Samuel took the pack from Elmina, giving her an approving nod as she gathered her diminishing crew and vanished into the Apox. A quick, noisy rummage through the pack revealed it to be brimming with medical supplies. Of course, thought Sam with a smirk. Hopefully Doc would be able to keep herself safe and rejoin the others soon. Sam’s medical knowledge was strictly limited to putting band-aids on scraped knees and how not to kill someone with an overdose of anesthetics. Until now, anything else had been unnecessary. In all honesty, he didn’t really enjoy getting his hands all that dirty. His clients certainly liked to have their “packages” delivered in a mostly unadulterated, but restrained, state. Sam’s inability to stay out of things and imagination filled in the rest.
He couldn’t argue against the young woman’s request for help with undressing the dead man. It had started out as his idea, after all, although in his mind he had not pictured himself being the one to deal with it. He eavesdropped while he could, gathering people’s names and housing information, and continuously begrudging the fact that he was unable to clearly focus on the crimes listed on their wrists. As the group began to move towards the woods he lingered closer to the back, giving him an opportunity to continue observing the others. The nervous glances from the others and the own man’s refusal to cooperate painted the Beast, who had wandered off on his own, as the largest liability to the group. Sam hoped that perhaps the big man would prove to be a larger deterrent than a threat, assuming he ever fully integrated himself.
His gut told him otherwise.
The glacial pace he had taken to trail behind the group also gave Sam the time to appreciate the finer things, like the ache from his joints as they thawed out, the dryness in his throat, and the emptiness in his stomach. Every step was another reminder: hurt, hunger, thirst, hurt, hunger, thirst, hurt, hunger, thirst, hurt, hunger, thirst, hurt, hung, Fuck! Sam shook his head. The sight of the cryochamber was sweet relief for only a moment--having a place to rest only meant now they would have to scavenge for anything of use.
No point bitching about it, old man, thought Sam as he rubbed his temples and shifted the medical bag from one shoulder to the other. Sam carefully made his way over to the cryochamber as he avoided the scraps of shattered space debris. It was like its own tiny replica of the Apox: a dark, twisted wreckage in the middle of a serene forest that nothing should have been able to walk away from. As much flak as Herrity Apox and the UN got for wasting everyone’s tax dollars, at least the man knew how to build a space station to pass a crash test with a top safety pick. Sam could appreciate that. He touched the cyrochamber with the back of his hand. It had cooled from it fall.
“Here, lemme give you a hand,” said Sam, approaching Christine and Ristachev and attempting to help her set the Russian in a comfortable position leaning against the chamber. “Should have offered my hand earlier; forgot my manners.”
Crouching down by Ristachev’s side, Sam said, “Sorry pal, I’m sure that hurts like hell. I would love to treat you with some painkillers, but the last time I played doctor the patient ended up handcuffed to a water heater in a warehouse basement waiting for a man known only as the Dermatologist. Hey, I agree, dumb name, but when you see a man wrapped in a coat made out of human flesh you start--sorry, the point is I’d probably end up hurting you more than helping you with this shit.”
“So, Red,” said Sam as he turned to Christine, standing up with a clap of his hands and holding them together in front of his chest like a mischievous child who was trying to appear to be an angel. “You said something about teaching us a thing or two about becoming a Scout, right? I suppose we’ll skip the merit badges and the door-to-door cookie selling to focus on the more important stuff like avoiding dehydration, yes? Or should we just sit on our thumbs and hope Doc brings us some juice boxes?"
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