Firebug: Ch. 37 - The Miner

It was supposed to be a simple task. All Roman had to do was find the nearest drug store, buy as much Nyquil as he could carry, and go back to the bunker. In and out in under thirty minutes. At least, that's how he'd planned it.

That was before he realized he was literally in the middle of nowhere.

When he finally got his head above ground, Roman found himself smack-dab in the center of a sprawling field. Nothing was familiar. He wasn't even sure he was still in the same area code as the city. For all he knew, he was in a different state altogether. The only building for miles was a shabby old farmhouse, which probably just had spiders, rats, and dust bunnies for tenants. Beyond that, there was just acres and acres of trees.

A lonesome wind whistled through their bare branches, scattering a handful of dry leaves Roman's way. He shivered when it ruffled his hair, but not from the cold. The wind had actually passed through him. He could feel it; taste it. Almost like it was a piece of his own soul. Roman knew in an instant every current it had ever ridden. Without thinking, he threw out his hand and grabbed it by the tail before it escaped his reach entirely. The next thing he knew, it carried him off high into the atmosphere.

It was terrifying. Wonderful. Awful. Exhilarating. He wanted to scream. All that came out was a breathless, slightly maniacal laugh. Roman knew he could die any second, questioning everything so fast his brain couldn't keep up. Then, without even a hint of warning, the wild Wind slipped out of his grip with a defiant twist. Roman hardly had time to notice the stinging lattice of cuts it left on his fingers and palm, far too busy with his sheer, sudden plummet back toward the earth.

Thankfully, there were plenty of trees around. After clawing at the air helplessly for a panicked second, Roman managed to grab onto a sturdy pine. He hugged it like a koala bear cub for what felt like an hour before he stopped shaking, hissing through his teeth when the pain in his hand finally reached his fear-numbed brain. Roman took just a second in between shuddering breaths to tear off a strip of his t-shirt, binding his bloodied mitt as he took a look around and got his bearings.

From the treetop, he had a clear view of the landscape from horizon to horizon. With no trouble at all, he found the river, following it with his eyes until it led him right to the city. It was close - thank goodness - but not as close as he would like. Roman's heart sank, realizing it would take almost a full day just to get there on foot. Unless he got his hands on some kind of vehicle, he wouldn't see Theo again until the wee hours of the morning at the earliest. During that time, Theo would likely only get sicker.

There wasn't a second to waste, so Roman shinnied down the tree faster than a squirrel on espresso. Following a well-worn footpath out of the woods, he found the main road in record time. As soon as his sneakers hit asphalt, Roman took off toward the city at a brisk run. Keeping Theo in his thoughts constantly, so that he wouldn't be tempted to slow down.

It was a cold day, but the sun beat down hotly on his back. Roman was sweating through his jacket and jeans within fifteen minutes, but he didn't dare break his stride. With the spirit of a champion thoroughbred at Belmont, Roman pounded pavement gallantly. Not caring how his lungs burned or his muscles screamed in protest.

Despite having the constitution of an athlete and the fire of love burning in his belly, Roman's body eventually forced him to stop. Against all odds, he'd made it to the fringes of a little mining town a dozen miles outside the city. And in good time, too, it seemed. The sun was almost directly overhead, meaning he'd cut his eight to ten hour travel estimate practically in half. He was so close... he had to keep going. Unfortunately, Roman had nothing left in the tank.

His aching legs shook so badly, Roman could barely stand. Sweat poured off him in buckets, starkly contrasting his desert-dry mouth and throat. No matter how many deep gulps of air he took, Roman felt like he was suffocating where he stood. No matter how many times he blinked or rubbed his eyes, his vision wouldn't stop blurring. Roman knew he was exhausted, starving, and flirting dangerously with dehydration. The smart move would be to stop, rest, and try to find food and water.

But Theo was counting on him. Stopping and resting was not an option.

Gritting his teeth to hold in a painful groan, Roman willed his blistered, bruised feet to take a few more shuffling steps forward. Every inch of his nearly six-foot frame screamed in protest with every movement. If he'd had any lunch, he probably would've lost it. Roman's will was ironclad, but his shoes felt like they were full of cement. Before he was even aware of what happened, Roman found himself in the dirt. Staring up at the clear blue sky from the flat of his back.

How long he'd lain there, only God and the buzzards knew. Roman watched them circling overhead in a daze, wondering where they came from. He thought buzzards only lived in the deserts to the southwest, not in cities on the east coast. After blinking a few more times, Roman realized he wasn't seeing birds. It was people, standing over him. He couldn't make out their faces, though; the sun was too bright, and his vision too wonky.

In a blink, Roman teleported to a bed. Dusty purple-orange light filtered through the window to his right; the last rays of a dying sunset. His heart skipped a beat and his mind scrambled, trying to figure out where the hell he was and how long he'd been out. Roman had just found the strength to sit up when a rough, heavy hand shoved him flat again.

"Don'jeeven think it, Kid," a gruff masculine voice muttered, "You're half-dead. Just lie theah now and rest."

Roman blinked up at the scruffy stranger, shocked that such an old fart could be that strong. The old man looked like Walt Whitman if he'd been hit by a Greyhound and dragged through a muddy field: long, unkempt white beard; hair sticking up at odd angles all around his mostly bald head; overalls and a flannel shirt that were absolutely filthy. He was all grit and hard edges, like an uncut diamond wrapped in sandpaper. Even so, his coarse, calloused hands were gentle as they laid a cool, wet rag on Roman's forehead.

"Feel fine," Roman lied, biting back a soft groan as he savored the feeling of the cloth against his skin.

He must have worked himself into a fever with all that running. Or maybe he was just that dehydrated. Every inch of him seemed to be crying out for water. The longer that rag sat on his face, the better Roman steadily felt. And the better he felt, the drier it seemed to get. Hoping to avoid suspicion, Roman peeled the almost bone-dry cloth off his face as he sat up, dropping it in the enameled bowl on the nightstand beside him.

"Thanks... but I really gotta go," he insisted, "I have someone waiting for me, and... he's very sick."

"Unlike yourself?" the old timer quipped, raising a bushy, wild brow.

Roman knew he was in no shape to move long before he set his socked feet on the polished stone floor. His head spun so badly, he had to grab onto the headboard with both hands. The old man caught him before he could fall and guided him back into the bed that same minute. Allowing Roman to cradle his woozy head until the spinning stopped.

"Who'm I kidding?" Roman grumbled, "I'm no good to him like this. I'm no good to anybody... but he'll die if I give up now!"

"Welp, sounds to me like quite a pickle," the old man mused.

He crossed the tiny, shabby room, stopping just long enough to stoke the fire burning in an old potbelly stove on his way to a dinky little kitchenette on the other side. Roman stole a look around while his host rummaged through creaky pine cabinets and a rusty fridge older than he was, trying to just make sense of his current situation.

"That's putting it pretty damn lightly," Roman said, not caring if the edge in his tone was audible, "Do you at least have a phone I could borrow? If I can't get to him, maybe an ambulance can... providing they can find him and get him to a hospital before it's too late!"

"Don't believe in telly-oh-phones," the old timer grumped, "...or hospitals for that matter. Those jagoffs can't do much for folks like us anyhow, so what's it matter really?"

Roman's heart crawled halfway up his throat, forgetting to beat for a second or two. He gripped the old quilt covering him so tightly that all ten of his knuckles cracked, his wide eyes never leaving the old man's slightly stooped back.

"People... like us?" he parroted, his tone cautious.

"Don't play stupid now, Young Feller," the stranger ordered casually, pausing to open a Tupperware container and sniff its contents, "Djeetyet?"

"What?"

"Are ya hungry?" The old man scowled over his shoulder, his piercing moss green eyes sharper than flint, "Figyahed if you're strong enough to talk, you can eat."

Roman was about to say "no", but his empty stomach interrupted him with a deep growl before he could get the word out.

"Thought so," the old man nodded, "Well, just button your lip while I redd up some chow. Won't take a minute. And if ya try to get outta that bed again while my back's turned, I ain't gonna catch ya this time."

"B-But my friend-!"

The words died on Roman's tongue, forgotten in a heartbeat when the front door suddenly swung open with a loud bang. His head whipped toward the noise automatically, startled and a little confused to see a guy roughly his age roll over the threshold in a wheelchair. Roman immediately felt bad for staring - especially when he noticed the guy's heavily-scarred face - averting his gaze with a polite yet awkward nod. The other teen didn't seem to share Roman's feelings, though. As soon as he was in the shabby little house, the wheelchair-bound teen froze. Gawking wide-eyed and open-mouthed at Roman like he was the Eighth Wonder of the World.

"Theah you are, Justin," the old man barked, "Took ya long enough to get that firewood. Thought ya'd got lost or something on the way back. Didja have trouble with the Hassock boys again?"

The crotchety comment seemed to shake Justin from his stupor. He blinked immediately and kept rolling, golden brown eyes forward and dark, shaggy mop down.

"N-No, Mr. Candler," he said, his voice quiet, husky, and shockingly deep like a cello, "Forgive me for dawdling. I'd no idea we had a guest."

Roman narrowed his eyes as Justin zipped past the foot of his bed, but not because of anything he saw. Although he tried to cover it, Roman was sure he'd detected a hint of a British accent when Justin spoke. Ultimately, however, Roman just shook it off. Theo was heavily on his mind, so he obviously imagined it.

"Don't worry, I'm not staying," Roman insisted, "Please tell me you have a phone? Or a car? Theo really needs-"

Justin's tires ground to a halt so fast, they left scuff marks on the floor. The firewood stacked in his lap hit the concrete a second later, thrown to the floor from the force of his sudden stop. In an instant, all his shyness was gone. Replaced with worry so intense that it was almost scary.

"Theo?" he asked.

"Yeah," Roman nodded apprehensively, not sure why Justin's demeanor had changed so quickly, "He's my boyfriend, and he's really, really sick. Please... I need your help."

Both Roman and Justin jolted out of their skins at a loud wham from the kitchenette. Roman found the source of the noise easily: Old Man Candler was standing at the table, his hand still on the container of spaghetti he'd just microwaved and his face set in a death glare.

"Eat," he ordered, "Phoenix's folks will take care of your friend. You, Son, got bigger problems right now. Nobody waltzes into this here patch town without an invitation... and nobody leaves without permission."