Nordlys: The Northern Lights Orgy Club

76

A voice drones on meaninglessly loud, an irritating itch in my ear that I cannot move to scratch. The most I can manage is a small twitch of my lips. My mouth is dry, so dry, and my head is throbbing. Why won't that guy shut up?

As consciousness returns, words start to take on meaning, painting a disturbing picture, and I realize the voice is one of those trained studio voices from a British newscast.

Rescue efforts are still ongoing after a gas explosion flattened a twenty-story  apartment building in the northern Danish city of Hirtshals. Our reporter is on the scene here, in Hirtshals, with the latest news.

[A different voice, sounding more distant] Ten bodies have been recovered so far, and dozens of people have been rescued, including three people trapped in an elevator. Officials said that rescue efforts will continue here in the Jørgen Fibigersgade district, for as long as it takes. A firefighter told this reporter that the search for survivors was a "race against the clock", as we don't know how severe some of these injuries could be for the people who are still trapped inside. What we DO know, is that time is running short.

Thank you, Marjorie, for that update. Once again, Ladies and Gentleman, if you are just tuning in with us, we are covering the apartment building explosion that occurred in the northern Danish city of Hirtshals at 00:49 local time on Sunday (22:49 GMT on Saturday). Authorities are saying it was a gas explosion, and are currently investigating the source of the leak, although rescue efforts take priority.

The television shuts off abruptly, and I reactively open my eyes. Mr. Lynn sits down next to my side, starts fiddling with my face, looking at my eyeballs. Then he grabs my wrist and takes my pulse. I take it passively, because I can't really move yet. I notice little things about him. Scratches on his face, a bandage on his hand and forearm. The smell of cedar from his combed, damp beard, ginger on his breath, and sea moss from his freshly washed body.

"Can you hear me?" he asks.

I blink once, with slow deliberateness.

"Can you speak?" he asks next.

I open my dry, parched lips, and run my swollen tongue over them tentatively. "Thirsty" the first word I attempt to say comes out emaciated.

Mr. Lynn gets up, comes back soon with a small cup of water. He shoves his large hand up under my head to lift it and angle it, so that he can pour a tiny stream of water inside my open lips. My mouth is so dry, the water absorbs into the tissue before it even reaches my throat. I smack my tongue against the roof of my mouth greedily.

"More" I demand with a croak.

He drops my head with a thunk, and leaves, returning with a larger glass this time. He lifts my head higher, so that he can pour more water, and I swallow with audible gulps. When the glass is empty, he lets me down, and I sigh in relief, closing my eyes, feeling like I could go back to sleep. A stinging slap on my cheek apprises me that Mr. Lynn has other ideas.

I rub my sore cheek, pouting, and glare up at him balefully.

"I'm so tired" I complain. "I just want to go back to sleep. Why can't I sleep?"

Mr. Lynn's expression is almost comically exasperated, but in a restrained, demure, gentlemanly fashion. His gaze shifts off towards something, which I follow, and realize he's looking at a television. I've never seen that television before. I continue to look at our surroundings, and they are completely unfamiliar. I am naked on this bed, and I have no memory of how, or why, we are here.

"Where are we?" I ask, weirded out.

"At a guesthouse in Aalborg" he answers.

My brain registers nothing but confusion.