It seemed like a miracle she was alive, but Maria sensed Laila's approach and began to push herself to her knees and Laila almost dropped the lantern to reach for her injured companion. Together, they struggled to the nearest bed and Maria dropped to the creaking springs with a gasp. Laila didn't know what to do, hands fluttering near Maria, but afraid to touch her and the pilot waved a dismissive hand.
Maria looked up at Laila and tried to make a smile that turned into a wince before she looked down to her body, where her shirt looked soaked with blood to one side. Tentative fingers tugged the shirt from her pants and she scowled, pointing to the hurricane lamp and Laila rushed to fetch it, holding it up for Maria to see her injury.
"Eh. I've had worse." She made a stunted laugh, turning to look behind her. "Goddamned trigger happy assholes. Go get the bourbon."
She jerked her head back to where, incredibly, only moments before, they had shared a frantic prelude to sex, cut short by whatever insanity held this island in its sway. Putting down the lantern, Laila rushed for the bottle, paused and considered whether she should take the cups, but realised the pilot probably didn't feel like celebrating. By the time she returned, Maria had removed the shirt and now sat, half-naked, grimacing as she dabbed the material against the wound.
"They shot you?" She handed the bottle to Maria, who tugged out the cork with her teeth and took a good, long drink. "They only took me to a room. Asking questions. Toby died. He got stuck in a wall and ... they shot you?"
"You had an unfair advantage." Maria put the bottle down and waved a hand in front of her face. "Pretty little white girl? Of course they were going to be nice. I suppose it didn't help that I broke a guy's nose."
She shrugged and winced at the same time, continuing to look down at her wound and wiping the blood away. Blood that seemed to constantly ooze from a wicked, puckered hole. Maria twisted, trying to look behind her and Laila shifted to take a look at Maria's back, where another hole wept blood like the one at the front. Again, she started to reach out, but stopped, not wanting to make anything worse, if that was at all possible.
"They shot you twice?" She frowned at that. "Or am I being stupid? Wait, you think I'm pretty?"
"Not the time, princesita. Same shot. In and out." Maria looked up, toward a nearby door. "The med-bay is through there. Help me up. Bring the lantern, I'll carry the bottle."
With a struggle, Laila helped Maria rise from the bed, stumble through the door and down the corridor a short distance and then into a small room with a cabinet, an examination bed and a chair, but little else. Putting the bottle on the bed, Maria left Laila's arms and began to search through the cabinet, objects rattling around as she rummaged through the drawers and the shelving. Several rolls of material flew through the air to land on the bed, followed by a pair of small scissors and then Maria came to join them, arranging them before hitching herself up onto the bed, biting her lip.
She sat there, breathing heavy for a while before taking another big drink of the bourbon. It seemed to take a lot of effort for her to do even that and Laila felt like a waste of space, unable to do anything to help and only managing to stand there like a fool, all wide-eyed and hands hanging in the air as though she waited to catch Maria should she fall.
"Close the door and turn on the light. There's no windows. No-one will see." Maria jerked her chin toward the door and Laila rushed to do as the pilot asked. "Now, this will be the hard part."
"What part? What are you going to ..." But Maria had already opened a paper packet, revealing a wicked looking, curved needle with thick, black thread attached and Laila almost retched. "You can't be thinking ..."
"It's not that bad. Just a couple of stitches. You'll be fine. But this? This is going to hurt me more than you." Maria grinned as she laid the needle aside, picked up the bottle, took another drink and then poured some out onto her wounds. "Hijo de la fregada!"
Laila had no idea what Maria had said, but it couldn't have been nice and the woman now looked about to pass out, colour draining from her face, sweat pouring from her brow. The bottle fell to the side and Laila managed to catch it before it spilled everywhere and Maria's hands clawed onto the unforgiving, cracked mattress of the examination bed. She stared straight forward, cheeks trembling as she took in a long, deep breath, her fingers flexing, and then she let it out in a slim deliberate exhale.
"Wait ... I'll be fine?" She looked as Maria reached for the needle again and began to shake her head. "Oh, no. No. I can't ... that's just ... no!"
The pilot said nothing, holding the needle out to Laila, who clutched the bottle to her chest with both hands, still shaking her head. She couldn't sew! She never learned and never wanted to anyway. Why would she? She earned enough money, and had from a young age, to throw out anything that other, more frugal people might consider sewing. There were always new clothes to buy without the need for sticking needles into things. Admittedly, Maria couldn't exactly buy a new body, and why would she, but Laila couldn't. She simply couldn't.
"Pour a little bourbon on the needle, stick it into my skin and pull it tight. Just a couple each side." She dangled the needle in front of Laila. "It's either this or we wait for the bleeding to stop, which it might not do. Do you want me to bleed, princess? Then get to it."
Reluctant, Laila took the needle, fumbling with the bottle to pour some of the booze onto the metal, then, for good measure, she took a good swig herself before putting the bottle down and trying to psych herself up for yet another piece of madness this island had to offer. She wondered if she should drink some more, but realised she was only putting off the inevitable.
For her part, Maria had lifted her arm, holding her head and giving Laila space to 'get to it' and even the sight of Maria's bare, sweat-soaked breasts didn't do anything to distract Laila from beginning to panic. Her breaths came fast and short, as though it was her about to have some eighty year old needle stuck into her, but Maria remained calm, her eyes looking heavy and filled with pain. Using Maria's shirt, Laila wiped away the blood once again and held the needle close to the skin.
She closed her eyes and then forced them open again before poking the needle at Maria's flesh. Then she had to poke harder, because human skin was way tougher than she thought it would be. The flesh pressed inward and resisted before, with a sickening rush, the needle pushed through. Maria kept up a running commentary, telling Laila what to do, but her voice started to fade near to the end. Remarkably, it only took a few moments, the stitches looked an utter mess, the skin ridged and red, but the blood had stopped pouring out.
"The bottle?" She couldn't take her eyes off what she had done, except to see the grateful nod from Maria, and she reached for the bourbon, passing it to the woman. "Now what?"
"Now I put dressings on while you go find another shirt. Any will do. There're plenty in the lockers." She took a swig of the bourbon, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and lifted the bottle to check the remains. "I figured out what's going on here, by the way. I found the commander's office before that pendejo shot me. Well, I suppose they had a good reason at that."
"You know what's happening?" Laila wiped the blood from her fingers with Maria's shirt. She had blood on her fingers! "And you're speaking a lot more ... I want to say ... Mexican?"
"Spanish." Maria rolled her eyes, but how was Laila supposed to know everybody's languages? "I do that when I get shot by my own countrymen. Go. Find a shirt. Or haven't you noticed it's getting cold?"
Laila looked at Maria with a questioning eye until Maria nodded downward and Laila followed her eyes. It took a second or two, but she got it. It was strikingly obvious, after all. Flustered, turning away and back several times, Laila finally opened the door and rushed out, before rushing back in, picking up the hurricane lantern, trying not to stare at Maria's chest, and left again, heading back to the barracks room.
She hated rummaging around in these lockers, especially after that freaky trip to the past. She had seen these people. Alright, she had seen their backs, and they had seen a whole lot more of her, but they were there. They were real. At least, she thought they were. She still couldn't rule out a dozen other possibilities. Insanity, to start with, because it was utterly insane to think she could have travelled to the past. Or hallucinations? From some kind of chemical leak? Maybe she was dead, as she had thought before, but that would open up a whole parcel of religious stuff she didn't even want to think about.
In one locker, she found a shirt possibly made for a giant. She held it up and the material stretched down beyond her knees. Maria was a big woman, but not that big. In that locker, she had seen another picture. Not of a wife or a sweetheart, but of a young, enormous man wearing a football jersey and carrying a helmet that she doubted would protect his head at all. He looked happy. Young. Probably long dead by now, even if he had survived the island, which she had started to doubt.
Another locker and, as she opened it, a pile of letters dropped to the floor, tied together by a faded yellow ribbon. In the light of the hurricane lamp, she could see the almost indistinct but delicate, beautiful penmanship on the envelope. Love letters. Love letters to a dead man, because she couldn't see any reason for a man to forget these, no matter how dangerous things became. People did stupid things when faced with imminent danger. The man, the boy, who got these letters? He would have died trying to get to them. They we're important.
They were all dead. As she had thought for the All-American in that faded photograph, even if they had got off this island, they were all dead. Dead and gone, but still very real to her. Very much alive. She had seen them. The people with their backs turned, the sergeant with that disgusting mush of a cigar in his mouth. The man in charge with his slick hair, his cigarettes and his flip lighter. All gone. All dead. And Toby.
If she hadn't gone to the past, how could she explain this? The smart watch that she now pulled from her pants, turning it over and over. Dead. Maria close to death and that damned siren waiting to wail once again and drag her somewhere, somewhen else, or have the island disappear from under her. Or worse, whatever that could be. But she wasn't dead. Maria had just forced her to do something terrifying and disgusting, but she wasn't dead, either. They were both alive and Maria had said she knew what was happening and, if they knew what was happening, perhaps they could find a way to stop it.
Putting the letters back onto the shelf in the locker, pushing them back so they couldn't fall again, she took one of the shirts from the hangers and held it up. It seemed around the right size and she didn't want to leave Maria alone for any longer than she had to. For good measure, she grabbed the jacket hanging in the locker, too, and, as she passed the beds they were supposed to sleep on, among other things, she grabbed a blanket.
At first, as she entered the med-bay, she thought Maria had gone, died, only to see the rise and fall of her chest. The pilot had fastened dressings and bandages around her waist, but the rest of her top half still remained bare and Laila shook out the blanket and laid it over the top of her companion. She had taken a bullet, she deserved a little sleep and dignity. They both did.
If this damned island would let them.