SECOND DRAFT: Hard Bank Left

9

Struggling had proved ineffective against the grappler that hold him suspended over Lake Michigan. Struggle gave way to acceptance. Acceptance gave way to exhaustion. So much for promises.

Graham woke up violently. The instant he realized that his arms had been chained to a bed his right leg swung up clocking a nearby, unidentified attendant upside the head. White hospital sheets fluttered to the ground. The movement wrenched his right shoulder, the one that had held him suspended for an unknown amount of time. He let out a brief cry of agony as torn muscle rippled from his brachia to his deltoid. He didn't let that stop him. If he couldn't get out of the bed the bed was coming with him.

Feet landed solidly on a cold, tiled floor. Using his deadened arm as a lever, he yanked the bed over onto his back, or at least he intended to. The frame had been bolted to the ground, immediately telling him three things: unless he could get out of the chains, he wasn't going anywhere, and he was on an airship meaning he was being taken somewhere.

His heart beat hard and fast, trying to bore its way out of his chest. If he could just get his arm free. He rotated what he could of his right shoulder, twisting his forearm as much as he could until his thumb was under his hand, wedged between his palm and the lip of the cuff or the chain or leather restraint or whatever was holding him. He pulled, groaned. Lightning pain shot through him. He ignored it: he had not time for distractions. The attendant was coming to.

The struggling was rewarded with a loud crunch as his thumb dislocated. Unencumbered his hand folded, his wrist bending and stretching through his restraints. In one swift movement, Graham flopped his arm forward, swinging it to his other restrained hand. Leather strapping and a buckle took form under his blind hand. Fumbling with his remaining fingers, he found the buckle, pulled it until the latch loosened and the strap gave way just enough for his left hand to make it out.

Quickly now: he relocated his thumb, took a moment to nurse his injured shoulder, stood to face his captor. The attendant, a man, well built, taller than he, faced him. A trickle of blood traced from his forehead to his chin. His face was generally astonished, and more than a little perplexed. Graham couldn't let him stay conscious, he could raise the alarm, inject him with something, stop him from getting out in any number of other ways.

Graham's eyes found the tray to his left, the one with an empty syringe next to a vial of something clear. The nurse noticed his noticing. This would be fun. Graham's hand made it to the syringe a fraction of a second before the attendant's. Doubly unfortunate for the attendant, Graham also managed to land another swift kick to the attendant's temple forcing his head to come crashing down on the edge of the tray. It was in that moment that Graham noticed he was barefoot and in a dressing gown. He'd have to find his clothes. Without a moment's hesitation, Graham filled the syringe with air and injected it into the attendant's neck. Bad day for the attendant.

Focus would be key to surviving the next few minutes. He proceeded to control his breathing: three quick sharp breaths, hold for a count of five, three short breaths, hold for five. The room was small, barely big enough for the bed, with none of the expected shelves or sink he had come to expect of a hospital vessel. At the foot of the bed was a chair with a pile of things. He recognized the boots. Good, his clothing hadn't been moved to another location. He would come back to that.

First things first, something had done about that arm. The shoulder would be unusable until it got mended, and it certainly wouldn't mend if he were constantly tempted to use it. He needed a sling or at least a binding. Well, there was always the clothing the attendant had worn in, a long, thin smock and some basic work pants. It was either that or the discarded sheet on the ground. No, the sheet would cover the body, which he would leave on the bed. Maybe it would give him more time. No, the smock would have to do