The Catalyst

Chapter 26: Imprisoned

Chapter 26: Imprisoned

When Cyrus woke up, the first thing that he registered was the pain. Even before he had fully opened his eyes he could feel it. Intense, persistent stabs of agony in his head, nose, and right thigh that throbbed in a twisted, torturous harmony. It felt as though he had been clubbed over the head; as if his nose was broken; as if a white-hot knife were being thrust into his right leg and twisted around, forced through the other side....

Tentatively he touched his nose, and felt the flecks of dried blood that still clung to it. Perhaps it was not broken, but definitely badly bruised. Then, he brushed his hand against the large lump on the back of his head. His hand came away smeared with blood.The sight of it made him dizzy, and he raised his eyes to the white ceiling above him, unwilling to look at his leg because he was fearful of what he would see.

The ceiling was made up of blank patches of dry wall, speckled with small bits of dust and dirt. On the far side, he could see a small maintenance panel, and on the other side there was a cluster of black wires that ran down the wall, all the way down through a hole in the floor. The walls were white too, and there were patches where he thought he could see traces of sealant, which had obviously been used to patch up holes. It was a tiny room, barely bigger than a walk-in closet. And from the looks of the cleaning supplies stacked up against the wall next to him, that was a very real possibility that it was just that. He was lying on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor, right in front of a door. Propping himself up on one hand he reached up and tried the knob. Locked.

Letting a groan escape, Cyrus propped himself up on his hands and, inch by excruciating inch, managed to drag himself two yards over to the back wall. It was a long, arduous process that took several minutes, and many loud cries of protest from his leg. Protests that he heard loud and clear.

Finally he was able to lean upright against the wall, being careful not to bump the bruise on his head. Screwing up what courage he had, he looked down at his leg.

Considering the pain that he was feeling, he was expecting a bloody, mangled mess. Instead, he saw that the right leg of his pants had been completely cut off, and the fabric had been tied tightly above his knee. Dark stains had formed and the denim was nearly soaked with blood, but at least there was some kind of bandage.

Blinking away tears, he leaned forward, examining what he could see of the wound carefully. There didn't seem to be any fractures or bones sticking out - which would have been more gruesome than he could possibly bear - meaning that it was probably just a flesh wound. No damage done to the bone, but it hurt like hell.

Perhaps it was a good thing that there was a makeshift bandage covering it up. He was generally very squeamish, something that Gloria often teased him about...

Gloria...

Gloria and Dameon...

With a sigh he leaned back against the wall, stretching his injured leg out in front of him, and recalled a series of images that flashed through his minds-eye, one after the other. His frustration at the new protections on the TeraDrive...the trap that he had so carefully laid...the fear that had shot through him when Gloria had turned up with Dameon...shooting that tiny gun, watching Gloria stagger back, blood dripping from between her fingers...

He closed his eyes, willing the images to leave, but instead they got even more vivid. The murderous fury in Dameon's eyes, the hatred and disgust etched into every line of his face. That triumphant little smile - more of a sneer really - as Cyrus had mumbled incoherent words, stupid phrases, trying to say something, anything that could save his life...

He had raised that tiny little gun...

How am I alive?

It was a good question, because no matter how much Cyrus strained his memory, he could not remember what had happened next. He had been lying there, cowering at Dameon's feet, literally begging for his life, Dameon with a gun no more than three feet away from his heart. Yet a bullet hadn't lodged there.