Viggo's Break - Chapter 4.1 - Feverish

Viggo, a disgraced cop, has just escaped jail thanks to a freak earthquake. Now, he must swim to the shore and find the one ally he should be able to rely on.

To know more, read Chapter 3.2.

Hurt…Hurt like a bitch…Shit…Shit…

Viggo's every breath burnt. His legs felt like lead. His injured arm tingled. It was ungodly hot against his side. Every other part of him was half-frozen but his arm radiated feverish heat like a damn radiator. It ached too, in a certain way – a way that told him that he faced bigger problems than the cold if he didn't find the cache soon.

He glanced up, trying to catch a glimpse of an elusive sun through the branches. He had clearly overestimated his ability to survive in the wilderness.

The long swim to the shore had left him cold and exhausted. It had been a long time since he had pushed himself that way. For all the iron he had pumped behind bars, he hadn't left his cell much and pacing a three by four room didn't build up endurance. Running all night through in drenched clothes had sapped his remaining strength. The fever wasn't helping – his face was hot and clammy, his eyes couldn’t focus. His wounds had become infected despite the salt water that had bleached them white.

“Ah.”

He hadn't meant to make a sound, but he couldn't help it. The hundred-year-old oak was only a few steps away, he had almost stumbled upon it A smile of grim satisfaction twisted his lips. He had taught Nyssa to be ready at all times, he hoped she had taken the lesson to heart.

He limped to the tree and what he saw wasn't very encouraging. The ground hadn't been trampled at all. The vegetation looked undisturbed. He flattened his palms to the bark and felt around the trunk blindly until one of his fingers found a hole he couldn’t see. It was just large enough for him to plunge his arm inside. He pulled a grocery bag out of the hollow.

“God bless your neat little heart, Nyssa.”

He stripped out of his prison uniform. It was soaking wet. Naked in the wind, he trembled rather less. Nice, warm, civilian clothes were folded in the bag. He contemplated them reverently. Those first clothes were magical. They were nothing much – jeans, a shirt, underwear. Nyssa had heeded his advice and gone for the simplest outfit she could find. Anything was better than his inmate's orange suit.

The cotton was a warm, light caress on his skin – nothing like the polyester of his uniform. The shoes were second-hand, already somewhat worn, comfy. He felt something heavy in the pocket of his jeans. He fished it out.

A watch. No, not just a watch. The watch. His watch. It couldn't be. Same unknown European make. Same scratches on the glass and case. He turned it over and read, Love, Angela.

“Fuck, how did she…?” He raised the watch to his mouth and pressed his lips to it. “Damn, Nyssa…”

He couldn't get emotional. He couldn't break down now. He fastened the leather strap around his wrist. A watch would be useful. He stuffed his pockets with the compass, the laminated map, the bottle of water and two dozen energy bars. He tucked the guard's gun in his waistband, feeling a twinge of guilt. Nyssa wouldn't like that, she hated firearms. Well, she didn’t need to know.

He ate a bar, drank a little water and felt slightly better, slightly steadier on his feet.

He looked himself over in the square mirror before he shoved it back in the bag. A nasty gash ran across his left cheek. How had he cut his face? Crashing on the rocky shore during the night? He checked out his arm too and it didn't look good either.

“Damn it.”

They should have put a first-aid kit in the cache. Well, no plan was ever perfect.

He glanced at his watch. 8 am. He was making good time, but he wasn't comfortable with the shortcuts he had taken to keep up despite his arm. He had swum less than he should have, he hadn't drifted as far East as he would have liked, and the dogs would find his tracks faster than was perhaps advisable. Of course, he had left a few surprises for them along the trip.

One silver-lining was that the meeting-point was an easy walk straight South from his current position. But that too could be a problem. The investigators weren’t supposed to find out about his accomplice yet. It couldn’t look too much like he had received outside help.

“I don't see that I've got a choice.”

With any luck, they would assume he had stolen a car or gotten a ride from an unsuspecting stranger. A dog barked somewhere. Couldn't be part of a search-party. Not yet. Still, Viggo, reminded of the urgency of his situation, shook himself like a wet dog, never mind that he wasn’t in fact wet anymore, and started jogging.

***

The parking-lot was a blur. He didn't even know how he had made it this far. The last couple of miles had been hell. It had taken him nearly three hours to walk ten of them, which was…laughable! He slumped against a tree, drawing relief from the cool bark. His knees hurt. It took him a good minute, but he looked down and saw that he had crumpled on the ground. How? When?

Shit…His head was so heavy, buzzing. He let it roll to the side, sneaking another look at the parking-lot behind the tree.

The mall was closed. Why? Was it a holiday or something? He couldn't remember the month – never mind the day. He frowned, though, because it seemed unlikely that he would have forgotten about a holiday. But then, why not? They didn't really celebrate them on the inside. It wasn't as if they could let go of the prisoners for a one- or two-nighters, just so everyone could party and stuff themselves with their family.

He shook his head, trying desperately to shake it all off, to shake pictures of inmates in uniform sitting at a Christmas table out of his mind so he could focus.

“Focus,” he rasped, thumping his hand against the trunk. “Just focus.”

The parking-lot was empty, except for a nondescript green car sitting in the back. It looked like the type of car Nyssa would use. Couldn’t be hers. The girl sitting behind the wheel was all wrong.

Shit.

He blinked, trying to bring his sight into focus.

Where was she? Where was Nyssa?

The strength bled out of his upper body now, and he fell, kissing the ground. Something was wrong. He shouldn't have been…this fuzzy, this…weak. Something was wrong. No fever in the world would…He had…He had banged his head. That's where he had gotten this gash across his face, banging his head on the rocks after getting reacquainted with the Atlantic Ocean. Obviously, he had a concussion. He had to…He needed to…He couldn't remember!

God, the buzzing was killing him!

Something was wrong.

The sense of wrongness wouldn't let up. As fuzzy as he was feeling, he couldn't shake it. Nyssa should have been there. He looked over his shoulder, twisting his neck to get a good look at the parking-lot. The green car was still there. Still alone. So wrong. Nyssa should have been there, and she should have been there on time.

Unless the kid had chickened out and was leaving him stranded.

No. His denial was so automatic that he started shaking his head. The buzzing intensified, a helpless moan rose from his mouth.

Nyssa wouldn't leave him in the lurch.

But maybe…Maybe something had gone wrong. Maybe she hadn't managed to escape. Maybe Russ…Maybe Russ had caught her.

His stomach clenched. He tried to appease it with an energy bar, but it didn't work. Pitting Nyssa against a big guy like Russ…It made him sick. He decided that it hadn't happened. Easier that way. His guts stopped torturing him, leaving him to the misery of his buzzing head.

Where was she?

Mm…Perhaps the question wasn't so much where she was as it was where he was. Could he have gotten turned around? He didn't think so, but he was a few cards short of a full deck and, for obvious reasons, Nyssa had handled all the recon. It wasn't entirely impossible that he was dying by a parking-lot while she waited on another, two miles away.

Damn it!

Yes, maybe he was dying. A concussion, plus his infected arm, that didn’t look good. Shit. Not twenty-four hours into his escape. But hell, he would take death over being caught.

He would take it…

Damn, the buzzing…

His vision went black. He sagged against the tree and decided to let go rather than fight the dizziness.

***

“Viggo? Viggo?”

Cold palms cupped Viggo's face. He gasped. Fuck, cold, so cold.

“Damn it, you're burning up!”

The tone of alarm warmed his heart, really. Nyssa Malik. Little, cute, funny Nyssa. Worrying for him. God, what had happened to him? Had someone shot him again?

“Damn it, can you hear me? Open your eyes. Please, open your eyes.”

Cute…little…Malik…

“Viggo, please,” she coaxed. “Please. Please, open your eyes.”

He tried. He tried for her sake. His lids weighed about a hundred pounds each. The light stabbed his eyeballs and he closed them again.

“Viggo,” she said again, a hint of relief to her voice. “Please, wake up. We can't stay here. Please.”

He liked where he was well enough, but fine, if she wanted to leave. He blinked, and blinked, and blinked again, until Nyssa’s elfin face came into focus. Wrong, somehow, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly why.

“Nysssss…”

“Right, it's me.” She gave him a tremulous smile and unshed tears sparkled in those green eyes. “Help me. Get up.”

“Angela?” he asked, because it felt right.

Nyssa looked flabbergasted. She tried to hide it behind a smile so saccharine that his teeth ached. “Up, big baby. Up, up, up.”

She had a tight grip on his wrists – he could feel it now – and she was pulling. It made him cough out laughter.

“Puny…and megalomaniac,” he slurred.

She looked like she wanted to cry. He stumbled to his feet. The knees kept wobbling under him. She put his uninjured arm around her shoulder. How had he hurt the other one, already? It was an ache, as constant and annoying as rain in Fall. He focused on Nyssa’s voice talking nonstop, reassuring nonsenses. He had always liked her voice. Dulcet tones. Melodic, quicksilver changes – deepening soothingly to an almost sexy purr, rising until it turned sweet and childlike, evening to cool and professional.

She hooked him with her voice and pulled her to a familiar green car. He staggered along, and she carried most of his weight. What about her leg? he thought hazily. She was panting but she didn't let that slow her down, so he didn't either. She maneuvered him in the passenger’s seat. It was a rough ride: she didn't have enough body-strength to be gentle.

She leaned over him to fasten his seat-belt. The hair that looked so wrong felt soft and downy against his neck. He sniffed discreetly and got a noseful. He smiled. He didn't really understand why she had forked out the makeup and hair-dye, but she hadn't gotten all her bases covered. Where was the perfume?

He had never forgotten anything about her, not her cuteness, not her intelligence and self-confidence. He had never forgotten her voice or the way she smelled – mint, honey, a hint of citrus and her natural scent, something altogether undefinable, something that was entirely her and bound all the rest together. It was more feeling than fragrance – and that feeling was one of peace.

Despite the pain, despite that insufferable buzzing, Viggo closed his eyes, breathed Nyssa, in and out, deeply, and fell asleep.

To see more of Nyssa and Viggo, read Chapter 4.2.