[06] Walking the Path
Grant finds himself in darkness, unable to move. His body hurts, and when he does try to move, pain shoots through his temples.
Right. There is pain. I am alive.
Then memories start to trickle back in, and he realizes he's trapped underneath part of a train tunnel and quite possibly the train itself.
Panic floods over him, a clawing, primal feeling, like gasping for air when drowning. In vain, he pushes and shifts, trying to move.
The rubble starts to shift.
Instinctively, he continues to push his way free, a familiar and powerful force originating from within, and after nearly an hour of this work, he drags himself out of the wreckage.
How did I The train was not above him after all, but had fallen over and onto its side after hitting the ground nose-first. What had trapped him was the massive amount of concrete and steel that had once been a train tunnel. No one could survive that. But he had, more or less.
His clothing is ripped and torn, he is missing a shoe. Only one knife remains--his ulu, tucked safely away in the inner pocket of his coat. In his coat pocket, his syringes had shattered and the [medication, I need]drugs had leaked out, staining the already-ruined fabric. Cuts, scrapes, and what were the beginnings of some nice, colourful bruises were left over his body as well. But as he stands and surveys this damage, he finds there are no broken bones he can immediately sense and no horrible pain, save for the migraine pounding in his head that leaves him with an unexplainable sense of forboding.
He's bleeding everywhere, but it was more of an annoying ooze than anything to be too worried about. Mostly, he's weary and longs for sleep, but [sleep, Mr. Grant] he knows it's in his best interest to keep moving, keep going toward whatever is ahead.
The train tunnel is not the only victim of destruction. Buildings and bridges have collapsed. Vehicles are left abandoned due to mass accidents and falling debris. There are no bodies, only ghosts.
He picks his way through the carnage, down the street. There is no other way, save for trying to climb the trecherous remains of the storefronts and buildings. Too many sharp edges and random fires would make that path deadly.
As he walks, he sees jagged holes in the sky, bright light [God watches] streaming down. He's reminded of the face in the mirror, the [St. Albains and the Shropshires, the garden and my]. The headache grows heavier in his skull.
Grant palms his ulu knife and continues on.
Right. There is pain. I am alive.
Then memories start to trickle back in, and he realizes he's trapped underneath part of a train tunnel and quite possibly the train itself.
Panic floods over him, a clawing, primal feeling, like gasping for air when drowning. In vain, he pushes and shifts, trying to move.
The rubble starts to shift.
Instinctively, he continues to push his way free, a familiar and powerful force originating from within, and after nearly an hour of this work, he drags himself out of the wreckage.
How did I The train was not above him after all, but had fallen over and onto its side after hitting the ground nose-first. What had trapped him was the massive amount of concrete and steel that had once been a train tunnel. No one could survive that. But he had, more or less.
His clothing is ripped and torn, he is missing a shoe. Only one knife remains--his ulu, tucked safely away in the inner pocket of his coat. In his coat pocket, his syringes had shattered and the [medication, I need]drugs had leaked out, staining the already-ruined fabric. Cuts, scrapes, and what were the beginnings of some nice, colourful bruises were left over his body as well. But as he stands and surveys this damage, he finds there are no broken bones he can immediately sense and no horrible pain, save for the migraine pounding in his head that leaves him with an unexplainable sense of forboding.
He's bleeding everywhere, but it was more of an annoying ooze than anything to be too worried about. Mostly, he's weary and longs for sleep, but [sleep, Mr. Grant] he knows it's in his best interest to keep moving, keep going toward whatever is ahead.
The train tunnel is not the only victim of destruction. Buildings and bridges have collapsed. Vehicles are left abandoned due to mass accidents and falling debris. There are no bodies, only ghosts.
He picks his way through the carnage, down the street. There is no other way, save for trying to climb the trecherous remains of the storefronts and buildings. Too many sharp edges and random fires would make that path deadly.
As he walks, he sees jagged holes in the sky, bright light [God watches] streaming down. He's reminded of the face in the mirror, the [St. Albains and the Shropshires, the garden and my]. The headache grows heavier in his skull.
Grant palms his ulu knife and continues on.