As Hotch began to regain consciousness, he became aware of a piercing pain in his chest and the taste of blood in his mouth. He had no idea how long he had been lying there. As it happened it had only been about ten minutes. He soon realised that his situation was precarious and that his life was hanging in the balance. He knew the chances of another vehicle travelling the remote road at this time of the evening were slim and that if he wanted to survive, he had to act. He felt in his pocket for his phone. It wasn't there. The truck, he had to get to the truck. Summoning all his strength, he rolled agonisingly onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. The pain was gripping, causing him to see black spots in front of his eyes. He clutched the wounded area and willed himself to stay conscious. The truck was only twenty five metres away but it might as well have been miles. Blood seeped through his fingers from the stab wound. A painful cough renewed the taste of blood in his mouth. Shakily he struggled to his feet and stumbled towards the truck. Reaching it, he leaned on the hood, grateful for the support and relief it brought. He left a trail of bloody hand prints along the paintwork as he pulled himself around to the driver door. He opened the door and was glad to see the keys were still in the ignition. He took a deep painful breath and managed to haul himself up into the cab of the truck. He flopped into the seat as the exertion resulted in the world spinning around him. He closed his eyes to try and stop the spinning. He was feeling nauseous so concentrated on taking slow shallow breaths to help quell the feeling.
"Don't pass out. Don't pass out!" he said to himself, willing himself to stay conscious.
Sitting there it dawned on him that he needed to stem the blood flow from the wound in his chest before he bled to death. He looked around the cab of the truck. There wasn't much there he could use. He painfully removed his shirt and after several failed attempts, managed to tear one sleeve off. He looked down at his bare chest and the oozing wound. It was about two inches long, a warm stream of blood flowed steadily from it. He knew what he had to do. Gritting his teeth, he took the sleeve of his once pristine white shirt and using his fingers, packed it into the wound. Despite his best efforts he could not help but release a blood curdling scream at the tortuous pain of his actions. He fainted back into the seat.
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Back in Quantico the team are busy following up on some old cases. There were plenty of reports to fill out after the cannibal case in Lower Caanan. While Hotchner was away, Rossi was trying to clear some of the S.S.A's administrative backlog. Morgan was at his desk when he got an unexpected call. It was Hayley, Hotch's ex-wife.
"Oh! Hi Hayley! How are you? " he asked awkwardly. Things hadn't been the same since the divorce.
"Hello Derek. I'm good thanks. I'm trying to reach Aaron," she said, a note of tension evident in her voice.
"He's taken a few vacation days. He decided to drive back from Ohio. You should get him on his cell," Morgan advised her.
"I've been trying his cell for ages," she explained. "He's not answering. I really have to contact him. Jacky's ill and I'm on the way to the hospital with him. He's crying for his Dad."
"Look Hayley, you look after Jacky. I'll track Aaron down and I'll call you back," Morgan suggested, suspecting that Hotch just didn't want to talk to Hayley. Hayley thanked him and hung up.
Derek immediately called Hotch's cell phone. It rang and then went to voice mail. He tried again and a few more times after that. Still there was no answer. He called over to Emily to see if she had heard from Hotch. She told him that they hadn't spoken since leaving Ohio. She suggested he ask Rossi because she was pretty sure he had called him late the night before. Morgan went to Rossi and told him about Hayley's call and about being unable to reach Hotch. Rossi didn't seem concerned and explained that Hotch had told him that he was going to take the scenic route home. Perhaps he had no signal, he suggested. Morgan explained that there was no message from the phone company that the phone was out of range and that it was ringing and then going to the messaging service. Rossi agreed that it was odd for Hotch not to answer his cell, especially when he usually kept it with him. He suggested that Morgan get Garcia to do some discreet digging. Morgan agreed and went to talk to Penelope.
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Meanwhile on the mountain road, Hotch came to once more. He raised his head and looked around. It took a few seconds before he remembered what had happened. It was almost dark and he immediately noticed the cold. He was still sitting in the cab of the truck, bare-chested, shivering. He was unsure if the shivering was as a result of the cold or shock. He suspected the latter. He looked around the seat and on the floor behind where he sat. There he found a grubby old jacket. It smelt of oil and liquor but it didn't matter to him. He needed to get warm so put it over his shoulders. He looked down at his stab wound. His make shift wound bandage was bright red but it seemed to be slowing the flow of blood. There was a crushing pain on the right side of his chest. He was pretty sure his lung had collapsed. Every breath hurt.
He needed to get the truck started. He reached for the key in the ignition and turned it. The truck gave the impression that it was going to start. It spluttered for a few seconds but then died.
"Come on!" he shouted as he tried again. "Start, please God, start."
This time there was no sound from the engine. Hotch felt defeated. He leaned his head back against the driver seat and began to cry. The thought of never seeing his son again tore at him. After all he'd been through, was this how he was going to die, he wondered. He said a silent prayer that someone would pass and find him. He looked at where he was and knew it would probably be morning before any more traffic passed this way. He couldn't rely on luck. He would have to make his own. He knew the intersection with the main road was only about three miles further up the road. He could make it on foot, he thought. He felt under the seats for anything that might help him. He smiled when he found a torchlight. At least it's something, the thought. He climbed awkwardly down from the truck, carefully guarding his injured side. He checked the back of the truck. There wasn't much there he could work with. There was a rope, a fuel drum and a tarpaulin. Under the tarp he found a navy hold all. There was a sweatshirt and some toiletries inside it. The sweatshirt he could use. Painfully he removed the jacket and pulled the sweatshirt over his head. At least it would help keep him warm. He put the jacket back on over it. He was delighted when he found an unopened bottle of water in the hold all. He drank from it greedily, too greedily, because once the water hit his stomach, his stomach lurched and he was sick. Not so much next time, he thought. He splashed a little on his face and decided to keep the rest for later. He put it in the pocket of the jacket.
With nothing else to help him, he decided to start walking. Hunched slightly forward, his elbow tucked tightly into his injured ribs he took off walking. It was starting to drizzle but he was glad of the moisture on his face, keeping him alert. He continued on, master of his own fate.
TBC
