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Luka isn't terribly concerned when Carter doesn't return from his trip to offer vaccines to a few villages in the bush on the day they discussed. It's not unusual for any number of reasons to cause delays, everything from car trouble to weather to a host insisting that you stay just one more night having caused Luka to be delayed himself on several such trips. Still, he finds himself looking out when he passes a window, absently listening for the sound of an approaching engine as he goes from patient to patient.
When night falls on the second day and Carter still hasn't returned, Angelique comes up beside Luka where he stands on the porch watching the fireflies, digging her elbow into his side and pointing out that he himself is almost always late, and now he knows how it feels for the rest of them.
"I'm sure he's fine," Luka chuckles, ignoring the by now persistent twinge of anxiety. "He can take care of himself."
Angelique snorts. "I wouldn't go that far."
By the fourth day, everyone is worried. Luka and Gillian travel to the villages Carter was supposed to visit, being told by each that the mzungu never showed up.
Luka sees his own increasingly heavy apprehension reflected in Gillian's face, pulled tight at the mouth and reddening with the threat of tears, as they return to the car. He puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her close. "We'll find him," he murmurs into her hair.
On the sixth day, the American embassy is visited and their requests for assistance are denied thanks to additional turmoil due to the upcoming execution of a convicted Mai-Mai war criminal. Luka is reminded curtly that the embassies strongly advised all expats to leave weeks ago for this very reason.
Luka thinks of their friends at County, of Abby. Carter's family. What will he tell them if he can't find Carter? If Carter came out here at his request and Luka brings him home in a body bag?
Gillian turns her face toward the window on the way back, but Luka sees the tears streaking her face in the dusty reflection.
He prays. Harder than he has prayed since Danijela, he prays.
It's been thirteen days when a rusted white truck, the bed of it full of Mai-Mai soldiers, pulls in front of the clinic. Luka stands in the doorway, hands freezing where they're still tangled in the towel he was using to wipe them. He only distantly senses the crowd forming at his back, trying to see what's going on. As he watches, the truck slows in its drive-by, but doesn't stop. One of the soldiers catches Luka's gaze and holds it, his expression unreadable, as he and another throw open the tailgate and a body is unceremoniously rolled out to tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs and a cloud of dust.
The truck speeds away, and Luka stands frozen.
The man on the ground is white, his build familiar even with the apparent loss of weight.
"Is that…" Angelique has pressed herself against his back to peer over his shoulder.
Luka nods vacantly, unable to force words past the dread in his throat.
Fear of what he'll find hollowing out his legs, but aware of the fearful eyes on him, looking to him for direction, Luka takes a step forward. Two. Forcing leaden limbs to cross the distance between the ability to hope and the terminal horror of certainty.
Then Carter stirs.
Luka surges forward, hope and alarm swelling in equal measures, Angelique hot on his heels.
"Carter?" He falls to his knees at the other man's side, turning him over to get a look at his face, hands already darting up and down his frame in search of injuries. "Carter!"
The younger man opens his eyes wearily, resting a trembling hand on Luka's wrist to halt his movements. His skin is sweltering with fever. "I'm okay," he mumbles, looking anything but—he's pale as death and covered in a fine layer of sweat, bruises here and there marking his skin. "Malaria," he supplies, eyes falling shut again.
"Malaria? Carter?" Fruitlessly, Luka shakes him. "Carter."
Angelique meets his eyes and turns back to stare at the now-empty road, the only proof they were here at all the already settling dust and Carter's slack form beneath Luka's hands.
They waste no time getting him inside, Angelique propping herself under one shoulder and Luka the other. Halfway to the building, Carter comes back to himself enough to at least try to help them by walking, but his steps are too slow for their urgent feet, his own dragging clumsily in the dust.
Too harshly, Luka shouts at the still gathered patients and families, shouldering people out of their way, clearing a path to the makeshift trauma room. He knows their concern is as much for Carter's well-being as his is, but the last weeks of fearful not-knowing have worn him thin. This is a far better scenario than the ones he has tried not to dream up late at night, or when he has a moment of stillness, so he should be relieved. And he is—Carter is here, alive and in one piece, but Carter is slung between them like a wet sheet out to dry, his skin is papery beneath Luka's hand on his wrist, and Luka can feel the hummingbird-like thrum of tachycardia beneath his thumb. Their days of fear are far from over.
His demeanor shifts abruptly when they get Carter to the trauma room, helping Angelique to ease him to the bed with the same gentleness with which he once put his children to bed. "Take it easy, Carter. You're going to be okay."
Carter sighs in what would probably be a frustrated huff if he had the energy for it. "I'm telling you, it's just malaria."
"Shut up, John," Angelique says, warm voice belying her words. "You know how it works."
Luka busies himself unbuttoning Carter's filthy shirt—the familiar green khaki of a Congolese military uniform; Luka tries not to dwell on the implications of that—and is dismayed to find even more bruising on the skin beneath, varying from healing yellow to dark blue. "How did you get all these bruises?"
Carter rolls his head toward him and gives him a respectably unimpressed look for someone half-dead. "I just fell out of a truck."
Luka pauses long enough to level him with a look of his own, inside relieved to see the spark of Carter's personality is still intact. "I can't see those ones yet, Doctor Carter. What about these older ones?"
Carter slings an arm over his eyes. Angelique pulls it right back down, gesturing saucily at the cannula she's barely gotten taped in place. "Mai-Mai hospitality. Zero stars, do not recommend."
Nodding, Luka turns back to his examination. The fall from the truck certainly will not have helped matters—the skin of his chest, forearms, and belly are grazed where the canvas shirt had shifted and exposed him to the rocky soil—and Carter will likely be even more colorful by tomorrow.
Carter fades in and out, but mostly out, as they continue their exam. Despite the signs of abuse—on top of the bruising, they discover angry rope burns ringing both of his wrists—and evident weight loss, Carter was correct in his diagnosis, and malaria and dehydration quickly prove to be their chief concerns. And a concern it is. Carter's fever is dangerously high, and his eyes show the sickly yellow tinges of early jaundice. For his malaria to be this progressed, he must have been well on his way to illness even before his capture. Luka clenches his teeth. If he had been here, home, they could have caught it early, treated him before it became dangerous.
"Carter. Carter, hey." He taps the man's cheek until he opens glassy eyes, waits as they wander until at last they focus on his own. "Have you had any seizures?"
Carter just frowns at him.
"I need you to focus, John. Your fever is very high. Have you had any seizures?"
He squeezes his eyes shut in concentration. "Um…No."
"Are you sure?"
Carter nods.
"Okay. Let's see about keeping it that way." He feels Angelique's eyes on him as she connects Carter to an IV. He ignores her. He knows what she's thinking; he's thinking it himself.
They have no way to chill the fluids they give Carter, no way even to give him an ice bath. If the meds don't work quickly enough, if his fever keeps climbing…
Luka clenches his teeth. That won't happen.
In the time between checking his patients, Luka sits with Carter. He sleeps, but the fever leaves him agitated, head occasionally tossing fitfully as the red sun sinks toward the horizon, shining through the window to glitter in the fibers of the mosquito net, lighting it like a golden spiderweb and lending a starriness to the dancing dust motes.
Luka is fumbling with his rosary when Gillian enters the room, returned from picking up supplies in the village. They've moved Carter to his own room, to keep beds free and to give him privacy.
"I heard what happened," she says softly, pained eyes fixed on Carter's pale face. "The Mai-Mai had him this whole time?"
It was what they had all feared and no one dared to voice. But the fact that they let him live…It's miraculous. His prayers had been answered. He had no church, no priest, not even a rosary at the time, yet God heard his prayers and answered them.
"Looks that way," he answers.
She takes in the bruising mottling Carter's skin, the bandages around his wrists, and lets out a low string of curses, harsh words juxtaposed with the tender way she strokes back the hair from his forehead. He stills under her touch, letting out a broken sigh.
"When will all of this be over?" she whispers.
Luka only hums. When, indeed.
Carter dreams. Fitfully, tearfully, and at times, loudly.
Like fluid in the lungs, horror and dread rise higher and higher in Luka's chest the longer he sits with him. His attempts to soothe are mostly ineffective, and the small snatches of coherent speech he manages to make out leave him feeling somewhat sick. He catches names, sometimes. A few of them familiar—Luka's breath halts when he hears the name Lucy—most of them clearly Congolese and new to Luka's ears. The name Taveta comes up several times, broken and ragged with grief or fear. He speaks, too, of someone named Dennis, apologizing over and over until he at last exhausts himself, slipping into deeper, if still restless, sleep.
Luka watches him, similarly restless.
Carter has never seen war before—not really. Not like this. He hasn't lived through it. Luka had called him on it once, pointed out the removed, almost clinical idea of war held by most Americans.
Well, Carter has certainly had a taste of it now—and not as a soldier, but a prisoner. A captive.
Luka thinks of Carter's bright-eyed optimism, his belief in people and belligerent kindness in spite of all the things he's seen that should have made him jaded. The Congo isn't Chicago, and the Mai-Mai aren't some group of street thugs. Will this be the experience that finally, conclusively dims Carter's spirit?
He had once thought perhaps it needed to be dimmed—that it was a necessary part of life to see the horrors of the world, unfair that some people were subjected and others lived their entire lives with no true understanding of evil or suffering. The Carter family seemed a prime example.
But now…
If there were some way for Luka to protect that light, he would in a heartbeat. The something that John Carter has, a purity of belief or wonder or something, something that is usually left in the dust of childhood—Danijela had that same something. And Carter has somehow managed to cling to it by his fingernails.
Whatever it is, it is far too close to extinction in the world. He prays that somehow Carter's survives this.
He knew Carter just long enough before that horrible Valentine's Day to have seen the way that had been enough to dim his light, give it a solid beating, and the drugs afterward only darkening the shroud about him further.
He's watched Carter reclaim some of it since coming to the Congo, despite the conditions he sees every day. Even the thought of seeing him lose what he's just reclaiming again pains Luka.
When the medications prove no match for Carter's climbing temperature, Gillian comes in with water and washcloths, and they brush them over his face, his neck, his bare arms and chest in a desperate attempt to buy time.
The first seizure comes in the middle of the night.
Luka had politely turned down all urges to go get some sleep in his own bed, and now wakes from restless dreams in his chair by Carter's to Angelique shaking his shoulder.
He's opening his mouth to ask what's wrong when he sees for himself.
Carter is rigid in the bed, bruised muscles taut and quaking in the clutches of the seizure, rhythmic spasms wracking him and sending his limbs to smack against the mattress, his neck arching with such force it looks painful, irises losing to white sclerae as his head thrusts against the pillow again and again.
"Do we have Ativan?"
Angelique shakes her head, eyes wide and locked on their tormented friend.
"Valium?"
"No."
"Versed? Anything?" He's shouting now, and she shouts right back, gaze snapping to his, flashing hot.
"No, Luka! We don't have anything, and we won't until Debbie gets back from Kinshasa."
He curses, tearing a hand through his hair. "How long has it been?"
"I don't know, he was already in it when I came in here." She looks at her watch. "Forty-five seconds since then."
They stand there for a moment, frozen with indecision, fighting unfamiliar panic, the only sounds the thumps of Carter's limbs and uncanny grunting as his body tries vainly to pull in air.
"What do you want to do?" Angelique asks at last.
"I don't know, I—"
An idea springs in Luka's mind. Lurching forward, he begins tearing the tape holding the IV port to Carter's hand.
"What are you doing?"
Carefully, he pulls the catheter from the vein and begins gathering Carter up as well as he can with the seizures wracking his body. "Taking him outside. Get the door."
"Outside?" Angelique presses incredulously, even as she moves to oblige. "What good will that do?"
Carter is taut in his arms, limbs continuing to thrash and contract against his grasp, distantly reminding Luka of carrying his children when they were having a tantrum. Angelique manages to plant her hand between Carter's jerking head and the doorframe as Luka squeezes through it, saving him from cracking it on the wood, but Carter's elbow is not so lucky, slamming into the doorframe with such force that an onlooker might think it was deliberate.
The patients and their families sitting out in the main ward look up as they exit Carter's room, Luka only distantly processing their stares at the admittedly odd sight. He pays them no mind, willing himself to move faster as he makes his way outside, struggling to maintain his grasp on Carter's writhing, sweat-slicked form. When he hits the ground outside, he begins running, absently thankful that the moon is bright enough to illuminate his path.
Behind him, Angelique seems to have caught on. "Are you sure about this?"
"Do you have a better idea?" he calls back, nearly going down when he steps on a large rock.
Navigating his way down the riverbank is a challenge with his seizing cargo, but by some miracle he manages, kicking off his shoes and wading out into the cool water until it's up to his chest. He lets go of Carter's legs then, banding his arms around the younger man's chest and letting his taut and spasming limbs drop into the water, lowering him until the water reaches his breastbone, allowing his own shoulder to protect Carter's head from injury as it thumps, thumps, thumps.
"How long?" he calls to Angelique over the rush of the river and the splashing of Carter's errant limbs.
"Three minutes, fifty-four seconds." Angelique supplies.
"Come on, Carter," he urges in the other man's ear. He's seen countless seizures in his career as a doctor, but staring at the jaundice-soured whites of Carter's eyes as they strain and bulge against their sockets sends a chill through him that has nothing to do with the cold river.
It feels like an eternity before Carter's thrashes weaken and slow, at last stilling save for a few residual tremors here and there, shuddering through him like seismic aftershocks. When he finally slackens, his chin dipping into the water, Luka hoists him higher, letting the water bear his weight as he turns the other man to face him, one hand supporting his head, the other preventing the current from claiming him.
"Five forty-six." Luka nods his acknowledgement to Angelique's update, seeing his own dizzying relief reflected in the woman's dark eyes. "Is he conscious?"
He looks down, jostling Carter a bit. The man's eyes are open, if barely, his irises once again blessedly visible.
"Carter? John, can you hear me?"
For a moment, he thinks Carter is trying to look at him, but then his eyes continue to stray past his face until they finally drift shut.
Luka shakes his head. "He's out." He guides Carter's head to rest on his shoulder and wraps his arms around the other man's back to hold him in place, freeing one hand enough to splash water over Carter's shoulders and head. "Let's just take it slow. Let him cool down for a bit."
Angelique blows out a puff of air and sinks to sit on the bank and Luka looks up at the cold stars, taking in the stillness of Carter against him, steadied by the very placidity that not an hour ago had frightened him.
All the panic has bled out of Luka by the time he's ready to get Carter inside, some combination of the cool water, the night air, and the steady thump of Carter's heart where the warm weight of him is draped over Luka filling him with peace.
He has done and is doing everything he can. The rest is up to Carter, and he has never known him to give up easily. He will fight. He will live.
The process of getting him back inside is significantly more languid than getting him out had been. At some point, Angelique went back inside and came back with towels and Gillian, the two of them helping Luka to maintain his balance as he shifts from near weightlessness to the heavy pull of dry land, clambering up the bank with Carter clutched tight in his arms. They sit in the grass, the girls toweling the both of them off as Luka supports the younger man, who is markedly cooler.
Finally, Gillian pulls her towel away from Carter's hair and wraps it around his shoulders as he begins to shiver. He's still too warm as Luka yet again hoists him up, but nothing like the broiling heat of before. The younger man stirs at the jostling, but doesn't wake, and it's a quiet trek back to the clinic.
Carter's fever continues to burn all through the night and into the next day, but his temperature slowly drops with each new reading. His sleep shifts from nightmared delirium to something deep and healing, and just before dusk on the next day, his fever breaks.
Luka once again sits in the chair at his side, a place that has become his anytime he isn't working or catching an hour of sleep, and a claim no one dared contest. Somewhere in the wing, someone is listening to twangy American country music on a crackling radio, and a cool breeze from the screened window sends Carter's mosquito net rustling. Luka watches the graceful motion, his eyes eventually falling again to the bed's occupant.
Who is looking back at him, his eyes weary but clear.
A spike of adrenaline kicks through Luka's heart and he leans forward, not bothering to hide the smile that crosses his face. "Hi."
Carter just blinks up at him dazedly.
"Carter? Are you with me?"
Another blink, harder, determined. He clears his throat, winces. "Yeah, I'm—what happened? I feel like I got hit by a car."
Luka chuckles, feeling at once deeply peaceful and nearly giddy with relief. "What kind of car?"
Carter frowns. "What?"
"On a scale of semi to Buick, what kind of car?"
Carter huffs, considering. "Ice cream truck."
"I see," Luka chuckles. Then, amusement fading, "You had a seizure. A long one."
"Ah. That would explain it." His eyes are already drooping again as he goes on. "How long…how long was I out?"
"You've been in and out for three days."
Carter hums and gives up the battle of keeping his eyes open.
Morning finds Carter even further improved, if feeble. Gillian brings him a plate of breakfast—fruit and mikate she bought from one of the village aunties—and Luka watches with amusement as she skips past the step where Carter learns he's too weak to hold a fork and moves right on to feeding him herself, sending a flush that has nothing to do with fever to color his cheeks and ears. He manages to eat half of it before even Gillian's coaxing is insufficient to keep him awake, the simple action of eating leaving him exhausted.
"He's going to be okay," she smiles to Luka as she stands and bends to run her hand over the forehead of their drifting friend.
Luka squeezes her hand as she moves toward the door. "He's going to be okay."
Carter wakes again not much later, rubbing a shaking hand over his face and uttering a hoarse apology. "Didn't mean to fall asleep."
"I'd say you've earned it."
Carter looks him up and down. "Looks like you have. When was the last time you slept? Or shaved?"
Luka chuckles. "I slept. I will sleep. And you're not in much of a position to talk about shaving, my friend."
His jab is acknowledged with a huff, Carter scratching at the developing beard on his face as silence falls between them, easy and comfortable. It wouldn't have been, a month ago. It's interesting, really, how two very different people can bond so deeply over the one commonality of finding themselves to be strangers in a strange land. In Chicago, though they worked together for years, they were never more than civil colleagues, and at times, not even civil. But in the short time since Carter joined him in Kisangani, they have gone from being coworkers to something on the verge of brotherhood. And at some point, this odd friendship has come to be perhaps the most important relationship Luka can remember in recent years.
"You were right," Carter says after a long while, voice rough, face turned away. "About war."
Luka bows his head. "I'm sorry." After a moment he dares softly, "What happened?"
"They needed a doctor. They found one."
Luka hums, not wanting to push him. "When did your symptoms start?"
A shrug. "Couple days in."
"Did you treat it at all?"
"I didn't have much quinine with me."
Luka meant it as a question, not an accusation, but the defensive tone with which Carter answers begs more questions. "So you took what you had?"
Carter remains silent.
Luka leans back as realization settles in. He scoffs. "You knew you were getting sick and you gave it to one of the Mai-Mai?"
The other man's eyes cut to his, sharp and sad. "He was just a kid, Luka."
"I don't believe this. They beat you, barely fed you, kept you tied up like a dog, and you endangered your own life to save one of theirs?" Except he can believe it. It's Carter. And…As angry as he's tempted to be, Luka is not at all sure he wouldn't have done the same thing in such a situation. He shakes his head and exhales his frustration. Then, gentler, "Did he make it?"
Carter closes his eyes. His whole throat flexes with the force of his swallow. "No," he whispers.
"I'm sorry." A name from Carter's delirium comes back to him. "Taveta?"
Carter nods and silence falls again, Luka pretending not to see the tears that escape Carter's closed lids to slip down pale cheeks, wondering when, if ever, Carter will be healed enough to tell him the things that happened in that camp.