at whatever it was, but it was gone.

Sighing he checked his partner, who had passed out, before straightening and deciding to try and head in the general direction of where he thought he had seen a light.

After traipsing through the thicket for a while, he saw the glint again, it was nearer this time and he found he could keep an eye on it better using his peripheral vision.

Soon he came across a derelict building. Carefully working his way round to find an entrance, he discovered some of the walls and most of the roof had long since fallen in.

On one of the walls still standing was an old fresco, amazingly intact; protected, he supposed, by the part of roof that hadn’t collapsed. In the centre of the picture was a large painting of a saint, this was surrounded by smaller religious images, all on a gilded background.

Before it stood a large lit candle in a glass jar, remains of other candles spread around it; the light reflecting on the picture was what had attracted him, shining through the gaps in the brickwork.

“At least it’s shelter, and it seems like someone comes here regularly.” He mused to himself.

Taking note of the direction he had travelled, he returned to Illya. The Russian was not doing very well, he was sweating and had a waxy pallor. The bleeding had slowed, but infection was a real possibility.

“Illya, come on, we need to move.”

“Mmmm?” Was the sleepy reply.

“I’ve found some shelter. Can you get up?”

“Mmm, I think so.”

Solo helped Kuryakin to his feet; getting a good grip, he supported the Russian as he struggled to keep going. It seemed like an eternity getting back to the abandoned chapel, but was in effect only about ten minutes.

Napoleon gently lowered his friend to the floor, near the makeshift altar, laying him on his belly. He ran his knife through the candle flame to sterilise it as best he could and used the light reflecting from the fresco to examine the injury in Illya’s back. Thankfully, Kuryakin had passed out again, and he probed the hole with the blade, trying to see if he could feel the bullet. He felt the tip touch something hard; it was too deep for him to remove, but didn’t seem to be near anything vital. Sitting back on his heels, he worried about how he was going to get the Russian any medical attention. ‘Damn, the communicator.’ He thought to himself.

He made Illya as comfortable as he could while he tried to come up with a plan. At the moment, the only thing he could hope for would be that whoever tended this shrine would come back, and soon. He leaned back and sighed.

In his peripheral vision, the painting seemed to move, he glanced up at it and he felt sure the saint was smiling at him, suddenly Solo felt a calmness come over him, a feeling that help would be coming soon, before he dosed off.

“Napoleon? Illya? You there mates?”

He was startled to hear a voice in the vicinity, then recognised it as Slate’s.

“Over here Mark, Illya’s hurt.”

“Blimey, you do find some strange places, anyway, cavalry’s here. Let’s get you back to civilisation.”

“You don’t know how good that sounds.”

They carried the Russian to the jeep parked near the chapel.

“How did you find us?”

“Traced your communicator.”

“But there was no signal, I tried.”

“Nope, there wasn’t until about an hour ago, then it came through loud ‘n’ clear, mate.”

“But it’s not broadcasting.” Napoleon pulled out the device and found that, in fact, it was; he didn’t realise he hadn’t disconnected it before putting it away.

Mark started up the engine.

“Hang on a minute, there’s something I need to do.”

“Sure, but be quick, this one here’s going to need some attention pretty quick.” Mark answered indicating Illya laid out in the back.

As Napoleon approached the fresco, he saw a splash of colour among the rubble, bending down he picked the wild flowers. When he reached the altar, he placed them by the candle and smiled up at the saint.

“I would like to thank you, I don’t know how or why what happened here, happened, but thank you.”

He turned and re-joined Mark in the vehicle.

“You are welcome, my son, peace be with you.” Solo heard in his mind.
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