The Miles That Lay Ahead - Chapter 8

The Miles That Lay Ahead

by Gabi

Genre: Action/Adventure/Angst
Rating: PG-13 (one or two chapters will be rated R later on)

Disclaimer: I guess I own the aliens in this story, the friendly as well as the unfriendly ones, but unfortunately none of the Enterprise staff.

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Chapter 8

Groaning, Trip crawled out from under the console and wiped his sweaty face in a weary gesture. Then he picked up the water bag to take a big gulp. He was finally done. His muscles were aching like hell, even those in his legs which hadn't suffered any strain at all, and he had a hard time controlling the shaking of his hands, but it had been worth it. The helm should be working again. He hadn't been able to reactivate the computer, but the manual override was all set and done. Granted, he had been forced to remove a few more pieces of wall paneling, and knew that all his repair work was little more than a temporary patch up job which could fall apart the second they tried to bring it into function. But it was all he could do. The only thing left to fix were the thrusters, and he would do that as soon as Malcolm was back. With a little luck this scrap heap the shuttle had become was going to take them away from here in less than a few hours. Always assuming, of course, that the planet had something else to offer besides deserts.

Trip looked up. He had no idea how much time had passed, but something told him that Malcolm was long overdue. It was way too hot. The second sun must have risen long since. Trip crawled over to the hatch and pulled it open. He had to squint for the sunlight hit him right in the face, and Trip realized that at least two hours had passed since the second sunrise.

"Dammit, Malcolm, where are you?" Trip was beginning to get worried. There was no way Malcolm could walk for a longer period of time in this heat, and especially not with limited water supplies at his disposal. But maybe he had found water somewhere out there. Maybe he was somewhere waiting in the shadow until the worst midday heat was over. Surely there was no reason to get worried. In all likelihood, Malcolm was doing just fine.

Trip leaned against the hatch, staring out at the desert. No matter how firmly he tried convincing himself that everything was alright, he couldn't get rid of that feeling. The feeling that told him that Malcolm wasn't doing fine at all. That told him that Malcolm had been surprised by the second sunrise and was now slowly being killed by the terrible heat somewhere out in the desert. Hatefully, Trip stared down at his legs. Why the hell couldn't they simply cooperate and allow him to get up? He had to find Malcolm. But how was he supposed to do that without being able to walk?

Trip's eyes followed the tracks Malcolm had left in the sand. If he were only able to follow those tracks, they would lead him directly to Malcolm. His inability to do anything to help his friend made Trip so angry he felt like screaming and hitting something. He brought his fist down on his thigh with a curse, and gasped in pain when his muscles reacted with a short but painful convulsion. Together with the pain his anger subsided, and Trip leaned back against the door, thinking. He didn't have much time left. He had to repair the engine before his body betrayed him again. If he was able to start the shuttle, he could start looking for Malcolm. But without being able to get up he couldn't reach the thrusters. He needed Malcolm to help him.

The engineer closed his eyes for a brief moment, realizing that his thoughts were running in circles. Malcolm wasn't here. He had to solve this problem on his own. Trip let several optional ways of action pass before his mental eye, but found that none of them were really useful. He couldn't build a stairway or find a way to rappel down from the airlock on the shuttle's roof. It would all take too much time and physical strength. He had to think of something else.

When Trip reached out for the rope tied to the hatch's handle, he suddenly spotted something a long way off, a dark spot in the desert. Stopping in his tracks, Trip pulled himself up to see what it was. There definitely was something out there, in a distance of about 500 meters. Trip felt his pulse quickening. Could it be Malcolm? Frantically, he looked around. Where were those binoculars that had fallen from one of the storage compartments? Trip had tried to convince Malcolm to take them with him, but the tactical officer had only smiled a somewhat condescending smile and said that he was far better off with his scanner. Where the hell had he put them?

Trip let out a sigh of relief when he finally spotted the binoculars in a far corner of the shuttle. He crawled back to the hatch, wiped the lenses on his sandy t-shirt and raised the binoculars to his eyes, feeling his heart hammering against his chest.

When the binoculars allowed him a clear view of what it was he was looking at, Trip felt his chest contract painfully. It was Malcolm. Malcolm lying on the sand, not moving at all. Trip ran his teeth across his lower lip. How long had Malcolm been lying there? Was he... was he dead?

Trip put the binoculars aside, leaned back against the hatch and closed his eyes. What the hell was he going to do? He couldn't get out there. It was only about 500 meters, but it could just as well have been 5000. His paralyzed legs would carry him nowhere, and his body was already on the verge of physical collapse. How was he supposed to crawl through 500 meters of burning hot sand? And even more important, how was he supposed to take Malcolm back to the shuttle? He was feeling weak and dizzy already, and knew what was going to happen if he exerted himself any further. He felt it in every fiber of his aching body. If he took it upon himself to crawl out there, he would suffer another relapse. Trip felt his throat go dry at the idea.

Still, there was no way he could just leave Malcolm out there. Despite all that could happen to him if he tried to reach him, he still had to at least try and save him. Trip wasn't going to consider the pros and cons of putting his health first and leaving Malcolm to die out there in the desert. That was simply out of the question. He'd just force his body to cooperate until Malcolm was rescued, even though Trip had no idea how this rescuing was going to work.

Trip slipped the strap of the last water bag over his shoulder and gathered up a thick rope which he fastened to his waist. Hoping it would provide at least some protection from the merciless sun, he put one of the Starfleet caps on his head, then pushed his legs out the hatch and let go. A dull pain shot through his legs as he dropped onto the sand below, but Trip ignored it, just as he ignored his overall weariness and exhaustion. He didn't have time for that now. He had to get to Malcolm, and wasn't going to be stopped by his own less-than-perfect condition.

500 meters. Under normal circumstances he'd cover that distance in a few minutes without having to get his breath back afterwards. Now, however, his destination could just as well have been the end of the world. The twin suns were burning in the sky, emitting a scorching heat, and the sand felt like live charcoals on his skin. Again, Trip cursed his short-sleeved shirt which exposed his arms to the sunlight as well as to the hot sand. They were reddened with sunburn already, and he knew that staying out here was only going to make it worse.

Meter by meter Trip pulled himself through the sand. The cut on his calf was stinging almost as bad as his arms were. Gritting his teeth, Trip kept his eyes fixed on the small dark spot that was Malcolm, and hoped fervently that he wasn't too late. His friend just couldn't be dead. Trip knew he would never be able to forgive himself if Malcolm died out there.

Trip's breathing was becoming strained, and he felt sweat spring from his brow, trickling into his eyes. His movements became increasingly awkward and slow, and he was hardly able to keep his eyes open anymore, feeling like he was being roasted alive by the blazing suns. It felt like his body was steaming with heat. He had no idea how long he had been crawling through the hot sand, but in the meantime he was able to make out Malcolm's still form quite clearly. Desperately, Trip squinted to see if Malcolm was moving at all, but Reed lay perfectly still.

"Malcolm!" Trip shouted, fighting the dryness of his throat. "Malcolm, can you hear me?"

As he made his way through the sand inch by endless inch, Trip felt close to tears. He was too slow, wasting precious minutes by pulling his body through the sand instead of walking. Minutes that could make the difference between life and death for Malcolm. Trip tried to fasten his pace even though he was already panting and gasping for air. Somewhere at the back of his mind he registered that the skin on his arms was beginning to crack, the sand rubbing against the sore places, but he didn't feel it. His body was one big ocean of pain, and Trip knew that it was sheer willpower that still kept him going. He had to reach Malcolm and see if his friend was still alive.

When he finally reached his destination, Trip was hardly able to believe that he had made it. His lungs were burning from the hot air, and his throat felt as though it was on fire. With shaking hands, Trip felt for a pulse, hardly able to detect the faint throbbing for his own blood was pounding in his ears. Then, however, he felt a vague movement beneath his finger tips. Malcolm was alive. Trip took Reed's shoulder and shook him gently.

"Malcolm! Malcolm, can you hear me? Wake up, Mal."

Malcolm groaned, but gave no response.

"Malcolm!" With an effort, Trip rolled the lieutenant onto his back, propped up his head, and held the water bag to his lips. "You gotta drink, Malcolm. C'mon!"

Malcolm was barely conscious enough to swallow the water Trip gave him, but then his eyes closed again and his head fell limply back to one side.

"Stay with me, Mal," Trip begged desperately as he lowered the water bag again. "I can't carry you back to the shuttle. You gotta help me, please."

He realized he was talking to an unconscious man. Casting a glance back at the shuttle that seemed miles away, Trip felt tears begin to trickle down his cheeks. Desperately, he scrunched up his eyes to hold them back. He couldn't afford to waste his body's water resources in that way. Clearly, Malcolm's attempt to find water had not worked out. They couldn't stock up their supplies, and all they still had left was in the bag he was carrying.

Trip looked down at Malcolm, considering. Even with both his legs working and able to move, it seemed impossible to carry a body in this heat.

But he couldn't leave Malcolm here. And he couldn't stay with him, either, for the suns would slowly kill them both if he did. Trip took another big gulp of water before he slipped the bag's strap back over his shoulder. Then he unfastened the rope. Somehow, he had to secure Malcolm on his back so he could drag him with him when he crawled back to the shuttle. But what was he supposed to do with Reed's hands? If they dragged through the sand the entire way, Malcolm's injuries would only get worse. Coming to a decision, Trip rolled his friend back onto his stomach. He cut off a piece of rope and tied Malcolm's hands loosely behind his back.

"Sorry, old buddy," he muttered. "It's nothin' personal."

Trip slipped the rope under Reed's arms. Then he somehow lifted the other man onto his back, fiddling with the rope until Malcolm was more or less safely secured. It was a difficult task, but somehow, he should be able to half-carry, half-drag the lieutenant along with him. But that was the problem - he still had to get back. The same distance, but this time with an additional weight on his back. Trip smiled grimly as he realized the irony of the situation.

"Well, at least now I can return the favor of carryin' me back to the shuttle," he joked, remembering how Malcolm had saved him from the alien lab back on that moon all those weeks ago. But at the time, Malcolm had at least been able to walk. Trip sighed, gathered his strength and began to slowly pull himself forward. Again and again, he tried to talk to Malcolm, wake him up. If Malcolm was able to walk or at least crawl only a few steps on his own, it would be a big help. But Malcolm didn't move, nor did he give any sound. Trip was worried. Even through the layers of clothing he could feel the heat Reed's body was emitting; he was burning up, and more likely than not it wasn't only the after-effects of staying in the sun for too long. Trip hoped fervently that they were going to make it back to the shuttle still in time.

Trip fought a battle against his own body, and he was determined to win it. At times, he felt like another contact with the hot, grazing sand would simply be too much for his sore arms, and with every movement he felt part of his strength being drained away.

"I - hate - deserts," he uttered through gritted teeth, with a fervor that surprised himself. Save your breath, he scolded himself inwardly, reaching out to pull himself forward yet again. In the meantime he was feeling nauseous with sheer exhaustion, and felt like he was going to be sick any minute. Black spots were dancing in front of his eyes, and his head was pounding. Trip uttered a silent prayer that he wouldn't lose consciousness. His pulse was throbbing in his ears, and the blood in his veins seemed to be boiling. The hot air burned in his lungs, and Malcolm's heavy body was pressing him down, making it harder and harder for him to move. But giving up was not an option. He was almost there. The shuttle was only a few meters away.

Shortly before he had reached the small vessel, the world began to spin around him. Trip's arms gave way under him, and he fell face forward in the sand. He tried to take a deep breath to get rid of the nausea that was threatening to overwhelm him, but the air was too hot to draw it deep into his lungs. He felt so sick he was hardly able to think straight. Suddenly his stomach gave a lurch, and Trip was barely able to raise his head when his meager morning meal came back up. But the feeling of nausea wouldn't subside. Trip choked and retched, afraid he'd throw up his guts if it didn't stop soon. His throat felt like it was on fire, and when the nausea finally wore off, Trip closed his eyes in relief. He still felt weak and exhausted, but at least his upset stomach had settled again. After covering the vomit with sand, Trip raised the water bag to his lips and took a sip to rid himself of the vile taste in his mouth.

Then he looked back at the shuttle. Only twenty meters to go. He'd come that far, he was going to manage the last few meters as well. Malcolm still hadn't moved, and again Trip became aware of the heat his body was radiating. He had to get Malcolm out of the sun. Briefly closing his eyes, Trip took a deep breath. Then he straightened his arms and began to pull himself forward.

When he had finally reached the hatch, Trip didn't even have the strength left to feel relieved. He cut the rope he had used to secure Malcolm's body and rolled the lieutenant off his back. Trip felt tempted to lie down in the sand and rest for a few minutes, but the last great effort still lay before him. He had to lift Malcolm into the shuttle. Panting and gasping for air, he pulled and pushed the heavy body through the hatch, then climbed in as well. When Trip reached up to close the hatch, a tremor ran through his arm. He had to use both hands to pull down the hatch, and lost his balance as he fastened the rope with shaking fingers. He fell on his side, but instead of getting up again, he simply stayed where he was, enjoying the feeling of lying perfectly still. He'd made it.

Despite his relief at having brought Malcolm back, however, Trip knew that he would have to pay the price for this rescue mission. His body ached for some much-needed rest, but there were still things left for him to do. He had to take care of Malcolm.

Taking a few deep breaths, Trip fought to stop the uncontrolled shaking by sheer willpower, and waited for his racing heart to slow down. With trembling hands, he untied Malcolm's hands and rolled the lieutenant onto his back. Reed's face was pale and puffed up, his skin hot and dry. He was running a high fever. Carefully, Trip wet the cleanest rag he could find and washed Malcolm's face, then wet the rag again and placed it on the lieutenant's hot forehead. Reaching out for the med kit, Trip considered applying a new bandage to Malcolm's hands, but then decided against it. His own hands were shaking with exhaustion, and he surmised he would do more damage than good if he tried to peel those things off Malcolm's hands.
The Lieutenant's hands were infected; Trip didn't have to be a doctor to make that diagnosis. He could smell it. And the yellowish stains on the bandages were not only dirt left from the sand; Trip saw that the white mull was soaked with pus. The idea of leaving those hands untreated didn't sit well with Trip, but he would have to wait until his own trembling subsided before he tried to do anything about it. No need to add to Malcolm's pain by trying to treat him when he wasn't in the condition to do so. But at least he could give Malcolm some antibiotics, something for the fever and another painkiller. Sadly, Trip stared down at their dwindling supplies. He could have used a little painkiller himself. Judging by the stinging pain in his leg, the cut on his calf was infected as well, and his arms were still burning like hell, covered with small, dark drops of blood. Still, Malcolm needed the analgesic more than he did. Trip filled half of the left-over painkiller into a hypo, a difficult task with his hands trembling and shaking. He had to concentrate very hard, using his left hand to stabilize the right one while he injected Malcolm with the analgesic. Even though the dose wasn't large enough to numb all of the pain, Malcolm should be alright until the early evening.

When Trip pressed the hypo with the fever-reducer against Malcolm's neck, Reed moaned softly, and opened his eyes. Still disoriented, he took a look around. "Where am I?"

"Back in the shuttle, Mal." Forcing his hands to stop shaking, Trip raised the water bag to Reed's lips. "Drink this."

"There is no water," the lieutenant whispered hoarsely. His eyes were clouded, and he still seemed quite out of it.

"Yes, there is," Trip said reassuringly. "C'mon, Mal, you gotta drink somethin’."

Obediently, Malcolm took a sip. Trip gave him as much of the water as possible. It was all they still had left, but if Malcolm didn't drink enough liquid now, he was going to die. When Trip finally lowered Reed's head back to the floor, there were only a few mouthfuls left in the bag. Trip let them slowly run down his throat, enjoying every single drop. Might as well be the last water he ever saw in his life. But it wasn't even enough to wash the sand out of his mouth. Trip shook the bag to see if there were still a few drops left, then put it aside. Well, that was that. For how long would they be able to survive without any water, stranded in the middle of a desert?

Trip looked down at his friend who had fallen asleep in the meantime. At least he wasn't unconscious anymore. Letting out a deep sigh, Trip lay down on the floor, finally allowing his body the rest it needed so badly. A pillow would be nice, but he didn't have the strength left to get one from one of the bunks. For a while the painful tugging and throbbing in his muscles kept him awake, and he felt the shaking spread, taking possession of his whole body as he tried to relax. Then, however, even that sensation faded away, and Trip slipped into an exhausted sleep.

TBC

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