VENGEANCE
TWENTYONE
Dying was often easier than living. At least for Jack Harkness.
And in this case, as in many others, revival was more painful than demise.
As he gasped for breath Jack could still feel what was left of the plasma burns on his body.
The burns were healing, but not quickly enough. The pain was excruciating. The old adage 'death by 1000 cuts' didn't come close.
It was dark and cold. What was left of his clothes was in tatters; he ripped the remaining shreds of fabric from his skin and stood shakily.
Over the years he'd trained his mind to force his body to move ASAP when he resuscitated. Experience had proven time and time again that it was wise to get far away from the death scene as quickly and quietly as possible.
He started running towards the area where he thought he'd left Wil. When he arrived at the spot he found the water bottle, but no sign of her.
He was grateful for the water and drank deeply as he evaluated his options.
If she had survived, she would've likely gone back to the house. He wasn't sure why she would've left him, but maybe she'd had no choice.
Otherwise, either she hadn't survived or she'd been taken by the Shrake.
He decided the house was his best bet. Not only in case Wil was there but hopefully he'd also find clothing, food, more water, and if the Shrake were really stupid, weapons.
It turned out the Shrake were really stupid.
The house was still standing, the lights were on, the vicinity appeared deserted, and the front door stood wide open. Jack walked inside like he owned the place, which he did, shut the door behind him and resisted sinking to his knees in pain and relief.
He was freezing and exhausted. His body and brain felt as if they'd been wrung like a sponge. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to focus.
Staying in high alert mode in case he was confronted by an unpleasant surprise, Jack went to his duffel in the kitchen and pulled on his black shirt and pants. He decanted his ballistic vest from the bag, shook it out and put it on.
Feeling a bit better, he raided the cupboards for a couple of hermetically sealed power bars, which he woofed down in about five seconds flat. He drank some more water and then sat on a chair while he put on his field boots.
Next, he conducted a full survey of the house, looking everywhere for Wil. There was no sign of her. He was disappointed but not terribly surprised. During his long run back he'd decided the odds were slim that he would find her there; she would have never left him behind like that.
He walked to one of the armory vaults and started grabbing conventional ballistic weapons. He stuck four loaded semi-automatic pistols and several spare magazines into his pockets. Then he selected a P-90, clipped it onto his vest, grabbed a few extra magazines for it and pocketed those as well.
Shrugging a few times to test its weight, he rebalanced his vest and decided that he was adequately armed. But then he reconsidered and took as many fragmentation and incendiary grenades as he could carry. They'd served him well on his previous visit…
Jack didn't have his PASGT Helmet, so he rummaged the closets for a black cap and finally found one. It had "FBI" on the front in yellow letters. Jack snorted as he put it on.
He went back to the kitchen, ate another power bar, and considered his situation.
He was armed for bear, to be sure, and he liked it. No one was around to tell him what to do, nor did he need to solicit anyone's approval; so it was all up to him, and he was going to either find Wil and/or kill the buggers who'd murdered her sister and perhaps killed her as well. Either way, he felt he would be doing what he did best: blowing stuff up and killing bad guys.
And there was no doubt in his mind the Shrake were bad guys: the cause of a boatload of pain, suffering and death; the root of all evil.
It was officially payback time.
He leaned over, snatched what he called a "Tosh scanner" (life signs, energy signatures; you name it, it'll detect it) and his aviator shades out of his duffel, put them in his breast pockets and then kicked the bag vehemently across the floor.
He was almost ready.