A Light in the Darkness, 1/3
Title: A Light in the Darkness
Word count: 22,000
Warnings: minor language, some violence at the beginning
Summary: Sheppard finds himself in a deep, dark place and has only himself to rely on until he can find the light again. Literally.
Written for tridget for the sheppard_hc Secret Santa. Huge thanks to my beta, everybetty!! Prompt at the end.
A Light in the Darkness
Part 1
John saw the body first, a man pinned to the ceiling and staring down at him with sightless black eyes. Blood covered his head and neck. He knew him. He blinked, trying to place the face. He knew that man.
Why was the man not falling?
The thought broke through the haze, and he sucked in a deep breath. The man was pinned to the ceiling looking down, but… No. The ceiling was on the floor, and the man was on the ceiling.
He shook his head, then groaned at the immediate assault of pain, dizziness, and nausea. Something was biting into his legs and shoulders, and his arms were stretched out above him, hanging and too heavy to move. He was the one on the ceiling, once the floor. He blinked again, looking around, and spotted the front seats of the truck, the steering wheel, the windshield cracked and splattered with red. Everything upside down.
Accident.
Sound rushed in, and John jerked at the vibrating thud of a bomb detonating nearby. He looked down-up-at his waist, and saw he was still strapped into his seat, the belts cutting off the circulation to his legs. His head was throbbing, and he could feel blood wet and matted in his hair.
Not an accident. An attack. A bomb that had overturned the truck he’d been riding in. The driver had been killed instantly. John’s eyes drifted back to the dead man’s face. The driver. That’s how he knew the man. He was driving them to…
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate past the pain. Truck. He was in a truck with…he didn’t know who he was with. The memory of where they were going and what they were doing was there, taunting him, but it dissipated as soon as he tried to grab onto it. Gunfire outside kept beat with the pounding in his head. He needed to get out of the truck, or at least out of his seat. He lifted heavy arms again and fumbled at the buckle. There were two straps across his chest attached to the one on his waist, and no apparent release button for either of them.
A ripping metal sound next to him had him grabbing hopelessly at straps that would not release him from the seat, and he moaned at the light that suddenly pierced the dim interior of the truck. Hands were pulling at the broken door, cursing at the stubborn metal.
Escape. Danger. Get out.
The thought rushed through him, adrenaline riding its wake, and John kicked out at the seat in front of him as he tried to find purchase or brace himself or something.
Escape.
Get out.
He tugged at the straps again, biting his lip at the cry of panic threatening to pour out of him.
Out. Out, out, outoutoutoutout.
“Got a live one!” a voice screamed, and John winced at the hot breath against his cheek. He turned his head to look at the man, but his view was blocked by a large torso. Hands grabbed at his waist and shoulders, and the stranger cursed the straps pinning John to the truck before sitting back and pulling a knife.
Before John could flail in panic at the blade swiping toward him, he heard fabric rip and a sudden give in pressure in one of the straps over his shoulders. Seconds later, both shoulder straps disappeared. The hands were once again digging at his waist, and then that pressure disappeared as well. He sighed in relief, then moaned as the world suddenly spun around him. The man was cursing him now, pulling and twisting him with rough hands. The pain in John’s head spiked, white flashing through his vision.
Seconds later, he came to, if he’d passed out at all. He wasn’t sure. He rolled, feeling wet ground beneath him, just as his stomach bucked. A foot was kicking or poking his side, but John’s whole world had zeroed in on the patch of mud in front of him, covered now in sour vomit. At the sight of it, his stomach cramped, and he retched again, choking on the little bit of spit and bile that finally came out.
“Sick,” a voice hissed, picking him up by the collar of his shirt and pulling him away.
John closed his eyes at the movement. His head felt heavy and too big, and like he was swimming underwater. The rest of his body was a boneless mass of limbs and under no control of his. He felt himself being dragged across the ground but didn’t dare open his eyes until the movement stopped.
“You sure he’s alive,” another voice asked.
Forcing himself to open his eyes, John looked up toward the sound of the voices and spotted two men wearing dark green uniforms standing over him. They were crouched behind the front of the overturned truck, their gazes focused on something behind them.
“He just vomited. He’s alive,” the first voice answered, the one who had cut him out of the seatbelt and pulled him from the truck. The man was big, like he’d spend most of his gym time at the bench press, and a thick ragged scar ran from just below his eye to the edge of his jaw, scar tissue puffing out in angry red tones.
“We got four live ones from the other trucks,” the second guy answered. He looked scrawny next to Bench Presser, but size was all relative. Like the guys on the football field who looked small next to the offensive line, but off the field were twice as big as everyone else.
“Football,” he muttered. It seemed important, like he should be remembering something about football.
“What?” Bench Presser asked, giving John’s leg a light kick.
John groaned instead. Football didn’t make sense. He pressed his head into the mud and grass, feeling waves of heat from the engine next to him brush against cold skin. The grass was cold and smelled of gasoline.
“More rain,” Scrawny said.
John looked up into dark gray clouds. Scrawny shifted, and John saw the black barrel of a rifle in his hands.
“We should get him with the others; get out of here before reinforcements arrive.”
“Right,” Bench Presser replied. He knelt next to John and began undoing his vest. John swatted at his hands, but the man ignored him. He flipped John over and ripped the vest off, almost dislocating John’s shoulder in the process. John whimpered, and the big man rolled him again, fumbling at the buckle around John’s waist.
“No,” he cried out, squirming as a jolt of adrenaline rushed through him. He kicked his legs at the air as he tried to roll away.
“Stop it,” Bench Presser snarled, raising his arm and smacking John in the face.
The world faded again in a fog of pain. When he came back to himself, he was lying sprawled on the grass, rain pelting his face in a steady drone. Bench Presser had his vest in one hand, and his belt, along with his knife and holster, in the other.
Disarmed. He was disarming him, stripping him of weapons. Bench Presser tossed John’s things to the side then proceeded to pat him down, clearing out his pockets and even finding the knife on the inside of his boot.
Sudden gunfire interrupted the search, and both men holding John ducked down, taking cover behind the truck. The rain came down harder, large drops smacking almost painfully against John’s head. Another bomb detonated, far enough away that he didn’t feel the blast of hot air from the explosion, but close enough that the ground shook beneath him, tying his stomach up in knots again. He rolled and curled in on himself, grateful when Bench Presser took no notice.
It was the retort of P90 fire that finally pulled John out of his haze. He opened his eyes and looked up to see that Bench Presser had figured out how to fire his weapon. He was firing continuously, his face filled with glee at the power in his hands. Beneath the automatic weapon fire, John heard other guns firing back at them, bombs exploding, people shouting.
Scrawny screamed suddenly and dropped to the ground behind him, writhing in the dirt. John turned toward him, but his eyes fastened on Bench Presser staring at his friend in surprise.
Escape, escape, escape.
He kicked his leg out with more strength than he would have thought possible, and smiled when the big man cried out and dropped to the ground. More shots from whoever was firing at them rang out. Bench Presser turned to John, his face a mixture of panic and hatred, then pounced.
Meaty hands wrapped around John’s neck, squeezing. John bucked against the pressure, opening his mouth to scream or breathe or something. His captor was grunting, his face turning red from the effort of choking John out. John felt his arms and legs begin to tingle, and his chest bucked against the ground as his lungs attempted to pull in air. He pounded his fists against the other man’s arms, uselessly.
Was this what it felt like to die? The thought slithered to the forefront, clear and resonating in his mind as the sound of gunfire and explosions faded, replaced by the sound of a rushing river.
Like that one scene from Lord of the Rings, where the river rose up, forming watery horses that pounded along the river bed, sweeping away anything in its path. Odd. He’d always liked that scene but why he was thinking of it now, he had no idea. He felt more than heard a gurgling cry in the back of his throat, and thought he’d heard a similar sound before, from other men about to die. The gray skies above him were growing darker, the storm swirling in anger. John blinked, feeling his hands go lax around Bench Presser’s wrists, and then a concussive explosion threw the world into pitch black.
oooooooooooooooooooo
He came awake abruptly, throwing his head back as he gasped for air.
What the hell? He could still feel Bench Presser’s hands around his neck, no longer squeezing. He coughed hard, tears streaming from his eyes as his lungs pulled in desperately needed oxygen. A weight was growing on his chest and he squirmed, trying to get out from underneath it.
A clap of thunder erupted overhead and the skies opened up again. The smell of gasoline was strong, and moisture covered John’s face. Rain? Gasoline? Maybe blood. He could smell iron. He opened his eyes to see Bench Presser lying on top of him and not moving. A ragged piece of metal was poking out of the man’s back, and blood pumped from the wound, soaking into both of their clothes.
“Off,” John whispered, pushing at the dead man’s body with heavy, uncoordinated arms. He felt a hard lump in the man’s breast pocket, and he pulled out the small black pocket knife used to cut through the seatbelt straps. John grabbed it, holding in a death grasp. Fight-he would fight if he had to. His hearing was popping in and out, and the gasoline smell was getting worse. It was making him nauseous. He could also smell something burning, and he turned toward the crashed truck, blinking at the flames pouring out of the engine.
Gasoline. Fire. Bombs, gunfire, explosions. He had to get away from here, wherever here was. He was outside, on a road, surrounded by trees.
Trees. Trees were safe. Trees were cover. With a monumental effort, he slid Bench Presser’s body off of his and rolled to his knees. His ears were still stuffed, like they hadn’t adjusted to the altitude, and the ground in front of him swam in and out of focus. He shoved the knife into his cargo pants pocket and crawled forward, concentrating on moving one hand forward, then a knee, then the other hand, then the other knee. Trees. He had to reach the trees.
He glanced back and saw the smoke pouring from the truck, flames licking the undercarriage, oblivious of the rain. There was a man inside there, he suddenly thought, and his heart seized in his chest. He saw the man staring down at him again, and it took another second for him to remember that man was already dead. He was the driver. They’d been in a truck, driving somewhere-John couldn’t remember where, exactly, or who else had been with them.
Were they dead too?
More gunfire sputtered around him, and he caught movement out of the corner of his eyes as people ran and dove for cover, firing at each other with him in the middle. The heat of the fire behind him was crackling in the rain. When he reached the tree line, he pulled himself to his feet and lurched forward, deeper into cover. The trees in front of him blurred together, then split apart, and the sound of rain grew louder.
He slipped in the mud and fell hard, and it took a second for him to peel his eyes open again. He was still sliding in the mud, down a slight incline. He pressed his hands against the ground to stop himself, but the hill shifted, propelling him downward with alarming speed.
“No, stop!” he slurred. He rolled onto his stomach and looked up the hill just as deafening explosion filled the air. Flames leapt into the air above the trees, sucking all other sound into a vacuum.
The fire of the exploding truck disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, but the storm seemed to double its fury in response. John was flung around as his legs hit a rock, and he found himself sliding head first through trees. He heard the roar of rainwater and mud streaming together in a flash flood only seconds before he plunged into the ice cold torrent and was carried swiftly away from the road. The current swept him around, flipping him, and he opened his mouth to scream only for mud and water to pour down his throat. He hit something hard, and his body flipped up out of the stream. He coughed and gagged in time with thunder clapping overhead, and he wrapped his arms protectively around his head as more debris slapped against him.
He saw the gaping black hole in front of him at the last minute, and he kicked out in a panic, as if that would stop his momentum. A moment later, the hole swallowed him, along with the raging torrent of mud, water, rocks, and branches he was riding into pitch black.
oooooooooooooooooooo
John woke to overwhelming blackness and the sensation of the unseen ground beneath him tilting and sliding away from him. He pushed up to his knees, then gagged. There was no sound again, just the rushing of water. Images of a truck exploding and a muddy river carrying him through a thick forest flitted through his mind, but they were soon pushed out by the all-consuming throbbing in his head, spreading down his neck and back.
He swallowed back the urge to throw up and squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness. Sight seemed to have very little to do with the world spinning like a rickety, heaving carnival ride. He eased himself to his side and curled up into a ball, cradling his head. One hand brushed the side of his head above his hear, causing a sharp, agonizing burn to kick up. The area was tacky and raw, and John moaned at the onslaught of pain.
The dark was impenetrable, and the sound of water continuous. He curled tighter into a ball against the cold, hard ground and let himself go.
oooooooooooooooooooo
He dreamed of the dead man in the truck, only he wasn’t dead. He was alive and gabby, pointing out every rock and tree and turn in the road. John remembered not caring so much about the scenery but being infinitely amused by the young man’s enthusiasm. There were others in the truck with him, but their faces were hidden in shadow in the dream. John sensed that he didn’t know them very well, that his focus was entirely on the truck driver.
He woke up abruptly, flailing his arms then groaning when the movement felt like a kick in the head. His stomach cramped, and no amount of deep breathing could stop him from throwing up.
He collapsed in a heap a few minutes later. Head injury-he’d hurt his head, badly. That much was clear. He brought a shaking hand up to his face and rubbed at his eyes, mentally chasing the white spots caused by the pressure against his eyeballs. When he opened his eyes again, his thoughts stuttered at the utter blackness.
Was he blind? He swallowed, grimacing at the sour taste of vomit, and waved a hand in front of his face. He felt the air shift and heard the sound of his hand whistling past, but his vision remained unchanged.
“Not… not blind, not happening,” he muttered.
His voice sounded loud, immediately setting off a steady throb in his head. The sound of water was still there, although maybe not as loud.
“Where…?” he started to call out, then winced when the sound echoed around him. He was in a confined space somewhere. He sniffed the damp air, smelling mold and dirt and something weirdly metallic.
Underground? God, let him be underground and not blind. If he was underground somewhere, that would explain the pitch black threatening to drown him. He crawled forward toward the water, sweeping the ground in front of him as he went. It was hard and uneven-rocky-and the pressure dug against his knees.
He jerked in surprised when his hand hit cold water, and he almost passed out again. Slow-move slow, John. He reached out again, letting his fingers trail through the rushing water. A river. He’d been swept into a river of mud and rocks and other debris caused by a rainstorm. Rain. He remembered the rain, pelting against the windshield of the truck.
He felt himself falling forward into the water, and he jerked back with a cry. Focus, he had to focus. Flames drilled into his head, and he crawled forward again just long enough to scoop a small handful of water. He managed three more sips before his arms were shaking too badly that he had to scoot back and lay down.
He curled up again on the stone floor, blinking at the darkness. He would rest for a few minutes. Just a few minutes.
oooooooooooooooooooo
Despite the mask of black, he knew he’d slept for longer than he’d intended. He stretched slowly, sighing in relief at the dull pain in the side of his head. It still hurt, but it wasn’t the sharp, breath stealing agony of before. He rolled toward the water, finding the rushing water just a foot away from where he’d fallen asleep, and he drank greedily. He was suddenly dying of thirst.
And hungry, but he didn’t trust his stomach enough to eat anything yet, so he drank as much water as he could. After a few minutes, he turned away from the water and waved his arm in front of him until he found a boulder to lean against. It wasn’t comfortable, but it gave him a moment to sit back and take stock.
He patted his chest and blinked in surprise when all he felt was his damp t-shirt. No vest. His hands moved immediately for his handgun. No holster either-not even his belt. A memory flashed through his mind, a large man stripping him of weapons, then shooting his P90 at whoever was attacking them.
Pain lanced through this temples and he pulled his knees up, crossing his arms over the top and letting his head fall forward. He was exhausted and cold, weaponless. The attack came back to him in vague snippets. His team had emerged onto this planet in a wide, shallow cave a dozen or so feet deep onto a mountainous, rainforest world. They’d met people, although the details of it were vague.
He sighed, looking around. The darkness was endless. If anything, he should start a fire or something. He reached for his vest pocket again and scowled when his fingers hit his long sleeve t-shirt.
“Damn it!” he growled. His voice echoed around him, and he dropped his head to his knees again.
He hurt, everywhere. Not life-threatening hurt, just bruised and battered and stiff and achy. He sat back again, running his hands down his shins and feeling bumps and warm skin that were probably swelling bruises. His neck hurt more than anything else. In his mind, he saw the man firing his P90 jumping on him and wrapping thick fingers around his neck.
The convoy. They’d been in a convoy of trucks when they were attacked. He didn’t remember the bomb that had thrown their vehicle in the air and flipped it on its head, but he remembered waking upside down, the seat belt digging into his lap and shoulder. He ran his fingers over his shoulders but couldn’t feel the bruises there. They were attacked-he didn’t know by whom, or why.
My team.
The thought battered through everything else, and John felt his chest constrict in sudden pain. His team. Had they been there?
“Ronon? Teyla?” his voice echoed. “McKay?”
He couldn’t remember if they’d been in the truck with him. He remembered the driver-a young kid who wanted to go to school when his military service was over to study the forest.
McKay would have scoffed at that, but he didn’t remember McKay saying anything. He shivered, wrapping his arms around his body to stave off the icy cold that had suddenly gripped him. He had no idea where he was, and no light to see where he might even begin to figure out where to go. If his teammates were with him, one of them would have said something by now.
He had crawled away from the truck, knowing it was going to explode. Had his teammates still been inside? The thought made his stomach curl in on itself and he sucked in a deep breath against the rising nausea.
“No,” he rasped, pressing his forehead against his arms. They weren’t in the truck. He was sure they weren’t in the truck. He would never have left them there. He had crawled alone into the woods, then run, then slipped, falling literally into darkness.
He must have been washed down the mountainside and into an underground cave, and it was a miracle he was even alive. He didn’t remember crawling out of the river, but he had, obviously. He was alive, if bruised and battered.
And freezing. He was shaking harder now, and he rubbed his hands against his arms. His team hadn’t been there. They hadn’t washed down the mountain side with him. He swallowed, clenching his teeth against the shuddering spasms now wracking through him. They weren’t in the truck either. He was sure of that. They couldn’t have been in the truck.
“Get a grip, John,” he whispered into the darkness. Sitting up was requiring a monumental amount of energy and he slid to the ground, rolling onto his side.
He remembered a town with towering, white-capped mountains behind it. His team was there, he thought. They’d been meeting the locals, pleasantly surprised at their relatively high level of technology. One of the men had been telling John about their attempts to build machines that flew and invited John to the warehouse where they were building them.
His eyes flew open at the memory. He’d gone with the man in a convoy of trucks, alone. His team had stayed in the town, exploring other areas. He’d been alone when they were attacked, presumably still safe. Hopefully looking for him.
There were no sounds, other than the water. John closed his eyes again, seeing no difference in the darkness.
oooooooooooooooooooo
It was hard to gauge if he’d fallen asleep that time. He didn’t think so. He was still shaking, but maybe not as badly. He was still cold. His head was still pounding, and his body still felt stiff and sore. Movement of any kind still made his stomach clench, but at least he had stopped throwing up.
He was thirstier. That was different. He pushed himself up to his knees, and abused muscles screamed in protest. It was like moving through tar. He crawled forward, toward the sound of the water and drank enough to make his gut ache. Hunger was lurking, just below the surface now. He turned back and crawled toward the rock he’d been leaning against but missed it.
“Stupid,” he muttered, waving his arm in front of him. He crawled a few more feet and took another swipe at the air.
His knuckles brushed against stone and he jerked his arm back with a hiss. He scooted forward slowly this time, pushing against air for a long minute before he found the rock again. It wasn’t the one he’d been sitting next to, he realized. It was a wall, the side of the tunnel no doubt carved by the river over millions of years.
He patted as much of it as he could reach, slid down a few feet, then began patting again, taking in as much detail as his palms and fingers were able to convey. The rock was cold but not wet, and bare of any vegetation.
“Of course it is, moron,” he muttered. His voice echoed around him, and the returning sound was somewhat reassuring. Like someone was answering him back. Like he wasn’t so completely lost and alone.
He moved again, and began the same sweep with his arms when the rock under his left hand suddenly disappeared. He stumbled a little, then froze, bracing himself. No rock. He brought his hand back and felt out the edge of gap, tracing it from the ground up four or five feet, then across another four feet, then back to the ground.
A tunnel.
Or a cave. Certainly a passageway of some kind. He crawled into it, letting his senses stretch out for any indication of what might be ahead of him. His eyes were beginning to ache, and he realized he was straining them despite the darkness. It was an almost desperate instinct against the possibility of blindness.
“Hello?”
His voice didn’t echo in the tunnel. Even the sound of the river had changed, sounding much farther away than he knew he had traveled. He continued into the cave or tunnel, letting one hand on the wall be his guide. It was slightly warmer in this area, and he shivered at the change in temperature. The tunnel walls were smoother than the other rock wall he’d explored. He inched forward, breathing in damp, musty air.
The tunnel curved, and John blinked, his heart stuttering in his chest. There, in front of him. He waved his arm at the lighter patch of black, banging his knuckles again on the rock wall. He wasn’t imagining it, though. He crawled a few feet farther and saw the blackness melt slightly into a midnight blue.
He couldn’t be imagining it. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the inky blackness flood his vision again. For added effect, he covered his face with both hands. There-total darkness. He sucked in a deep breath, willing himself to relax, then opened his eyes and dropped his hands away.
The darkness shifted. It was still too dark to see anything, but it wasn’t the same pitch black. He scrambled forward, immediately banging his shoulder into the wall and cried out.
“Easy, John,” he whispered. “Take it slow.”
He resumed his cautious crawl, trying to ignore the adrenaline rush now pumping through his veins. He believed he hadn’t been blind, but that had been based more on a desperate hope than any facts. Now, though, there was light ahead. He could feel it. The midnight blue shifted again, still dark but definitely not black. A few minutes later, John began to pick out the inconsistencies in the walls of the tunnel-deep pockets of shadow in the nooks and crevices of the uneven surface. As a test, he spotted what he thought was a rock sitting in the middle of his path and he reached out for it, whooping in triumph a second later when he held it in his hand.
It was hard not to scramble forward after that, but his body was sore enough that it forced him to be cautious. As he rounded the next curve, a pale glow came into view, illuminating the water-carved tunnel walls around him.
Light. Honest to God light.
The tunnel opened up into a slightly wider space, and John finally found the source of his precious light. A half dozen crystals were growing out of the side of the cave wall, the largest one the size and width of his leg. The light they gave was steady, filling up the entire space, and as he approached them, he felt heat radiating outward.
He shivered, remembering suddenly that he was cold. He had been cold for a while now. Tentatively, he reached a hand out to the largest crystal. When it didn’t explode or send a bolt of lightning through him, he sighed in relief. It was hot, but not unbearably so.
He scrunched up against it, letting the warmth of the crystals soak through his clothes. He looked around the small cave, guessing it was roughly the size of a four-man tent. The tunnel leading to the river was wide and dark, but on the other side of the room was another tunnel opening.
The light and heat had unexpectedly lifted his spirits, making his situation seem much less dire. Maybe he could get out of this. Maybe he could survive down here. He twisted around, letting the heat ooze into a different part of his body. He would just rest a few more minutes, warm up a little, and then he’d continue exploring. He could always come back to this room if he found nothing.
With reluctance, he pushed away from the warm crystals. He wouldn’t explore far. He was beyond tired and trying to do too much would just make his situation worse. He began to crawl, and smiled when more light appeared ahead. Crawling faster, he reached the next room with minutes.
And stopped in amazement.
The tunnel opened up into a large cavern. The far side was filled with a deep, glowing pool of water. The water was clear, allowing John to see easily to the very bottom. Hundreds of crystals grew up from its depths, covering the far wall of the cavern completely and casting the entire space with white-blue light.
It was warm too-almost hot. He’d been relieved at the small amount of heat the crystals in the four-man tent room had given him, but now he was basking in it. He inched forward, dipping his hands into the water and laughed. It was hot-as in hot-tub hot-and he suddenly envisioned himself taking a dive into the water.
He had the urge to drink a handful of water but he shook his head. The river water, at least, had been flowing rapidly, and it had been cold. This water was not moving. It didn’t look or smell stagnant, but John thought he’d better not risk it. The heat would also breed bacteria, and he could always crawl back to the river later. On a hunch, he reached into the pool for a smaller crystal growing near the surface. Leaning his body weight into it, he felt the crystal give then break off.
He held it up, grinning when the light didn’t fade. Portable. The glowing crystals were portable. That made traveling back to the river for water even less of an issue. He scooted away from the water and curled up against the wall. The small crystal was hot against his chest. He was reluctant to close his eyes, some small irrational part of his brain afraid that the light would be no more than a dream and he would wake up to pitch black again, but his body had other ideas, and he slipped into a deep sleep moments later.
oooooooooooooooooooo
It was the smell that woke him up, but it was a slimy wetness on the side of his face that sent his heartbeat into triple time. He opened his eyes to a brown, grunting stone shaking next to him.
“Shit!” he screamed, when the stone waddled up to his face. A pink tongue slipped out, almost hitting him in the eye, and he scrambled backward.
The stone was, obviously, not a stone. The brown skin was tough and uneven, the legs short and almost hidden beneath the massive, round body. It almost looked like a turtle in that sense. The head, however, was a different matter. John sat up and pushed back toward the wall, away from the creature. The creature seemed just as startled to find another living thing down in the caves and it squealed, scrambling away from John and toward the glowing pool of water.
John had woken up earlier, the broken crystal still clasped in his hand and still glowing, although not as brightly as before. They retained their light, it seemed, at least for a few hours. He’d also woken up to a new bruise throbbing in his thigh, and his eyes had, literally, welled with tears of joy when he’d patted down his pockets and found the knife he’d snatched off Bench Presser, just before his trip underground. He had a knife, and now he had light. He had broken off three more crystals and traveled back to the river, finally seeing where he’d first woken up. It was a miracle he was alive. The river was about eight feet wide and moving steadily, although it was not as loud as it had been. Was that because he could finally see it? Or because the storm outside had passed and the river was no longer being fed by torrents of rain?
The far side was a solid rock wall, and John knew he was lucky to have found a place in the dark to climb out. The memory was vague and he realized he’d probably never remember it completely. He had lived, though. He was still alive. He drank as much of the river water as he could, figuring that if it was going to make him sick, it was too late now. He’d already drank too much of it. He’d filled his stomach, but that hadn’t been quite enough to stave off the hunger pangs. He’d also cleaned off the blood matted in his hair, wincing as he traced the swollen gash just above his temple.
By the time he’d crawled back to the glowing pool, he was shivering and cold again, and the sauna heat of the cavern was one step away from heaven. He knew he’d have to stop sleeping at some point and start taking some proactive steps to better his situation, but he was just so damned tired. He’d blamed the head injury and vowed to find food first thing the next time he’d woken up.
And now he was staring at a grunting turtle rock. The creature sniffed the air, then clacked its wide jaws, revealing a row of thick flat teeth bookended by two longer, pointed vampire fangs. The creature swayed, took a tentative step toward John, and grunted again.
“I don’t think so,” John muttered. He patted down his pockets, finding the knife and unfolding the blade from the hilt. The creature tilted its head, and John decided the teeth looked more like ones that might be found on a saber-toothed tiger than a vampire. Too big, and slightly curved, but still just as dangerous looking.
At that moment, his stomach growled, loud and demanding. He was not just hungry. He was ravished. Were he McKay, he’d probably be in full-blown hypoglycemic shock at this point. The saber-toothed turtle rock pawed at the ground. John looked at the knife in his hand, then the creature, then the knife again.
He’d seen the cartoons as a kid, where the hungry wolf looked at the other characters and they turned into juicy steaks. It was funny as a cartoon. It was serious business down here. The creature didn’t change into steak, but it might as well have. Hunger overpowered any rational thought, and John sprang to his feet with a hoarse scream. The creature screeched as John lunged forward, moving faster than he would have guessed. Or else his reflexes were off. The thing scampered across the room to a small hole in the wall John had not previously noticed and disappeared into the shadows.
He was too hungry to let it get away, so he dived into the hole, envisioning himself carving the creature up into a feast, gnawing on its legs and ribs until his stomach exploded from too much food. It would be like Thanksgiving, only better, because he wasn’t usually this hungry before Thanksgiving.
The tunnel wasn’t very long, and John moved quickly, ignoring the new bruises he was adding to his knees and hands as he crawled. He caught a glimpse of the creature ahead of him and then he emerged into another cavern, the light so bright it was almost painful. The creature was making a beeline for the other side, and John dove, landing on top of it. The thing grunted and bucked, trying to throw John’s weight off its back. It was the size of a large dog and, John realized, stronger than he’d first assumed.
He still had the knife in his hand, and he plunged it down. The blade hit the rough exterior and stopped dead, and John’s grip on the hilt slipped. He scrambled, tightening his hold on the knife and banging it against the creature’s skin.
Not even a dent. The creature squealed again and finally managed to throw John off balance. As he slid to the side, he glimpsed a large black eye staring back at him, wide with panic.
Head, go for the head, he thought. He rolled to his knees and lunged for the creature again, swiping the blade down toward where he guessed was its brain. Again, the blade glanced off the creature’s thick skin. Its jaws opened wide, and John jerked his hand back only seconds before the teeth snapped back together. The movement threw his center of balance off enough that when the creature bucked again, he fell forward, face planting into the stone. With another grunting squeal, the creature writhed out of his grip and scampered away, disappearing from sight.
John lay on the ground, heaving in air. Sweat poured from his face and soaked into his hair. He was hungrier than ever, and he wondered how much energy he’d just wasted on his attempt to catch the saber-toothed turtle. Indestructible saber-toothed turtle. He closed his eyes. The adrenaline rush of the battle against the creature leaked out of him quickly, and his head began to throb, thumping painfully in his forehead with every heartbeat. The brightness of the room was piercing through his eyelids as well, making the headache worse. He threw an arm over his face, whimpering in relief at the darkness.
He lay there for a few more minutes, but the headache wasn’t diminishing. His stomach was twisting itself into knots now as well, and the heat of the room was making him nauseous. He had to get out of here. It was at least twice as hot in here than in the glowing pool room. He rolled to his side and opened his eyes, blinking at the sudden brightness.
When the room finally came into focus, he gaped at the sight. This particular cavern was huge-possibly endless-and filled with giant crisscrossing crystals growing out of the ground and walls at all different angles. Most of the crystals were the size of large trees.
“Superman,” he whispered. He’d fallen down a hole in the ground and landed in Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, making them sting.
He had the sudden urge to touch the crystals, but when he stood up, he swayed in dizziness. He had no idea if it was the head injury, the heat, or his everlasting exhaustion-probably a combination of all three-but the room tilted and blurred, and he dropped painfully back to the ground.
Get out, a voice whispered to him. He obeyed it, knowing he had to get away from this room, beautiful as it was, before he passed out. The small tunnel he’d crawled through wavered in front of him, but he pressed forward, desperate for the relief the darkness offered.
“You are screwed up, John,” he said. Hours ago, he would have done anything to chase the darkness away, and now he couldn’t get back to it fast enough. He made it to the glowing pool room, and sat back against the cool stone. His t-shirt was soaked through with sweat. He wanted to dive into the pool. The crystals gave it a bluish glow, making it appear much cooler than it actually was, but he knew diving into it would probably make him warmer, not cooler.
His stomach growled again and he cursed. He needed food. Now. He glanced around the cavern, searching out the darker corners off to the sides. He hadn’t noticed the tunnel leading to the giant crystals before. What else had he missed in here? He squinted against the throb in his head. He felt disconnected, knowing he needed to be much more focused and on top of his game if he was going to survive but not quite sure how to will his body into action.
The far side of the cavern looked like it twisted around into another area and he forced himself to his feet. As he walked around the glowing pool, he saw that the cavern narrowed but continued on into shadows. The crystals were limited to the area in the pool, so John returned, broke one off, then headed back to the darker area.
Had he not brought a glowing crystal with him to light his way, he would have fallen face first into the lake. The smaller glowing-pool cavern widened suddenly about thirty feet in, opening up into a giant cave, if it could even be called a cave. It was huge. The word cave made him think of a small area dug into the side of mountain. In here, the ceiling was too high and to dark to see. The black water of the lake extended into darkness as well, although he could see isolated patches of growing crystals poking out of the lake’s depths.
An underground lake. All he needed now was a boat. He laughed at the inanity of that. What the hell would he do with a boat? What he really needed was food. And rescue.
A movement caught his eye, and he jerked his head around, swinging the crystal around to light as much of the area as he could. Among the rocks along the edge of the lake, he saw a translucent white lizard slither up and over a rock, heading for the water. Its tail was long, making it look almost like a snake. He probably would have thought it was a snake had he not seen its legs gripping the side of the boulder as it climbed. He transferred the crystal to his left hand and dug out this knife with the other.
Food. Every creature in his Fortress of Solitude was potential food. His stomach growled in agreement and he stepped forward. He scanned the rocks for any sign of the lizard snake, his hands shaking at the effort to hold both the crystal and the knife up. God, he needed to eat. He’d never felt so hungry in his life.
The lizard snake appeared again, three boulders in front of him. He jumped without thinking, landing on the boulder next to it and slipped as soon as his foot hit the wet, algae covered stone. He banged his shin hard and cried out, dropping his knife in the water in his scramble not to plunge head first into the lake.
“Shit!” he screamed, watching the lizard snake slide down the side of the boulder and slip soundlessly into to the water. It flicked its tail, carving esses in the black water and bobbing its head right and left. Within seconds, it had disappeared.
John hung his head, pushing himself to a sitting position on the rock and rubbing at his leg. He could feel the bruise forming already. It was also bleeding, but not much. He’d lost yet another chance at a meal, and now he’d lost his knife. Cautiously, he leaned his head over the side of the boulder and peered into the dark water. He needed that knife. He dipped the crystal into the water and blew out his breath in relief when he saw the water was only inches deep and his knife clearly visible in front of him. As he reached for it, he shifted the crystal light and got a glimpse of creatures scattering away from the light.
He froze, holding his breath. The creatures had looked a lot like little lobsters or crawfish, and there’d been at least two or three of them. He grabbed his knife and climbed back over the rocks, a new thought forming in his mind. Once he was back onto relatively flat ground, he eased himself down and undid the laces in one of his boots.
If there were crawfish in the lake, he could fish for them. He pulled out the lace and cut the plastic ends off, giving him just under 72 inches of cord. The lace itself was little more than dozens of threads wound together. Using light from the crystal, he peeled back the outer shell to reveal the individual threads underneath. His hands were shaking from hunger, making it difficult to work. He bit his lip and tried to concentrate, pushing the pangs in his gut and his throbbing headache to the back of his mind.
“Come on,” he muttered. His fingers felt fat and clumsy, but he finally managed to pinch one of the threads and pull it out.
He sat back, taking a deep breath. He was sweating again, and he rubbed at the beads threatening to slide into his eyes. He needed bait now. He glanced around, wondering what he could use. The rock next to the crystal was covered in moss on one side, so he scraped a small wad of it off with his knife. He had no idea what crawfish type creatures ate, but he shrugged, tying one end of his new fishing string to it.
At the last minute, he pulled his pant leg up and wiped some of the blood from the cut on his shin off with the moss. Sea creatures liked blood, he thought. They could smell it in the water, like sharks. He had no idea if it would work, but what the hell? He had little to lose at this point. If the bloody moss didn’t work, he’d try again with a new wad.
He crawled over to the edge of the lake with his fishing line and dipped his crystal into the water. Once again, the little creatures scattered into the shadows. John smiled and set the crystal back on the shore. They liked the darkness-he could work with that. He wrapped one end of the fishing line around his finger, then dropped the moss end into the water.
As hungry as he was, he still expected to wait for a while before he got a nibble. Within seconds of dropping the moss into the water, his finger jerked as something bit the other end.
“Hell, yeah!” he cried out. He tugged at the line, feeling something heavy on the other end. Before the thing had a chance to eat and run, John lifted the line with one hand and grabbed at the crawfish with his other hand.
It squirmed in his hand, but he held on tight. It was small-little more than three inches long-but it was food. He sat back, bringing the crystal around to illuminate his catch. It looked like a miniature lobster, and the thought immediately caused his mouth to salivate.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he muttered, still staring at the crawfish. Its shell was white and hard, and its claws flailed in the air like it was drowning. Eat it. He had to eat it.
He swallowed, wondering if he could eat it raw. Would it make him sick? A fire would be better. He could cut it open and fry the meat, kill off any germs the lobster might be carrying.
“Fire,” he called out. His voice echoed in the large cavern and disappeared over the black lake. He was trained for this. He knew how to start a fire. It was survival 101. He stared at the rocks, his mind going blank.
“Think, John. Just…damn it…”
The creature wiggled in his fingers and almost broke free of his grip. He rubbed the sweat from his forehead again, grimacing at how badly his hands were shaking. He’d need two hands to build a fire. He grabbed the smaller rocks around him and arranged them in a circle, creating a pen for the crawfish. He dropped it on its back, and watched it squirm around a little more. Its movements had slowed with its growing weakness.
He set the crystal between it and the lake, hoping that would deter it from running to the water if it escaped its pen. He rubbed his hands on his pants, then folded them across his chest, trying to still the quaking limbs. It wasn’t just his hands now. He could feel the shakiness in his entire body, like he was cold, and yet sweat continued to bead on his face and drip down his neck.
Fire. He needed to make a fire. He scrounged around, scraping off more moss, but he scowled when he mashed it in his fingers and felt how damp it was. As he turned around, he saw his dinner claw its way over its pen and dash toward the lake, oblivious to the crystal in its path.
“No!” John dove for it. He landed hard on the rocks, the edge of his rock pen digging into his ribs. The crawfish dropped into the water, gone. He grabbed the crystal, all his anger zeroing in on the light that had not kept his dinner from escaping. With a roar, he threw it against the rocky wall behind him and watched it explode into a hundred, shattering sparks.
John dropped his head to the ground, closing his eyes. Acid was burning a hole through his empty stomach, the side that had hit his stupid rock pen was throbbing in time with his head, and his elbow was burning from where it had impacted against the ground, warm blood dripping through the fabric of his shirt. And he was still shaking.
Survival is a mental game, a conscious act of will.
The voice floated through his mind, followed by the image of one of his first survival instructors soon after he’d been commissioned into the Air Force. John lay on the ground, desperation looming over him, threatening to drag him down into an abyss darker than the riverside cave he’d woken up in. He sucked in another breath, his body still shaking against the cold, hard ground, and closed his eyes.
Live.
He flinched. For a moment, he thought he’d heard Ronon’s voice. What would the big guy think, when they finally found him, if he was lying dead next to this black lake? Ronon, who had lived through seven years of hell. Compared to that, this was nothing. The closest thing to a predator John had seen so far was the saber-toothed turtle rock creature, who’d been more afraid of John than anything else. Hardly worth curling up into a ball and giving up over.
His stomach cramped, feeling like it was turning in on itself and devouring its own flesh. He was thirsty too, he realized. He swallowed, trying to work some moisture into his throat. Hungry, thirsty, tired. He hurt everywhere.
Rodney would never forgive him. If John knew the scientist at all, he was probably screaming at everyone, working on no sleep and lots of caffeine as he searched for him. He smiled suddenly, picturing the prickly scientist in his lab, waving his arms around and causing everyone around him to jump and scramble. It was miracle he managed to keep anyone employed in his lab for any length of time.
His dying would disappoint Ronon and piss off McKay, but it would hurt Teyla. Honestly, it would hurt all of them-he hoped anyway, because they did seem to like having him around most of the time-but Teyla was different. He’d felt a bond with Teyla since the first day they’d met, a friendship that he knew instinctively would run deeper than any other friendship he’d ever had if only he didn’t get in its way.
He pushed against the ground, his arms shaking at the effort, and used his shirt to wipe the dirt and moisture off his face. He winced as his fingers brushed the gash on the top of his head, and the events of the last day-few days?-clicked into perspective. The attack that had flipped the truck had knocked him out cold for who knew how long. Bench Presser’s rough treatment hadn’t done him any good either, and then there was the trip down the river and into the cave system. That had knocked him out as well for another indeterminate period of time.
The accumulated injuries were taking their toll, and they’d take his life if he continued on his current path. The head injury alone was enough to shatter rational thought, but add hunger and fear…
He shook his head. Survival began and ended in the mind, and it would begin now for him. The lake cavern was dark now that the crystal was gone-broken, he amended. A soft glow behind him was just barely visible from the tunnel leading back to the pool room. He closed his eyes, pushing out all other thoughts.
First rule of survival: decide to live. Second rule: take care of basic necessities. He had plenty of drinking water. He had heat-not fire, but at least he wouldn’t freeze to death. He could turn the smaller tent room into a secure shelter if he needed to, blocking the tunnel entrances when he slept to keep out any big creatures, like the saber-toothed turtle. He thought of the crawfish in the lake-food.
What he didn’t have was fire to cook the food. If all else failed, he could eat the things raw, and he was close to that point now. Pain pulsed in his stomach, but he pushed it back.
Not yet. Think. Clear the mind.
What did he need for fire? Tinder, kindling, fuel. Oxygen and heat. There was moss and algae on the rocks but it was wet. He stood, swaying for a moment in the darkness. When his sense of balance settled, he stumbled back toward the pool room and grabbed another crystal. He walked around the room, then back down the tunnel, seeing his environment more clearly.
The rocks farther away from the lake also had algae and moss, but it had dried out. It could work as tinder, enough of it maybe as kindling. He began scraping it from the stones and soon had a large handful of it.
Fuel. Even if he could start a fire, it wouldn’t last long without fuel. He returned to the lakeside and set his pile of tinder down. He raised the crystal and scanned the area. Near the rock wall where he’d broken the last crystal, he saw roots snaking along the cracks in the stone. Most of them were small, but a few would make decent sized logs. He climbed over the rocks to them, spotting glowing broken shards from his other crystal.
He set his crystal down and pulled out his knife, prepared to saw through the first large root with the small blade, and almost fell over backward when the root snapped easily away from the stone. He grabbed at another one, and it too broke off with little effort.
“Finally,” he said, feeling a welling of hope.
He broke the larger roots into logs and snapped off smaller pieces as kindling. Tinder, kindling, fuel. Now all he needed was heat. Something to spark the tinder into a flame.
Spark. The crystal. He snapped his head back toward broken shards still glowing faintly. He saw them again in his mind as they’d shattered, a hundred electrical sparks flashing at once across the rocky wall. His own, private, miniature lightning storm.
He grabbed the largest broken pieces he could find and brought it back to the flat area next to the lake. He would make the fire here. Making sure the kindling and fuel were in reach, he grabbed half of the tinder, then placed the broken crystal in the center. He just needed one spark to catch the dry moss. Grabbing one of the rocks from his crawfish pen, he held it over the crystal and took a deep breath.
He smashed the rock down against the crystal with as much force as he could muster. The crystal shattered again, the smaller pieces flying away from the center of impact and glowing faintly. Close up, he realized that the sparks he’d seen before had been an illusion. It hadn’t been sparks-just smaller crystals flaring as they were ripped apart. A crushing weight began to descend on him as he fingered the tinder. There was a bit of residual heat in the crystal shards, but not enough to start a fire and no heat whatsoever in the dried moss.
No heat. No fire. His hands were shaking again, and he pressed them into the ground next to him.
“The crystals were a dead end,” he mumbled. “Still have everything I need for a fire though. Still have light. And a knife. Options-think of your options, John.”
He picked up the knife and twisted it around. The blade glinted in the soft blue light of the whole crystal. Flint and steel. He had no idea what the rocks around him were made of, but if he struck the knife blade against them with enough force, he might get a spark that way.
A thought niggled at the back of his brain. A memory. He glanced at the knife again, then the flat area next to the lake with his piles of root logs. Water lapped next to him. He closed his eyes, reaching for the memory and sensing that it was important, but it sank away from him. When he opened his eyes, he turned his head to stare out across the dark water. His eyes fastened on the spots of crystals growing in sporadic clumps throughout the cavern.
He turned back to the crystal next to him and held it up. Crystal. Quartz. The memory rose again, an old one. High school. Ninth grade physical science. Quartz, like flint, was a hard stone, that when struck against another one containing iron, such as pyrite or marcasite, would produce a spark. He swallowed, feeling adrenaline pump through him. The crystals weren’t exactly normal quartz crystals, but if they were close enough…
“Maybe,” he whispered. “Maybe…”
He broke off the end of the crystal so that he had a piece small enough to fit in his hand, then picked up a wad of the dried moss and held the crystal over it. He grabbed the knife next and turned the blade out so that the dull side would strike the crystal. The spark would fly down into the tinder, the tinder would start to burn, turning to a flame. He dropped his arm and struck the knife against the quartz. Both his arms vibrated from the impact but he raised his knife hand for a second try.
He lost count how many times he struck the crystal. Enough times that sweat had broken out across his forehead and dripped down his neck. His shirt was damp from the effort, but still he worked at it. He blinked the moisture out of his eyes, focusing on the task at hand.
One more hit, just one more hit, he repeated to himself.
His shoulders and arms were growing heavy with fatigue when he saw a small orange spark jump from the crystal and knife to the moss beneath. He froze, seeing a wisp of smoke. His breath huffed out of him, a reflex he hadn’t intended, but the extra air ignited more of the tinder.
He grabbed the kindling and pressed it to the smoking pile in his hand. He blew as gently as he could, and almost cried when the first flame burst up around the small root twigs. He dropped the pile onto the ground and began carefully adding larger and larger twigs. The flames leapt and curled into the darkness, and he started laughing, quietly at first, then almost hysterically.
Fire. He had fire. He crawled over to the lakeside where he’d left his bootlace and pulled out another thread. With what little coordination he had left, he tied more of the wet moss to one end of the thread, dabbing it with the blood drying on his elbow, then tossing the bait into the water. He got a bite immediately, and he wondered if it was the same crawfish he’d caught before.
“Come to daddy,” he crowed, whipping the fishing line out of the water and snagging the small crawfish at the end in triumph.
Part 2
Word count: 22,000
Warnings: minor language, some violence at the beginning
Summary: Sheppard finds himself in a deep, dark place and has only himself to rely on until he can find the light again. Literally.
Written for tridget for the sheppard_hc Secret Santa. Huge thanks to my beta, everybetty!! Prompt at the end.
A Light in the Darkness
Part 1
John saw the body first, a man pinned to the ceiling and staring down at him with sightless black eyes. Blood covered his head and neck. He knew him. He blinked, trying to place the face. He knew that man.
Why was the man not falling?
The thought broke through the haze, and he sucked in a deep breath. The man was pinned to the ceiling looking down, but… No. The ceiling was on the floor, and the man was on the ceiling.
He shook his head, then groaned at the immediate assault of pain, dizziness, and nausea. Something was biting into his legs and shoulders, and his arms were stretched out above him, hanging and too heavy to move. He was the one on the ceiling, once the floor. He blinked again, looking around, and spotted the front seats of the truck, the steering wheel, the windshield cracked and splattered with red. Everything upside down.
Accident.
Sound rushed in, and John jerked at the vibrating thud of a bomb detonating nearby. He looked down-up-at his waist, and saw he was still strapped into his seat, the belts cutting off the circulation to his legs. His head was throbbing, and he could feel blood wet and matted in his hair.
Not an accident. An attack. A bomb that had overturned the truck he’d been riding in. The driver had been killed instantly. John’s eyes drifted back to the dead man’s face. The driver. That’s how he knew the man. He was driving them to…
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate past the pain. Truck. He was in a truck with…he didn’t know who he was with. The memory of where they were going and what they were doing was there, taunting him, but it dissipated as soon as he tried to grab onto it. Gunfire outside kept beat with the pounding in his head. He needed to get out of the truck, or at least out of his seat. He lifted heavy arms again and fumbled at the buckle. There were two straps across his chest attached to the one on his waist, and no apparent release button for either of them.
A ripping metal sound next to him had him grabbing hopelessly at straps that would not release him from the seat, and he moaned at the light that suddenly pierced the dim interior of the truck. Hands were pulling at the broken door, cursing at the stubborn metal.
Escape. Danger. Get out.
The thought rushed through him, adrenaline riding its wake, and John kicked out at the seat in front of him as he tried to find purchase or brace himself or something.
Escape.
Get out.
He tugged at the straps again, biting his lip at the cry of panic threatening to pour out of him.
Out. Out, out, outoutoutoutout.
“Got a live one!” a voice screamed, and John winced at the hot breath against his cheek. He turned his head to look at the man, but his view was blocked by a large torso. Hands grabbed at his waist and shoulders, and the stranger cursed the straps pinning John to the truck before sitting back and pulling a knife.
Before John could flail in panic at the blade swiping toward him, he heard fabric rip and a sudden give in pressure in one of the straps over his shoulders. Seconds later, both shoulder straps disappeared. The hands were once again digging at his waist, and then that pressure disappeared as well. He sighed in relief, then moaned as the world suddenly spun around him. The man was cursing him now, pulling and twisting him with rough hands. The pain in John’s head spiked, white flashing through his vision.
Seconds later, he came to, if he’d passed out at all. He wasn’t sure. He rolled, feeling wet ground beneath him, just as his stomach bucked. A foot was kicking or poking his side, but John’s whole world had zeroed in on the patch of mud in front of him, covered now in sour vomit. At the sight of it, his stomach cramped, and he retched again, choking on the little bit of spit and bile that finally came out.
“Sick,” a voice hissed, picking him up by the collar of his shirt and pulling him away.
John closed his eyes at the movement. His head felt heavy and too big, and like he was swimming underwater. The rest of his body was a boneless mass of limbs and under no control of his. He felt himself being dragged across the ground but didn’t dare open his eyes until the movement stopped.
“You sure he’s alive,” another voice asked.
Forcing himself to open his eyes, John looked up toward the sound of the voices and spotted two men wearing dark green uniforms standing over him. They were crouched behind the front of the overturned truck, their gazes focused on something behind them.
“He just vomited. He’s alive,” the first voice answered, the one who had cut him out of the seatbelt and pulled him from the truck. The man was big, like he’d spend most of his gym time at the bench press, and a thick ragged scar ran from just below his eye to the edge of his jaw, scar tissue puffing out in angry red tones.
“We got four live ones from the other trucks,” the second guy answered. He looked scrawny next to Bench Presser, but size was all relative. Like the guys on the football field who looked small next to the offensive line, but off the field were twice as big as everyone else.
“Football,” he muttered. It seemed important, like he should be remembering something about football.
“What?” Bench Presser asked, giving John’s leg a light kick.
John groaned instead. Football didn’t make sense. He pressed his head into the mud and grass, feeling waves of heat from the engine next to him brush against cold skin. The grass was cold and smelled of gasoline.
“More rain,” Scrawny said.
John looked up into dark gray clouds. Scrawny shifted, and John saw the black barrel of a rifle in his hands.
“We should get him with the others; get out of here before reinforcements arrive.”
“Right,” Bench Presser replied. He knelt next to John and began undoing his vest. John swatted at his hands, but the man ignored him. He flipped John over and ripped the vest off, almost dislocating John’s shoulder in the process. John whimpered, and the big man rolled him again, fumbling at the buckle around John’s waist.
“No,” he cried out, squirming as a jolt of adrenaline rushed through him. He kicked his legs at the air as he tried to roll away.
“Stop it,” Bench Presser snarled, raising his arm and smacking John in the face.
The world faded again in a fog of pain. When he came back to himself, he was lying sprawled on the grass, rain pelting his face in a steady drone. Bench Presser had his vest in one hand, and his belt, along with his knife and holster, in the other.
Disarmed. He was disarming him, stripping him of weapons. Bench Presser tossed John’s things to the side then proceeded to pat him down, clearing out his pockets and even finding the knife on the inside of his boot.
Sudden gunfire interrupted the search, and both men holding John ducked down, taking cover behind the truck. The rain came down harder, large drops smacking almost painfully against John’s head. Another bomb detonated, far enough away that he didn’t feel the blast of hot air from the explosion, but close enough that the ground shook beneath him, tying his stomach up in knots again. He rolled and curled in on himself, grateful when Bench Presser took no notice.
It was the retort of P90 fire that finally pulled John out of his haze. He opened his eyes and looked up to see that Bench Presser had figured out how to fire his weapon. He was firing continuously, his face filled with glee at the power in his hands. Beneath the automatic weapon fire, John heard other guns firing back at them, bombs exploding, people shouting.
Scrawny screamed suddenly and dropped to the ground behind him, writhing in the dirt. John turned toward him, but his eyes fastened on Bench Presser staring at his friend in surprise.
Escape, escape, escape.
He kicked his leg out with more strength than he would have thought possible, and smiled when the big man cried out and dropped to the ground. More shots from whoever was firing at them rang out. Bench Presser turned to John, his face a mixture of panic and hatred, then pounced.
Meaty hands wrapped around John’s neck, squeezing. John bucked against the pressure, opening his mouth to scream or breathe or something. His captor was grunting, his face turning red from the effort of choking John out. John felt his arms and legs begin to tingle, and his chest bucked against the ground as his lungs attempted to pull in air. He pounded his fists against the other man’s arms, uselessly.
Was this what it felt like to die? The thought slithered to the forefront, clear and resonating in his mind as the sound of gunfire and explosions faded, replaced by the sound of a rushing river.
Like that one scene from Lord of the Rings, where the river rose up, forming watery horses that pounded along the river bed, sweeping away anything in its path. Odd. He’d always liked that scene but why he was thinking of it now, he had no idea. He felt more than heard a gurgling cry in the back of his throat, and thought he’d heard a similar sound before, from other men about to die. The gray skies above him were growing darker, the storm swirling in anger. John blinked, feeling his hands go lax around Bench Presser’s wrists, and then a concussive explosion threw the world into pitch black.
oooooooooooooooooooo
He came awake abruptly, throwing his head back as he gasped for air.
What the hell? He could still feel Bench Presser’s hands around his neck, no longer squeezing. He coughed hard, tears streaming from his eyes as his lungs pulled in desperately needed oxygen. A weight was growing on his chest and he squirmed, trying to get out from underneath it.
A clap of thunder erupted overhead and the skies opened up again. The smell of gasoline was strong, and moisture covered John’s face. Rain? Gasoline? Maybe blood. He could smell iron. He opened his eyes to see Bench Presser lying on top of him and not moving. A ragged piece of metal was poking out of the man’s back, and blood pumped from the wound, soaking into both of their clothes.
“Off,” John whispered, pushing at the dead man’s body with heavy, uncoordinated arms. He felt a hard lump in the man’s breast pocket, and he pulled out the small black pocket knife used to cut through the seatbelt straps. John grabbed it, holding in a death grasp. Fight-he would fight if he had to. His hearing was popping in and out, and the gasoline smell was getting worse. It was making him nauseous. He could also smell something burning, and he turned toward the crashed truck, blinking at the flames pouring out of the engine.
Gasoline. Fire. Bombs, gunfire, explosions. He had to get away from here, wherever here was. He was outside, on a road, surrounded by trees.
Trees. Trees were safe. Trees were cover. With a monumental effort, he slid Bench Presser’s body off of his and rolled to his knees. His ears were still stuffed, like they hadn’t adjusted to the altitude, and the ground in front of him swam in and out of focus. He shoved the knife into his cargo pants pocket and crawled forward, concentrating on moving one hand forward, then a knee, then the other hand, then the other knee. Trees. He had to reach the trees.
He glanced back and saw the smoke pouring from the truck, flames licking the undercarriage, oblivious of the rain. There was a man inside there, he suddenly thought, and his heart seized in his chest. He saw the man staring down at him again, and it took another second for him to remember that man was already dead. He was the driver. They’d been in a truck, driving somewhere-John couldn’t remember where, exactly, or who else had been with them.
Were they dead too?
More gunfire sputtered around him, and he caught movement out of the corner of his eyes as people ran and dove for cover, firing at each other with him in the middle. The heat of the fire behind him was crackling in the rain. When he reached the tree line, he pulled himself to his feet and lurched forward, deeper into cover. The trees in front of him blurred together, then split apart, and the sound of rain grew louder.
He slipped in the mud and fell hard, and it took a second for him to peel his eyes open again. He was still sliding in the mud, down a slight incline. He pressed his hands against the ground to stop himself, but the hill shifted, propelling him downward with alarming speed.
“No, stop!” he slurred. He rolled onto his stomach and looked up the hill just as deafening explosion filled the air. Flames leapt into the air above the trees, sucking all other sound into a vacuum.
The fire of the exploding truck disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, but the storm seemed to double its fury in response. John was flung around as his legs hit a rock, and he found himself sliding head first through trees. He heard the roar of rainwater and mud streaming together in a flash flood only seconds before he plunged into the ice cold torrent and was carried swiftly away from the road. The current swept him around, flipping him, and he opened his mouth to scream only for mud and water to pour down his throat. He hit something hard, and his body flipped up out of the stream. He coughed and gagged in time with thunder clapping overhead, and he wrapped his arms protectively around his head as more debris slapped against him.
He saw the gaping black hole in front of him at the last minute, and he kicked out in a panic, as if that would stop his momentum. A moment later, the hole swallowed him, along with the raging torrent of mud, water, rocks, and branches he was riding into pitch black.
oooooooooooooooooooo
John woke to overwhelming blackness and the sensation of the unseen ground beneath him tilting and sliding away from him. He pushed up to his knees, then gagged. There was no sound again, just the rushing of water. Images of a truck exploding and a muddy river carrying him through a thick forest flitted through his mind, but they were soon pushed out by the all-consuming throbbing in his head, spreading down his neck and back.
He swallowed back the urge to throw up and squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness. Sight seemed to have very little to do with the world spinning like a rickety, heaving carnival ride. He eased himself to his side and curled up into a ball, cradling his head. One hand brushed the side of his head above his hear, causing a sharp, agonizing burn to kick up. The area was tacky and raw, and John moaned at the onslaught of pain.
The dark was impenetrable, and the sound of water continuous. He curled tighter into a ball against the cold, hard ground and let himself go.
oooooooooooooooooooo
He dreamed of the dead man in the truck, only he wasn’t dead. He was alive and gabby, pointing out every rock and tree and turn in the road. John remembered not caring so much about the scenery but being infinitely amused by the young man’s enthusiasm. There were others in the truck with him, but their faces were hidden in shadow in the dream. John sensed that he didn’t know them very well, that his focus was entirely on the truck driver.
He woke up abruptly, flailing his arms then groaning when the movement felt like a kick in the head. His stomach cramped, and no amount of deep breathing could stop him from throwing up.
He collapsed in a heap a few minutes later. Head injury-he’d hurt his head, badly. That much was clear. He brought a shaking hand up to his face and rubbed at his eyes, mentally chasing the white spots caused by the pressure against his eyeballs. When he opened his eyes again, his thoughts stuttered at the utter blackness.
Was he blind? He swallowed, grimacing at the sour taste of vomit, and waved a hand in front of his face. He felt the air shift and heard the sound of his hand whistling past, but his vision remained unchanged.
“Not… not blind, not happening,” he muttered.
His voice sounded loud, immediately setting off a steady throb in his head. The sound of water was still there, although maybe not as loud.
“Where…?” he started to call out, then winced when the sound echoed around him. He was in a confined space somewhere. He sniffed the damp air, smelling mold and dirt and something weirdly metallic.
Underground? God, let him be underground and not blind. If he was underground somewhere, that would explain the pitch black threatening to drown him. He crawled forward toward the water, sweeping the ground in front of him as he went. It was hard and uneven-rocky-and the pressure dug against his knees.
He jerked in surprised when his hand hit cold water, and he almost passed out again. Slow-move slow, John. He reached out again, letting his fingers trail through the rushing water. A river. He’d been swept into a river of mud and rocks and other debris caused by a rainstorm. Rain. He remembered the rain, pelting against the windshield of the truck.
He felt himself falling forward into the water, and he jerked back with a cry. Focus, he had to focus. Flames drilled into his head, and he crawled forward again just long enough to scoop a small handful of water. He managed three more sips before his arms were shaking too badly that he had to scoot back and lay down.
He curled up again on the stone floor, blinking at the darkness. He would rest for a few minutes. Just a few minutes.
oooooooooooooooooooo
Despite the mask of black, he knew he’d slept for longer than he’d intended. He stretched slowly, sighing in relief at the dull pain in the side of his head. It still hurt, but it wasn’t the sharp, breath stealing agony of before. He rolled toward the water, finding the rushing water just a foot away from where he’d fallen asleep, and he drank greedily. He was suddenly dying of thirst.
And hungry, but he didn’t trust his stomach enough to eat anything yet, so he drank as much water as he could. After a few minutes, he turned away from the water and waved his arm in front of him until he found a boulder to lean against. It wasn’t comfortable, but it gave him a moment to sit back and take stock.
He patted his chest and blinked in surprise when all he felt was his damp t-shirt. No vest. His hands moved immediately for his handgun. No holster either-not even his belt. A memory flashed through his mind, a large man stripping him of weapons, then shooting his P90 at whoever was attacking them.
Pain lanced through this temples and he pulled his knees up, crossing his arms over the top and letting his head fall forward. He was exhausted and cold, weaponless. The attack came back to him in vague snippets. His team had emerged onto this planet in a wide, shallow cave a dozen or so feet deep onto a mountainous, rainforest world. They’d met people, although the details of it were vague.
He sighed, looking around. The darkness was endless. If anything, he should start a fire or something. He reached for his vest pocket again and scowled when his fingers hit his long sleeve t-shirt.
“Damn it!” he growled. His voice echoed around him, and he dropped his head to his knees again.
He hurt, everywhere. Not life-threatening hurt, just bruised and battered and stiff and achy. He sat back again, running his hands down his shins and feeling bumps and warm skin that were probably swelling bruises. His neck hurt more than anything else. In his mind, he saw the man firing his P90 jumping on him and wrapping thick fingers around his neck.
The convoy. They’d been in a convoy of trucks when they were attacked. He didn’t remember the bomb that had thrown their vehicle in the air and flipped it on its head, but he remembered waking upside down, the seat belt digging into his lap and shoulder. He ran his fingers over his shoulders but couldn’t feel the bruises there. They were attacked-he didn’t know by whom, or why.
My team.
The thought battered through everything else, and John felt his chest constrict in sudden pain. His team. Had they been there?
“Ronon? Teyla?” his voice echoed. “McKay?”
He couldn’t remember if they’d been in the truck with him. He remembered the driver-a young kid who wanted to go to school when his military service was over to study the forest.
McKay would have scoffed at that, but he didn’t remember McKay saying anything. He shivered, wrapping his arms around his body to stave off the icy cold that had suddenly gripped him. He had no idea where he was, and no light to see where he might even begin to figure out where to go. If his teammates were with him, one of them would have said something by now.
He had crawled away from the truck, knowing it was going to explode. Had his teammates still been inside? The thought made his stomach curl in on itself and he sucked in a deep breath against the rising nausea.
“No,” he rasped, pressing his forehead against his arms. They weren’t in the truck. He was sure they weren’t in the truck. He would never have left them there. He had crawled alone into the woods, then run, then slipped, falling literally into darkness.
He must have been washed down the mountainside and into an underground cave, and it was a miracle he was even alive. He didn’t remember crawling out of the river, but he had, obviously. He was alive, if bruised and battered.
And freezing. He was shaking harder now, and he rubbed his hands against his arms. His team hadn’t been there. They hadn’t washed down the mountain side with him. He swallowed, clenching his teeth against the shuddering spasms now wracking through him. They weren’t in the truck either. He was sure of that. They couldn’t have been in the truck.
“Get a grip, John,” he whispered into the darkness. Sitting up was requiring a monumental amount of energy and he slid to the ground, rolling onto his side.
He remembered a town with towering, white-capped mountains behind it. His team was there, he thought. They’d been meeting the locals, pleasantly surprised at their relatively high level of technology. One of the men had been telling John about their attempts to build machines that flew and invited John to the warehouse where they were building them.
His eyes flew open at the memory. He’d gone with the man in a convoy of trucks, alone. His team had stayed in the town, exploring other areas. He’d been alone when they were attacked, presumably still safe. Hopefully looking for him.
There were no sounds, other than the water. John closed his eyes again, seeing no difference in the darkness.
oooooooooooooooooooo
It was hard to gauge if he’d fallen asleep that time. He didn’t think so. He was still shaking, but maybe not as badly. He was still cold. His head was still pounding, and his body still felt stiff and sore. Movement of any kind still made his stomach clench, but at least he had stopped throwing up.
He was thirstier. That was different. He pushed himself up to his knees, and abused muscles screamed in protest. It was like moving through tar. He crawled forward, toward the sound of the water and drank enough to make his gut ache. Hunger was lurking, just below the surface now. He turned back and crawled toward the rock he’d been leaning against but missed it.
“Stupid,” he muttered, waving his arm in front of him. He crawled a few more feet and took another swipe at the air.
His knuckles brushed against stone and he jerked his arm back with a hiss. He scooted forward slowly this time, pushing against air for a long minute before he found the rock again. It wasn’t the one he’d been sitting next to, he realized. It was a wall, the side of the tunnel no doubt carved by the river over millions of years.
He patted as much of it as he could reach, slid down a few feet, then began patting again, taking in as much detail as his palms and fingers were able to convey. The rock was cold but not wet, and bare of any vegetation.
“Of course it is, moron,” he muttered. His voice echoed around him, and the returning sound was somewhat reassuring. Like someone was answering him back. Like he wasn’t so completely lost and alone.
He moved again, and began the same sweep with his arms when the rock under his left hand suddenly disappeared. He stumbled a little, then froze, bracing himself. No rock. He brought his hand back and felt out the edge of gap, tracing it from the ground up four or five feet, then across another four feet, then back to the ground.
A tunnel.
Or a cave. Certainly a passageway of some kind. He crawled into it, letting his senses stretch out for any indication of what might be ahead of him. His eyes were beginning to ache, and he realized he was straining them despite the darkness. It was an almost desperate instinct against the possibility of blindness.
“Hello?”
His voice didn’t echo in the tunnel. Even the sound of the river had changed, sounding much farther away than he knew he had traveled. He continued into the cave or tunnel, letting one hand on the wall be his guide. It was slightly warmer in this area, and he shivered at the change in temperature. The tunnel walls were smoother than the other rock wall he’d explored. He inched forward, breathing in damp, musty air.
The tunnel curved, and John blinked, his heart stuttering in his chest. There, in front of him. He waved his arm at the lighter patch of black, banging his knuckles again on the rock wall. He wasn’t imagining it, though. He crawled a few feet farther and saw the blackness melt slightly into a midnight blue.
He couldn’t be imagining it. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the inky blackness flood his vision again. For added effect, he covered his face with both hands. There-total darkness. He sucked in a deep breath, willing himself to relax, then opened his eyes and dropped his hands away.
The darkness shifted. It was still too dark to see anything, but it wasn’t the same pitch black. He scrambled forward, immediately banging his shoulder into the wall and cried out.
“Easy, John,” he whispered. “Take it slow.”
He resumed his cautious crawl, trying to ignore the adrenaline rush now pumping through his veins. He believed he hadn’t been blind, but that had been based more on a desperate hope than any facts. Now, though, there was light ahead. He could feel it. The midnight blue shifted again, still dark but definitely not black. A few minutes later, John began to pick out the inconsistencies in the walls of the tunnel-deep pockets of shadow in the nooks and crevices of the uneven surface. As a test, he spotted what he thought was a rock sitting in the middle of his path and he reached out for it, whooping in triumph a second later when he held it in his hand.
It was hard not to scramble forward after that, but his body was sore enough that it forced him to be cautious. As he rounded the next curve, a pale glow came into view, illuminating the water-carved tunnel walls around him.
Light. Honest to God light.
The tunnel opened up into a slightly wider space, and John finally found the source of his precious light. A half dozen crystals were growing out of the side of the cave wall, the largest one the size and width of his leg. The light they gave was steady, filling up the entire space, and as he approached them, he felt heat radiating outward.
He shivered, remembering suddenly that he was cold. He had been cold for a while now. Tentatively, he reached a hand out to the largest crystal. When it didn’t explode or send a bolt of lightning through him, he sighed in relief. It was hot, but not unbearably so.
He scrunched up against it, letting the warmth of the crystals soak through his clothes. He looked around the small cave, guessing it was roughly the size of a four-man tent. The tunnel leading to the river was wide and dark, but on the other side of the room was another tunnel opening.
The light and heat had unexpectedly lifted his spirits, making his situation seem much less dire. Maybe he could get out of this. Maybe he could survive down here. He twisted around, letting the heat ooze into a different part of his body. He would just rest a few more minutes, warm up a little, and then he’d continue exploring. He could always come back to this room if he found nothing.
With reluctance, he pushed away from the warm crystals. He wouldn’t explore far. He was beyond tired and trying to do too much would just make his situation worse. He began to crawl, and smiled when more light appeared ahead. Crawling faster, he reached the next room with minutes.
And stopped in amazement.
The tunnel opened up into a large cavern. The far side was filled with a deep, glowing pool of water. The water was clear, allowing John to see easily to the very bottom. Hundreds of crystals grew up from its depths, covering the far wall of the cavern completely and casting the entire space with white-blue light.
It was warm too-almost hot. He’d been relieved at the small amount of heat the crystals in the four-man tent room had given him, but now he was basking in it. He inched forward, dipping his hands into the water and laughed. It was hot-as in hot-tub hot-and he suddenly envisioned himself taking a dive into the water.
He had the urge to drink a handful of water but he shook his head. The river water, at least, had been flowing rapidly, and it had been cold. This water was not moving. It didn’t look or smell stagnant, but John thought he’d better not risk it. The heat would also breed bacteria, and he could always crawl back to the river later. On a hunch, he reached into the pool for a smaller crystal growing near the surface. Leaning his body weight into it, he felt the crystal give then break off.
He held it up, grinning when the light didn’t fade. Portable. The glowing crystals were portable. That made traveling back to the river for water even less of an issue. He scooted away from the water and curled up against the wall. The small crystal was hot against his chest. He was reluctant to close his eyes, some small irrational part of his brain afraid that the light would be no more than a dream and he would wake up to pitch black again, but his body had other ideas, and he slipped into a deep sleep moments later.
oooooooooooooooooooo
It was the smell that woke him up, but it was a slimy wetness on the side of his face that sent his heartbeat into triple time. He opened his eyes to a brown, grunting stone shaking next to him.
“Shit!” he screamed, when the stone waddled up to his face. A pink tongue slipped out, almost hitting him in the eye, and he scrambled backward.
The stone was, obviously, not a stone. The brown skin was tough and uneven, the legs short and almost hidden beneath the massive, round body. It almost looked like a turtle in that sense. The head, however, was a different matter. John sat up and pushed back toward the wall, away from the creature. The creature seemed just as startled to find another living thing down in the caves and it squealed, scrambling away from John and toward the glowing pool of water.
John had woken up earlier, the broken crystal still clasped in his hand and still glowing, although not as brightly as before. They retained their light, it seemed, at least for a few hours. He’d also woken up to a new bruise throbbing in his thigh, and his eyes had, literally, welled with tears of joy when he’d patted down his pockets and found the knife he’d snatched off Bench Presser, just before his trip underground. He had a knife, and now he had light. He had broken off three more crystals and traveled back to the river, finally seeing where he’d first woken up. It was a miracle he was alive. The river was about eight feet wide and moving steadily, although it was not as loud as it had been. Was that because he could finally see it? Or because the storm outside had passed and the river was no longer being fed by torrents of rain?
The far side was a solid rock wall, and John knew he was lucky to have found a place in the dark to climb out. The memory was vague and he realized he’d probably never remember it completely. He had lived, though. He was still alive. He drank as much of the river water as he could, figuring that if it was going to make him sick, it was too late now. He’d already drank too much of it. He’d filled his stomach, but that hadn’t been quite enough to stave off the hunger pangs. He’d also cleaned off the blood matted in his hair, wincing as he traced the swollen gash just above his temple.
By the time he’d crawled back to the glowing pool, he was shivering and cold again, and the sauna heat of the cavern was one step away from heaven. He knew he’d have to stop sleeping at some point and start taking some proactive steps to better his situation, but he was just so damned tired. He’d blamed the head injury and vowed to find food first thing the next time he’d woken up.
And now he was staring at a grunting turtle rock. The creature sniffed the air, then clacked its wide jaws, revealing a row of thick flat teeth bookended by two longer, pointed vampire fangs. The creature swayed, took a tentative step toward John, and grunted again.
“I don’t think so,” John muttered. He patted down his pockets, finding the knife and unfolding the blade from the hilt. The creature tilted its head, and John decided the teeth looked more like ones that might be found on a saber-toothed tiger than a vampire. Too big, and slightly curved, but still just as dangerous looking.
At that moment, his stomach growled, loud and demanding. He was not just hungry. He was ravished. Were he McKay, he’d probably be in full-blown hypoglycemic shock at this point. The saber-toothed turtle rock pawed at the ground. John looked at the knife in his hand, then the creature, then the knife again.
He’d seen the cartoons as a kid, where the hungry wolf looked at the other characters and they turned into juicy steaks. It was funny as a cartoon. It was serious business down here. The creature didn’t change into steak, but it might as well have. Hunger overpowered any rational thought, and John sprang to his feet with a hoarse scream. The creature screeched as John lunged forward, moving faster than he would have guessed. Or else his reflexes were off. The thing scampered across the room to a small hole in the wall John had not previously noticed and disappeared into the shadows.
He was too hungry to let it get away, so he dived into the hole, envisioning himself carving the creature up into a feast, gnawing on its legs and ribs until his stomach exploded from too much food. It would be like Thanksgiving, only better, because he wasn’t usually this hungry before Thanksgiving.
The tunnel wasn’t very long, and John moved quickly, ignoring the new bruises he was adding to his knees and hands as he crawled. He caught a glimpse of the creature ahead of him and then he emerged into another cavern, the light so bright it was almost painful. The creature was making a beeline for the other side, and John dove, landing on top of it. The thing grunted and bucked, trying to throw John’s weight off its back. It was the size of a large dog and, John realized, stronger than he’d first assumed.
He still had the knife in his hand, and he plunged it down. The blade hit the rough exterior and stopped dead, and John’s grip on the hilt slipped. He scrambled, tightening his hold on the knife and banging it against the creature’s skin.
Not even a dent. The creature squealed again and finally managed to throw John off balance. As he slid to the side, he glimpsed a large black eye staring back at him, wide with panic.
Head, go for the head, he thought. He rolled to his knees and lunged for the creature again, swiping the blade down toward where he guessed was its brain. Again, the blade glanced off the creature’s thick skin. Its jaws opened wide, and John jerked his hand back only seconds before the teeth snapped back together. The movement threw his center of balance off enough that when the creature bucked again, he fell forward, face planting into the stone. With another grunting squeal, the creature writhed out of his grip and scampered away, disappearing from sight.
John lay on the ground, heaving in air. Sweat poured from his face and soaked into his hair. He was hungrier than ever, and he wondered how much energy he’d just wasted on his attempt to catch the saber-toothed turtle. Indestructible saber-toothed turtle. He closed his eyes. The adrenaline rush of the battle against the creature leaked out of him quickly, and his head began to throb, thumping painfully in his forehead with every heartbeat. The brightness of the room was piercing through his eyelids as well, making the headache worse. He threw an arm over his face, whimpering in relief at the darkness.
He lay there for a few more minutes, but the headache wasn’t diminishing. His stomach was twisting itself into knots now as well, and the heat of the room was making him nauseous. He had to get out of here. It was at least twice as hot in here than in the glowing pool room. He rolled to his side and opened his eyes, blinking at the sudden brightness.
When the room finally came into focus, he gaped at the sight. This particular cavern was huge-possibly endless-and filled with giant crisscrossing crystals growing out of the ground and walls at all different angles. Most of the crystals were the size of large trees.
“Superman,” he whispered. He’d fallen down a hole in the ground and landed in Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, making them sting.
He had the sudden urge to touch the crystals, but when he stood up, he swayed in dizziness. He had no idea if it was the head injury, the heat, or his everlasting exhaustion-probably a combination of all three-but the room tilted and blurred, and he dropped painfully back to the ground.
Get out, a voice whispered to him. He obeyed it, knowing he had to get away from this room, beautiful as it was, before he passed out. The small tunnel he’d crawled through wavered in front of him, but he pressed forward, desperate for the relief the darkness offered.
“You are screwed up, John,” he said. Hours ago, he would have done anything to chase the darkness away, and now he couldn’t get back to it fast enough. He made it to the glowing pool room, and sat back against the cool stone. His t-shirt was soaked through with sweat. He wanted to dive into the pool. The crystals gave it a bluish glow, making it appear much cooler than it actually was, but he knew diving into it would probably make him warmer, not cooler.
His stomach growled again and he cursed. He needed food. Now. He glanced around the cavern, searching out the darker corners off to the sides. He hadn’t noticed the tunnel leading to the giant crystals before. What else had he missed in here? He squinted against the throb in his head. He felt disconnected, knowing he needed to be much more focused and on top of his game if he was going to survive but not quite sure how to will his body into action.
The far side of the cavern looked like it twisted around into another area and he forced himself to his feet. As he walked around the glowing pool, he saw that the cavern narrowed but continued on into shadows. The crystals were limited to the area in the pool, so John returned, broke one off, then headed back to the darker area.
Had he not brought a glowing crystal with him to light his way, he would have fallen face first into the lake. The smaller glowing-pool cavern widened suddenly about thirty feet in, opening up into a giant cave, if it could even be called a cave. It was huge. The word cave made him think of a small area dug into the side of mountain. In here, the ceiling was too high and to dark to see. The black water of the lake extended into darkness as well, although he could see isolated patches of growing crystals poking out of the lake’s depths.
An underground lake. All he needed now was a boat. He laughed at the inanity of that. What the hell would he do with a boat? What he really needed was food. And rescue.
A movement caught his eye, and he jerked his head around, swinging the crystal around to light as much of the area as he could. Among the rocks along the edge of the lake, he saw a translucent white lizard slither up and over a rock, heading for the water. Its tail was long, making it look almost like a snake. He probably would have thought it was a snake had he not seen its legs gripping the side of the boulder as it climbed. He transferred the crystal to his left hand and dug out this knife with the other.
Food. Every creature in his Fortress of Solitude was potential food. His stomach growled in agreement and he stepped forward. He scanned the rocks for any sign of the lizard snake, his hands shaking at the effort to hold both the crystal and the knife up. God, he needed to eat. He’d never felt so hungry in his life.
The lizard snake appeared again, three boulders in front of him. He jumped without thinking, landing on the boulder next to it and slipped as soon as his foot hit the wet, algae covered stone. He banged his shin hard and cried out, dropping his knife in the water in his scramble not to plunge head first into the lake.
“Shit!” he screamed, watching the lizard snake slide down the side of the boulder and slip soundlessly into to the water. It flicked its tail, carving esses in the black water and bobbing its head right and left. Within seconds, it had disappeared.
John hung his head, pushing himself to a sitting position on the rock and rubbing at his leg. He could feel the bruise forming already. It was also bleeding, but not much. He’d lost yet another chance at a meal, and now he’d lost his knife. Cautiously, he leaned his head over the side of the boulder and peered into the dark water. He needed that knife. He dipped the crystal into the water and blew out his breath in relief when he saw the water was only inches deep and his knife clearly visible in front of him. As he reached for it, he shifted the crystal light and got a glimpse of creatures scattering away from the light.
He froze, holding his breath. The creatures had looked a lot like little lobsters or crawfish, and there’d been at least two or three of them. He grabbed his knife and climbed back over the rocks, a new thought forming in his mind. Once he was back onto relatively flat ground, he eased himself down and undid the laces in one of his boots.
If there were crawfish in the lake, he could fish for them. He pulled out the lace and cut the plastic ends off, giving him just under 72 inches of cord. The lace itself was little more than dozens of threads wound together. Using light from the crystal, he peeled back the outer shell to reveal the individual threads underneath. His hands were shaking from hunger, making it difficult to work. He bit his lip and tried to concentrate, pushing the pangs in his gut and his throbbing headache to the back of his mind.
“Come on,” he muttered. His fingers felt fat and clumsy, but he finally managed to pinch one of the threads and pull it out.
He sat back, taking a deep breath. He was sweating again, and he rubbed at the beads threatening to slide into his eyes. He needed bait now. He glanced around, wondering what he could use. The rock next to the crystal was covered in moss on one side, so he scraped a small wad of it off with his knife. He had no idea what crawfish type creatures ate, but he shrugged, tying one end of his new fishing string to it.
At the last minute, he pulled his pant leg up and wiped some of the blood from the cut on his shin off with the moss. Sea creatures liked blood, he thought. They could smell it in the water, like sharks. He had no idea if it would work, but what the hell? He had little to lose at this point. If the bloody moss didn’t work, he’d try again with a new wad.
He crawled over to the edge of the lake with his fishing line and dipped his crystal into the water. Once again, the little creatures scattered into the shadows. John smiled and set the crystal back on the shore. They liked the darkness-he could work with that. He wrapped one end of the fishing line around his finger, then dropped the moss end into the water.
As hungry as he was, he still expected to wait for a while before he got a nibble. Within seconds of dropping the moss into the water, his finger jerked as something bit the other end.
“Hell, yeah!” he cried out. He tugged at the line, feeling something heavy on the other end. Before the thing had a chance to eat and run, John lifted the line with one hand and grabbed at the crawfish with his other hand.
It squirmed in his hand, but he held on tight. It was small-little more than three inches long-but it was food. He sat back, bringing the crystal around to illuminate his catch. It looked like a miniature lobster, and the thought immediately caused his mouth to salivate.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he muttered, still staring at the crawfish. Its shell was white and hard, and its claws flailed in the air like it was drowning. Eat it. He had to eat it.
He swallowed, wondering if he could eat it raw. Would it make him sick? A fire would be better. He could cut it open and fry the meat, kill off any germs the lobster might be carrying.
“Fire,” he called out. His voice echoed in the large cavern and disappeared over the black lake. He was trained for this. He knew how to start a fire. It was survival 101. He stared at the rocks, his mind going blank.
“Think, John. Just…damn it…”
The creature wiggled in his fingers and almost broke free of his grip. He rubbed the sweat from his forehead again, grimacing at how badly his hands were shaking. He’d need two hands to build a fire. He grabbed the smaller rocks around him and arranged them in a circle, creating a pen for the crawfish. He dropped it on its back, and watched it squirm around a little more. Its movements had slowed with its growing weakness.
He set the crystal between it and the lake, hoping that would deter it from running to the water if it escaped its pen. He rubbed his hands on his pants, then folded them across his chest, trying to still the quaking limbs. It wasn’t just his hands now. He could feel the shakiness in his entire body, like he was cold, and yet sweat continued to bead on his face and drip down his neck.
Fire. He needed to make a fire. He scrounged around, scraping off more moss, but he scowled when he mashed it in his fingers and felt how damp it was. As he turned around, he saw his dinner claw its way over its pen and dash toward the lake, oblivious to the crystal in its path.
“No!” John dove for it. He landed hard on the rocks, the edge of his rock pen digging into his ribs. The crawfish dropped into the water, gone. He grabbed the crystal, all his anger zeroing in on the light that had not kept his dinner from escaping. With a roar, he threw it against the rocky wall behind him and watched it explode into a hundred, shattering sparks.
John dropped his head to the ground, closing his eyes. Acid was burning a hole through his empty stomach, the side that had hit his stupid rock pen was throbbing in time with his head, and his elbow was burning from where it had impacted against the ground, warm blood dripping through the fabric of his shirt. And he was still shaking.
Survival is a mental game, a conscious act of will.
The voice floated through his mind, followed by the image of one of his first survival instructors soon after he’d been commissioned into the Air Force. John lay on the ground, desperation looming over him, threatening to drag him down into an abyss darker than the riverside cave he’d woken up in. He sucked in another breath, his body still shaking against the cold, hard ground, and closed his eyes.
Live.
He flinched. For a moment, he thought he’d heard Ronon’s voice. What would the big guy think, when they finally found him, if he was lying dead next to this black lake? Ronon, who had lived through seven years of hell. Compared to that, this was nothing. The closest thing to a predator John had seen so far was the saber-toothed turtle rock creature, who’d been more afraid of John than anything else. Hardly worth curling up into a ball and giving up over.
His stomach cramped, feeling like it was turning in on itself and devouring its own flesh. He was thirsty too, he realized. He swallowed, trying to work some moisture into his throat. Hungry, thirsty, tired. He hurt everywhere.
Rodney would never forgive him. If John knew the scientist at all, he was probably screaming at everyone, working on no sleep and lots of caffeine as he searched for him. He smiled suddenly, picturing the prickly scientist in his lab, waving his arms around and causing everyone around him to jump and scramble. It was miracle he managed to keep anyone employed in his lab for any length of time.
His dying would disappoint Ronon and piss off McKay, but it would hurt Teyla. Honestly, it would hurt all of them-he hoped anyway, because they did seem to like having him around most of the time-but Teyla was different. He’d felt a bond with Teyla since the first day they’d met, a friendship that he knew instinctively would run deeper than any other friendship he’d ever had if only he didn’t get in its way.
He pushed against the ground, his arms shaking at the effort, and used his shirt to wipe the dirt and moisture off his face. He winced as his fingers brushed the gash on the top of his head, and the events of the last day-few days?-clicked into perspective. The attack that had flipped the truck had knocked him out cold for who knew how long. Bench Presser’s rough treatment hadn’t done him any good either, and then there was the trip down the river and into the cave system. That had knocked him out as well for another indeterminate period of time.
The accumulated injuries were taking their toll, and they’d take his life if he continued on his current path. The head injury alone was enough to shatter rational thought, but add hunger and fear…
He shook his head. Survival began and ended in the mind, and it would begin now for him. The lake cavern was dark now that the crystal was gone-broken, he amended. A soft glow behind him was just barely visible from the tunnel leading back to the pool room. He closed his eyes, pushing out all other thoughts.
First rule of survival: decide to live. Second rule: take care of basic necessities. He had plenty of drinking water. He had heat-not fire, but at least he wouldn’t freeze to death. He could turn the smaller tent room into a secure shelter if he needed to, blocking the tunnel entrances when he slept to keep out any big creatures, like the saber-toothed turtle. He thought of the crawfish in the lake-food.
What he didn’t have was fire to cook the food. If all else failed, he could eat the things raw, and he was close to that point now. Pain pulsed in his stomach, but he pushed it back.
Not yet. Think. Clear the mind.
What did he need for fire? Tinder, kindling, fuel. Oxygen and heat. There was moss and algae on the rocks but it was wet. He stood, swaying for a moment in the darkness. When his sense of balance settled, he stumbled back toward the pool room and grabbed another crystal. He walked around the room, then back down the tunnel, seeing his environment more clearly.
The rocks farther away from the lake also had algae and moss, but it had dried out. It could work as tinder, enough of it maybe as kindling. He began scraping it from the stones and soon had a large handful of it.
Fuel. Even if he could start a fire, it wouldn’t last long without fuel. He returned to the lakeside and set his pile of tinder down. He raised the crystal and scanned the area. Near the rock wall where he’d broken the last crystal, he saw roots snaking along the cracks in the stone. Most of them were small, but a few would make decent sized logs. He climbed over the rocks to them, spotting glowing broken shards from his other crystal.
He set his crystal down and pulled out his knife, prepared to saw through the first large root with the small blade, and almost fell over backward when the root snapped easily away from the stone. He grabbed at another one, and it too broke off with little effort.
“Finally,” he said, feeling a welling of hope.
He broke the larger roots into logs and snapped off smaller pieces as kindling. Tinder, kindling, fuel. Now all he needed was heat. Something to spark the tinder into a flame.
Spark. The crystal. He snapped his head back toward broken shards still glowing faintly. He saw them again in his mind as they’d shattered, a hundred electrical sparks flashing at once across the rocky wall. His own, private, miniature lightning storm.
He grabbed the largest broken pieces he could find and brought it back to the flat area next to the lake. He would make the fire here. Making sure the kindling and fuel were in reach, he grabbed half of the tinder, then placed the broken crystal in the center. He just needed one spark to catch the dry moss. Grabbing one of the rocks from his crawfish pen, he held it over the crystal and took a deep breath.
He smashed the rock down against the crystal with as much force as he could muster. The crystal shattered again, the smaller pieces flying away from the center of impact and glowing faintly. Close up, he realized that the sparks he’d seen before had been an illusion. It hadn’t been sparks-just smaller crystals flaring as they were ripped apart. A crushing weight began to descend on him as he fingered the tinder. There was a bit of residual heat in the crystal shards, but not enough to start a fire and no heat whatsoever in the dried moss.
No heat. No fire. His hands were shaking again, and he pressed them into the ground next to him.
“The crystals were a dead end,” he mumbled. “Still have everything I need for a fire though. Still have light. And a knife. Options-think of your options, John.”
He picked up the knife and twisted it around. The blade glinted in the soft blue light of the whole crystal. Flint and steel. He had no idea what the rocks around him were made of, but if he struck the knife blade against them with enough force, he might get a spark that way.
A thought niggled at the back of his brain. A memory. He glanced at the knife again, then the flat area next to the lake with his piles of root logs. Water lapped next to him. He closed his eyes, reaching for the memory and sensing that it was important, but it sank away from him. When he opened his eyes, he turned his head to stare out across the dark water. His eyes fastened on the spots of crystals growing in sporadic clumps throughout the cavern.
He turned back to the crystal next to him and held it up. Crystal. Quartz. The memory rose again, an old one. High school. Ninth grade physical science. Quartz, like flint, was a hard stone, that when struck against another one containing iron, such as pyrite or marcasite, would produce a spark. He swallowed, feeling adrenaline pump through him. The crystals weren’t exactly normal quartz crystals, but if they were close enough…
“Maybe,” he whispered. “Maybe…”
He broke off the end of the crystal so that he had a piece small enough to fit in his hand, then picked up a wad of the dried moss and held the crystal over it. He grabbed the knife next and turned the blade out so that the dull side would strike the crystal. The spark would fly down into the tinder, the tinder would start to burn, turning to a flame. He dropped his arm and struck the knife against the quartz. Both his arms vibrated from the impact but he raised his knife hand for a second try.
He lost count how many times he struck the crystal. Enough times that sweat had broken out across his forehead and dripped down his neck. His shirt was damp from the effort, but still he worked at it. He blinked the moisture out of his eyes, focusing on the task at hand.
One more hit, just one more hit, he repeated to himself.
His shoulders and arms were growing heavy with fatigue when he saw a small orange spark jump from the crystal and knife to the moss beneath. He froze, seeing a wisp of smoke. His breath huffed out of him, a reflex he hadn’t intended, but the extra air ignited more of the tinder.
He grabbed the kindling and pressed it to the smoking pile in his hand. He blew as gently as he could, and almost cried when the first flame burst up around the small root twigs. He dropped the pile onto the ground and began carefully adding larger and larger twigs. The flames leapt and curled into the darkness, and he started laughing, quietly at first, then almost hysterically.
Fire. He had fire. He crawled over to the lakeside where he’d left his bootlace and pulled out another thread. With what little coordination he had left, he tied more of the wet moss to one end of the thread, dabbing it with the blood drying on his elbow, then tossing the bait into the water. He got a bite immediately, and he wondered if it was the same crawfish he’d caught before.
“Come to daddy,” he crowed, whipping the fishing line out of the water and snagging the small crawfish at the end in triumph.
Part 2