“How was I afterwards?” he asked.
The old man squirmed. “In a lot of pain. Delirious. You cried out many times. You ran a fever. Kim had us give you antibiotics and keep you asleep. I thought you had died on two different occasions, your breathing was so shallow. There were other medicines we needed but didn’t have. I’ve been feeding you water and nutrients. The machine said you had a thirty percent chance of survival. I thought your chances were far worse.”
“I’m glad I proved you wrong.”
“You’re a fighter. Even when you sleep,” said the grandfather.
“Fight has nothing to do with it,” said Mazer. “It was the medicine, your efforts, and a good dose of luck.” He reached out and put his hand on the grandfather’s arm. “What is your name, friend?”
“Danwen,” said the grandfather.
“Thank you, Danwen.” He reached out with the other hand and took Bingwen’s, squeezing it with what little strength he had. “Both of you.”
He removed his hands. The motion took an enormous amount of energy, as if his hands were four times as heavy as normal. He looked to his left and right. “Where is Mingzhu? I’d like to thank her too.”
Danwen and Bingwen exchanged looks. The boy scowled.
“They left three days ago,” said Danwen. “In the night. Bingwen had brought back a rifle and ammunition from the crash. We had food as well, cans and things that Bingwen and I had buried and stockpiled and went back to the village for. Mingzhu and the others took it all. Even the water buffalos. They left us with nothing.”
Mazer looked at the cup. “You have water.”
“Rainwater,” said Danwen. “We catch it off the roof and boil it. We dare not drink from the streams. Not with the mist.”
“Smart,” said Mazer. “For boiling what you caught and for avoiding everything else.”
“It doesn’t taste very good,” said Bingwen.
“Beats dying of thirst,” said Mazer. He turned to the old man. “Where did the others go?”
Danwen shrugged. “North. With everyone else. All the survivors are moving that way.”
“You two didn’t go with them.”
“We weren’t going to leave you,” said Bingwen.
Mazer squeezed the boy’s hand again. “Again, thank you.” Then his brow wrinkled and turned to Danwen. “How did you move me here? The crash site had to have been several kilometers away.”
Danwen answered eagerly, as if he had been waiting to share this story. He told Mazer everything, throwing in tiny details that he knew would build the drama. Bingwen looked down at the floor at first, then excused himself, busying himself elsewhere in the farmhouse. When the old man finished, Mazer called the boy over and extended his hand. “I owe you my life three times over, Bingwen. I can’t thank you enough. What you did was very brave.”
Bingwen took the offered hand and shook it. “Repaying the favor,” he said, wiggling his cast in the air.
“How’s your arm?”
“Fine. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Not if I don’t use it, that is.”
Mazer felt exhausted then, his eyes heavy, his muscles weak, as if the world was slowing down again.
“Leave him be,” Danwen said to Bingwen. “He needs his rest.”
Mazer wanted to argue. He had been resting for four days. He needed to move, he needed to get his body up again. He was useless lying here. He was endangering Bingwen and Danwen. They should move on. There was nothing else they could do for him.
He felt his breathing slow into the rhythm of sleep. He fought it, but the darkness pulled at him and wrapped him in its silent blackness.
*
The crack of thunder woke him, loud and booming and rolling through the valley. He was still on his back on the farmhouse floor. It was dark out. Rain was pounding the roof, leaking through half a dozen holes in the ceiling and forming puddles on the floor. Mazer turned his head. Bingwen was asleep beside him, his back to him, practically touching him. At one point Bingwen may have enjoyed a corner of Mazer’s blanket, but it had since fallen off, and now Bingwen lay huddled in a fetal position, cold and shivering.
Mazer lifted his arm and pulled the blanket off himself and onto the boy. The night air felt brisk and biting against Mazer’s exposed skin, and he wished the old midwife had left him with his shirt.
Mazer turned and saw Danwen standing at a window, looking out into the storm. The old man held a long thin object in one hand, over a meter in length, with the end of it resting against his shoulder. Mazer couldn’t tell what it was until lightning struck, and a flash of light lit up the man’s front. The sword was old and thin with an ornate hilt of a dull, unpolished metal. A family heirloom perhaps, or a costume piece for cultural events. Not a very good weapon. Certainly not much against a squadron of aliens, should they arrive.