Night Shift by Robin Triggs

Author:Robin Triggs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fiction, crime
Publisher: Flame Tree Publishing
Published: 2018-10-04T17:02:17+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

I was freezing cold. Then I was boiling in my own skin. I couldn’t move; pain roared whenever I tried to turn my head. I gasped as full consciousness suddenly burst through me.

I was in an unfamiliar bed, my vision blocked by curtains on all sides. The infirmary. I tried to get up, to swing my legs round, but my only reward was another shot of pain. I was sweating and shivering alternately.

I tried to remember how I’d got here, and instantly felt my memories swell up: the oil fire. The fire, and then getting Mikhail away. God, Mikhail – how was he? Was he in this room with me? And Theo—

I remembered how the rig had blown as I was being driven back to barracks. Keegan was driving, me by his side, while Weng cared for Mikhail in the back. She’d given him another sedative and finally he was free from pain. The explosion came when we were almost halfway home. Max and Dmitri had done as they promised – they’d extinguished the flames, and now there was only smoking rubble.

Theo was dead. Must’ve been dead. If he hadn’t made it to either of the refuges, then he was dead. The knowledge, the memory, left me numb, an overload of horror blocking feeling.

And I’d been driven home, deafened by the broken mask and freezing in a malfunctioning suit. Lord knew how I’d managed to help Keegan and Weng carry Mikhail into the corridors…

Then I’d blacked out.

I coughed, once, and then was overwhelmed by a great fit. I could taste smoke in my mouth, and when I turned my head my vomit was black. Couldn’t even lean to puke on the floor; a dark viscous stain spread next to me on the pillow. I groaned and turned my head back. My lungs felt like they were wrapped in plastic. At least they’d got that bloody mask off me. I felt myself slipping back into sleep, static filling my mind.

Footsteps. I opened my eyes and saw the curtain twitch open. It was Fischer in her white coat, the wound-pad around her head much smaller than it’d been before, more like a fashion statement than a bandage. For a moment I quailed, fearing retribution for the hurt I’d done to her. But she was smiling. A weak smile, to be sure, but a smile nonetheless.

“You’re awake sooner than I expected,” she said. She came further in to take my wrist and feel for my pulse.

My throat was raw, the taste of vomit still thick. “How’s Mikhail?” I croaked.

Fischer gently lifted my head and slipped the pillow out. She dropped it on the floor and pushed a clean one in its place. “He should survive,” she said. “Weng did a good job whilst I was out of action. How are you?” She lifted my eyelid and stared carefully at my pupils. “I’ll be back in a second.”

I was breathing heavily, as if I’d just done a double session in the gym. I let my eyes roll closed.

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