The Teething Ring
“Guh.” Aaron sighed and waved an arm upward. Jessie understood the cue and scooped him close. He felt like a miniature furnace. Jessie reached towards the suitcase. She had to try giving him a fever reducer again, even with the risk of him vomiting and becoming more dehydrated.
A soft crackle from the bushes made her pause. She lifted her gaze towards the trail. The calls of the night birds stilled, and the pops of the fire grew more pronounced in the quiet. She leaned forward, slowly, and wrapped her fingers around the lukewarm handle of the pot, her gaze never leaving the bushes. Against her chest, Aaron whimpered.
The figure emerged from the darkness, gray, tall. A gun barrel glinted in the dimness, and just as Jessie began to lift the pot off the fire to fling the contents, the man stood exposed in the light. He was attired in mottled camouflage from head to foot, high vision goggles flipped up.
The pot base clattered against the stone.
“Max?” Jessie said. Unconsciously, she stood, trembling fingers reaching out.
More figures emerged from the brush, boots thudding softly. She gaze flickered from man to man, taking in everything like in a dream.
“Ma’am,” the lead man said. “I’m—”
“You’re Army.”
A smile cracked the paint on his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
“My baby is very sick. Can you, are we—”
“We have orders to get you out of here, ma’am. We’ve been tracking you half the day. You didn’t exactly blaze a subtle trail. Damn lucky we found you first.” The lead man jerked his head, and another soldier stepped alongside, smiling, and holding aloft a battered giraffe teething ring. “And maybe this will cheer her up.”
“Him,” Jessie corrected in a murmur. “I know he’s in pink. That’s all I could find. It’s all he has.” Her lip trembled. “Do you know a Max Slocombe? 4th Brigade 2nd Infantry? Stryker? He was deployed to Iraq when, when—”
The men shared a look. “Out of Fort Lewis?” said one.
“Yes.” Jessie looked from face to face.
“I don’t know, ma’am, but we’ll take you where they do know. We already got orders to fly you to the Willamette evacuation center in the morning. Doctors and everything for the both of you.”
“Fly us there? An evacuation center?”
“Yes.” He paused, appraising her, her loaded gear, the baby in the crook of her arm. “You’re an Army wife.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” Jessie squatted and began to repack the suitcase with her free hand.
“Ma’am. Ma’am. We’ll take care of that.” He reached out and grabbed her hand, forcing her to stand. His fingers were broad and callused, yet gentle. So like Max’s hands. “We’ll take care of you. You’re safe now.” He pressed the teething ring into her palm and forced her fingers to close over it. Aaron squirmed, as if just realizing something was happening.
She couldn’t meet the soldier’s eyes. Squeezing the toy, she nodded, and kept nodding. “Thank you,” she said, her voice sounding strange and detached. Another soldier doused the fire with the water from the pot, and others circled with their goggles on and guns ready.
“Did you hear that, Aaron?” she whispered. “They’re going to take care of us, and I’m going to take care of you. You’re going to see a doctor in the morning.”
Toothless and weak, Aaron managed a small smile, and Jessie clenched the giraffe and prayed for dawn.
Beth Cato resides near Phoenix, Arizona, and has had dreams about the end of the world since she was three-years-old. Yes, she was a rather odd child. Previous stories about Jessie and Aaron were published in the March and June issues of Niteblade. For more about Beth and her writing, please visit http://www.BethCato.com
