The screeching of sirens dragged him back up to consciousness, and as he slowly became more aware of his body, he fervently wished he hadn't. Blissful darkness made way for sharp needles of light piercing his eyes, and the comfortable numbness in his limbs was replaced by that ominous throbbing that promised a world of hurt soon.
He struggled to speak, to mumble defiance, but nothing worked as it should, his throat swollen and dry, defying his commands to make a sound.
"G-go aww," he tried again, feeling his lips crack open and a thin trickle of blood moistening his mouth. The metallic taste was heavy and cloying, coating his mouth and tickling his gag-reflex. His body convulsed in pathetically weak dry heaves, barely worth the involuntary expenditure of energy.
When he lay still again, panting through his mouth, as his nose whistled in a painful manner that told him it was probably broken, he tried to gather his wits.
One eye opened only to a crusty slit, letting only thin daggers of light through, just enough to aggravate his ramping headache, not enough to be useful. His other eye worked a little better, opened a bit wider, but didn't do him much good. Blinding light flashed on and off, one moment mercilessly flooding him with light that tried to claw its way into his skull, the next bathing him in impenetrable darkness.
He tried to close his eye again, but his body refused to obey his commands.
The sound around him was palpable, hammering him from his eardrums to his skin. The sound waves hit him with every beat of the alarm, and he tried to brace against it, tried to anticipate it, but the count was ever so slightly off.
In between the blaring, he heard something else. A mewling sound, soft, weak, pathetic. The feeble protests of some wretch, probably. Couldn't they give him a cell of his own?
The world around him spun, and he found himself on the ground, curled into a ball, his cheek pressed into a sticky puddle on the smooth steel that made the floor.
Make it stop!
"Up!"
The voice was barely audible in the short silences between the alarm, but it was so different that it managed to reach him. He tried to lift his head to see who had spoken, straining for control of his abused muscles.
"Up, damn you!"
Stiff fingers dug into his sides, hooking under his armpits, the pressure on his bruised ribs sparking fireworks behind his eyes.
They dragged him upright on unsteady feet, shooting stabs of pain up from the soles of his feet. He gasped for air as he was pushed forward, one uncertain step after another, wavering, trembling, every step pure agony.
"Move that ass!"
He knew that voice, mechanically distorted as it was. He couldn't see her. She was behind him, armored arms holding him up and pushing him forward.
"V-val," he said between gasps, almost coughing on the dryness of his tongue.
"-isn't working," she said, and shoved, sending him tripping over his feet towards the door. The open door.
It registered the moment he fell through it, crashing into the wall of the hallway beyond it. The door was open. His cell-door, that had been locked for ages.
Fresh blood welled up in his mouth and he coughed again and spat. She knelt beside him now, only her eyes showing through the helmet she wore. He knew those eyes; the madness shining with a fierce vigor, burning too brightly for his comfort.
YOU ARE READING
The Mountains of Mourning
Aventura[IN PROGRESS] After his rebellion failed, Patrick and his team escaped to another world, thinking to be safe there, and live out what remained of their broken lives in whatever peace they might find. But the world he found wasn't the one he expected...
