I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.
* * * Chapter 12.3 * * *
He woke up on the shore and choked. Sea water gushed out of his mouth, the salt leaving a bitter burning in his throat. He coughed for several minutes, not even bothering to look at his surroundings.
Finally his body stopped its convulsions. He wiped the tear stains off his cheeks and let out a shuddering sigh. He took a deep breath and lifted his head to observe his surroundings.
A plain old beach. Shocker.
Get up. Keep going. Move forward. Why are you stopping? Pathetic little boy. Don't stop. Don't ever stop. Move forward, unless you want to be dead. Or worse. Move!
He pressed a hand to his temple and sniffed, looking around. Driftwood dotted the sand, not a body to be see—dead or alive. Fish corpses, however, did lay around, spilling out of broken crates. The stench wafted into his nose, but he couldn't care less. He had bigger problems.
The clouds loomed overhead and threatened rain. Their eerie presence and the shifting winds only added to a sense of doom.
Get up. Move out.
For once, he listened. He stood, his legs shaking and his body aching. He ignored it and pressed forward like a good soldier should.
Something wet ran down the side of his neck, and he would've attributed the feeling to seawater dripping from his hair, but this liquid felt warm. He put a hand up and pulled it back to see blood staining his fingers.
His bullet wound.
The bandage had washed away in the ocean, never to be seen again. In frustration, he tore a sleeve off his coat, subjecting his right arm to the bitter cold. It was his second-favorite, anyway. He wrapped the cloth around his neck as tight as he could without cutting off oxygen. He looked back at the laughing sea and glowered.
How had he survived? He'd lost his ability to breathe underwater before he blacked out—had it only been temporary? Why didn't he bleed to death—or get eaten by a shark? How had he come ashore when he couldn't see signs of skilled seamen having the same luck? Had it only been luck? Was fate being kind to him for once in his life?
Then he considered his situation, and he wished he had drowned.
Out of curiosity, he picked up a rock and squeezed. It turned to powder in his fingers. So he had strength again. That moment in the ocean must've been a glitch . . . a temporary glitch . . . why only temporary?
He walked along the shore. The ground under his feet wasn't like the smooth sand he'd seen at other beaches, but instead rocks thrown together to create an illusion of sand. The beach he stood on seemed hardly frequented; no roads or signs of civilization were in sight.
Larger rocks rose to his right along the water's edge, and every so often a wave would come and slap them, spraying mist into his face. He ignored it and marched forward, trying to ignore everything else: the throbbing in his neck, the rumbling of his stomach, the aching of his throat, the burning in his chest. None of it mattered. If he could survive the night, he could worry about those minor details in the morning.
He walked for what seemed like hours, but with the sun—or perhaps moon—hidden behind the clouds, he had no way to tell. It didn't matter. He marched forward with his arms wrapped around his chest and his mind blank.
As he trudged through the woods, he came upon a derelict building. At first he was tempted to pass it by, but as the small drops of rain fell from the sky, he decided shelter might be a good move.
The building proved larger than it first appeared, looming above him at three stories high and covering several square yards. He didn't care—so long as it provided him a roof over his head.
The inside was damp and dark. It didn't matter to him; the woods outside were the same way. Graffiti covered a handful of walls. In some places it mysteriously dropped off, as if the hooligans had been interrupted by something.
He ascended the stairs to the second floor. Judging by the layout of rooms and leftover furniture, the building had once been a hospital. He supposed it looked like something out of a horror movie, but he was too exhausted to care. So long as it protected him from the rain and the cold.
He walked along a hallway with a balcony on one side, overlooking the first floor. He stared at it for a moment before turning into a nearby room. Inside sat a cot with a semi-intact mattress. He plopped himself down on the bed, ignoring the dust and whatever began to crawl down his leg—he had bigger problems.
No food. No water. No sense of direction. No idea where he was. No medical care. No companionship. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
His face scrunched up, much like his insides. He genuinely felt like something inside would physically explode. He couldn't comprehend, nor could he process. He didn't know how to feel, how to think. He didn't know what to do. He felt weaker and weaker by the minute, and he hated feeling weak.
Everything hurt, inside and out.
His face twisted more and more. His heart twisted more and more. His grip around his own body grew tighter and tighter.
Finally, he threw back his head and screamed, releasing every feeling he didn't have a name for.