CHAPTER 1
A steady hum high above, sounding almost like a motor running, entered her pounding head. She gasped lightly as the pain shook her, and the sensation of a cool breeze prickled her flesh. She tried to move, but her body seemed frozen. Sudden, agonizing pain, smashed into the back of her head and split lengthwise across her skull, causing her to whimper like a child.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, her vision blurry, but clearing.
She lay atop a simple, wooden bed in the corner of a dim, wood-paneled room. A ceiling fan twirled above her; rays of sunlight filtered through a curtained window, accentuating a swirling cloud of dust in its wake.
Where am I?
She blinked, pulling her attention from the ceiling fan, to the rest of the room. She saw a small wheeled table with soiled medical supplies atop it, an aged oxygen tank, a rusted metal gourney, and a large, round light fixture suspended above a blood-stained operating table, the sight of which - not surprisingly - she found profoundly disturbing.
She was in a makeshift hospital, the type utilized by most, if not all, of the new breed of self-proclaimed "doctors" that had begun practicing medicine in the wake of the Great War. Actually, the place was more of a glorified first-aid kit in somebody's den, but who was she to complain. She'd been injured, apparently. That much was obvious. But now, the question wasn't so much where she was as much as how she got there.
She tried to think, to remember, but everything in her head seemed... disjointed; Misshapen objects and scrambled voices blinked past as though someone were flipping through the channels on a television far too quickly. Goddamn headache! The throbbing pain in her skull had gotten worse and shot her ability to concentrate to all hell. She hissed in a breath and raised a hand up to her forehead.
Much to her distress, the entire top of her head was wrapped in bandages, reminiscent a small cloth skullcap.
Christ, had she taken a blow to the head? Played the victim in a vicious attack? Try as she might to remember, to recall anything, not a damn thing remotely coherent nor tangible came to mind; She had not a fucking clue.
Do not cry!, she ordered herself, a spiritual command which seemed to achieve little effect as a fat tear rolled down her cheek. She was trying her best to keep it together, though the unavoidable fact of the matter was that she wasn't doing a very good job of it. Something terrible had happened to her and she didn't even know what it was. C'mon girl, get ahold of yourself. It's probably just a bad bump on the head.
She swallowed hard and brought her hands up to wipe her moistening eyes. From the corner of one eye, she caught sight of her wrists. Like her head, both were wrapped in cloth bandages, like twin white cuffs.
Fear set in, her breathing coming in sharp, raspy gasps. What's going on here? Why do I feel so fucking crazy? She turned her trembling hands over, noticing a small tube running from the back of her left hand to somewhere behind the bed. IV drugs?
Admiring the plastic pipeline brought an even more horrifying thought to mind. What the hell is this thing pumping into me?
She began to yank on the line, frantically trying to pull it out - but it was firmly taped to her skin and refused to budge. Goddamn thing, c'mon—
"Woah, woah, easy now. Easy."
What the - Shit. Who's there? Her body tensed as a set of footsteps shuffled toward her, quickly. With a sharp gasp, she dropped her - albeit feeble - attempt at dislodging the IV line and focused on the approaching figure.
He was an older man with a balding head and a big gray mustache, dressed in blue jeans and a red flannel shirt with suspenders.
In a frenzy and running on pure adrenaline, she forced herself to sit up. But, given her current state, she'd reacted much too quickly. The room heaved like a ship on heavy seas, sending uncontrollable waves of nausea cascading through her stomach; a flood of bile entered her mouth and projected itself onto the floor.
"Woah. Take it easy." the old man drawled. "Why don't you relax a minute, get your bearings."
The old man plopped himself onto a wooden stool beside the bed and tried helping the poor girl to a damp washcloth from a nearby bucket, a gesture she ungratefully refused. "It's okay honey, I'm a doctor. The name's Mitchell and this here's my clinic. You remember anything about what happened? Why you're here?"
Cameron sat hunched on the edge of the bed, her shoulders heaving as she expelled another round at the sight and smell wafting from pool of vomit collected around - and on top of - her bare feet. At this point, she felt that whatever circumstances had brought her to this place were the least of her worries. She'd been stripped of of her dignity, whatever was left of it anyway, and was in no mood for bullshit. She stared at the floor, silent, her expression cloaked by an odd combination of disgust and self-pity; she shook her head "no."
"Really? You don't remember any of it?" the Doc asked, a look of concern forming across his weary, weather-beaten face.
"No, I don't, as a matter of fact. But since you're a doctor and all, maybe you could tell me." The old doc could feel the sarcasm bleeding through her voice as she answered the question. He decided his best course of action - most likely - was to move on and not ask further questions.
"Well, someone dun hauled off shot ya in the head. Then buried you alive to boot." He leaned over and retrieved a clipboard from a nearby desk. "And you're damn lucky to be alive, seein' as you was damn near dead when they brought ya in."
Shot? In the head! She instinctively placed a hand on her forehead. How? And more importantly, by who? Suddenly - unsurprisingly - the idea of standing in a pool of her own vomit seemed rather miniscule as compared to the thought of someone trying to blow her brains out. Or better yet, the fact that they had tried to bury her in a ditch somewhere.
Oh my holy God. No, this can not be happening. I mean, seriously, shouldn't I be dead? She found herself staring into space, completely tranced, as the reality of the situation came crashing down on her like a ton of bricks - Somebody had tried to kill her.
She was going to be sick.
"You still breathin'?" Mitchell's question snapped her back to reality, somewhat.
"Y-yeah. I'm… I'm… I-I don't know." she stammered, still slightly in shock. "Shot, in the head? How the fuck am I alive?"
"Well, either God's watchin' out for ya, or you're the luckiest young lady I ever seen." Mitchell said, folding his arms and leaning back into his chair. "I tend to think it's a little of both."
The Doc pointed to a spot on his forehead, just above the left temple. "You see, the first bullet hit ya' right about here, and barely grazed your brain before it shot out over here, behind your ear. That was luck."
Jesus Christ, they shot me more than once?
"Now the second one." He fingered a new spot, more centrally located, almost directly between the eyes. "Straight shot. Hit ya' right about here and lodged itself pretty deep in your brain. Survivin' that one was none other than God Himself. I'm sure of it."
"I still don't get it." She stared at Mitchell, her expression more than confused. "How am I alive?"
"Well, like I said, you was damn near dead when they brought you to me." He cocked an eyebrow and started fiddling with his mustache. "All I can say is I did my best to patch ya up given the circumstances. The rest I left the rest up to God."
Give me a break, she thought. Enough with the religious rhetoric already. Can I possibly get something a little more logical here? Please?
"Now, far as the uh… operation." The doc paused a moment and took a deep breath. "Well, I'll be the first to admit, I ain't no surgeon." He leaned over and retrieved a clipboard from a nearby desk. "It took alotta rootin' around in your brain to get all them bits of lead out, and I was working under the gun to boot. So I'm not gonna lie to you, I'm worried there could be some… damage."
"Damage, like brain damage?" she asked. "Like, I'm gonna be a retard now or something?"
"We won't know until we do some tests." Mitchell replied, leaning forward a little. "I mean, from what I can see, you seem fine. However, If you don't mind, now that you're awake I'd like to give you a quick run-down, see if your dogs are still barkin'."
"Whatever." she said flatly. She still couldn't believe any of this was happening. Her thoughts now focused - between follow the pencil, thumb to the fingertips, and index finger to the nose - on the fact that somebody had shot her in the head. Twice. Then tried to bury the evidence. Who did something like that? And more so, why do it to her?
Wracking her brain for answers to any of the above questions was proving to be an exercise in futility.
At this point, she'd rather go back to being in a coma.
Mitchell completed his physical. He sat in his chair, clipboard in hand, furiously scribbling notes on every move she made as if it were the greatest achievement in human history.
"Well. Looks like your coordination is right on track" Mitchell spoke, still furiously scribbling notes. That's good sign, she supposed. It still didn't settle the fact that she may be mentally impaired in some way. Truth be told, she'd never felt this paranoid, or well... downright crazy at any point in her life; needless to say, she was a bit more than worried.
Mitchell tapped his forehead. "Now, lets see where you're at up here. We'll start off with something simple like your name, birthday, where you're from, stuff like that. How about your name. You remember your name?"
"Cameron. Jesse Cameron."
"Huh?" A small smile came across Mitchell's face. "Not what I'd have picked for you, but if that's your name, then that's your name."
Oh for God's sake. She rolled her eyes and sighed. "Yeah, well it's my name, okay? Can we move on, please?"
"Okay, okay. No need to get angry."
"I'm not angry. I'm just… really tired." she said through gritted teeth. "There's a difference."
"Okay, lets take a break for today." Mitchell said, giving her an understanding look. "I'm bettin' you got a pretty bad headache there too, huh?"
"You have no fucking clue." she groaned, massaging her temples.
"If you want, I can give ya' something to help with that."
Cameron nodded. "Please"
Mitchell walked over to a nearby cabinet, and returned holding a small syringe, most likely filled with morphine; it was exactly the sort of thing she needed right now, not so much because of the pain, but because desperately wanted the high. She felt a prick in the crook of my arm as the medicine coursed through my veins. She lie down, on her back, and focused herself on the dizzying rotation of the ceiling fan until she felt herself begin to fall into the sweet embrace of drug induced sleep.