“Is he alive?” a young voice said.
“Take my knife and slice these off.”
The voice was gruff, adult.
All he could see before him were blobs of darkness moving, hazy. Was he dead? Was this some kind of hell? Demons before him, eager to get to work on torturing his soul for all the wrong he’d done? Yes. That’s what it was. Would it be painful? How long would it last? He didn’t care. There was no energy in his body to even lift his head.
Suddenly a sense of falling forward, a deep ache in his back replaced by sharp pain. The world shifted on its axis as he was brought down. Down from where? His memories were like mush — nothing but fragmentations, a kaleidoscope of horror.
“Bring over my canteen.”
Footfalls, heavy, and fast.
The next memory was of lying on a soft, cold surface.
“Here, Grandpa.”
Grandpa?
Water sluiced around as a hand lifted his head. Sloshing water went all over his face. He gasped a few times, desperate to consume it.
Metal touched his lower lip, something hard against his teeth.
“Slowly does it. Drink slowly.”
A man’s voice sounded garbled.
Colby guzzled hard and fast, liquid rushing over his dry and parched throat, his swollen tongue, his cracked lips that had split.
This wasn’t hell. He was wrong. This had to be heaven. His grandmother had told him about such a place. What did she say? No more pain. No more suffering. Only love. Then why did he still feel pain?
Why was he suffering?
Still swallowing water, he gagged, coughing hard.
“I told you to go slow,” the voice said. He caught a glimpse out the corner of his eye, he was on soil looking up at a canopy of darkness, the night sky rippling out before him, tiny pinpricks of light, twinkling stars.
And then it was gone.
Darkness overtook him.
The next memory was his head tilted and something inserted into the back of his throat. He resisted and gagged as cold liquid washed a foreign object down. “It’s for the pain.” The taste was bitter. “Aspirin.” Encouragement followed as water flowed. He swallowed too fast. “Small sips.” Colby’s swollen eyes opened and closed, nothing but a hazy reality before him. A wooden ceiling. A blur of color to his left. A glow emanated from somewhere. The familiar crackle and pop of a fire. The sweet, comforting smell of wood burning, awakening his senses. Voices came and went, nothing more than echoes. Some distinguishable and long. The rest snippets.
No sense of time, just riding on waves of pain, excruciating pain. He drifted from one dream into another, never knowing if he was truly asleep or stuck in limbo.
The next memory was of being helped to swallow small spoonfuls of salty goodness. An explosion of flavor. Chicken broth. He recognized it. No meat. No vegetables. Just liquid, gliding over his tongue and rushing down to strengthen his feeble shell.
Rinse, repeat.
Darkness, daylight, the drone, always a drone of conversation — laughter, he’d forgotten what that sounded like.
Pieces of the world gradually registered in his mind as snapshots.
Someone leaned over him. He felt wetness against his chest.
Warped and distorted voices faded in and out.
“They beat him badly. Why, Grandpa? Why?”
No answer came, or maybe it did, but he sank back into blackness.
His arm lifted, a spongy object prodded his armpit.
“How is he?” a soft but gravelly female voice said.
“His body has taken a lot of damage.”
“You were lucky to find him when you did.”
“I had some help. Hey, Jenna. She found him.”
Jenna? He thought.
“Yep,” a young voice replied.
“He looks so ill. Will he survive?” The woman asked.
“Hard to know right now. He’s burning up. Running a fever. I’m not sure how long he was out there.”
“Do you think he did this?”
Were they referring to him or someone else?
“Carol. You know he did.”
It was confusing. He wanted to speak, say something, but couldn’t form words. He wanted to thank them. But thank them for what? He still wasn’t sure this wasn’t part of some grand hallucination, and he’d awaken to find himself still attached to that post, strung up like a scarecrow. Depleted of energy, Colby drifted again, unable to hold on to the pleasant world around him.
How long he was gone this time, buried beneath a haze of pain, was unknown. It must have been a long time, as his mind slowly started to recognize day from night by the warm glow and sharpness of light.
More pills.
More water, more soup.
Covers wrapped around him.
A sting. Something pierced his arm.
Moments of riding bliss before being thrown back into pain.
“Will he die, Grandpa?”
“I don’t know. He’s in God’s hands now, my child. We’ve done all we can.”
Once again the world was gone, at least the one around him — the cabin, the blurry people, the glow and crackle of fire. Instead, he saw a montage unfold in his mind, events cut together — a city ablaze, a woman’s face. Who are you? I recognize you from somewhere. No name. A dog barked. Gunfire. Death and destruction. What kind of nightmare was this?
When Colby finally emerged from the dark cloud, it was quiet. The images in his head were gone. The voices were gone. He blinked hard. His vision cleared. He was alone lying in a single bed, staring at a pine ceiling inside a small cabin. Flowery drapes covered a window across the room. Daylight seeped in, hurting his eyes. A single tall cupboard butted up against the wall off to his left.
He coughed hard, his throat parched.
Beside the bed was a pitcher of water and an empty glass. Colby slowly pushed away the thick blankets to find he was naked. His ribs were covered with various degrees of bruising. Purple, a sickly yellow. What the heck? No memory of where they came from. Where are my clothes? A quick scan. Nothing. He’d deal with that in a minute. First things first, he needed to quench
