And here's chapter two. Still a bit short by my usual standards, but I wrote it at 3AM, so I'm happy with what I got out.
…tupi…stard…ow tha...
The newcomer felt the weight of unconsciousness lifting, but the voice was still indistinct. He was dimly aware of the constant feeling of discomfort across his back and legs, and a pressure beneath each arm. He still couldn't see, but he tried to open his mouth to speak.
"Wha…?" he managed, internally cursing his tongue for failing to work properly. The voice spoke again, clearer this time.
"I said 'you're a stupid bastard, know that'."
The newcomer finally realized what he was feeling: he was being dragged. His vision cleared a bit further, seeing the pair of hands holding him under the arms, pulling him along the jungle floor. He also noticed, however, the arrow still protruding from his left shoulder.
"Damnit," he slurred, lolling his head in the general direction of the offending item, "Arrow…"
"Yeah, I know. Fuckin' brilliant observation, Holmes," the voice replied gruffly, dripping with sarcasm, "Your own damn fault to begin with." The newcomer tried to take hold of the arrow, but his arm brushed off the shaft. His grip wasn't taking. The voice, now attached to a shadow that loomed over him, grunted something obscene.
"Fine, if it'll shut you up again." A calloused hand grabbed hold of the arrow, ripping it out with a small stream of blood tracing the head's path. The newcomer gasped from the pain, and the wound began to throb anew.
The voice suddenly cursed, dropping the newcomer from his grip. He heard the whiz of an arrow being loosed, and a hiss of pain and anger from something decidedly not human. Another arrow fired, and this time there was no outcry. The hands grabbed hold of the newcomer once more, and he lapsed back into unconsciousness.
The newcomer's first sight was fire, roaring a few feet from his gaze. In his barely-conscious state, he wondered for a moment if he'd died and gone to hell. After a few seconds, he became more awake, and reasoned that the pain in his shoulder was proof enough that he was still among the living.
"American Spirits!" a voice happily proclaimed. The newcomer managed (with considerable effort) to prop himself up with one arm, looking around the small room until he spotted the voice's source.
"Blast, they're still wet. But a little while to dry, and they'll be right as rain."
The man seemed to be a conflict of age and condition. On one hand, he was old, probably in his seventies. His gray hair nearly reached down to his shoulders, and what parts of his face that weren't covered by his short gray beard was wrinkled like well-worn leather. But on the other hand, he was more powerfully built than some men half his age. Bronzed skin covered toned muscles, and he placed the newcomer's pack of cigarettes near the fire with a hand that could palm a man's head.
Perhaps the most distinct trait of the old man was his left arm. Where wrist ought to have given way to a hand, there was a polished steel cap that covered the wrist's stump and part of his forearm. The old man noticed that the newcomer was awake, and smiled warmly.
"Glad to see that you're up. You're fortunate: the first night has claimed men far stronger than you, but you made it through."
"I…" the newcomer started, but swiftly realized that he couldn't even begin to prioritize the list of questions in his head, "Are those my smokes?"
"These?" the old man laughed, "Indeed they are. I was hoping you'd at least be kind enough to share. I haven't had a decent smoke in months."
"That's…that's fine," the newcomer answered uncertainly, "I was sorta trying to quit anyway. Where…?"
"Ah, where are my manners? You're probably confused, not to mention parched," the old man hastily stood up, grabbing a heavily-faded canteen from a hook on the wall, "Where we are doesn't matter as much as you'd think, though." He tossed the newcomer the canteen. He hesitantly unscrewed the cap, trying to take a whiff of the contents without the old man noticing. From the smirk that spread across one side of his face, the old man certainly did see.
"I'll take a few swigs, if that'll make you feel better about it."
"No, it's just…" the newcomer trailed off, finally taking a drink from the canteen. The water was already cool, but felt all the more so because of his dry throat. He took a few gulps before resealing it, not wanting to drink it all at once for fear of wasting it or simply appearing rude.
"I s'pose this would all be pretty strange to you," the old man crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, "My first few days were one weird thing after another. Sharps said he pulled you out of a cave, so I can imagine what you ran into." The newcomer's mind suddenly clicked.
"The other man I saw, is that-?"
"Sharps?" the old man raised an eyebrow, "Dead aim with a bow, curses like a sailor? That'd be him. He's out somewhere, but I expect he'll be back soon."
"I never really got a chance to thank him," the newcomer involuntarily ran a hand over his bandaged shoulder. The old man snorted in reply.
"No need for that. As far as he's concerned, you'll have repaid him so long as you don't go feral." The newcomer looked at him with obvious confusion. The old man straightened his back, then extended his remaining hand to the newcomer.
"I keep forgetting you're new here. C'mon, lemme show you a bit."
The newcomer accepted the hand, pulling himself up before realizing that he had done so with his left arm. What surprised him was the lack of pain in his shoulder, where he fully expected the wound to be making even light work with the arm torture. The old man picked up his train of thought as though he were reading his mind.
"While we're on the subject…" he pulled the bandage off with one jerk, revealing it in the process to be a gray bandanna, and began to tie it around his forehead. The newcomer, meanwhile, was too busy marveling at the largely unmarred flesh on his right shoulder. There was a small, circular scar where the wound ought to have been, but it looked no different than any of the other minor scars he'd sustained over the years.
"How long was I out for?" he asked, dreading the answer. The old man had finished somehow tying the bandana with only one hand and replied,
"Not long. 'Bout a day and a half."
"Bullshit. I'm no doctor, but a day and a half doesn't close a damn arrow wound."
"Huh. Doctor, eh?" a slow smile spread across the old man's face, "That could work. But to answer your question, you've just learned the first law of your new home: don't get hung up on what things can or can't do. How are you feeling?" The newcomer paused, looking over himself for a few moments.
His shirt was off, but he could see it lying on the floor across the room. Other than his general confusion, he felt remarkably good. He'd expected the tropical environment to be playing hell with his sinuses, but every breath came through unimpeded. And if he'd really been asleep for a day and a half without food or water, he'd expected to feel a lot hungrier than he was, or thirstier than he'd been before drinking from the canteen.
All in all, he felt good. Better than he had any right to, in fact. Judging from the smirk still stuck on the old man's face, he seemed to know what conclusion he'd come to.
"While we're at it, how'd you like the water?" the old man sloshed the contents of the canteen, unscrewing the cap and taking a drink himself, "Taste anything different about it?"
"Did you-?"
"Oh, lord, no," the old man shook his head, "I didn't do anything to it. It's just…" he trailed off, eyes glazing slightly, "…every drop tastes as good as if you'd been dying of thirst. The air feels as refreshin' as if you were on an adrenaline high. And your shoulder there," he gestured with the canteen to the newcomer's largely pristine shoulder, "Fixed itself better than new."
"That's just the way things are around here," the old man pushed open room's only door, letting in a flood of blinding sunlight, "My name's Preacher. Not my real name, but me 'n Sharps decided against using those. Reminds us a bit too much of where we used to be instead of where we are."
"Welcome to the island, Doc. Heaven and hell in one convenient package."
Whew. Now I can finally start referring to characters by name. Chapter three will have details of Preacher and Sharps' setup, and some more crash-courses in survival for Doc. R&R, anon accepted.