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Round
Robin: Hobson's Choice Affair |
Illya shook his head groggily and shifted his hands beneath
his body.
Wonderful. Unconscious twice within twenty-four hours. I’m going to be Dr.
Mancuso’s favorite agent.
He pushed against the floor only to find he could not rise. A stubborn weight
lay across his lower back and legs. He shook his head again more sharply this
time, and tried to clear his vision. Plaster dust and darker smoke swirled
lazily in the air around him. He coughed sharply and fumbled with the fabric
where his jacket pocket should have been. He should have a handkerchief around
here somewhere to filter the air. . .
Illya frowned and took a closer look at himself. He was wearing a hospital
gown? Memories of his last few conscious minutes flooded back and the agent
groaned softly.
Another soft groan answered.
Illya twisted to one side as much as he could, searching for the dark-haired
man he remembered from before. A dark shape was huddled against the opposite
wall. As he watched, the shaped moved haltingly and another groan sounded,
a bit louder this time.
Illya moved again and pulled himself forward a bit. The weight on his back
shifted, then settled more heavily. Illya twisted around again, this time
trying to get a better look at his situation. The bed had apparently been
knocked over by the explosion, which explained part of the weight. The dark
form beyond the bed explained the rest. The heavy door itself was resting
on top of the upturned bed.
A muffled scraping from the interior of the room brought his attention back
to the room’s other occupant. Napoleon was fully conscious, and was scooting
along the floor toward Illya, pulling himself along by his forearms to stay
under cover. Illya raised an eyebrow at the other man’s efforts. At least
the capitalist knew how to stay out of the line of fire. He would have to
ask about that when they had more time. In a few short seconds, Napoleon was
by Illya’s side.
“You’re in a bit of a jam, aren’t you,” Napoleon whispered between heavy breaths.
He stifled a cough.
“So it would seem. Can you see into the other rooms?” Illya whispered.
Napoleon shook his head. “Too much dust and smoke. But no-one’s come looking
for us yet. Let’s get you out from under this, shall we?”
Illya nodded, too breathless to talk for long. Napoleon pushed the door up
and to one side, letting it’s own weight carry it down and off of the other
man. It fell with a loud crash and both men froze for a few seconds, but nothing
followed.
Illya shoved his hands against the floor once more and heaved himself up and
out from under the fallen bed. Luckily, aside from a few bruises and scrapes,
he seemed to be unharmed. He glanced across at his companion, who was resting
heavily against what was left of the door frame, puffing heavily in the thick
air. Napoleon coughed again.
“Does your Dr. Harrison keep any masks in here?”
Napoleon looked up vaguely. “Masks?”
“Surgical masks. To filter the air,” Illya explained impatiently.
Napoleon shook his head. “I wouldn’t know where to look.”
Illya frowned at the other man, who seemed to be loosing steam at an alarming
rate. A concussion, perhaps?
Illya spent a few short seconds trying to sift through the debris for the
lost communicator. It was nowhere to be found, at least not quickly, and he
had no idea where Napoleon and the good doctor might have stowed his clothing
and sidearm.
He shook his head, cursing softly, and struggled to his feet and caught Napoleon
under the arm to help him up. “We’d better get out of here.”
Napoleon nodded and heaved himself to his feet, resting heavily against the
doorframe before moving forward. The two men inched cautiously through the
ruined apartment. Debris covered the floor, as well as water from broken pipes
in the bathroom and kitchen. Illya was relieved to see no flames, although
dark smoke smoldered up from several places. They were lucky the gas pipes
hadn’t ruptured.
Several feet from the door, Illya stumbled against something soft. He peered
through the gloom at the huddled shape at his feet.
Napoleon dropped to his knees with a soft gasp. “Helen. . .” He cupped the
woman’s filthy tangled hair softly then felt at her neck for a pulse.
Outside the building, sirens could be heard. The fire department was arriving,
along with the police. There would soon be too many spectators and the enemy
could wear many disguises.
Illya knelt and touched the other man’s arm. “There’s nothing we can do for
her, Napoleon. We must leave now.”
“I’ve known her all my life.”
“We must go. I know of a safe house not far from here. Come. We can contact
Mr. Waverly again from there.”
Napoleon allowed himself to be helped up again, and Illya led the way to the
opening at the front of the apartment. The front door was open and hanging
askew from one hinge.
Illya peered out into the deserted hall. Thank goodness for the very human
instinct for self-preservation – this floor was already evacuated. He pulled
his companion down the hall to the stairway. With any luck they would be able
to slip away before anyone saw them leaving this floor.
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