The Lost and the Forgotten

Chapter 4

John ran, one hand clasped on the shoulder of Rodney's vest, his mind busily calculating the trajectories of the bullets.  He pulled Rodney down a side-alley out of the field of fire and then immediately wondered if he'd made the wrong choice; they would be easy to spot in the narrow channel.  Footsteps rang out above and another flurry of shots kicked up sparks behind them.

"In here!" An archway led to a rubbish-filled courtyard.

"Sheppard, it's a dead end!  We're trapped!"

"I don't think so!"

John pulled Rodney up a flight of stairs, then around the edge of the courtyard, up another flight, and then spotted a way through, taking them out the far side of the block.  They hurtled into the dark passage and then out into dim orange light and across a flying walkway which joined the blocks.  Shots came from their left and struck the metal and woodwork around them.  Rodney shrieked and John tripped and fell, but stumbled to his feet and dragged Rodney into the shelter of the next block.

"Sheppard!  I've been shot!  Look, blood!"

John glanced at Rodney's hand and then his face, as they ran.

"Splinters, McKay.  They're just cuts.  This way!"

John heard Rodney's heavy footfalls behind him as he led him up and down, left and right, through the maze of passages and walkways.  Rodney's breathing became laboured and he felt the rasp of his own breath in burning lungs.

"Please!" gasped Rodney.  "Sheppard..."

John stopped, pulled Rodney into a doorway and brought his P90 up, scanning their surroundings.

"Have... have we lost them?"

John continued to watch and listen.

"I think so," he said.  "You okay?"

"What, you mean other than the blood loss and the fact that my lungs are lodged halfway up my throat?  Yes, peachy, thanks!"

John didn't respond.  He still felt the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins; he'd better use it to get them to safety.

"C'mon, let's go."

John spotted a stairway.  They made their way down to ground level, where a couple of boys were playing ball.

"Which way to Zanta's?"

One of the boys pointed and said, "Two blocks that way."

"C'mon, McKay."

"Sheppard?  Who do you think it was?  Shooting at us?  And why?  What's the point?  Unless they don't want it to get out that Getters make better cookies than Makers!  Seriously, though, do you think it was the Makers?  Breckna set the heavies on us?  Sheppard?"

"Let's just get to Zanta's, McKay."

John focussed hard on the way ahead, grabbing hold of Rodney's vest once more, determined to get his teammate to safety.

"Sheppard, this way!"

Rodney was tugging him toward the clear blue light of Zanta's sign and then they were through the swing doors and passing, unchallenged, into the bright, welcoming light beyond.

oOo

Teyla received only the harsh crackle of static when she tried her radio, so she and Ronon made their way to Zanta's to wait.  The bar was quiet; just a few locals in ones and twos, solitary drinkers and couples lunching on oily-looking soup and chunks of something grey and spongy that was probably supposed to be bread.  Ronon was waylaid by the fidgety little man, Friegar, who sat at the bar with an empty glass and a hopeful expression.  Ronon obligingly bought him a drink and was copiously rewarded with a rapid patter of conversation.  Perhaps he would learn something useful, Teyla hoped.