fredbassett

Title : Fear in a Handful of Dust, Part 1 of 2
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : Ryan/Ethan
Characters : 15
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 8.100, in two parts.
Summary : Badly injured and left for dead, Ryan finds unexpected help. Or rather unexpected help finds him.
A/N: Started for Ethan Week on 52 Weeks of Primeval and finished for Gentlemen of Primeval Week. I wouldn’t mind being stuck through an anomaly with either of these two!

Ryan hurt. Everywhere. A lot.

Trying to move didn’t get him very far. He was pinned down.

He opened his eyes didn’t help. They felt gritty, clogged with sand, and he couldn’t see anything.

His mouth was filled with the coppery taste of blood and more sand.

It was hard to breathe. His nose was as gritty as his eyes and mouth. He wanted to cough, but the weight on his chest was too heavy.

Ryan was tempted just to close his eyes and give up. The last thing he remembered was being bowled over by one of the ugliest fuckers he’d ever had the misfortune to go up against. It had ripped at him with teeth and claws and Ryan knew he’d taken a lot of damage. Probably too much. But he had no idea how he’d ended up caught in a rockfall. That was the only thing that could explain the darkness, the sand and the stones pressing him down…

The sand tickled his nose and he sneezed.

Easier said than done with a fucking great big rock on his chest.

Ryan turned his head sideways, scraping his cheek, trying to drag some air into his lungs but all the happened was that he sneezed again. And then coughed. Pain lanced through his chest and Ryan groaned. Broken ribs, he knew that feeling all too well.

He had no energy left to fight the rocks that had trapped him. He knew he’d lost a lot of blood, was probably still losing it, but it was hard to make an accurate assessment of his injuries when he could barely think and breathing was getting increasingly hard.

Maybe in a minute… maybe things would get easier…

****

Bright sunlight hit Ryan’s face. He could feel it, and see it, even through eyelids that seemed to have been glued shut by sand.

The weight on his chest had lightened too.

He coughed and although it still fucking hurt, at least it didn’t feel like there was an anvil pressing down on his body.

“Come on, sunshine, let’s be having you…” The voice held an Irish lilt. Not a voice Ryan knew.

Strong hands grasped him under the arms and tugged.

A hoarse scream tore out of Ryan’s dry lips. His breath caught in his throat and choked off the scream as a shower of sand fell in around him, clogging his mouth. He tried to spit, but his mouth was too dry. All he could taste was blood.

Blood and sand.

“You’re not dead yet,” the voice said. “Let’s try to keep it that way, shall we? Don’t think much of your mates, though. Careless fuckers. Meant to check someone’s dead before you bury ‘em.”

Ryan coughed again and could taste more blood in his mouth.

A damp cloth was wiped over his face and finally he managed to open his eyes.

Above him, an almost unnaturally bright sun rode high in a cloudless blue sky. Around him, an expanse of black sand was broken only by rocks and some thorny shrubs that looked as dry as his mouth felt.

Memory flooded back, as sharp and painful as his damaged ribs.

Ryan relived the moments when he’d realised that time had looped around on itself and that on his first visit to the Permian with Cutter, he’d brushed the sand from the skull of his own skeleton.

He turned onto his side, ignoring the pain in his chest and coughed again, bringing up more blood and watching it spatter onto the sand.

The man who’d dug him out of his makeshift grave wiped his face again and held a flask to his lips.

“Wash your mouth out,” he was told. “Then take a couple of sips. Not too much, mind. Take it easy.”

Ryan did as he was told. Drinking hurt, but then so did breathing.

He was tired, so fucking tired…

****

Ethan stared down at the soldier.

The man was a fucking mess, blood everywhere and probably internal injuries as well.

There was bugger all chance of him surviving the night.

Should’ve left him in the ground where the woman and the man had put him. Jeez, what sort of bastards stuck an injured man in the ground and left him to suffocate to death?

He’d walked down the hillside after they’d gone and had stood there, looking down at the stones piled on top of the shallow graves to form a rough cairn. The group had been the first humans he’d seen for longer than he could remember, but he wasn’t keen on soldiers, so had kept a healthy distance, watching as the confrontation with the skeletal monsters had played out under an uncaring sky. The creatures had reminded him of the camouflage beasts, bringing back memories he’d spent years trying to run from. He’d only moved out of hiding once he’d been absolutely sure that none of them were still in the vicinity.

He’d stood beside the pile of rocks trying to empty his mind of past fears, wondering who the black-clad soldiers had been and why they’d been accompanied by two civilians. He’d half-thought of following the man and the woman to see where they had been going, but the chances of running into more soldiers had seemed too high a risk, so he’d bided his time. Another gateway would open eventually.

The noise from under the stones had startled him, sending his hand flying to the knife in his pocket.

Then some long-buried shred of humanity had kicked in and he’d started to drag away the rocks from the makeshift cairn, scrabbling to reach the man underneath.

Dead men didn’t sneeze. Or cough.

Ethan had dragged the man into the shade of the bushes, more than half regretting his impulse to help. The soldier wasn’t his responsibility. He should have just left him in the grave. It wouldn’t have taken him long to die.

He closed his eyes, wondering when the fuck he had turned into the sort of callous bastard capable of leaving a man to die a lingering death in an unmarked grave.

When his brother left him behind, that’s when.

Ethan turned away and started walking. The man wasn’t his responsibility. There was no room for passengers beyond the gateways. You lived or you died. No one cared. No one came. He’d learned that the hard way.

He took ten paces then a low moan stopped him in his tracks.

He turned slowly, reluctantly. He’d wiped the man’s face, he’d given him a drink from his water bottle. Could he really just walk away and leave him to die?

The soldier had slumped sideways and was coughing weakly, blood dribbling down his chin.

Ethan cursed loudly in Russian. It was a good language for swearing, even better than the Irish he’d picked up in an enforced stay in Belfast in the middle of the Troubles.

He’d give the soldier another drink and wait until he died. It wouldn’t take long, not with his injuries.

Famous last fucking words.

Three days later and he was still waiting.

In that time, he’d dug up the other bodies, scavenged everything useful from them, including packs, guns and even some clothing. He hadn’t particularly like stripping dead men, but he’d needed the material for bandages.

The soldier had stubbornly refused to die. He’d never quite regained consciousness, although there were times when he’d come close. At one point, clearly delirious, he’d taken to mumbling his name, rank and number. The number had been impossible to make out, but the man’s name was Tom Ryan. Captain Tom Ryan. From the lack of insignia on his uniform, Ethan strongly suspected he was special forces.

The power bars and ration packs the men had been carrying had come in useful, as had their weapons. He’d had to fend off a few ugly buggers who wouldn’t take a polite hint, but for the past day, they’d been largely untroubled, which was good, as he’d been so fucking knackered from nursemaiding that that he’d fallen asleep for a couple of hours.

By the time he woke up, the sun was low in the sky and the temperature was starting to drop again.

He took one of the crumpled survival blankets he found in the soldier’s packs and started to wrap it around the injured man.

For the first time in three days, the man’s long eyelashes fluttered open.

A pair of confused blue eyes looked up at him.

****

Ryan blinked dry, gritty eyes and stared up at a dark-haired man he didn’t recognise.

He tried to speak, but his mouth as dry as dust and his tongue felt swollen. Too big for his mouth.

The man wiped his face gently with a damp cloth and held a flask to his lips. Ryan had a feeling it wasn’t the first time the man had done this for him.

He felt warm liquid trickle slowly into his mouth.

He coughed and his chest hurt like hell, but he was desperate not to lose the small amount of liquid he’d been able to take. He swallowed hard, and tried to breathe through the spasms racking his body.

“What happened?” he croaked, when he was finally able to speak. His mind was fuzzy and he couldn’t remember ever feeling this hot or weak. He felt like roasted shit.

“Something messed you up. The people you were with must have thought you were dead. Least I hope that’s what they thought. Burying a man alive isn’t real friendly.”

Buried alive? Fucking hell, no wonder he felt completely crap.

“My men?” Ryan knew he’d come through the anomaly with three men, even if he couldn’t quite bring their names to mind.

“Dead. Definitely dead.” The man hesitated, then added, “I checked.”

Ryan tried to smile, but didn’t think he’d succeeded. “Thanks.”

The man held the flask up to his month again. “Drink, don’t talk.”

Ryan did his best to comply. This time he managed a couple of sips of water and even succeeded in swallowing some without coughing.

Consciousness didn’t last long.

The second time he woke up, it was fully dark.

His head felt marginally clearer. He remembered the names of the three men who had died. Simon Jenkins. Tony Willoughby. Mick Carter. Somehow, bringing their names to mind and repeating them in his head felt like a big achievement.

A voice next to him in the darkness said, “Yeah, so you keep saying.”

He must have mumbled the names aloud.

“Sorry…” Ryan’s voice sounded harsh, even to his own ears. “Am I… boring you?”

The man laughed. “Not really. You’re pretty crap company, but I’ve had worse.”

“Thanks… I think.”

Ryan felt the welcome press of the flask to his lips. Reflexively, he gulped and felt the water trickling down his throat.

“Well done, soldier boy.” The voice sounded approving. “You’re getting the hang of this. Taken fucking long enough, mind.”

Ryan wanted to ask what the man’s name was, but he was too busy trying to take sips of water. He’d never felt this thirsty in his life. Or this fucked-up. But at least he was still alive.

Unlike Jenkins, Willoughby and Carter.

****

Ethan took the flask away from Ryan’s mouth. “That’s enough for now. Don’t want you chucking it all back up again. Water’s hard enough to find around here. Can’t be wasting it.”

And every time he had to leave Ryan and fill up the flasks, there was no certainty that the man would still be there when he got back. there were plenty of predators around looking for a tasty snack. At least scavenging the water containers that had been buried with the dead had meant he had to make that trip less often. Wasteful buggers, leaving good kit behind like that.

“Thanks.”

Ryan’s gratitude made Ethan feel uncomfortable. He’d spent much of the first two days hoping the man would just quietly slip away into the death he’d been consigned to by accident. Dying would have made things so much easier, relieving Ethan from the unwanted responsibility he’d assumed by another accident of fate – and an unaccustomed touch of compassion.

Ethan had spent most of his life refusing to accept responsibility for anyone other than himself. He preferred to keep things that way.

No one had helped him, so he didn’t see any reason to return a favour he’d not been granted.

But by the third day, he’d found himself half-hoping the soldier would pull through. It would be a fucking waste of effort to have to bury him again, especially after having spent three days swabbing the man’s wounds with antiseptic, as well as crushing antibiotics up with some water and smearing the paste on the dry, cracked tongue before dribbling water unto Ryan’s mouth and hoping it would be enough to get the medicine into his system.

“Open your mouth.” He’d prepared another dose of antibiotic paste and was determined to make use of it. “This is going to taste nasty.”

Ryan’s dry lips cracked into a barely perceptible smile. “Bedside manner’s shit.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. Now open your fecking mouth and stick your tongue out.”

Ryan obliged.

Ethan smeared the paste as far back on Ryan’s tongue as he could reach without making the man gag.

Ryan grimaced and reached out for the flash.

Ethan brushed his hand away. “Can’t risk you spilling it. Open up again.”

And so on it went.

By the fifth day, Ryan had improved enough for Ethan to pull the tab on one of the self-heating ration packs he’d found in the soldiers’ kitbags and feed him some solids. Until then there had been no guarantee the man would like long enough for it to be a worthwhile exercise. No point wasting food. His mam had always been vitriolic on the subject of waste, and life beyond the gateways had imbued him with the same values. Conserving your resources could mean the difference between life and death.

They’d not talked much. Ryan had spent a couple of days off his head, muttering in his sleep, mumbling the same three names over and over. It hadn’t been difficult to work out who he’d been talking about. They weren’t far from the makeshift cairn that covered the men. Ethan had managed to haul Ryan a short distance to the shadow of a small cliff overgrown with thorny bushes. He’d hacked out enough space for the two of them to sit, backs against the rock, with the cut foliage forming some barrier to the strong sunlight that filled the long days and providing some shelter from the cold winds that blew during the equally long, dark nights.

The soldier’s fever had finally abated. He was now able to drink and eat, keeping both liquid and solid food down. He’d even eaten a few pieces of roast lizard without complaining. In fact, the man never complained. It was one of the things that made the whole nursemaid scenario at all bearable. Ethan had bugger all experience of dealing with sick people, and there had never been anyone these to hold water to his mouth when he’d been ill or wipe his mouth after he’d puked. He just hoped Ryan wouldn’t need anything else wiping…

*****

Ryan struggled up into a sitting position feeling as weak as a kitten but clearer headed than he had been since being mauled by the future freaks.

His chest still hurt, but the long wounds that had ripped through the flesh of his neck and chest no longer felt like someone had repeatedly gouged him with a heated soldering iron. It looked like – with the help of the antibiotics – his body was managing to fight off any infection. The paste Ethan had been smearing on his tongue tasted vile, but it had done its job.

He’d woken up that day in time to stop Ethan mashing up the antibiotics and had managed to swallow the tablets whole. That was a definite improvement.

And speaking of improvements, there was one thing he couldn’t put off any longer…

Ethan looked at him, dark eyebrows drawn together in a questioning frown.

“Need a piss,” Ryan said. “Can you help me up?”

Ethan stood up and held down one hand. Ryan took it. The man’s skin was rough and his grip was firm, but Ryan’s strength had disappeared and he needed the help.

Ryan raised himself up by a couple of inches. Ethan muttered something under his breath in Russian. Ryan knew a few of the words from a long-ago training exercise with a bunch of Spetznaz lads and knew they weren’t complimentary. Ryan was tempted to reply in the same language, but calling the bloke who’d been keeping him alive a donkey’s dick probably wouldn’t help matters.

When it became obvious that he couldn’t haul himself upright even with the proffered help, two strong hands took hold of him under his armpits and heaved him upright.

A grunt of pain forced its way out of Ryan’s lips as fire from his broken ribs shot through his chest but he didn’t pull away. A moment later he was standing – with the aid of the boulder he’d been leaning again – but at least he was vertical.

Moving slowly and carefully, Ryan managed to manoeuvre his way behind the rock.

“I draw the line at holding your dick, soldier boy,” Ethan commented.

“Can manage,” Ryan said through teeth gritted against the pain. His chest felt murderously hot and his head was swimming unpleasantly.

Leaning against the boulder to free both hands, Ryan managed to drop the zip on his flies and free his limp cock. The acrid smell of piss soon joined the sour smell of his own unwashed body as he directed a dark stream against the rock next to him. He was relieved to see there was no blood in evidence. The colour was just down to dehydration. That would improve now he was able to drink more. The food he’d been able to keep down would need to exit at some point, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

Getting back under the shade of the scrubby bushes wasn’t easy, and he needed Ethan’s help to stop himself dropping to the grown in an ungainly sprawl. The man was gentler than he looked, despite the constant stream of muttered curses in either Russian or a language Ryan presumed was Irish, if the man’s accent was anything to go by.

Once back in his accustomed place, Ryan gratefully accepted a drink of water and one of the cereal bars they’d all carried in their packs. It tasted like grit and dust in his still-dry mouth, but he needed the energy boost it would bring.

“Thanks for what you’ve done.” Ryan spoke quietly but the words were heartfelt. “Without you I’d be…” He hesitated, unable to articulate the full horror of waking up in his own grave.

“Dead,” Ethan supplied. “Not sure how you did survive. I saw the thing jump you but I was too far away to do anything.”

Ryan couldn’t help wondering whether Ethan would have tried to help if he’d been closer. The man didn’t strike him as the overly altruistic sort. Although that didn’t square with the fact that he’d stayed by Ryan’s side and done his best to keep him alive.

“What happed to Cutter and Helen?” He knew the fate of his men and that Cutter had been beside him when he’d passed out, but the rest was hazy. Someone – presumably Cutter – buried them all but then what?

“The bloke and the woman? He did his best to give the four of you a decent burial. She just lounged around, tossing him the occasional rock. After that there was a big bust up. I think she wanted him to stay with her, but he was having none of it. Couldn’t hear much of what they said but it wasn’t particularly friendly. When he’d finished, he just walked off, leaving her staring after him with a look on her like a stranded codfish. Mam would have told her she’d stick like that if the wind changed.”

Ryan smiled at the description of Helen Cutter. From the dealings he’d had with her, he knew she wouldn’t have been best chuffed by her ex-husband refusing to do her bidding.

“Did she follow him?”

Ethan nodded. “Eventually. So, where did that gateway lead to?”

“The Forest of Dean.” In answer to Ethan’s now-familiar questioning look, Ryan gave him the year, the date, the name of the prime minister and the winner of the Cheltenham Gold Cup.

Ethan grinned. “I’ll remember that if I ever turn up there before the race.”

“How long have you been stuck through the anomalies?”

Ethan’s face hardened and it was obvious that he didn’t relish anyone prying into his private life. “Too long,” the man said eventually. “No sure if I’ve kept a very accurate tally.”

Ryan tried a different tack. “How old were you when you first came though?”

“Fifteen.”

Shit. The guy must be at least 30 now. No wonder he looked a hard bastard. He wondered if Ethan regretted missing the chance to go through an anomaly to modern times. His accent and speech patterns marked him out as being – give or take 50 years – an approximate contemporary of Ryan’s. The 21st century would surely have been better than the fucking Permian. A wet weekend in Blackpool would have been better than the fucking Permian.

Ethan’s face was a closed-off mask, the shutters slammed well and truly down. Ryan felt too ill and exhausted to try to breach his rescuer’s defences. Anyway, they were blokes. They’d sooner walked barefoot on hot coals than talk about anything personal.

Ryan took the easy way out and closed his eyes.

Faking sleep wasn’t hard.