AN: Sorry about the delay; real life and all that…

DISCLAIMER: The following story is a work of fanfiction, and as such is for fan enjoyment only. All recognizable characters/settings are the property of their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is made.

A Day to Forget

By kerravon

5. Captured

Several hours later he found himself wide awake, unsure as to what had roused him. Glancing worriedly towards McKay, he breathed in relief to find him still fast asleep near the dying fire. The notebook had been moved to a different position, indicating that the scientist had looked at it at least once. It was still set up where Rodney would see it first thing upon opening his eyes, however, so even in his befuddled state he recognized it as a good idea.

'Alright, so that wasn't it,' John concluded. He listened intently, trying to detect any noise outside the cave that might have disturbed him. All he could make out was the crackle of the fire and Rodney's soft snoring. Rising silently to his feet, he winced at the unexpected pain the movement caused him. After a moment he realized that his head had rested at an awkward angle, resulting in stiffness and cramps in his neck and shoulder. The real problem, however, was his left arm; the area around the wound had swollen, causing the bandage to partially cut off his circulation. In fact, his fingers were tingling from the decreased blood flow. Pulling out his Leatherman again, he flipped open the knife and cut the knot one-handed. He sighed in relief as his hand began to regain feeling, and he flexed his fingers experimentally. He'd pull the whole bandage off and change it once it was daylight, but for now this would do.

Still flexing his fingers, he picked up his makeshift club and stood just inside the entrance to their shelter against the wall, once again listening intently. Absolutely no noise could be heard from the outside, and that's what bothered him. He'd now been on more alien worlds than he had countries on Earth, and one thing that was fairly uniform was the sheer volume of noise audible at night. Insects, rodents, small nocturnal mammals - often more species foraged in the safety of the darkness than did in the light of day. But right now, he heard nothing…and that was bad.

His gut instinct was to go outside and 'check things out', but he discarded the notion as suicidal. If the natives had tracked them down, he'd be a sitting duck as he exited the cave; he wouldn't be able to swing his weapon until he was clear, and he wouldn't know where to swing it in any event. The natives could incapacitate him with a few well-placed arrows, leaving Rodney at their mercy. No, better to pick off as many as he could as they came through the entrance themselves.

He glanced over at where McKay still slumbered and considered waking him and alerting him to the danger, but decided against it. Past experience had shown McKay to be confused and groggy upon first waking up under the best of circumstances, never mind the added confusion of whatever was affecting his memory right now. Better to let him sleep. Besides, it might be a false alarm…but in his heart he didn't think so.

He stood sentinel for so long that he began to wonder about his conclusions, when he suddenly heard a light shuffling on the ground just outside the entrance. Raising the club above his own head, he pressed back into the stone expectantly.

He didn't have to wait long; one of the natives crept through the door, hunched over and staring at where McKay slept. After being certain that he had a clear shot, John brought the log down on the back of the skulking man's head, knocking him out instantly. A shout of alarm went up outside, and the natives began swarming the cave. Fortunately only one could come through at a time, and the bodies were rapidly piling up.

Not taking time to look behind himself, John called to his companion, "Hey, Rodney, wake up! We've got company!"

Some muffled snorting and grumbling, then McKay shouted, "What the…who are these people? What am I doing here?"

Sheppard smiled as he took out another of their attackers. "I'll fill in the details later, but these yahoos want us dead, and I could really use a hand."

He heard McKay jump to his feet just as two hunters somehow appeared simultaneously. He managed to strike one, but the second got behind him and yanked his arms, causing him to drop the makeshift weapon. White-hot fire shot up his nerve endings from the wound, filling his vision with black spots and turning his knees to water. He couldn't restrain a gasp as the agony intensified, the native discovering his weakness and exploiting it with vicious ferocity. Sheppard was moments from passing out when suddenly the pressure released. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he quickly turned to see McKay standing over his erstwhile captor with a club of his own.

Picking up his own again, he called, "Thanks Rodney!" as he headed back into the fray. Unfortunately, the locals had taken advantage of his temporary absence and were now swarming through the entrance. Hindered by having only one functional arm, he still managed to take a respectable number of their attackers and McKay wasn't doing half bad.

"Do I know you?" he heard Rodney ask over the din, and he gritted his teeth.

"Later!" he cried in response. "Busy now!"

Ultimately sheer numbers overwhelmed them; spears and arrows were ineffective in such close quarters, so the natives had found clubs of their own. John took a blow to the back of his head that had him seeing stars, and by the time his vision cleared there was a stone knife pressed firmly against his throat. Yanking his arms behind him resulted in his dropping unceremoniously to his knees from the renewed agony of his infected extremity. Before he could recover, he was firmly bound with leather thongs and pulled to his feet. Glancing about, he saw McKay being trussed despite a heated argument with their captors. The two Atlanteans were then ushered outside where they were greeted by the sanctimoniously smug smile of the medicine man.

"Bring them!" he commanded, and Sheppard stumbled as he was shoved from behind. He managed to keep his feet; from the sound of it, Rodney had not been as coordinated. He suspected they could hear the scientist's vocal complaints all the way back in the village.

The hike itself was a nightmare; in the dark, over rocky, sloping terrain at a slow jog. Even under the best of circumstances John would have found it challenging. As things stood, he was weak, feverish, tired, and in a great deal of pain. At some point the world narrowed down to putting one foot in front of another without tripping. After what seemed like eternity, the group stopped. Raising his head sluggishly, Sheppard was surprised to find that they had made it back to the village, and now stood in front of the stone-like slab they had noticed upon their arrival. He examined the crowd, gratified when he saw McKay standing upright, fire in his eyes. Apparently at some time during their trek his captors had tired of his constant complaining, for he had been firmly gagged with a ripped section of his own shirt. 'How'd I miss that?' Sheppard thought, then shook his head. They had bigger problems to worry about.

They must have been traveling for several hours, because the sky was lightening with the impending dawn. Carefully assessing his surroundings, the LTC noted that most, if not all, of the village was present in a semicircle around them. Many of the men now wore decorative paint and feathers, and two were seated with what appeared to be drums in front of them. One drummer sat on either side of the Shaman's tent, and was flanked by a highly ornamental young woman carrying a painted bowl. In other circumstances Sheppard would have mentally expounded on the relative virtues of the two ladies, but right now he was having trouble focussing on the problem at hand. The Shaman suddenly appeared from his tent, garbed from head to toe in feathered ceremonial robes.

Raising his hands above his head in supplication, he addressed the skies above, "Oh Great Protectors, who know all things, we beseech you to accept this humble offering in the spring of our year. May these two men meet with your favor, and grant us our boon. Allow our tribe good hunting, and save us from being hunted ourselves by the Wraith."

The ceremonial prayer was accented by occasional synchronous, rhythmic beats from the drums behind him. The medicine man lowered his arms and stared at the crowd. "Bring forth the chosen ones."

Sheppard found himself dragged roughly forward, to stand side-by-side with the amnestic, gagged, terrified scientist in front of the Shaman. The native's eyes glinted with holy purpose; there would be no dissuading him from this course of action, but it didn't mean John wouldn't try.

"Hey, now, just wait a second. Who are these 'Great Protectors', anyway?"

The native stared at him in disdain, but answered. "They are the ones who make the sun shine, the flowers bloom, and give us fortune on our hunt so we will not starve when the cold time comes. Most importantly, as long as we do not displease them, they keep the Wraith from harvesting our people, allowing us to grow and multiply on this world." Turning to the two young women, he commanded, "Prepare them!"

A knife was suddenly thrust down his shirt, ripping it open to his waist. One of the two young ladies came forward and, dipping her fingertip into her bowl, began decorating his torso with complex designs. Sheppard found it hard to concentrate on his argument with all this activity, but he tried, knowing their lives depended upon it.

"Now, why would these 'Great Protectors' want you to sacrifice two men who've never heard of them before? Wouldn't they be more pleased with the blood of 'true believers'?" Flinching as the woman painted his left nipple, he objected, "Hey, that tickles."

The shaman seemed content to explain as long as the ceremony wasn't delayed. "The Protectors caused you to arrive on this world mere moments after revealing the need for a sacrifice. It was Divine Providence."

"No, it was coincidence," Sheppard stressed. "Besides, there were four of us, and now there's just two. Shouldn't two of your people step up as well?"

A murmur of fear went through the crowd, but was quickly quelled by the magician. "The entrails only mandated 'sacrifice'; they did not specify how many were to die."

Sheppard glanced over at the wide-eyed but still-gagged McKay in the improving light; maybe something could be salvaged, since the cavalry wasn't going to arrive this time. "OK, how about this; you take me first, then ask your 'Protectors' if they need a second death. If they don't, you let my friend go."

The girls, their work apparently finished, knelt with bowed heads in front of the priest, holding out their bowls in supplication. After receiving a dismissive nod from the man, they resumed their prior positions on either side of the percussionists.

The shaman appeared to ponder the request, then slowly nodded. "It is not our usual way, but, as you are willing to give up your life to save his, I will consider it." He held up a finger in caution. "I will read your entrails after the Gods have been given your blood; if they are satisfied, your friend will be released. If not, however, he shall die before the sun as reached its zenith."

John's lips thinned, and he nodded himself once, abruptly. "Fair enough," he replied. He didn't dare look over at Rodney, for fear that his face might weaken his resolve. Wryly he thought, 'Fortunately, he probably won't remember any of this an hour from now, so at least he won't be permanently traumatized…'

"Take him." Two warriors held John's arms as the thongs binding his hands were untied. He was grateful that they were much gentler than they had been in the cave, allowing him to walk forward without collapsing from the pain. He tried to block the sound of Rodney's struggles to free himself as he concentrated on the Medicine Man.

"OK, give me a clue. What do I do next?" He held his chin up proudly, belying the pounding of his heart.

The shaman gestured to the slab between them, indicating that John should lie down. Gulping, he complied, still favoring his left arm and ignoring Rodney's nonverbal protests. The warriors then spread his arms and legs and secured them to the corners with the ancient wires. However, the act of raising his left arm drove white-hot knives into the base of his skull, and he paled, breaking into a cold sweat. He managed to not make a noise only by closing his eyes and biting his tongue. The priest ignored his discomfort and resumed his litany, displaying the sacrificial knife to the crowd. Sheppard became peripherally aware of some shouts of 'The Protectors!', but he found himself wishing that they would just get it over with as the pain from the wound became unbearable. He refused to think about Rodney's life depending upon the priest pawing his 'entrails' after he was dead.

TBC…

AN: Uh-oh, evil cliffie….