Reckoning ~ Indian Hill 2 ~ A Michael Talbot Adventure (28 page)

“Such as?”

“We have reason to believe that the cave-in was deliberately orchestrated.”

“Who would do that and why?”

“Probably the same person or persons who let our little rogue unit slip through the cracks.”

“You mean you think we have saboteurs in our midst too?” Dennis asked.

“That would seem to be the case.”

“Is it the National Guardsmen?”

“That would have been our first option; but we keep pretty good tabs on them and they are always assigned to our men when out on patrol or other such missions.”

“Oh this is just beautiful! I lost my men here to some renegade within our ranks! That poor bastard had better hope that I’m not the one that finds him.”

“Don’t worry, Dennis; we’ll flush him out eventually.” Both men reflected on the word 'eventually.' Sure, odds were that they’d find the betrayer or betrayers, but would it be too late by then? Would whatever damage they intended to inflict already be done?

Chapter 32 – Mike Journal Entry Five

“Where am I!” I yelled. At least, I thought I yelled but what really came out was a small, shallow, dry rasp. Adrenaline surged in my veins as I struggled to recall where I was, orientation was nearly impossible. I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. I wasn’t even sure if I had moved my hand to that position.

My brain was so addled and cloudy, the first thoughts that raced through my head were that I’d been on an all night bender with Paul. Whoa! His name sounded a small alarm in the back of my head; but why? Did he drink my last beer the night before? Why would I be mad at Paul? Then the queasiness hit; first my head, and then my stomach as I evacuated whatever was in there. I felt so hungry, how could I possibly throw something back up?

The clouds began to part in my head as I realized I was on the alien ship. I’d never gotten off it. This had been all some elaborate stress-induced dream! I was on the ship and there was nothing I could do, nor anybody to save me. I was going to be facing Durgan soon and he would finish off what little of me was left.

But I felt all right with myself and with God. I felt I had made peace with those who mattered most to me even if it were only in a dream. I said goodbye to my sister, my father, my brothers, Dennis and Paul.

“Bong!” There it went again. What the hell was that? Tiny electrical currents rippled through my brain as it racked itself, looking for the connection between my alarm and Paul’s name. As the synopsis struck home, I was slapped with the brutal reality that my best friend had shot me… Shot me? Shot me!!!

“He shot me!” I rattled again. My brain transferred its thought from that staggering blow to the next. So where were we then? It asked, oh, so softly.

This was hell. This was my just reward for killing those people. How long was one relegated to purgatory? Fear was my constant companion. Would I forever be alone and never again see the light? I meant that figuratively and literally. Was there emotion in hell? I guess there must be. What would be the purpose of pain and suffering if you didn’t care? Would Lucifer himself address me? That thought terrified me more than facing the entire population of the alien ship with an air rifle. They could only kill you once; but Lucifer could do it for all eternity and in an infinite number of ways.

Was hell supposed to be cold? My back burned from the frozen surface that I was making contact with. Not having complete control over my extremities, I forcibly moved my hand to gain a sensory perspective on my surroundings. The surface was cool to the touch and damp.

Was their moisture in hell? Who knows? I scratched the surface of the material with my fingernail. I could feel a sliver of it work its way under my nail, but it wasn’t a sharp pain like you would expect from a splinter. It was more like the aggravation you get when you are working on a car and grease gets under your nails. It was more of a mild irritation.

My head throbbed in pain but I was unsure if I would be able to raise my hands high enough to rub my sore temples. Even with the iciness of the surface I was on, sweat began to break out all over my body as I struggled to regain control of my body. Did Paul paralyze me? Or blind me? Was anything I was doing now reality? Or was I trapped in my mind? Like a comatose patient, was I struggling in the dark to find my way back to reality? Yup, I was definitely back to the point where I wished that I was facing the aliens again. I didn’t care if I had no more than a slingshot either.

My hand eventually found its way to my skull, where it encountered spiders. Oh God! Spiders! Spiders were crawling on my head and I didn’t even have enough strength to wipe them away. They were eating me! I was trapped in a web and they were eating me! My body spastically jerked as a bolt of synaptic energy found its way to a nerve receptor in my shoulder. I was able to jerk one of the “spiders” away when I realized that perhaps it wasn’t a spider at all.

I did not yet have enough control of my hand to grasp the new puzzle I was holding. Intuition told me that it was some sort of wire, a lead of some sort. Alright, so that effectively ruled out hell and/or purgatory. I didn’t really think that the devil needed to monitor my brain waves.

That, however, steered me back into the direction of being back on the alien vessel. Did Paul shoot me, then deliver me to the aliens? Or did I sustain such grievous wounds in the arena that I was on some sort of life support? Could everything else just be a dream? But I remembered the pain in my father’s eyes when he told me about mom. And I remembered the feeling when I left Beth and Debbie in Maine… That couldn’t have been just a dream. And I could never forget my feelings about Paul when I realized he'd shot me.

The betrayal cut deeper than any enemy sword ever could. If he’d really shot me, there would have to be sensory proof. No matter how long I’d been lying there, I'd find a scar. The question now became, would I be able to reach it? It would have been a difficult spot to touch even in the best of times and I was far from optimal at the moment.

Control of my body seemed to be coming back in spurts. I made a stab at rolling onto my side, but that was fairly ineffectual. What do turtles on their backs do?  Oh yeah, they use their arms and legs to help topple them over. Neither leg seemed to be responding to the call for arms. Right now, I couldn’t be sure if I had them or not. Would my right arm, which I was guessing I had about fifty percent control of, be strong enough to get me on my side?

My next big hurdle was to make sure that I didn’t roll completely over onto my face, because I felt certain I did not have the strength to roll back over. My left leg began to twitch while I debated my rolling strategy. Energy was flooding back into my legs. Okay, maybe “flooding” was a bit of a stretch, but it was most assuredly trickling in, and right now, that was fine. Slowly but surely, I was reaffirming my humanity. The blindness was disturbing but if I was starting to feel my legs, maybe my sight wasn’t too far behind.

I burned with the desire to find out the truth of my location. Control or not, I was going to find out, to the best of my ability, where I was. I placed my right hand to my side and pressed for all I was worth. My muscles squealed in protest; my shoulder popped like it was trying to snap through the rust of disuse.

And, like a rocket that just seems to hang there at lift-off, I was stuck; having raised my shoulder barely two inches. Then, like that rocket that finally gains enough momentum, I broke free. Everything gave at once and I almost did what I feared--rolling myself completely over. But, like the cavalry, my left hand came to the rescue and stabilized me, albeit precariously, on my side.

Now the question, became would I be able to reach where I presumed Paul shot me? And if so, would my less than tactile digits be able to discern a scar from the rest of me? Pain coursed through me as I attempted to reach Paul, the betrayer’s, wound. Slowly, my hand inched its way to the hole, sweat pooling under my arms from the strain and pain.

Had this been the version of me two years ago, I would have just given up and let the chips fall where they may. But this was the new and improved Mike. I was version 2.0 now.

I gritted my teeth through the fire that flowed like lava in my veins. Centimeter by centimeter, I urged my hand forward, sheer determination winning out over the protests of my unused shoulder. My back popped as I strained to arch it in an attempt to help it meet my outstretched hand. Finally I struck home. My hand touched the spot where my best friend had shot me, only there was nothing there, not so much as a pimple.

“What the hell!?” I mumbled. Without warning, lights blazed from all directions. Well, this is it, I thought to myself. I’m having an aneurism. I’m going to die after lapsing into a coma and having one of the most delusional nightmares ever conceived.

Only I didn’t fade into black. My eyes hurt like hell while they tried to adjust to the searing white light. I couldn’t be dead if my eyes still hurt, could I? I looked up from my precarious position to notice someone had entered the room. It was a Progerian. My lungs collapsed as I screamed myself back into oblivion, back to a place with no alien usurpers. Sweet, sweet bliss… I passed out.

“Mike, wake up.” I sensed the voice from afar, along with a gentle nudging. “Come on, Mike. I know you can hear me.” I searched the data banks of my mind to try to put a face or a name with the voice, I kept coming up blank. I dared not open my eyes. My chest felt like it might heave right through my rib cage. I didn’t want to open my eyes, I had no desire to know where I was. It was so much easier while I was asleep. Nothing was life or death in my dreams, it just was. I didn’t have to save anyone and there were no best friends who shot you in the back, either.

“Mike! I know you’re awake; I’m looking at your vitals.”

Who was that? Maybe if I pretended long enough, she would just go away. She? Was she one of my “spoils?” If so, recognition was still not forthcoming. She shook me again although this time, not quite so gently. I guess she wasn’t going to go away. I might as well see what form of purgatory I was in now. I slowly opened my eyes, trying my best to gradually adjust to the fluorescent lighting that hung from the ceiling.

“Fluorescent lighting, huh?”

“What’s that?” the mystery woman’s voice asked.

“Fluorescent lighting,” I said, more than a little perplexed.

“That’s right, fluorescent lighting,” she answered condescendingly, like an impatient adult would to a slow child.

“I guess I’m not on an alien vessel then?” I asked, half expecting her to say I was crazy, that there were no such things as aliens. I more than half hoped that would be what she answered. I was wrong.

She looked up at the lights, suddenly realizing my thought process. “No, Mike. You’re not on a mother ship.” My heart sank when I realized I wasn’t going to be waking up from my nightmare any time soon.

“Where, am I?” My voice was gravelly. It felt like I had swallowed dirt and then tried to wash it down with cotton.

“Here have some water,” the woman said as she tilted my head back; “and then I’ll answer all of your questions, that I can.”

What did she mean by that? I wondered as the cool water moved down my throat and into my belly. Does she mean what she knows? Or what she’s allowed to tell me? “Alright,” I said as I sat up on my, what, medical gurney? “Let’s start with the basics, where am I?”

“Paris,” she answered with a small smile on her face. She was probably amused at the shocked look on my mug. All of a sudden, the water wasn’t sitting too well. Was it tainted?

“Paris? As in France?” I asked but I already knew the answer from her accent. It was the type of accent that let you know she could speak English well, but was too contemptuous to ever let her nationality slip.

“Actually Paris, as in the Bastille.” I could tell she was loving this, watching my face drop even more.

“I’m in prison? For what?”

“Not technically prison, Mike. More of a sanctuary, if you will.”

“Can I leave this sanctuary?” I, once again, knew the answer to that question too.

“Not yet.” She said. I must be psychic.

“Alright, I could probably ask you a thousand questions and get a thousand one word answers and still be no closer to what is going on. Is there any chance you, or possibly your superior, could come in here and give me the Readers Digest version of what is going on here?”

“Readers Digest?”