“No,” Earl barked suddenly as he went down on one knee in front of Ty. He didn’t touch him; he merely ducked his head and met his son’s eyes, forcing Ty to look up at him. “Get up, Marine,” he ordered, his voice stern and angry.
Deuce saw Zane bristle visibly, but Deuce put a hand out to calm the man as Ty’s shoulders snapped backward and he raised his head. Deuce couldn’t see an ounce of recognition in his brother’s eyes as he looked at Earl.
“Dad,” Deuce said uncertainly, reaching out again.
“Get on your feet, Marine!” Earl growled angrily, batting Deuce’s hand away before he could touch Ty and getting right in Ty’s face.
Ty’s chest was heaving as if he might be about to hyperventilate, but as Zane stepped forward to intercede, Ty lowered his head determinedly and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet again. Zane backed away and watched apprehensively, and Deuce stared at his father and brother in awe. The appeal to something ingrained deeper in his brother appeared to be what Ty needed. From one Marine to another. It was probably the only thing that would have kept Ty going, and Deuce wondered how Earl had known.
“You keep your feet, Staff Sergeant,” Earl told Ty, pointing to the ground.
“Yes, Gunny,” Ty managed to say in response, his voice a rough and tortured whisper.
Earl nodded curtly before turning and heading back down the narrow path. Deuce glanced from Ty to Zane, who looked just as unhappy as before, but that anger he’d held in his rigid shoulders was gone. He must have figured out what Earl was doing too and realized it was working better than anything they could have done. Deuce placed a calming hand on Zane’s arm. Earl’s words had gotten Ty to his feet. That was what mattered for now.
TY’S entire body was on fire. It felt like a sunburn that emanated from his fingers and burned out of control wherever clothing touched him. He burned, but he was so cold he had to clutch his heavy coat around him to keep his teeth from chattering, and even then he was shaking and shivering uncontrollably. The rational portion of his mind, the one that was trying to figure out how to survive, told him that the shivering was a waste of his energy. But then, so was walking. And breathing.
He distantly recognized that it wasn’t the cool wind that made him shiver. He was going into septic shock. It had happened much faster than he’d realized it would, but a part of his addled mind told him that the exertion of trying to get off the mountain was sending the poisoned blood racing through his body faster than it would have if he’d been lying in a bed being given sponge baths by a pretty little nurse in white Crocs.
He concentrated on the footfalls of the man in front of him. He thought it might be his father, but if he was wrong he risked calling the Gunny “Dad,” so he just kept his mouth shut and tried not to fall.
Keep your feet. Keep his feet, they’d told him. It was shameful, not being able to keep his feet in front of the others because he’d been bitten by a kitty cat.
Keep your feet, Meow Mix.
If he fell, no one could carry him. Sanchez and O’Flaherty would drag him out, but… no. No, they weren’t here. Elias Sanchez was dead, shot over a year ago in New York City by a serial killer Zane Garrett had later killed. And Nick O’Flaherty was a cop in Boston, discharged just like Ty had been, thrown into the real world to make his own way. This wasn’t a Recon mission. He had to keep his wits about him. He had to grasp at a thread of reality and hold onto it.
Zane Garrett. Zane was reality. Zane was here, and he was clear enough for Ty to hold onto. Zane appeared at his side from time to time as they walked, taking his arm as they went over particularly rough terrain, but then he would move away again. Still, Ty could grasp at that thread and hold it.
Ty’s steps finally slowed, faltered. He stopped walking and closed his eyes, his head pounding. He wavered as a rush of noise assaulted his ears, and heat swept through him in sickening pulses. When he opened his eyes again, the edges of his vision were dark and sparkling.
His father turned around and looked at him, the man’s steel gray eyes hard and disapproving when he realized Ty had stopped moving. “You keep walking, Marine,” Earl said to him.
Ty’s entire body trembled, and the waves of heat kept coming, but he swallowed hard and nodded obediently. He took another agonizing step, and his knee gave out. He sank to the ground against his will, his knees and his one good hand hitting the rocky ground hard as he tried to catch himself.
He tried to push himself up and failed.
“Ty!” Earl cried in alarm as he darted toward him. He no longer looked stern or angry, just as worried and scared as any father about to lose his son.
“Yes, sir,” Ty managed as he tried to push himself back to his feet yet again. He lost his balance on the slight rise of the embankment, toppling over as his father caught him. He rolled to his back, knowing with a certainty that came with encroaching death that he would not be getting back up under his own power.
“They’re coming for us,” Earl assured him as he pulled Ty into his arms and sank slowly to the ground along with him. “I can hear ’em now, boy, just stay with us.”
In the floating distance, he could hear shouts, but Ty found that he couldn’t move. He fought to stay conscious. Shame washed through him, just as painful as the fever that ravished him. He had failed spectacularly in front of the only person he’d ever wanted to make proud of him. But even that shame wasn’t powerful enough now to get him to his feet.
“Stay with us, son,” Earl murmured into his ear pleadingly. “Hold on.”
“Grady, don’t you f**king dare give up after I dug you out of that basement,” Zane growled from somewhere close. “You didn’t give up then, and you won’t give up now.”
Ty’s eyes fluttered open, searching for Zane’s eyes. Above him, the sky was a startling blue. The scrub pine was a bright, almost neon green, and the few trees in view boasted brilliant leaves of orange and yellow and red. Ty had never seen such colors in his life. It was beautiful. The faces looking down on him looked like airbrushed photos, taken and perfected and stylized until the colors were stark contrasts of highlights and lowlights, making them look ethereal.
He met Zane’s dark eyes, the eyes he’d been searching for. “Zane,” he managed to gasp. He tried to think of something to say, an apology for dragging the man up here and thanks for all he’d done. I love you. But nothing came to his lips. He just closed his eyes, seeing Zane’s face imprinted in the darkness. He held to the material of Earl’s coat, trying to keep himself from spinning and swaying on the ground. “Mountain’s moving,” he told them all in alarm, the words slurred horribly.