novelzi Chapter 668 668: Camp Shepherd (Part 1)
Chapter 668 668: Camp Shepherd (Part 1)
The helicopter ride felt shorter than it should have.Don sat with his head resting against the cabin wall, eyes closed, feeling the steady vibration of the aircraft travel through the metal frame and into his bones.
The booster Webb had injected into his neck still did its job, keeping the worst of the pain buried beneath a layer of chemical numbness, but exhaustion lingered around the edges of his awareness.
It waited patiently, like something heavy hanging above him, ready to drop the moment he stopped moving.
The interior of the helicopter faded into background noise.
Rotors thundered overhead. Radio chatter crackled through headsets.
Soldiers shifted equipment and exchanged brief words that Don barely registered.
None of it required anything from him, so he let the noise wash over him.
At some point he must have drifted.
He only realized his eyes had been closed when he opened them again.
The helicopter had begun its descent.
Don turned his head toward the nearest window and stared outside.
Below them, Santos City Hero University spread across the darkness.
More specifically, the stadium.
His gaze lingered there.
The memory surfaced immediately.
Bodies.
Blood.
Panicked students.
Screaming.
The image lasted only a moment before he pushed it back down where it belonged.
There was already enough occupying space inside his head.
From above, the stadium barely resembled the place he remembered.
The field had been cleared, though traces of what had happened remained.
Large sections of grass looked flattened and dark despite the cleanup effort.
Rows of military tents covered most of the playing field in neat formations.
Portable floodlights illuminated sections of the camp in harsh white light.
Helicopters occupied one side of the stadium while others lifted off from marked landing zones, their running lights moving across the darkness.
Unlike SHQ, the entire university had not been converted into a military installation.
Only the stadium.
Beyond the perimeter fencing, the campus remained mostly dark.
The camp itself looked smaller than SHQ's.
Smaller, but just as active.
Soldiers moved between tents carrying crates and medical supplies. Stretchers crossed the field in both directions.
Medical personnel worked beneath floodlights near the sidelines. Even through the helicopter window, Don could smell it.
Blood.
Antiseptic.
Sweat.
The scent seemed impossible to escape anymore.
The helicopter continued descending.
A few moments later the landing skids struck the ground.
THOOM~
Rotor wash blasted across the field.
Dust and loose debris spiraled outward. Tent walls snapped and fluttered violently.
Nearby soldiers raised their arms to shield their faces as grass and dirt swept across the landing zone.
Before the blades had fully slowed, the side door slid open.
Several soldiers approached immediately carrying stretchers.
Webb rose first.
The sergeant stepped out onto the field and immediately intercepted a waiting officer.
The two exchanged a few brief words while the recovery team moved toward the bodies brought back from the city.
Don followed more slowly.
Behind him, the helicopter crew wasted no time. As soon as personnel and casualties were unloaded, the aircraft lifted off again.
The helicopter rose back into the night sky and disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived.
Whatever assignment awaited it next was already more important than resting.
Webb watched it leave for half a second before turning toward Don.
"Let's go get you patched up."
Don nodded.
Neither of them said anything else as they crossed the field.
They moved through rows of tents and temporary structures assembled in a hurry but maintained with military precision.
Soldiers unloaded supply crates nearby while medics pushed stretchers toward treatment areas.
Groups of civilians sat wrapped in blankets near portable heaters, many staring into nothing while others slept sitting upright.
Compared to SHQ, the atmosphere felt different.
Not calmer.
Just tired.
The panic had burned itself out and left exhaustion behind.
Webb eventually led him toward a large medical tent near the center of the stadium.
Bright floodlights illuminated the canvas walls from outside while personnel moved continuously through the entrance.
A man in a stained white coat stood near the opening reviewing a clipboard.
Webb stopped in front of him.
"This one's got a hand wound. Knife through the palm. Plus some other cuts. Take care of him."
The officer looked up.
Captain's insignia decorated his collar.
His eyes moved across Don's injuries before he nodded once.
"Got him, Sergeant."
Webb looked at Don.
"I need to give my report. Stay here. Get fixed up."
Then he was already moving again.
Within seconds he disappeared into the maze of tents.
The medical officer jerked his head toward the interior.
"Come on."
Inside, the medical tent felt warmer than the night air outside.
Rows of cots filled the space from end to end.
Some held wounded soldiers. Others held civilians.
A few patients slept.
Most didn't.
Many simply stared upward at the canvas ceiling with exhausted eyes.
Portable monitors emitted quiet electronic beeps near the more serious cases while medics moved between beds carrying supplies and paperwork.
The officer led Don toward an empty cot near the rear of the tent.
"Sit."
Don sat.
The officer immediately took hold of his injured hand and guided it beneath a bright examination lamp.
The light revealed details Don had mostly ignored during the fight.
The wound looked ugly.
The knife had punched straight through his palm.
Blood covered both sides.
The edges of the injury remained swollen and angry despite the clotting agent.
The officer turned the hand carefully.
"Move your fingers."
Don did.
The captain watched closely.
Again.
Again.
After a few moments he nodded.
"You're lucky."
He reached for antiseptic.
"Missed the major tendons."
The liquid hit the wound.
The booster dulled most of it.
Most.
A burning sensation still shot through Don's hand.
"Another centimeter," the officer continued while cleaning the injury, "and you'd have lost mobility for a bit."
Don didn't answer.
The officer didn't seem bothered.
He worked quickly.
Small movements.
Steady hands.
The wound gradually closed beneath neat rows of sutures and a gel that worked to close the wind slowly.
Afterward the officer cleaned the cuts on Don's forearm, ribs, and cheek before wrapping fresh bandages around the worst injuries.
Finally he stepped back and handed over a small bottle.
"Antibiotics."
Don glanced at it.
"Take one every twelve hours. Keep the bandages dry."
The officer paused.
Then a faint grin appeared.
"You must've left an impression on Sergeant Webb."
Don looked up.
The captain shrugged.
"He doesn't usually hand-deliver civilians to my tent."
Don glanced toward the entrance.
Webb was nowhere in sight.
"He's thorough."
The officer barked a short laugh.
"That's one way to describe him."
Treatment finished, Don pushed himself off the cot.
His hand felt stiff.
Sore.
But functional.
The officer noticed the test flex.
"You're cleared to leave."
He returned to his paperwork.
"Try not to get stabbed again before morning."
Don left without responding.
Outside, the cool night air felt surprisingly good.
He walked without any particular destination in mind.
Grass and gravel crunched beneath his boots as he moved through the camp.
The booster was beginning to lose ground against the pain now.
Around him, the camp remained active.
Supply trucks arrived through the stadium entrance.
Soldiers directed personnel between sections.
Medics hurried between treatment tents.
And civilians continued arriving.
Some wore borrowed military equipment.
Others still wore blood-stained civilian clothes.
Many looked exhausted.
All of them looked frightened.
Don watched soldiers issue equipment and instructions to groups of new arrivals.
It looked familiar.
The same process SHQ had used.
The military was gathering anyone capable of contributing, regardless of whether they had combat experience.
There weren't enough trained personnel left to be selective.
A cluster of university students stood near one of the supply stations.
Most still wore SHU clothing beneath their borrowed gear.
Several noticed him immediately.
Whispers followed as he passed.
"That's Don Bright."
"The first-year?"
"Yeah."
A second voice sounded less certain.
"Shit... even he got messed up."
Don kept walking.
He didn't acknowledge them.
Didn't slow down.
Yet he noticed the effect anyway.
The students looked at his bandaged hand.
The stitched cut on his face.
The way he carried himself.
For many of them, he had been the strongest combat-oriented first-year student in the university.
Seeing him injured made things real in a way speeches never could.
Eventually he reached the stadium entrance.
The familiar gateway had been transformed into a checkpoint.
Concrete barriers restricted movement to a narrow passage monitored by armed soldiers. Portable floodlights illuminated the area while personnel checked identification and logged new arrivals.
Outside the barriers, a line of students waited to enter.
Some looked relieved.
Others carried the hollow expressions of people who had survived something they still hadn't processed.
Nearby, registration personnel worked beneath another tent, recording names, abilities, and assignments.
As Don approached, one of the waiting students called out.
"Hey!"
Don stopped.
The student had a bandage wrapped around one forearm.
His expression looked anxious.
"Is it bad out there?"
Several others turned toward Don.
"The city," the student continued. "What's it like?"
Don studied them for a moment.
The fear was obvious.
They wanted reassurance.
Something comforting.
Something hopeful.
Instead he gave them the truth.
"Watch your backs."
Nobody spoke for a second.
A few students nodded.
Others exchanged uneasy looks.
Not the answer they wanted. But probably the answer they needed.
Don resumed walking.
A soldier immediately stepped into his path.
"Halt."
The rifle remained lowered, but the man's posture left little room for argument.
"You're not authorized to leave the camp without permission."
Don stopped.
Before he could respond, another voice arrived from behind him.
"At ease."
The soldier straightened.
Webb approached through the checkpoint.
"He's with me."
Recognition flashed across the guard's face.
He stepped aside immediately.
Webb stopped in front of Don.
His gaze traveled over the bandages, the stitches, and the exhaustion that no amount of medical treatment could hide.
"Good to see you on your feet."
"It'll heal."
Webb nodded.
For a few seconds neither man spoke.
The camp continued moving around them.
Generators hummed.
Vehicles rolled past.
Floodlights illuminated drifting dust particles.
Finally Don broke the pause.
"Is everything okay?"
Something flickered across Webb's face.
Gone before Don could identify it.
"That's not something for you to worry about."
His voice softened slightly.
"You've done more than enough tonight. Go rest."
Webb reached out and gave his shoulder a firm pat.
"I added what you did in my report."
Don blinked.
Webb continued.
"Your name's in the system now."
For a moment Don simply absorbed that.
A report.
Official recognition.
After everything that had happened, Webb had made sure his actions hadn't disappeared into paperwork and casualty lists.
The sergeant lowered his hand.
"Maybe the next time I see you, you'll be enlisted."
Don held his gaze.
"Maybe."
A faint nod followed.
Acknowledgment.
Respect.
Then Webb turned and walked away.
Within moments he vanished between rows of tents.
Don watched him go before turning toward the campus beyond the checkpoint.