He picked a few blades of grass from where he was sitting, lifted them in the palm of his right hand and peered at them.
“What d’you make of that, Mac?” he asked, offering them across to Henderson McGill. “Grass.”
“What color?”
“Green. What else?” He lowered his head. “Well, a kind of pinkish gray-green with that sandy dirt all over it.”
“No. It’s more red than any other color.”
“Like the forests,” exclaimed Carrie Princip, who was lying on her back, her head in Jed Herne’s lap. “Earthblood.”
The coyote gave its hunting cry again, and she shuddered.
Jim sighed. “Look. Something’s wrong as it can be. We got four dead friends burned up over there. It’ll soon be dark, and we need to be in the main mission command buildings by then.”
They’d come to their grinding halt at the far northwest of the base, with the rectangular block of control buildings behind them—at least four miles away across two runways.
“Want a status report on everyone, Captain?” asked Pete Turner.
“Good idea. I’ll start with me. I feel sick. Tired. Whiplash in the neck. But not so bad. How ’bout you, Pete?”
“Something hit me in the balls like a kicking mule. Pissing blood but it’ll pass. Feel sick. I can walk, though.”
“Mac?”
“Burn on the inside of my left arm. Can’t remember getting it. Feel as though I’ve taken part in a double triathlon. Nothing that a hot bath and forty-eight hours’ sleep—and a decent meal and drink—won’t cure.”
“Jed?”
The former pro footballer sniffed, touching his knee. “Ligament strain. Not so bad as I thought at first. Ribs sore, real sore. Ankle is strained. Not a sprain like I thought at first. Tendon pain in the left wrist. Small cut above the right ear, but it stopped bleeding. Think that’s all.”
Jim Hilton managed a smile. Every professional sportsman or woman that he’d ever known had been utterly preoccupied with his or her own body and its various minuscule malfunctions. “Can you walk?”
“Guess so, but not too far and not too fast. If we’re going to make the HQ by dark, I’d better get going right away.” He stood up, hopping on his good leg. “Anyone noticed some of those buildings look fire damaged? Soot around doors, windows and over the roof.” He hesitated. “But…but it’s hard to be sure at that distance. Might be shadows.”
“We’ll check it when we get there.” Jim turned to Carrie, who was still lying down. “How about you?”
“Just my head. Like it’s been filled with Crazeefoam and helium. Reckon I can make it. Like Jed said. Slow and easy.”
Jeff Thomas had been walking in small circles, kicking up puffs of dust from his expensive trainers. “Don’t bother asking, Captain Hilton. You can see, can’t you? If I look one quarter as bad as I feel, then your ass is history.”
McGill laughed despite the bizarre horror of their situation, managing to sound genuinely amused. “Truth is, Jeff, that you look twenty times worse than you feel.”
“Yeah, and fuck you, too, you…” he snarled, then stopped as McGill turned to smile at him.
“Steve?” Jim glanced across to where the radio operator was sitting in the dirt, head slumped. “Hey, Steve?”
“I’m in charge of communications, Captain. Yeah, I am.” Steve was nodding wisely. “In charge, all right. Me and Jeremiah. This is Sierra Tango Echo Victor Echo signing off.”
“Concussion,” said Mac, shaking his head. “He’ll be all right after a rest.”
“I’m fine, Captain. Get them in the third quarter. Quarter as good as he feels. I just want to Papa Uniform Kilo Echo—puke, that is.”
And he did.
That left Kyle Lynch.
He was barely conscious, drifting in and out, but they hadn’t been able to find a single wound or injury on him, apart from his having bitten through the very tip of his tongue.
Jim knelt by him, conscious of stiffness in his knees. “Kyle. You hear me, son?”
“Tell Rosa I love her.”
“You mean Leanne, Kyle. That’s the name of your girl.”
There was no reply.
“Concussion, as well, I reckon.” Mac looked down at the skinny black man. “Least he shouldn’t be too heavy to carry.”