Healer

16

     Reynolds had felt himself on death's edge several times. He'd felt it every time he'd been forced to heal past his capacity, hovering somewhere in the encroaching darkness. It was a shadow, a threat that hovered over him every time he used his abilities. Now, it was all around him. Up and down the ordinarily busy interstate highway, flashing lights and flickering flames were barely visible through the smoke. Fire engines bravely battled the flames while rescuers dashed between the wounded. Reynolds had no idea how many vehicles were in the massive pile-up. Twenty? Thirty? All he knew was that the air was filled with the scent of spilled gasoline and diesel fuel, melting plastic, hot metal, and burning flesh. He could hear nothing over the blare of alarms and the screams of the wounded.

     The screams, the screams were everywhere, all around him, mangled bodies and straining hands reaching desperately for relief. His body seemed to hum, his ability screaming even over the din around him, demanding to be used. The shadow of death lurked, seeming to cackle and revel in his pain. It hurt. That pull, impossible to resist, that he'd felt when he'd heard Pzinski cry out was so much stronger now, with so much misery and need all around him.

     Reynolds closed his eyes. He remembered their hasty exit, Imbago rushing him down to the infirmary for a set of scrubs since he had no clothing of his own beyond his recruit onesies. Then on to the quartermaster, who had provided weapons and the grey coat on a temporary basis. Another time, he might have felt pride at getting his weapons equipped for the first time. But all he could see was the sweat and fear on Imbago's face.

     It was even worse when he'd caught a glimpse of Diaz, watching from down the hall as they'd raced for the transport. The other healer had been sobbing silently into a handkerchief, her tearful eyes watching Reynolds for the last time. He hadn't even gotten the chance to tell her goodbye. Then, as the helicopter took off before the doors closed, he'd seen Pzinski. The other recruit was racing across the landing field, frantically waving his arms, trying to reach Reynolds before the helicopter took him away. Just before the door slammed shut, Pzinski had gotten close enough for Reynolds to see that he, too, was crying. He was still alive, but already, he was being mourned. No one believed he was coming back alive. Even Imbago had been visibly fighting tears as they lay together on the chopper's floor, catching what rest they could before arriving at the mission. She'd snuggled in his arms, her back to his chest. She hadn't made a sound he could hear, but he'd been able to feel her silent sobs.

     She doesn't believe I'll come back alive either, Reynolds had realized as he held her close. She thinks she's going to watch me die today, and then she'll...

     The thought of the world without him in it was bad. But the idea of Imbago willingly going into permanent Containment? That was something that everything in him railed against. He clung to that thought as he stood, black, greasy smoke billowing around him in the breeze that sent the tails of his long grey coat flapping. He'd received a telepathic communication facilitator and the rest of his gear, which he'd hastily stuck into a headband and tied around his head. Now, he couldn't help but wonder if the Board of Overseers was quietly monitoring his thoughts. Probably.

     Reynolds opened his eyes and took a shaky breath, coughing a bit as the acrid smoke stung his lungs. The weight of the weaponry strapped to his body seemed to weigh on him as he started forward, eyes focused straight ahead, trying not to see the mangled, crying, screaming figures he was approaching. To get to his destination, he'd have to walk right through them.

     Closer now. Somehow, he could smell the coppery scent of the blood spilling onto the street, even through the billowing smoke. Stomach churning, he quickly moved to the side of the road and threw up into the gravel of the shoulder.