Published at 8th of March 2024 7:43 am

Chapter Eighteen

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Dammit, I just realized I left my engraving tool in my room.

It was the afternoon and I was getting really worried about the spells I had stuck to my body. The one over my heart, the one responsible for blocking tracking magic, was getting—I guess the best word would be “soggy.” Clear liquid—plasma? I think? Was bubbling up under and around it, along with blisters that were filled with a gross looking off-white liquid. That part of my chest burned constantly, like a recently scratched itch. I was having bouts of light-headedness and I’m pretty sure that fever I predicted had arrived. I did predict it, right? If not, I should have.

I was using my claws to cut up one of the cans of peaches into a little medallion. After it was out, I was going to use my claws to crimp the edges so that there’d be less danger of it cutting on me. You see, I was going to make a magic amulet. A really shitty, trash-mage amulet, but at least it’d be way healthier than keeping my current arrangement.

I worked slowly, methodically. I was for sure sick now, and didn’t trust myself to move with the sureness I usually do, especially having to MacGyver enchanting supplies. Aluminum isn’t the best material for enchanting, but I didn’t have a lot of other options. The only thing I had to mark the metal were the Crayola markers I had stolen the previous day and my claws. I was afraid the markers would wipe off on the smooth metal, so the plan was to lightly score the metal with my claws and then trace over it with the tip of a marker, hopefully reinforcing the symbols.

I almost started on writing on the amulet as soon as I had it shaped but stopped myself, blinking tired eyes. I pulled over the lid to the can and began practicing on it first, and I’m glad I did. Applying the right pressure with an index claw to score the metal without cutting through it was a lot harder than I thought. The claws were sharp. After a little practice on the lid I decided to first draw the symbols in marker, score over the symbols with my claws, then retrace them.

It took way longer than it should have, but after nearly an hour of being folded over almost double on the floor, I finished the spell and felt it conflict with the one of my chest.

...Now I just had to get the one on my chest off.

Normally, I’m the kind of guy who rips the Band-Aid’s off. But I had used some pretty unconventional glue on this thing and… Honestly, when I think of ripping this thing off, I get an image in my head of ripping it and a nice rectangle of skin coming off with it.

I took a deep breath—more of a sigh, really. I held the amulet in my left hand and with my right, I pinched the corner of the spell on my chest and began to tug it off. It started… to come off pretty easy, actually. Didn’t hurt much—oh God, that smell! I dry heaved, rushing the last bit of the operation and snatching the spell off my chest. I almost threw it into the back of the little room but stopped myself at the last instant. I didn’t want to smell this thing for however long I had to hide in here. I grabbed one of the other empty cans I’d eaten from, one with the lid still mostly attached and shove it in there. I pushed the lid back in place and moved the can as far from me as possible.

It soon became apparent that the smell was also coming from my infected skin. I needed to wash it badly—probably get some antibiotics in me too. Jesus, the only cloth I had in here was the shirt I had worn for three days and turned into a bindle. I needed first aid.

I had some hope that I’d be able to heal on my own. Over the years I’d modified my immune system to be tougher and more efficient than normal, but… I still got colds. I wasn’t Wolverine.

With some trepidation I repeated the operation with the spell on the back of my neck. Realistically I should have probably taken it off sooner, but that wave of despair and pain that had knocked out the entire ship scared me. And—Jesus this felt like I was peeling a layer of skin off my neck, now that I can’t see what I was doing.

Another wave of that awful smell flooded the small space and I used the last empty can to store the spell. This one didn’t have a lid attached so I just crushed the top of the can as tight as I could to cut off the smell. What was I thinking about?

Train of thought was getting harder to maintain. I needed to wash these wounds. I had a couple bottles of water, and I could use them to flush the damaged flesh, but they really needed soap and some disenfecti—

My danger sense went off and I grabbed my stolen gun and aimed at the door just as it opened. A boxy silhouette revealed itself and I began to squeeze the trigger. The image of the man I killed flashed in my mind, his eyes going dark above me, and I hesitated on pulling the trigger.

“Merde!” Ida hissed, covering her face with her left arm and taking a step back from the door, just as her right came up with her own pistol and aimed at my eye.

I froze, then slowly pointed my gun away from the undercover agent. “Sorry,” I whispered. “You startled me.

She relaxed but didn’t drop the arm she had across her face. She glanced up and down the deck before moving slightly closer and squatting behind one of the deck chairs, hiding from view. “What is that smell?”

“Me,” I said apologetically. “I have a couple infected wounds. How did you find me?”

She gestured at me with her pistol. “The smell,” she said. “I thought it was food rotting.”

I frowned. “Have you been out there long?”

She nodded, glancing around again. “Since noon. Doing a double shift,” she gave him a sideways look. “You took out a good chunk of our fighting men.”

“Did any of them die?” I asked, unable to hide the intensity with which I needed to know.

Ida regarded me knowingly before answering. “Non,” she said. “Two are concussed, one had nerve damage in his calf and another may lose his foot, but they all live.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I almost regretted it when I got another whiff of myself. I tried to breath through my mouth. “Do you think you can get me some first aid?” I asked. “Even a few clean rags and high-proof hooch would do wonders right now.”

She frowned. Or at least, I think she did. Her eyebrows came down. “What is hooch?”

“Alcohol,” I said. “Though I’m not sure if it’s specific to beer or moonshine, or… other stuff. I always hear it used by folk from the south, or in video games where the character is supposed to be a redneck, or when people are being funny in TV shows—“

“You are feverish,” Ida interrupted, her eyes scanning my face.

I had been rambling. “Yes,” I said after a pregnant pause. I gestured at my seeping chest. I hadn’t taken the time to really look at it, but what I’d seen from the corner of my eye and a few brief glances had let me know I had a patch of angry red, weeping skin about the size of a post card on my chest.

She nodded and began to push the hatch closed. “I will see what I can get you,” she said. “It may be a while. Stay here and rest.”

I gave her a weak thumbs up.

I watched her close the hatch, leaving me in the semi-darkness my eyes perceived when there was an almost total lack of light. I got as comfortable as I could and began searching for another can of peaches. Maybe I should save them? They’re the best thing to eat from what I grabbed, and I didn’t want to go through all of them on my first day… but fuck it. I’m sick and I wanted something good.

I managed to eat one slice before my appetite left me. What was that old saying? Starve a fever, feed a cold? I think it’s less about how to treat an illness and more that people with fevers don’t have much of an appetite. I looked at the peaches floating in the syrupy liquid and sighed, placing it on the ground a little out of the way.

I leaned back and settled in to wait.

***

I awoke shivering, with someone doing something to me. I lashed out in panic.

I heard cursing in French, and then I was in an arm-lock, being forced back to the floor on my belly. I had trouble focusing my eyes. Someone was shouting at me.

“You won’t fuckin’ give me to the Doorman!” I snarled and attempted to break out of the hold, but I was as weak as a newborn kitten. I barely had the strength to keep my eyes open. After a bit of struggling I felt whatever flagging strength I had left leave me, and I flopped against the floor, panting.

“Again this Doorman,” I heard someone say. It sounded familiar. Now that I wasn’t fighting back I could devote more of my cooking brain to focus on their words. “Next time, you must pick a nemesis with a more frightening name.”

I heard a sharp intake of air. “Another one?” I felt fingers briefly examine the back of my neck. Another muttered French curse. A little bit later, something was poured over the wound on my neck that burnt like a motherfucker. I thrashed.

The grip on my arm tightened and a knee was placed on the small of my back. “You will be still!” The voice said. “I am helping you, you fucking crazy man.”

“I don’t even know your name,” the voice muttered, followed shortly by another liquid applied to his wound. In a louder voice, addressing him, they continued: “This next part will hurt. I must clean the wound. Do not attack me again.”

I didn’t trust the voice, but whatever part of my brain that still had access to logic was still kicking, because I recognized that if this person meant me harm, they could have simply left me alone or done far worse than mess with my wounds. I attempted to speak, but it just came out as series of weak grunts.

“I am going to let go of your arm,” they said. They sounded really familiar—I wish I could remember. I was just so tired. “Do not move, and do not attack me, okay?”

I nodded. Or at least, I tried. The best I could do was a vague twitch.

The voice I couldn’t see administered me over the next… period of time. I tried to measure it, which was my normal habit, but that seemed beyond me now. I couldn’t stay conscious the entire time, just floating in and out. I remember a lot of pain, and then relief. And then I was cold. Blissfully cold.

“Colm,” I said during one of my more lucid moments.

“Pardon?” The voice asked.

“My name,” I slurred. “’S Coln—Colm. I… I’m Colm.”

“Colm,” The voice replied. “Get rest Colm. I did the best I could but… you are very sick. You need… you need rest.”

I felt like the voice wanted to say more, but took their advice. I felt something placed over me, maybe a blanket, and I snuggled into it as best I could and let oblivion take me.

The last thing I remembered was the back of a hand on my forehead.

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