Roused abruptly from slumber, Michael hurried downstairs to find the young man Li Hao lying unconscious upon a makeshift operating table—two dining tables pushed together in the great hall. According to the guards on the wall, about twenty minutes prior, just after seven in the morning, they had spotted the youth staggering back towards the settlement. Through their binoculars, his disheveled state instantly signaled disaster at the remote coal mining outpost. The guards rushed out to meet him, but the journey back had seemingly drained Li Hao of his last ounce of strength. The moment he saw the guards coming to his aid, the desperate will that had sustained him evaporated. He collapsed to the ground, sinking into a profound coma from which he could not be roused. The guards, following protocol, immediately reported the incident. The duty commander, O'Neill, upon hearing the news, did not hesitate to disregard Michael's standing order of 'do not disturb,' leading to the black man's urgent knocking on Michael's door once more...
Before Michael descended, a crowd had already gathered outside the hall. They dared not enter for fear of hindering the rescue efforts, yet they clustered by the doors and windows, refusing to leave. The largest group among them were the people from the original Base 0005. They watched in silent anguish as the familiar young man lay on the table fighting for his life, their faces etched with unconcealed worry. Even on the hardened faces of men like Zhang Tie-zhu, Michael could discern a simmering, suppressed fury.
The wolf-blooded woman, Linda, already up and about, had begun rendering aid. With the help of several sturdy women, she was cutting away the youth's blood-soaked garments, cleaning his numerous wounds. This allowed Michael to see the true extent of Li Hao's injuries. His face and upper body were covered in wounds of various sizes, clearly inflicted by human hands. Most critically, a crude arrow, fashioned from a scrap of rebar, had pierced clean through his abdomen. Faced with such a potentially fatal injury, Linda was at a loss. She feared that extracting the arrow would kill the young man instantly. The sheer number and severity of his wounds spoke volumes about the ferocity of the battle he had endured.
Beyond the abdominal wound, the condition of Li Hao's legs was equally dire. At a glance, Michael could see three or four distinct bite marks or embedded scorpion stingers on his calves. Unquestionably, these were injuries sustained from nocturnal creatures like scorpions during his desperate, frantic flight back. The toxins had caused severe swelling in his legs. The poison, accelerated by his exertions, had spread rapidly; even his lips now bore a distinct, ugly bluish-purple hue. Two women, using knives sterilized with alcohol, carefully lanced the wounds on his legs. Immediately, dark, purplish blood oozed forth, its foul, metallic scent reaching Michael even from a distance.
As Michael assessed the injuries, Linda, overwhelmed by the challenge of the arrow wound, finally saw her leader arrive. Though her skill in field medicine far surpassed Michael's, in this critical moment, she still looked to him for guidance. "My Lord, what should we do now?" she asked, her face etched with anxiety.
Michael could only offer a bitter smile. "What canwe do? We treat him with everything we have. Use our best medicines. Whether he lives... will be up to fate." Then, as if remembering something crucial, he quickly added, "Someone fetch the medical kit from my office! It has glucose solution and liquid antibiotics for an IV drip."
No sooner had he spoken than Zhang Tie-zhu sprinted away to retrieve it. Soon, despite the multiple needle pricks on his arms, Li Hao was successfully connected to an IV. The bag of glucose, held high, was laced with a heavy dose of antibiotics, a desperate attempt to combat the severe systemic poisoning.
A strange sense of relief seemed to pass through the onlookers as the droplets of medicine began their journey into the young man's veins. Perhaps, in their hearts, there was a simple logic: compared to the old days when they had to tough out injuries, having medicine that could actually help was a blessing. An injection was even better than oral medicine. And this method of directly feeding liquid into the veins? That was nothing short of miraculous technology. Maybe, just maybe, this powerful treatment would save Li Hao's life. If not... there was truly nothing more to be done.
Whether it was the robust constitution of youth raised in the Wasteland's harsh environment, a degree of resistance built from frequent encounters with venomous creatures, or simply a body unaccustomed to pharmaceuticals offering no resistance, the intravenous treatment proved remarkably effective. Against the odds, the young man survived the risky extraction of the arrow. After his wounds were cleaned, dressed, and two full bags of glucose and antibiotics administered, his complexion improved slightly. His breathing, though faint, grew steadier.
Only then did the collective anxiety in the room ease somewhat. Michael, his mind now clearer, began sifting through the bloodstained clothes on the floor, searching for clues. He remembered Li Hao as a clever young man. Surely, despite his grave injuries, he would have had the presence of mind to leave some kind of warning, some message identifying the attackers.
The disaster at the coal outpost was undeniable. But who was responsible, and why? This puzzled Michael greatly. The settlement's trucks had just made a routine supply run to the outpost two days prior; everything had been perfectly calm then, with no sign of trouble. That delivery had also brought back over ten tons of coal, a godsend for the settlement. The coal's quality was exceptionally high, far superior to wood for fueling the boilers. Just today, Michael had planned to start making coal briquettes for the upcoming brick-firing. To think such a catastrophe had occurred just a day or two later.
During his search, Michael found something in the pocket of a torn pair of pants: a strip of cloth, torn from something, with a message scrawled in blood:
Soru Town. Around 300 men. Leader unharmed by rifle fire.
The message was clear. The attack was launched by Soru Town. Their motives were, for the moment, irrelevant. The mere act of aggression against Sweetwater Gulch's people meant only one thing: war.
At that moment, Old Gimpy entered the hall, his expression grave. "My Lord," he said quietly to Michael, "word of young Li Hao has spread. The whole town is furious. No one can focus on work; they've all gathered outside."
That they couldn't work was a testament to their loyalty, their identification with Sweetwater Gulch as their home. Michael strode outside. The open ground before the building was packed with a dark mass of people; it seemed the entire settlement had assembled. They carried an assortment of weapons, though more held shovels and picks—tools of their labor. Their faces were masks of barely contained rage.
Before them all, Michael raised the bloodstained cloth high and roared, "I have confirmed it! It was the scum from Soru Town who launched this cowardly attack on our mining outpost! So I ask you now—what do we do?"
A moment of stunned silence followed his roar, filled with disbelief at Soru Town's audacity. But it was quickly shattered by a voice thick with fury: "Kill them all! Take back our mine! Make Soru Town pay a heavy price!" Soon, the cry was taken up by everyone, a unified roar of anger as they raised their weapons and tools high.
Witnessing this scene, Michael was reminded of films depicting villagers fighting over water rights, or of two rival mine owners clashing over a coal seam. It was an apt comparison. This was indeed shaping up to be a clash of coal barons.