Wild Kratts - Desolate

Chapter 4: Despair

Awakening from a very rough night, Chris blearily opens his eyes, the light streaming through the clouds hurting them pretty much instantly.

He groans and shifts onto his side, curling into himself and facing the opposite way of the opening on the other side of him, despite the awful pain that shoots up his arm as he does so.

Everything is so horribly cold, his body hurts and it feels like every time he tries to breathe he's met with coughing fits and even more pain.

His wrist isn't faring much better, the area that's broken bruising so horribly that it's starting to turn purple. He can barely move his fingers anymore, making it obvious that he probably won't be able to climb again until the break heals.

The pain in his throat, chest, and wrist is overwhelming and, for a few minutes, Chris contemplates staying there in the cramped cave and just dying already.

But, it would be a lot harder for the crew to find him here, he reminds himself, and as tired and in pain as he might be, he knows he needs to get out and move.

He rolls back over onto his other side and slowly pushes himself up off the ground, grabbing his bag with his good hand and carefully maneuvering his way out of the cave.

The forest is once again wet with rainwater from the day before, the air having a slight chill to it that is incredibly unhelpful considering Chris' condition.

The air stings at his throat and makes it flare up with pain every time he breathes in. He slowly stumbles forward, his sickness making it harder for him to get his legs to move than it normally is.

Despite how cold the rest of him feels, his face feels flushed and warm. Uncomfortably so. His eyes sting from the cold and his wet clothes cling onto his skin and make the chill in his bones even worse.

Mud clings to Chris' boots as he walks on top of the wet ground, the whole area completely soaked from the on-and-off rain that's been going on for the past week now.

Chris digs the fingers of his good hand into his arm and grimaces, trying to distract himself from literally everything else that he's feeling right now.

He looks up at the sky above him, trying to spot any kind of break somewhere in the clouds, but finds nothing. It's like he's stuck in his own muddy-gray purgatory.

He kicks around small twigs as he trudges forward, glancing up at the sky every once in a while in the hopes that he'll spot a giant flying turtle.

It never appears.

Chris fights the urge to just lie down on the wet grass and fall asleep, even though the longer he spends walking through the same fucking forest all day the harder it gets to say no.

Inhaling a bit of colder air, Chris' throat flares up in pain and he's sent into another awful coughing fit, struggling to breathe as he's brought down onto his knees from the pain.

It takes him a full five minutes to fully calm down. He groans as he realizes that it's only going to get worse from here.

He looks up, exhausted, and spots something up ahead.

It's no giant flying turtle, but it looks at least a little different than what he's been forced to look at for the past week, so he'll take it.

He forces himself up onto his feet and starts walking again, this time a little faster than before.

Reaching his destination, he looks around, leaning his good hand against the tree next to him for stability.

Looking out, he seems to have reached the edge of the forest. The grassy landscape up ahead of him seems to only be filled with a few large bushes and a couple of ferns here and there.