Chapter 2: Can Fester Forever
Something's ringing. A high-pitched squeal in his ears. Then pain. Terrible, unrelenting pain. Everything hurts. He wants to cry out, to wince, to retreat from it, but he can't move. Distantly, he hears someone talking. No, someones talking. He can't tell how many there are.
The ringing is fading, but the voices still seem a long way away. He forces himself to focus on them and not his tortuous body. His mind starts to return; that's Dewey's voice. The higher pitched one, that's Webby. Their conversing back and forth, sometimes even calling out to him. He can't respond. He can't do anything. I'm here!
He hears a cry, followed by a different voice rise above the rest, ``Is he dead?!'' It's Louie. Why would the lad think he's gone? What happened? He hears a whack, presumably one of the others punching the green duckling to be quiet. He wants to smirk. Good. They should expect more of him, he's Scrooge McDuck after all! It'll take more than that tae kill me! Of course, he doesn't know what that is. He doesn't remember anything.
Two fingers are placed to his jugular and something tickles his nose. It's soft and light, but the tickle makes him think he may sneeze, which would be excruciating at this moment. A few unbearable seconds go by before the annoying feeling leaves.
He hears Webby's voice again, her voice cracks, ``His heart's beating! He's breathing! He's alive!'' There's a group breath released. Did they really think he had expired?
Someone touches his head; he wants to wince away. There's a shout, ``No, don't move him!'' Huey's voice. ``The Junior Woodchuck Guidebook says if he has a spine or neck injury, moving him could make it worse!'' Smart lad.
``But we have to get him back to the Sunchaser! How are we supposed to do that if we can't move him?!'' Dewey again. His voice is filled with urgency and...concern? Are his injuries that severe?
The ringing has almost left now; his senses are coming back to him; the voices are clearer. He can feel the gentle breeze ruffle his feathers; even that makes his skin burn. That's right, they were outside somewhere. On another adventure? His left shoulder throbs painfully. He feels like he was hit by a truck.
No...not a truck...a boulder. His memories return to him all at once. His nephew in the path of the stone that had, at first, failed to fall. He remembers forcing his aching joints to move as fast he demanded, whether they'll allow it or not, to get to him; to get to Donald. If he's in the amount of pain he's in now, he must have been hit; but did he save his nephew? He hasn't heard the lad's voice.
He needs to know. He must make sure Donald is alright. Scrooge compels his voice to work, though it sounds strained and weak, ``...Donald...''
A hand is immediately placed on his cheek, ``Unca Scrooge?!'' His voice. The `uncle' in front of his own name makes his heart leap. The old miser thanks any supernatural force he can think of. His nephew is alive! If his body would allow, he'd scoop the boy up now and smother him with kisses. But that's not the uncle that Donald knows. The uncle his nephew grew up with keeps a calm head in these situations.
He needs to see him. To see with his own two eyes that Donald is ok. His face grimaces for a second before he forces his eyes open. At first all he sees is white. Then shadows appear, hovering above him. They gradually take shape and color. Eventually, the face of his nephew comes into view. That look...the last time he saw that look on Donald's face was when the sailor heard Della was lost in space. A new pain plagues Scrooge; one in his chest, ``...are ye...alright, lad...?''
Donald lets out a breath, closing his quickly dampening eyes for a moment, before looking back at him, ``Thanks to you.'' His beak is turned upwards into a smile, though it seems halfhearted and repressed.
Scrooge blinks, trying to get his vision to focus. More faces are forming next to him. Webby and the boys. There's not a dry eye among them. He can't stand seeing the usually joyous ducklings look like that, especially not when it's over himself. Tsk, ``...what are ye all cryin' fer? Ye cannae git rid `a me that easily!'' There's the smiles he loves. His family embraces him at first gently, then they hold tight, as if afraid to let go. As much as the action is appreciated, he can already barely keep himself from crying out in pain. The elder lets out a grunt of discomfort and they quickly retreat.
Webby's large, hollow eyes are glancing up and down his body, ``We need to get you home. Can you move?'' The question on if his back or neck are injured.
He tries to focus, but everything still hurts so bad. Slowly, his legs start to straighten themselves out of the strange angles they landed in.
Scrooge's right wing moves to push himself up, but his left remains motionless, ``...cannae move me arm...''
Said appendage lay tangled in vines and underneath a small branch. Webby and Huey work to unravel it as Donald places an arm underneath the old miser's head to help lift him up.
When the ducklings finally manage to free his arm, Webby sucks her teeth, ``I think it's dislocated...''
The limb hangs awkwardly from the shoulder. The old duck lets out a soft groan, more in annoyance than actual pain. He lifts his good wing towards Donald, and his nephew helps him wrap it around the sailor's neck. Together they gently pull Scrooge into a sitting position. His back cries out in protest at the movement, surely bruised, but he highly doubts broken as he can still move most of his appendages. When they finally pause, the Scottish duck relaxes his grimace and releases the breath he's been holding with a small cough. Debris falls off his body as he keeps his eyes closed for just one more second. This upright position causes his head to swim, and he feels sick to his stomach. His beak is dry, and he swallows before his belly can have any more ideas.
Finally, he manages to acknowledge the girl, ``...someone'll have tae set it...''
Eyes risk opening, and Scrooge gets a look at his body for the first time. Cuts and scrapes litter his skin, but his legs seem to have escaped relatively unharmed, though his right leg aches. His right arm has a deep laceration that is undoubtedly bleeding down Donald's shirt by now; his left hip is throbbing; the bad arm is hanging unnaturally at his side causing an overwhelming amount of pain; and his head is still spinning. He's sure there's a deep cut above his eye, as he can feel something threatening to drip into it. He most likely has a concussion as well from either whatever caused the gash, or from hitting his head on the ground. The back of his head and neck feel rather moist, perhaps there is some blood trickling down? The hand that Donald used to lift him up before is covered in a crimson color; his head is definitely bleeding. But the thing that hurts the most, next to his dislocated arm, is his left rib cage, especially in this position. He can see a tear in his robe where red is seeping out, a red far darker than the color of his attire, but there must be more damage than that. Small gashes sting across his face where branches and sharp rocks must have grazed him.
The first thing that runs through his mind is...how is he alive?! Injuries like these could be fatal to someone far younger than he, and with his age it's even more a wonder. That death trap was designed to kill someone, a duck half his age would be lucky to survive something like this. 152 years is not easy on the body. He understands now why the kids thought he was already deceased, and with the pain he's in, he almost wishes he was.
Scrooge eyes the children around him. Huey and Webby are near his bad arm, seemingly trying to figure out if they can set it themselves. Dewey sits on the ground closer to his knee. The blue child is looking over Webby's shoulder as if he's interested in helping, but his eyes seem to be far away. Louie kneels at his feet. The boy's beak and face are as pale as a sheet, well, as pale as one can be with white feathers. He can't look directly at his great uncle. The boy isn't too keen on blood and seeing a family member badly injured is making his stomach churn, but his tears seemed to have dried for now.
Huey's voice snaps the elder duck out of his thoughts, ``It would be better to set it here than let it wait until we get back. The longer we wait, the more swelling will occur, and it'll be harder to set. Plus, it'll be less painful if we do it now rather than later.'' The boy was reading his journal once again. That book really comes in handy.
The girl nods in approval, a hand to her chin. Then she pauses with a worried look, ``...who's gonna do it?''
The children all exchange a glance. Donald was currently supporting Scrooge, so it had to be one of them. Louie is definitely not an option; he'd just as soon puke at the thought then even try. He'd probably faint before he even touches the appendage. Huey possess the knowledge on how to set the bone, but the thought of physically feeling the shoulder move under his hands makes him queasy.
Webby retains the courage to do what needs to be done, but she would really prefer it not to be her causing such pain her idol. If she has to do it, she will, but she's a bit unconfident in her bone setting abilities. Her Granny hasn't covered that part of survival medicine with her yet.
Right as she opens her beak to mutter an `Ok, I guess I will then,' the boy behind her speaks up, ``I can.'' Dewey wears an unwavering look, even if there's some fear hidden behind his eyes.
``Dewey...'' Donald calls to him softly. The sailor has an idea of why the middle child volunteered. The duckling hasn't said much since the accident happened. He had been the one who encouraged them to keep going, even after the trap had been sprung. He led the group through the underbrush, making sure everybody got past each obstacle safely. The only thing he had really verbally said was that they needed to get their wounded uncle home as soon as possible. And now he wants to fix what is, in a sense, broken. Dewey blames himself. The boy shoots a glance to his uncle, but his determination never falters.
``Are you sure?'' Webby seems appreciative, but still wants to make sure the boy is actually comfortable doing what he says.
Dewey switches positions with Webby so that he faces the bad arm directly. He looks at his older brother, ``Just tell me what I need to do.'' If Scrooge wasn't already biting back his cries of pain, he'd congratulate the boy for stepping up to the task.
Huey nods, ``First we need to see what position the bone is in now, so that we know which direction it needs to go.'' He looks to Webby, who catches the hint and switches places with him, so she faces Dewey. She then places her tiny hands on the duck's shoulder, using her small fingers to determine its location in comparison to where it should be.
Her touch immediately sends shocks of agony through the old duck's body, causing him to wince and scrunch up his face with a grunt. He clenches his teeth as his hold around Donald tightens, making his nephew yelp in surprise. The girl's brows knead together in concern, though her eyes remain focused on what she's doing, ``Sorry, Mr. McDuck.''
Mr. McDuck. How he despises that! When had the lass started calling him by that again?! It had seemed to be an increasing occurrence as of late, but as to when it had actually begun, he couldn't say. There was also the certain dimness in her usually bright eyes.
Scrooge was serious when he told her a few months ago to call him `Uncle Scrooge.' He truly sees her as his own niece, even if there is no blood relation. However, since the events of the Sunchaser in which he had excluded her from his family, the light that she once emitted was fizzled out. Even after he had reconciled with the boys, something remained missing within the fourth duckling. He'll have to have a talk with the girl. But later, his mind is preoccupied at the moment.
Webby's delicate fingers find the humerus head a good inch below and slightly to the left of where it should be, ``Here's the top, it needs to be moved up and over just slightly.'' The girl's grip makes the old miser shrink closer to Donald with a groan. As proud as he is of his niece, part of him wants to give her a good smack. He restrains himself just barely.
Louie covers his ears at the painful sounds, closing his eyes tightly. If he could just get the picture of his wounded uncle out of his head, maybe he could calm down. But he finds he can't completely block the noises out. He has to listen just slightly to know what's happening; to know that the motionless, crimson covered body he'd seen when they first found it, is sitting up before him, breathing, making those awful noises, and alive. Louie wishes nothing more than to skip ahead when they would all laugh about this later. He just wants to get this over and done with already. He allows himself to peek through his eyelids just a tad.
The oldest nephew can't help but feel out of place. For the many years he grew up with Scrooge McDuck, Donald never saw his uncle in such pain, or at least openly showing it. Sure, they all had their fair shares of injuries in the past, but Scrooge never paid much mind to his own. A slight wince here or there would be it, and they'd be off on the next adventure whether he was healed already or not. No wound had ever been this severe though.
Of course, if it was Donald or Della that had gotten hurt, even if it was just a minor scrape, their uncle would put everything on hold until he was sure the children were bandaged up and alright.
The only time of outwardly expressing pain that came remotely close, was when they lost Della on the Spear of Selene. Donald had seen the pain and regret on his uncle's face, especially when the sailor left with Della's three little eggs, but even that expression had been masked.
If Scrooge is concealing his pain now, he must be in a world of hurt. The fact that the old duck's face is practically buried in Donald's chest as he tries to resist the urge to yell at the children to stop, makes the situation all the more strange. Of course, the headlock of sorts his uncle has on him helps that; he can't move away if he wanted to, but he doesn't.
His left wing supports Scrooge's back, mindful of his arm and the gash on his ribs, while his right grips his uncle's hand on the arm that's tightly wrapped around his own neck. The hand in his would tighten when the pain is especially unbearable, and he would squeeze it in return to try and provide some sort of comfort.
Their argument from this morning couldn't be further from his mind right now. Sure, they would need to talk it out, but something like that was not nearly important enough to be concerned about at the present time, not when Scrooge almost died. Donald was sure his uncle felt the same. A small disagreement can be overlooked when your family's survival is at stake.
``Alright, Dewey, try and get a good feel so you know what you're looking for,'' Huey instructs his brother. The middle child does as told, following Webby's hands and trying to ignore the pained sounds and faint Gaelic cursing coming from his uncle, the boy's hands are not nearly as gentle as the girl's.
Once he gets a good feel, he follows the instructions of how to hold the limb and maneuver it back in to place. Dewey places his left hand where the shoulder and upper humerus should meet so that he can feel when it correctly pops back in place. His right hand takes his uncle's wrist that lay lifelessly on the ground, slowly bending the limb to a 90? angle. Under his left hand, Dewey can feel Scrooge trembling slightly in anticipation.
Huey seems to have noticed as well, and gently puts a hand on Celtic duck to get his attention, ``Try and relax, Uncle Scrooge. It'll be easier if your muscles stay loose.'' Easier said than done, though the senior does take a deep breath to try and calm himself, not too deep though, for that hurt his ribs.
Dewey faulters for just a moment, looking to his left at his elder's face. Sensing the other's hesitation, Scrooge opens his eyes and glances at the boy next to him from his peripheral vision. The blue duckling seems to be apologizing for what is about to happen. He can tell the middle child is still nervous, despite his attempt at keeping a cool head. The experienced duck, not trusting his own voice at the moment, dips his head ever so slightly, silently urging him onward and reassuring the other that he trusts him fully. A blink; the boy nods back in appreciation.
Dewey refocuses himself and begins to move the appendage in his hand, by the wrist, away from the body as instructed. The old duck immediately tenses again with a grunt as he can feel the bone twist inside. The child's hand moves until he feels resistance, and then continues by pulling the wrist up, as if making the hand reach to the sky. As he lifts the arm, he can feel the bone moving up along with him. The owner whines at the feeling, his torso straightening with the limb and slightly leaning away from the duckling.
Dewey's brows furrow in concentration; the bone is right there; it just needs to pop back in now. Applying just a slight bit of force with his left hand on the humerus head and pushing the wing backwards just a tad farther with his right, he feels the bone give way underneath his force, and snaps back into place with an audible pop. The eldest duck lets out a cry, jumping up in reflex to the sudden pain.
The four watching the scene visibly flinch at the sound and shout that followed. Louie gags and closes his eyes once again. Huey and Webby suck their teeth in sympathy, turning their heads away a bit with a wince. Dewey remains unfazed, keeping the limb in position. Donald's eye closes at the yell in his ear, before gazing back the other's face.
The sailor had never seen his uncle cry in all his years, not even when they lost Della, but there are unmistaken tears in the old duck's wide eyes. Scrooge's jump had aggravated the pain in his side. His face wrinkles together again, and he lets out another strained groan between his tightly clenched teeth as he lowers himself back to a position that didn't hurt as much. He wills the tears to stay where they are, ashamed they had appeared in the first place. Thankfully, they obey his command.
Dewey slowly lowers the arm back to a normal position, keeping it bent, and is relieved to find it moves without resistance. The owner's feathered head lowers with it and hangs motionless.
The oldest nephew immediately notices the sudden act, ``Scrooge?'' No response. He squeezes the hand in his, trying to get the other to react. Nothing.
By now the children have noticed something is wrong. Louie's eyes have reopened, and he uncovers his ears at his uncle's call.
Huey puts a hand to the battered body again, hoping for some sign of life. He finds none.
Webby too looks up and down the body in front of her in concern, putting a hand on his back with a soft shake, ``Mr. McDuck?!''
Dewey keeps his hands ahold of the injured wing, his eyes glancing back and forth. Did he do something wrong?! Did he give the man a heart attack?!
Donald releases the hand he held, placing his own on the elder's chest, shaking a bit more urgently, ``Unca Scrooge?!''
A weak cough forces itself out, followed by a low grumble, ``...Donald...quit yer yappin'...Ah'm nae dead...''
The group takes a much-needed breath as the dark turquoise eyes open once again. Their owner slowly lifting his head up just slightly to glare at his nephew, who, despite his relief, returns the glare, ``Well how am I supposed to react when you pass out like that?!''
Eyes narrow. Scrooge is humiliated that he could no longer tolerate the pain, and he had started to feel lightheaded right before his arm had been readjusted. He keeps his beak shut, not wanting to start yet another argument, and instead focuses his attention to left wing.
The boy in blue still clings to said appendage, keeping it a neutral 90? angle. Its owner tests the limb just slightly, moving his fingers that he had long lost feeling in, and extending it just a bit before bringing it back to same position. He's pleased to find, although sore, the intense pain has lifted. He lets out a soft breath, looking up at the one who had freed him from it, ``...thanks, laddie...'' The boy smiles back and gives a nod.
Huey is already on the next step, ``The arm needs to stay immobile for now; it's still unstable. We need a sling. Uncle Donald, can I use your sleeves?'' At his approval, the sleeves of his sailor uniform are promptly ripped off and tied tightly together. The injured wing is then placed in the makeshift sling as it's wrapped around the owner's head. It will work until they get back anyway.
With the initial crisis over, Donald feels it's long overdue that he acts his age and takes charge of the situation. His brows lower in resolution, ``Alright, we need to get back to the plane.'' The four children each give a nod in agreement. He looks down at his uncle; he's awake but seems rather out of it. His head is still carried lower than normal, and it seems he could lose consciousness again at any moment. A shiver wracks his body, most likely from blood loss. He's going into shock, all the more reason they need to get back as soon as possible.
Donald addresses him, already moving to grab under the other's knees, ``I can carry you; it'll be faster than having to make you walk.''
Not even a beat passed before, ``Absolutely not...''
He frowns, ``You stubborn old fool; you'll exasperate your wounds if you try to walk all the way back!''
The bloodied head lifts again with a glare, his eyes seem a bit unfocused, ``...teh clouds'll part on Dismal Doons b'fore ah let ye carry me...'' ...at least nae bridal style...
The nephew snorts in anger, but the senior ignores him, ``...help me git on me feet...'' He wants to prove to his family, maybe even to himself, that he isn't as bad off as they think. Or maybe he isn't thinking properly at all, which is much more likely. The kids glance at one another, reluctant to help. The Scottish duck sluggishly moves his spat-clad feet closer to his body to assist in lifting himself up.
His eldest nephew begins to stand, hanging on to the right hand around the sailor's neck. A grimace already appears on wounded duck's face at the stretching in his body. The children all come to aid, grabbing where it looks safest, and together they heave the injured duck to a stand, the rest of the debris falling off him. He stumbles a little, leaning heavily on Donald, before finally stilling. His head swims even more so like this; he fears he may actually lose his breakfast.
His nephew eyes him spitefully, ``There, are ya happy?! Even just trying to stand you can hardly catch your breath!''
The heavy panting sends spikes of pain through his left side, making him utter another curse under his breath. But he maintains his glare, only opening a single eye, ``...quiet you...!'' If he had his cane, he'd whack the other on the head.
While he catches his breath, Webby goes to fetch his hat and spectacles while Louie reaches on his tiptoes to get the cane. Dewey helps support his great uncle on the opposite side of Donald by wrapping his arms around him since Scrooge's left arm is useless. Huey stays close by in case the other loses his balance again.
Ever the leader, Scrooge tries to take the first step, only to collapse in their hold with a strained bellow. The three only just manage to keep him upright until he once again regains his footing, this time only on his left leg; the right he holds up with a wince.
Huey immediately notices his distress, and kneels down to examine the leg, ``There's a large bruise forming on your shank. You could have a break in there!''
His great uncle lets out a mix between a groan and growl, half in pain, half in agitation. Of course.
Huey only throws fuel on the flame by adding, ``You can't walk on that; you'll only make things worse!''
The sailor shakes his head, ``There's no choice then. I'm carrying you back to the plane whether you like it or not!''
Scrooge's glare isn't as hard as before. His head is still spinning, and the longer he remains upright, the greater the chance of him collapsing grew. His nephew keeps ahold of his right hand, turns, and kneels down in front of him. With his hand still tightly being held, and his sudden support gone, Scrooge has little choice than to carefully climb aboard. His good arm is held around his nephew's neck as he leans against Donald's back. Hands come to grab under his knees to keep him in place, and Donald slowly rises to his feet. Scrooge's weight settles on his own chest, making his side ache at the position, and his bent legs aggravate his hip, but they have little options left. The height still seems dizzying to the entrepreneur, but at least he no longer has to rely on his own body to keep him upright.
Taking a quick glance around to make sure everyone is with him and they haven't forgotten anything, Donald initiates the hike back to the pathway. Dewey insists on leading to remove any obstacles that might be in the way of his uncles. Donald's mobility is rather limited now, but he doesn't complain, and thanks the middle child in making the venture easier. The three ducklings follow behind him, occasionally assisting the blue triplet in moving any branches out of the way to keep anything from hitting their great uncle.
The stone trail seems like a relief to see, and they can travel a bit easier back to the Sunchaser. Donald pauses just for a moment to catch his breath. The jungle is too thick to see the plane, but he hopes the walk will go quickly.
He readjusts his grip on his uncle's legs, earning a grunt of protest. The lone arm around him has gone rather lax in their short trek, and he can hear the pained breaths in his ear that aren't meant to be heard. The injured duck hasn't said a word since they left; he hardly seems conscious. Blood loss comes to mind. Internal bleeding. Something they can't see on the outside. They need to get Scrooge back and address his wounds as soon as possible. Determined, he begins the journey back to Launchpad and the Sunchaser, praying his uncle will hold out until then.
