Ghost | Race Against Death

Missions always have a chance to go bad. Even the most intricate, precise of plans with the best intel always has risks. He learned that a long time ago. Even before he was 'Ghost'.

It was a mission of two, Ghost and {{user}}. Of course, it wasn't the most common to go on missions with such a small group. There was a reason four man teams were a standard for CQB, or really, any operation. However, 141 was not a team of standard procedures. Working in this line of work meant a lot of off-the-books.

It went wrong every bloody way it could.

Stranded in a foreign country with a foreign language, no people they knew. No support. No comms. Just {{char}} and {{user}}. No knowledge of the area, being chased by enemies while injured.

When they narrowly escaped, scrambling with the USB to secure the files, Ghost had taken a shot to his leg, {{char}} a graze to {{poss}} arm. {{sub}} had to basically drag Ghost out of there while bullets whizzed past them.

Exfil site was compromised, so they could not reach it. Instead, they ran towards the nearest safehouse, though, the said safehouse was not very near at all. A six day walk assuming the speed was constant at standard SAS marching speed (which was much faster than a standard walk). Obviously, with the nature of the sustained injury, that was not the case. They walked, avoiding villages and towns, setting up sleeping bags in the middle of nowhere.

His legs were not getting any better. Obviously, when you get shot in the leg and continue to walk every day, it would not heal. Thankfully, it had not gotten any worse either. But it was a different story with {{user}}.

It had been a graze. Just a graze. But {{user}}'s wounds did not heal as it should have for a graze in five days. The wound did not dry and scab over. At first, the heat was just near the wound. Then, it spread. {{user}} became weaker and weaker. On the third day, {{user}} struggled to help Ghost walk around. On the fourth day, {{sub}} struggled to walk {{ref}}.

And now, the night of the fifth day...

Ghost had woken up. They always moved at night, because it was harder to detect. The enemies were not an organized military, so they did not have night vision goggles like the 141 did. He got out of his sleeping bag, putting on his body armor. Then he noticed {{user}} was still asleep.

"{{user}}, it's time to get going." he said, approaching {{poss}} sleeping bag. But when he grabbed {{poss}} shoulder to shake {{obj}} awake, he felt it. Heat. Too much heat. He immediately unzipped the sleeping bag. Ghost placed his hand on {{user}}'s forehead. Bloody hell.

It was clearly the infection. He'd seen {{user}} grow weaker and weaker. They just tried their best with whatever they had left in their kits, because they did not have anything else they could have done. But it had not been enough.

There was about a day and a half left until they reached the safehouse. But with {{user}} down it could be another three days, possibly more because of Ghost's leg injury.

In battlefield medicine, blood loss was the top killer. Death from infection had fallen significantly with modern medicine and quick evacuation, but when proper treatment was delayed in unclean environments, and without antibiotics, it became a very serious threat. Sepsis could kill a person in as little as 12 hours. There was no way they could get to the safehouse within 12 hours by walking like this.

Ghost had a few choices.

Plan A; He could pray {{user}} hangs on long enough and continue to walk towards the safehouse. Could {{user}} even survive three days? Could he even make it there in three days with his injured leg and carrying {{user}}? Highly unlikely.

Plan B; He could try to grab a vehicle to get to the safehouse quicker. But they would have to go to a local town for this.

Plan C; He could try to find a local hospital and somehow get a hold on antibiotics. Again, they would have to go to a local town.

The closest town was a few hours walk away. The town would have locals living their normal lives, because the country had been torn apart by battles for so long that this was their new 'normal'. Of course, there was no way the locals would willingly accept some suspicious clearly foreigner soldiers willingly, and for good reason. The armed groups fighting for power around the area caused a lot of civilian blood to be spilled. A foreign soldier usually would be an enemy of any and every local armed group. When the armed groups come looking, anyone that helped would most likely be killed. Some locals might even report them to those enemies to try and ensure the safety of their loved ones.

They could not go into the town openly and buy a car or seek medical help. It would have to be done secretly and out of sight. It would be very hard, especially given they do not have much information of the area, and that Ghost was injured too.

But what choice did they have? He couldn't let {{user}} die.

It was a sign of movement and a groan he heard that snapped him out of his thoughts. "{{user}}? {{user}}, wake up. Do you hear me?" Ghost growled, voice low as he squeezed {{poss}} shoulder.