Purgatory Part 7
Author: Jordan
Title: Purgatory Part 7
Rating: R for language, nudity, and character death
Pairings/characters: Colbert, Trombley, Hasser
Summary: Lambs without a shepherd, shepherd without a flock. It is your sins which hold you here.
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals. I do not own any person named in this fic, and I don't own the source material, except for a copy of the miniseries on DVD. This is for pleasure, not for profit.
To Chapter 6
When Brad and Walt find Trombley, he’s unconscious and convulsing. The two quickly move to his side. Brad rolls him onto his side while Walt grabs his wrist to check for a pulse. “His heart rate’s through the roof, Colbert.”
“Well, what do you want me to do about it, Walt? Until he calms down, we can’t do shit for him.” Brad wishes now that he’d paid more attention to the classes Doc Bryan gave when they were getting set to deploy, when they were in Kuwait and he went around showing people how to apply a tourniquet. There was something in the back of his mind though, nagging at him. This was Iraq, or some Bosch impression of it. People collapse all the time out here, and usually because….
“Walt, see if the Magical Humvee of Unbelievable Retardedness is there, or if it left behind a medical kit or something. If that fails, get some water from that oasis any way you think you can, understand?”
“But that guy said-“
“Fuck him! It’s either listen to some cryptic gypsie bullshit and watch Trombley continue to flop around like a fish, or get some water and have a better chance of saving him than we do right now.” Walt doesn’t hesitate this time when he runs, leaving Brad with his youngest charge. The poor kid stopped convulsing, but now he keeps breathing short, quick breaths at a level of labor that worries Colbert. He rolls Trombley back onto his back and works toward removing his blouse, all the while listening to his breathing to ensure it remains unobstructed. Brad curses the Marine Corps often, about various stupid inconveniences, but now his ire is focused on the amount of buttons the Corps decided to put on the uniform. He has no knife to cut through the fabric, so this is his best bet.
Finally, the blouse is free of buttons and Brad quickly rolls Trombley back to his side to make removing his blouse easier. When that’s done, he removes his undershirt, boots, and socks as well before once again Trombley is on his back with his feet on Colbert’s lap. Brad places a hand on the boy’s forehead to gauge his temperature, and isn’t surprised to discover that he’s burning up. Soon he can hear someone running toward the two, causing him to go on edge, but after a shout from the stranger, surmises it’s Walt. “Have you figured out what caused the seizure, yet?” The question is asked as he passes Brad two heavy canteens of water.
“He’s showing some pretty heavy signs of heat stroke, but I can’t say for sure. It doesn’t make sense to me, though, because none of us have felt even the need to drink water.” The first canteen is dumped on Trombley, thoroughly soaking him in cold water. The kid splutters, but remains unconscious. Half of the second is poured on Trombley’s blouse and undershirt before they get wrapped around him like two obscenely tiny baby blankets. He hands Walt the half-empty canteen before slinging his weapon to his back and gently lifting Trombley from the ground. His breathing’s calmed, finally, and he doesn’t feel quite so hot anymore with the wet clothing doing its job. “Walt, grab his SAW and boots, please. We’re setting camp by the pond.”
Trombley starts to stir on the way back, as darkness nearly overtakes the trio. He looks behind Colbert at Walt before involuntarily snuggling into the taller man’s chest. “What happened?” he asks Brad, his voice weaker than his team leader had ever heard it before.
“You passed out, probably from dehydration,” Brad’s voice is soft yet holds the ever-surgical factual tone he carries with just about everyone. “Your temperature was spiking and you were convulsing pretty badly.”
“Dehy….no.” Brad sets Trombley down in the clearing he’d watched the lake from earlier, only this time refusing to look into its depths. The boy starts shivering in the darkness, and starts stripping down to nothing after Walt starts a fire, opting to get as close to it as possible. Walt offers him the half-empty canteen, but Trombley refuses. “I thought I saw….Corporal Person out there."
“Ray?” Walt’s voice carries an air of concern rarely shown for Trombley, and the boy shrugs.
“I’m not sure. It could’ve been Ray, but then I thought I saw that guy with the violin. I remember…eating something, but I can’t remember-“
“Leave it be, ok?” Brad’s voice is almost inaudible. “It might be one of those monsters out there. Get warm and wait for your clothes to dry out. We’re getting the fuck out of here when the sun comes up, with or without that truck.”
---
The night was restless for all three of them. They had no tools to make ranger graves, no HMMWV for what little armor it could provide in the middle of the night, and no comfort of having the rest of Bravo nearby. It was merely three men in a world more alien even than the Hell hole that was named Operation Iraqi Freedom.
The silence of the night was broken by the noise of warfare. MLRS exploded all around them, the force and sound of the explosives heard and felt, but there was no flash on impact, no debris from the damage. Small-arms fire accompanied this, and not even Brad’s NVGs could show him a source, or even a path that these weapons were taking around them. Trombley sits where he first did, nude and curled into a fetal position. If it were quiet, Brad would be able to know that the boy is crying. Walt merely sits by the fire, trying to pretend that this doesn’t affect him as much as it does Trombley as hbe stokes the flame or adds more fuel to their only source of light.
Brad opens his eyes a few hours later to the first feeble glow of gray dawn. He doesn’t know when he fell asleep, and it doesn’t feel like it was long, though Trombley is now dressed, his weapon cradled to his body like a toy. Walt’s gone to sleep as well. If the fire were still burning, he’d more than likely be in danger of losing his hair.
Brad signals to Trombley to come over to him, and the boy does so, albeit reluctantly. There’s still fear in his eyes, but there’s also a small bit of hope there, as well. “Are you okay with us moving as soon as we can?” the question sounds sincere, but in the back of his head, Brad feels that if the answer is no, that he and Walt just might leave him.
Trombley seems to pick up on that. “No, but I don’t have a choice, do I?” He sighs after the silence stretches into the uncomfortable. “I…I don’t think that I’m gonna make it through this, Sergeant Colbert. Chuckler wasn’t lying. Don’t eat. Don’t drink. It does something to you.”
----
When the road and the vehicle appeared again that morning, the three set off with the only conversation between them involving orders to do this or that from Brad. The sun bakes through the up-armored vehicle and air conditioning as if it is non-existent, resulting in Brad and Walt rolling their windows as far down as possible. Trombley is in the turret, languidly traversing the MK-19 across the barren landscape, every now and then letting an extremely noticeable shiver run through his body.
Brad barely pays any attention to it, though. He gives up on hailing a friendly unit and instead flicks his comms through the static, to find something he refuses he admits looking for. Every now and again he finds it, a whisper of his name that sounds like it comes from his mother or Nate. Nothing slid, though, and it could be just something that he imagi-
“CONTACT, NINE O’CLOCK! 200 METERS!” Brad jumps at the shout that issues from his headset. From Walt’s pained expression, it also blares out from the hand mic attached to his ear. The two share a look, but Walt keeps driving. Trombley’s gone rigid in the turret nest. “Assassin 3 Actual, this is Assassin 3-2! We have a man down! Stand by for 9-line medevac report.”
“Oh, fuck. Colton, he’s got it fuckin’ bad, man.”
“Assassin 3-2, we’re waiting for that report, over.”
"Uh…right. Line 1….”
The communication line cuts just as Trombley shouts “STOP!” at the top of his lungs. No sooner does Walt stop then a large shape falls and hits the pavement before the HMMWV with a very audible CRACK!
“Dismount!” The words are out of his mouth before Brad even realizes he gives the order. Walt and Brad rush with opening the heavy steel doors of the truck and move to the front of the vehicle. A man in desert MARPAT is laid out just before the grille of the HMMWV and trying to get to his feet. The two men quickly move into position and level their weapons on him. He manages to get to his feet, albeit slightly pained, before stopping cold. Brad finally recognizes him, though he looks much older than he remembers.
“If someone asked me if I was gonna see Sergeant Brad Colbert today, in the flesh, I’d beat the living shit out of them,” the man says. The tanned skin of his face moves to form a childish grin. “As it is, here I am, and the circle keeps goin’ on, Oo-rah?”
“Yeah, Semper fi and all that cheesy bullshit,” Brad replies before dropping his weapon. “It’s good to see you.”
“What can I say? We’re all meant to see each other again at some point, Brother.”
Title: Purgatory Part 7
Rating: R for language, nudity, and character death
Pairings/characters: Colbert, Trombley, Hasser
Summary: Lambs without a shepherd, shepherd without a flock. It is your sins which hold you here.
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals. I do not own any person named in this fic, and I don't own the source material, except for a copy of the miniseries on DVD. This is for pleasure, not for profit.
To Chapter 6
When Brad and Walt find Trombley, he’s unconscious and convulsing. The two quickly move to his side. Brad rolls him onto his side while Walt grabs his wrist to check for a pulse. “His heart rate’s through the roof, Colbert.”
“Well, what do you want me to do about it, Walt? Until he calms down, we can’t do shit for him.” Brad wishes now that he’d paid more attention to the classes Doc Bryan gave when they were getting set to deploy, when they were in Kuwait and he went around showing people how to apply a tourniquet. There was something in the back of his mind though, nagging at him. This was Iraq, or some Bosch impression of it. People collapse all the time out here, and usually because….
“Walt, see if the Magical Humvee of Unbelievable Retardedness is there, or if it left behind a medical kit or something. If that fails, get some water from that oasis any way you think you can, understand?”
“But that guy said-“
“Fuck him! It’s either listen to some cryptic gypsie bullshit and watch Trombley continue to flop around like a fish, or get some water and have a better chance of saving him than we do right now.” Walt doesn’t hesitate this time when he runs, leaving Brad with his youngest charge. The poor kid stopped convulsing, but now he keeps breathing short, quick breaths at a level of labor that worries Colbert. He rolls Trombley back onto his back and works toward removing his blouse, all the while listening to his breathing to ensure it remains unobstructed. Brad curses the Marine Corps often, about various stupid inconveniences, but now his ire is focused on the amount of buttons the Corps decided to put on the uniform. He has no knife to cut through the fabric, so this is his best bet.
Finally, the blouse is free of buttons and Brad quickly rolls Trombley back to his side to make removing his blouse easier. When that’s done, he removes his undershirt, boots, and socks as well before once again Trombley is on his back with his feet on Colbert’s lap. Brad places a hand on the boy’s forehead to gauge his temperature, and isn’t surprised to discover that he’s burning up. Soon he can hear someone running toward the two, causing him to go on edge, but after a shout from the stranger, surmises it’s Walt. “Have you figured out what caused the seizure, yet?” The question is asked as he passes Brad two heavy canteens of water.
“He’s showing some pretty heavy signs of heat stroke, but I can’t say for sure. It doesn’t make sense to me, though, because none of us have felt even the need to drink water.” The first canteen is dumped on Trombley, thoroughly soaking him in cold water. The kid splutters, but remains unconscious. Half of the second is poured on Trombley’s blouse and undershirt before they get wrapped around him like two obscenely tiny baby blankets. He hands Walt the half-empty canteen before slinging his weapon to his back and gently lifting Trombley from the ground. His breathing’s calmed, finally, and he doesn’t feel quite so hot anymore with the wet clothing doing its job. “Walt, grab his SAW and boots, please. We’re setting camp by the pond.”
Trombley starts to stir on the way back, as darkness nearly overtakes the trio. He looks behind Colbert at Walt before involuntarily snuggling into the taller man’s chest. “What happened?” he asks Brad, his voice weaker than his team leader had ever heard it before.
“You passed out, probably from dehydration,” Brad’s voice is soft yet holds the ever-surgical factual tone he carries with just about everyone. “Your temperature was spiking and you were convulsing pretty badly.”
“Dehy….no.” Brad sets Trombley down in the clearing he’d watched the lake from earlier, only this time refusing to look into its depths. The boy starts shivering in the darkness, and starts stripping down to nothing after Walt starts a fire, opting to get as close to it as possible. Walt offers him the half-empty canteen, but Trombley refuses. “I thought I saw….Corporal Person out there."
“Ray?” Walt’s voice carries an air of concern rarely shown for Trombley, and the boy shrugs.
“I’m not sure. It could’ve been Ray, but then I thought I saw that guy with the violin. I remember…eating something, but I can’t remember-“
“Leave it be, ok?” Brad’s voice is almost inaudible. “It might be one of those monsters out there. Get warm and wait for your clothes to dry out. We’re getting the fuck out of here when the sun comes up, with or without that truck.”
---
The night was restless for all three of them. They had no tools to make ranger graves, no HMMWV for what little armor it could provide in the middle of the night, and no comfort of having the rest of Bravo nearby. It was merely three men in a world more alien even than the Hell hole that was named Operation Iraqi Freedom.
The silence of the night was broken by the noise of warfare. MLRS exploded all around them, the force and sound of the explosives heard and felt, but there was no flash on impact, no debris from the damage. Small-arms fire accompanied this, and not even Brad’s NVGs could show him a source, or even a path that these weapons were taking around them. Trombley sits where he first did, nude and curled into a fetal position. If it were quiet, Brad would be able to know that the boy is crying. Walt merely sits by the fire, trying to pretend that this doesn’t affect him as much as it does Trombley as hbe stokes the flame or adds more fuel to their only source of light.
Brad opens his eyes a few hours later to the first feeble glow of gray dawn. He doesn’t know when he fell asleep, and it doesn’t feel like it was long, though Trombley is now dressed, his weapon cradled to his body like a toy. Walt’s gone to sleep as well. If the fire were still burning, he’d more than likely be in danger of losing his hair.
Brad signals to Trombley to come over to him, and the boy does so, albeit reluctantly. There’s still fear in his eyes, but there’s also a small bit of hope there, as well. “Are you okay with us moving as soon as we can?” the question sounds sincere, but in the back of his head, Brad feels that if the answer is no, that he and Walt just might leave him.
Trombley seems to pick up on that. “No, but I don’t have a choice, do I?” He sighs after the silence stretches into the uncomfortable. “I…I don’t think that I’m gonna make it through this, Sergeant Colbert. Chuckler wasn’t lying. Don’t eat. Don’t drink. It does something to you.”
----
When the road and the vehicle appeared again that morning, the three set off with the only conversation between them involving orders to do this or that from Brad. The sun bakes through the up-armored vehicle and air conditioning as if it is non-existent, resulting in Brad and Walt rolling their windows as far down as possible. Trombley is in the turret, languidly traversing the MK-19 across the barren landscape, every now and then letting an extremely noticeable shiver run through his body.
Brad barely pays any attention to it, though. He gives up on hailing a friendly unit and instead flicks his comms through the static, to find something he refuses he admits looking for. Every now and again he finds it, a whisper of his name that sounds like it comes from his mother or Nate. Nothing slid, though, and it could be just something that he imagi-
“CONTACT, NINE O’CLOCK! 200 METERS!” Brad jumps at the shout that issues from his headset. From Walt’s pained expression, it also blares out from the hand mic attached to his ear. The two share a look, but Walt keeps driving. Trombley’s gone rigid in the turret nest. “Assassin 3 Actual, this is Assassin 3-2! We have a man down! Stand by for 9-line medevac report.”
“Oh, fuck. Colton, he’s got it fuckin’ bad, man.”
“Assassin 3-2, we’re waiting for that report, over.”
"Uh…right. Line 1….”
The communication line cuts just as Trombley shouts “STOP!” at the top of his lungs. No sooner does Walt stop then a large shape falls and hits the pavement before the HMMWV with a very audible CRACK!
“Dismount!” The words are out of his mouth before Brad even realizes he gives the order. Walt and Brad rush with opening the heavy steel doors of the truck and move to the front of the vehicle. A man in desert MARPAT is laid out just before the grille of the HMMWV and trying to get to his feet. The two men quickly move into position and level their weapons on him. He manages to get to his feet, albeit slightly pained, before stopping cold. Brad finally recognizes him, though he looks much older than he remembers.
“If someone asked me if I was gonna see Sergeant Brad Colbert today, in the flesh, I’d beat the living shit out of them,” the man says. The tanned skin of his face moves to form a childish grin. “As it is, here I am, and the circle keeps goin’ on, Oo-rah?”
“Yeah, Semper fi and all that cheesy bullshit,” Brad replies before dropping his weapon. “It’s good to see you.”
“What can I say? We’re all meant to see each other again at some point, Brother.”