As Elusive as Spider Silk
About three weeks earlier….
"There we go. He's waking up, a bit, I think."
He opens his eyes briefly, only to shut them again tightly against blindingly bright fluorescent light. His eyelids feel crusted; his mouth tastes terrible. White-hot pain lances through his head, and a wave of nausea overcomes him.
"Watch out! Holly, hand me that emesis basin." Strong, capable hands turn his head to the side, where he can feel a plastic basin sliding into place just in time. Someone strokes his hair briefly (which also hurts) while he brings up the contents of his tortured stomach. Afterward, he can feel a damp cloth wiping his mouth.
His head hurts even more afterward. Tears of pain collect in his eyes and course sluggishly across his face, into the pillow. He wants to talk, to ask for someone to help him, but only a weak croaking sound comes out.
"Let's get you something for the pain," says the voice again, warmly, and he wants to weep even more at the sound of these lovely words. He can feel something happening on the back of his hand, a tugging of adhesive tape and then a sensation of coldness in his vein.
The ache in his head gradually lessens, and he drifts back into his troubled dreams.
oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo
Mud. Clinging, slippery, tenacious mud, sticking to his boots, turning into a liquid quagmire with the slightest pressure. A narrow, twisting trail. Rain, starting up again into a welcoming, concealing mist.
Danger behind. Can't go back that way, can't. Shouting, now becoming more distant. Only one way out. Faster to leave the trail, run and slip down the side of the hill, despite the danger. Feel the boots sliding through wet and trampled undergrowth, then suddenly a missed step.
Sliding faster, cursing quietly, but trying not to yell. Why not? Why not yell for help? Pursuers might still hear. Take your chances with the mud. Take your chances with the water.
Hitting the water, gasping with the shock and the cold. No, not just water. River, rushing more loudly, drowning out all sound, smothering all thoughts and sending consciousness away into a red blur of pain.
oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo
It's a day or two later, he thinks, although time has become curiously elastic for him; it stretches at some times and compresses at others. He's sitting up in the hospital-style bed now, carefully lest he jar his sore ribs. The breakfast tray in front of him holds a glass of orange juice and a bowl of porridge liberally laced with cream and sugar. The food tastes wonderful. His left hand is bandaged and stiff, so he eats with his right, and is sloppy about it at first, dribbling porridge on his patient gown.
The door opens, and a young woman enters the room. She is wearing a sort of loose-fitting, dark-blue uniform that sets off her dark-brown hair and fair skin nicely. He studies her. She looks faintly familiar; has he seen her before? He has the vague feeling that he has. And although he is bursting with questions on the inside, he is unable to put them into words.
She removes his empty tray from the bed table and sets it aside. "Good, you've eaten nearly all of it. Hungry for more?"
He nods. Words form in his mind, and after a moment or two, he's able to get them out. "Please. It was delicious."
She looks delighted. "You're talking again! We've not been able to get two words out of you since you woke up." She pulls a penlight from her shirt pocket, flashes it briefly at his eyes. "Do you remember much of anything?"
"Not… really." He struggles; his tongue feels thick and strange to him. "Falling. River." He grimaces. "Head hurts."
"Yes, I can imagine. You were found on the riverbank, with a good knock on your head." She touches his scalp, and he can feel that her hand is resting on a tender spot. Sutures? Feels like it. "I'll let Dr. Hampstead know that you're talking. She'll want to come by and check on you."
"Where… is this a hospital?" Hospital. The word rings through his mind like a bell.
She shakes her head. "Just our infirmary, but we're pretty well equipped. No questions, now, you need to rest that poor head. I'll fetch you a bit more porridge, and then you need to sleep some more. You've had quite a concussion."
oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo
"Tell me again about this new dream, how it unfolded."
As always, her voice is cool and professional, unrevealing of whatever thoughts lie behind her eyes.
Every morning, they meet and talk about his dreams. Or his memories. The line between the two is hopelessly blurred, for him. He's more than willing to talk to her; she makes more sense to him than anyone else in this strange sterile place. But at first, he has few words, and his recollections are brief and halting, just the barest outline of what he remembers.
She gives him a notepad and pen, to encourage him to write down his thoughts as soon as he awakes. He complies, and finds that as his written language improves, his spoken language comes back as well. He no longer stammers to find words, nor does he repeat the same dream again and again to her without realising it.
At first he knows her only as a friendly sympathetic face, a part of his morning routine as surely as brushing his teeth… a skill he has recently relearned. In a few days he comes to remember her name after it has been patiently told to him several times. She is Dr. Hampstead, and she serves as the physician to this group of … of what? People, for now, living in what appears to be a windowless bunker, in wherever it is that he has ended up.
Eventually she asks him to call her Donna. That's the day that he weeps tears of frustration at the fact that he can't remember his own name or any part of his past life. She comforts him, holding his hand and speaking soft words, and reminds him of the progress he has made so far, and will continue to make.
Now he takes another deep breath, squares his shoulders. "Right. First, I'm running. Running as fast as I can. I know I have to get there quickly."
"Where?"
He shakes his head. "I don't know. Long hallways. It's dark, not pitch-dark, but no lights are on. I've only got what comes in from the street. I'm the only one in the building, or at least that's how it feels."
"Go on."
"And I come to the end of the hallway, and the last room, and I run in… And I can see, through the window…" He closes his eyes, trying to remember clearly. "I can see through that window, into a window in the next building. And in that room, there are two people. They're talking, maybe arguing." He opens his eyes. "One is familiar. I've dreamed about him before, a few times now. It's the man in the long dark coat, with the pale face. The other… I don't know him. But he's frightening, he's wrong. He's… he needs to be stopped. He's killed, and he's about to kill again."
"Then I raise my gun, and I put a bullet right through both windows, and I knock him to the floor." He swallows. "It's an extremely difficult shot, with a handgun, but I hit my target easily. And I'm calm, afterward, as if I am really very good at this kind of thing."
She is silent, and he hears the scratching of her pen as she writes a few notes.
"What do you think it means?" he ventures.
She puts down her pen. "I'm not sure, and even if I was… you know I can't tell you." Her expression is warmer today, as well as slightly concerned. The green eyes in the lively, freckled face are meeting his squarely.
He sighs. "Security."
"Not only that. Your memory is still in tatters. Any wrong conclusions that I give you could over-write the few scraps of memory that are coming back. If we want to find out who you are, we need to take it slowly and avoid contaminating your mind with the wrong idea."
She rose from her chair. "I want to repeat the aptitude tests and psychological profiles. Now that you are starting to have more of these dreams, and now that the headaches seem to be going away, I think we'll get some results that are actually helpful."
"Of course."
"My assistant Alicia will come by this afternoon with the test packet. I want you to rest until then. You're still within the first week of your concussion, you know."
He nods. "Graduated return to activity, gradual increase of physical exercise, brain rest until headaches stop, then slow return to full mental activity. Lots of sleep."
She looks at him oddly. "Where did that come from?"
For a moment, something dances in front of his mental vision. It's a memory, as elusive as spider silk catching on his face. A glimpse of … a page in a book? An article in a magazine? "Read it. I think."
"Ah." He can tell she is trying to hide her disappointment. "Well, even in the first set of tests, when you were still sick and dizzy, we could see you were a very good reader. Go rest now, and we'll talk again tomorrow morning." She looks at him sharply. "Pen and paper by your bedside, now, don't forget. Even just for a nap."
oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo
After he's been returned to the secure, bare little room that he has inhabited since leaving the infirmary, he listens to the conversation in the next room as best as he can, with his ear pressed up against the wall. It's a habit he has come to develop, to listen to any conversation that he can. He's so hungry for information that he gleans every scrap, every crumb that he can from these friendly but closed-mouth people.
"The shooting dream again?"
"Yes." Donna's voice. "There've been a couple of variations. This one sounds like it's in a city, but some of the others make it sound like he was in a war zone."
"But it always ends with him hitting his target. Donna, I'm starting to think he was a sniper of some kind."
He hears a pause. "Maybe." Clink of a spoon against porcelain. "Could be. He's fit and strong, or was before he fell into that river and hit his head. And it's incredible how fast his hand-eye coordination has come back. But there are all of those other things that he knows. When he first woke up… Stephen, you didn't hear him, once he could talk again, asking about his injuries. He knew all of the correct terms, even if he had a difficult time getting the words out. He seemed relieved when I could tell him what was – and wasn't – broken. Almost as if he's had medical training." More stirring sounds. "And just now, he recited the latest recommendations for concussion treatment for me. But then it sounds like he just read it somewhere."
There was a soft snort. "Perhaps he's an assassin, then. Knows how to shoot to kill, and what's necessary to kill someone."
He's heard enough. He pulls his ear away from the wall, feeling cold and weary and slightly sick, and returns to the small hard bed for yet another nap.