4: Michael

Michael

 

 

          "Michael!" a voice screamed, although it was vastly off in the distance. Much too distant. A void, neither solid nor gas stretched endlessly between Michael's conscious mind and the voice. But he didn't want it to stop. It was a beautiful sound. Comforting. Reassuring. He wasn't sure why he needed reassurance, but he did. There wasn't much else. His sense of touch was hampered as if someone had eliminated almost all sensitivity, but it was there. He could feel grass. Such a peculiar thing, grass. Ridged slightly, and almost crisp to the touch.

          "Michael!" the angelic voice beckoned.

          The grass wasn't talking to him. It couldn't be. Something in his mind reasoned that grass didn't usually talk, nor if it did would it have any way to know his name, as he had not introduced himself. Then who was it calling out to him?

          He languidly opened his eyes but only just, seeing the dark waving shapes of grass blades. He was lying prone on the ground, but couldn't be entirely sure why. He didn't remember much of anything, with the exception that grass wasn't known for its conversation.

          A pair of hands gingerly touched him on his right side and rolled him onto his back, causing numb waves of pain to ripple through him. Now he stared straight up into a sky that had unveiled colonies of white stars. Three faces almost instantly obscured his vision of these distant celestial orbs. Two female, one male. They were clouded in shadow, but even obscured they seemed vaguely familiar. He just couldn't figure out why. He didn't know any of the answers to questions that seemed so easy.

          A hand, small and soft, began to feel around the left side of his face, softly but with a sense of urgency. The finger tips danced through the closely shaven stubble on the side of his head, as if searching for something. Michael didn't mind. The touch of another human, or angel, whichever, was soothing. He narrowed his eyes unconsciously as he struggled to remember why it was he couldn't remember. The paradox was picked apart in his head as the shadowed faces watched on with concern. Finally, one of the fingers stopped just outside the orifice of his ear.

          "He's bleeding a little from his ear, but doesn't look like anywhere else," one of the voices, a female's, said as its owner showcased the red-orange smear on her index finger.

          "Michael, can you hear us?" the male voice said. More faces joined the huddle. They all looked vaguely familiar as well.

          Friends. That was the word. Good friends. People Michael knew well. It was starting to return to him, the faces, the people, but still not why he was on the ground being watched like a circus display.

          Michael opened his mouth to talk but winced instantly as a sharp pain broke him and was followed by a familiar high pitched screech in his left side of his head.

          "Okay, he can hear us. Listen, don't talk or move too much. We've got to figure out how to get you out of here." A hand, the same soft hand that had begun the initial probing of his head, grasped his. "Squeeze my hand twice if you understand."

          Two squeezes.

          The male voice, which Michael connected to Ryan, began speaking. "Miguel, can you take the backpack? I'm going to take Michael. We need to get him inside somewhere."

          "Gotcha, buddy."

          "Michael, hang tight, we'll get you out of here soon. You're a lucky son of a b***h." The others parted slightly to give Ryan room. He squatted down, preparing to carry his friend fireman style. Grabbing his right arm, Ryan began to lift him.

         Michael let out a harsh scream of intense, blinding pain as soon as his body moved. "Michael! What happened...oh, s**t."

          Ryan with the utmost gentleness replaced his gasping friend to the ground before looking at his own hand. It was smeared to the wrist with a thick, tacky fluid. "S**t, s**t, s**t!"

          "What?" Everyone hurried back but kept a reasonable distance, unsure of what was wrong. Ryan spoke almost silently into Sarah's ear, who rushed over.

          Ryan herded the others a little farther away from Michael to whisper to them, but he still made out the words as pain throbbed deeply in his body. "We thought he might have got hit in the head, but you were right, Levi, the shot missed his head. It went low. He's been shot near his left shoulder. I don't even think he knew about it until just now." He glanced back at Michael who was swallowing raspy breaths. With his dark shirt and their concern about his head, no one had seen the moist asymmetrical splotch growing just under his left collarbone.

          Sarah knelt down next to him and ran her fingers through his short hair.

          "Hey, you're going to be fine," she said, mustering the most soothing voice she could. Her first aid training that previously had only been relevant for high school competitions had kicked in. "You've been hit by Emma and I harder than this. Breathe, come on, good and steady. This is going to hurt, but I have to see, okay? I'm sorry." Sarah rolled him slightly to the right, but unlike the first time Michael was rolled he was aware of his condition and felt the air sting into the opening in his flesh that was studded with fragments of his shattered scapula. He bit down hard into his lip to keep from yelling out. Sarah grabbed the bayonet and pinched her shirt around the steel to clean the tainted blade. Streaks faded and disappeared on it as she wiped, Once it was less stained, she slid the blade down Michael's shirt, parting the fabric with ease. Carefully she removed the shirt from his body. She let out a weak gasp at what she saw but recovered her bearing.

          "It's got dirt and grass in it. D****t. Someone get me a water bottle. Now. Thanks. F**k, I wish I had some light." Sarah sat down cross-legged and rolled Michael to rest his upper body on her thighs while she uncapped the bottle. He managed the faintest smirk between winces of pain. "What?" Sarah asked.

          Michael squeezed his eyes in pain, before letting out a hoarse laugh. "I'm still not used to hearing you swear. It's so out of character." He laughed a little which became a pained cough.

          Sarah smiled weakly. "Shut the f**k up and hold still. You're not going to like me much in a few seconds. Wait, I have an idea." Sarah beckoned for Ryan to come over and asked if he had a belt. Ryan shrugged and snapped the waistband of his khaki shorts. Emma came up and pulled the decorative belt from her pants and handed it to Sarah. "Michael, bite this. I noticed you bite your lip when you're hurt, and we don't have any chapstick if you chew right through them."

          Without argument, Michael allowed the leather to be put between his teeth. Biting down hard, he braced for the pain. A last few words of apology came from Sarah before a small waterfall entered into the dirty exit wound of a point-blank shot. The searing, cutting pain made Michael reflexively try to move away, but strong hands held him in place at an angle, allowing the tainted water to run down his back. The crystal clear water that flowed from a Zephyrhills bottle became a misty red with thick strings of bright crimson as it cascaded down his bare back. Michael's teeth broke through the resistant leather layer of Emma's belt and a deep guttural groan like a wounded beast sounded in his throat. The exertion also brought back the stinging pain in his left ear that was damaged by the proximity of the gunshot.

          "Almost done," Sarah soothed. "Think about something awesome. Like, remember when you, me, Ryan, and Emma went to Wet N' Wild, and you were catapulted out of the raft and that worker lady yelled at you. I thought that was pretty funny." The water continued its assault against the shreds of dying flesh. "Plus there was always God of War Three. You're about as tough as Kratos, although I don't think you're as good with swords."

          "What happened?" an unfamiliar voice asked from somewhere behind Sarah.

          "No offense," she replied sharply without looking away from Michael's shoulder, "unless you're an EMT, we've got it."

          "I can help," the voice said again. It was noticeably female, but Michael couldn't estimate an age and lost interest as a fresh wave of pain overtook him.

          "We've got it," Sarah said curtly. "If you don't mind, I'm trying to concentrate."

          Michael was suddenly and ungracefully lifted from the ground and thrown over broad shoulders. He screamed, dropping the chewed belt to the asphalt. The body holding him up was bouncing in a haphazard run, and every jolt rattled him. He felt the uncomfortable sensation of cold bottled water and fresh warm blood marrying and sliding down his back. His surroundings were a blur. A soft blackness began to squeeze his vision away. The next sure fact he was aware of was that he was on top of a couch, lying on his side, with a rag being pressed hard on his exit wound and another against the acorn-sized entrance hole that was drooling a small stream of blood.

          "Let me see him," the mysterious voice came again, drifting oddly through the silence of this unfamiliar house.

          "Where are we?" Michael asked meekly.

          "Don't know. Some house. There's no one here, and we saw a couple helicopters coming so we didn't want to be caught outside." This voice was Miguel's.

          "Who else is here?"

          Miguel glanced over his shoulder. "Everyone, pretty much. And some girl we don't know. She just really wants to see you. And dude," Miguel leaned closer. "She's possibly one of the hottest chicks I've ever seen. Maybe you should try for some sympathy." Laughing lightly, Miguel gripped Michael's hand. "Stay strong, buddy. I gotta go talk to Ryan and Sarah."

          The world shifted in and out of focus. The rag that had been placed on his back peeled off like old paint and rolled uselessly onto the cushion of the couch. He could feel the warm life running down his body. His head pounded but it felt too light. Things were surreal and he was starting to feel very cold.

          Sabrina approached, her face calm but her eyes were all the indication he needed. He wasn't doing well at all.

          He tried to smile, but his face felt waxen. But it must have worked, because she smiled back. "How do I look?" he asked, his voice frail.

          Her lips trembled and he could tell she was biting them. "You," her voice cracked and she took a breath. "You look great."

          His soft smile remained. "Your eyes don't lie well. I'm bleeding too much." At his words, Sabrina noticed the saturated rag that was no longer suppressing the bleeding. She gasped and made to grab for it but hesitated. She was already pale, and the sight of the blood was noticeably making her uncomfortable. She inhaled deeply and grasped the soiled rag, placing it carefully back over the wound and holding pressure. Michael hissed as the soaked rag touched his ruined flesh.

          Ryan came up to Sabrina and whispered in her ear. Michael didn't like all the whispering that was happening in his presence. It was as if they were afraid if they spoke their fears aloud they would become reality. Sabrina nodded and Ryan grabbed Michael's right hand and shook it. "We're coming back," he promised before turning. Miguel grabbed his hand as well and squeezed. "You're going to have to f**k up some Russians for this one. I'll help you." Sarah and Emma came in turn to place kisses on his cheek and offer words of comfort. Each forced smile made Michael's heart drop.

          His friends waved as they exited the front door of this strange house. Only Sabrina and Levi remained, but seventeen year old male had gone off to scour the house, leaving Michael and Sabrina in the living room.

          "They've gone to look for a first aid kit," she told him softly before he could ask. Her fingernails brushed against his scalp as she gently glided her fingers through his hair. "How about I tell you a story? Once when I was a kid, I decided I wanted to be Batman. My mom had a daycare, so me and a bunch of the other kids went running around looking for things to make our costumes. I ended up in grey sweatpants and a towel tied around my neck. My mom even painted a bat symbol on a grey shirt with a marker."

          "You used towel capes, too?" he asked, his voice trailing off.

          "Of course I did. I also remember that me, being the genius that I was, decided Batman could fly. So I went to the top of one of those plastic little slide things and jumped. It was the only time I ever broke a bone, and since then I've been a pansy. I decided being a superhero wasn't for me." She looked at her right hand which was smeared in a dripping red. "Levi," she called out toward the dark house. "Get me a towel, please."

          "Alright, I think I found some bandages but I don't think they're big enough," came the reply from somewhere on the second story of the house.

          Michael could feel a frigid breath touching his fingertips and toes. He coughed a few times and shivered. He looked up to Sabrina and met her eyes. Even in the dark they were captivating. "Do me a favor," he said.

          "Sure, anything." She turned briefly to grab a fluffy towel Levi had acquired. She swapped it with the used one and returned to holding pressure.

          "Tell my family I love them. Tell them I did my part, for what it's worth. Tell them I tried."

          A dark scowl appeared on her face. "Stop that. You are going to be just fine, and I don't need to tell your family anything. We're all going to get out of this mess. All of us."

          He couldn't share her confidence. Doubt had filled him. If he didn't get help fast, he knew no amount of words would suffice. He had begun to grow tired and exhausted. The pillow he lay on felt like the most comfortable one he had ever rested upon, but the chills he felt made him yearn for a blanket.

          "Michael," Sabrina whispered gently. "Michael? Michael, stay awake."

          He could do nothing but nod, but his eyelids grew heavy. Just a quick rest.

          "Don't let him sleep," came the unfamiliar voice. Sabrina jumped and turned quickly. Michael couldn't see who it was, as curious as he was. His vision was swimming. In the darkness, he supposed it didn't matter if he opened his eyes fully or not.

          "Who are you?" Sabrina demanded, her voice uneasy. "Why are you here?"

          "I'm someone who can help you," replied the other. Her voice was sweet and pure. It was beautiful. Michael willed himself to stay awake, if only to hear her talk more.

          "Are you a paramedic?" Sabrina pressed the towel down firmly on the exit wound. "A doctor?"

          "Please, I'll answer anything you want to know later, but he doesn't have a whole lot of time. Can you find me a candle or something for light?"

          Michael's new friend hesitated before nodding and moving through the dark house toward the kitchen to begin her search.

          The figure in front of him had a defined feminine build. He couldn't see her face, but he could see her pull her hair back into a ponytail. She leaned forward and he could smell her. The fragrance was subtle but calming. He couldn't find a description for it, but he had no desire to so long as it lingered. Her soft fingers touched just below the small hole in the front of his body, causing gooseflesh to prickle across his chest. They traced over his shoulder to the sticky towel that captured the flow and removed it. She tossed the towel away from the couch where it hit the floor with a wet slap.

          "Michael, look into the fire," the voice instructed. He was about to ask what fire when a tear-drop shape of flame, tiny as a candle's light appeared in front of his eyes. The girl's features were revealed in the small light and for a moment he forgot the pain and fear. He was captivated by her pure beauty, her complexion was light but not pale and her blue eyes were more vibrant than any he had ever seen. They were impossibly deep and almost glowed. Brilliant eyes, full of awareness.

          "Who - " he began, but she hushed him.

          "Look into the fire."

          He turned his eyes to the small flame that danced. The tiny teardrop flame leaned left, then right, then stretched itself high, turning the orange edges into a deep, hot red. Watching this benign dance of a destructive force, he felt a bit more at ease. He even felt a little more warm. The longer he stared, the more he found he didn't want to turn away. The little flame was his companion, a beacon of light in the fallen darkness, warmth shielding him from the creeping cold.

          Michael only vaguely heard her sing, as it was quiet and reserved, but the notes were pure. He wanted to say something but he couldn't. His vocal cords resisted and his mouth refused to move. The only thing he could do was listen in silence. He didn't recognize any words or the melody, but it was such a peaceful piece of music. It flowed over him, soothing and calming.

          Then, as the flame shimmied and flickered, his eyelids descended. Warmth filled his body. He had strength enough to smile.

          Sabrina entered the room. She moved through the kitchen but stopped abruptly. The candle within a glass jar she held slipped from her grasp and shattered on the tile floor.