Chapter 5
The drug wore off slowly. Jane returned him to his cage, talking quietly into his ear while rubbing the swollen bruises on his back all the way. Her intentions may have been to assure John, but by the time they reached the room with the cages, his back was once again throbbing. Unable to move away from her hands or cry out to let her know she was hurting him, John sunk like a deadweight in her arms. He couldn't even grit his teeth or breathe through the pain. Jane opened up his cage and set him carefully on the small blanket before petting his face and leaving.
Exhaustion finally won out, and John drifted off to sleep. When he woke up a few hours later, the room was quiet. His back spasmed as he twisted onto his side, and he lay still for a few seconds breathing deeply and riding out the waves of pain. His stomach ached abominably, and John tried to calculate how long it had been since he'd eaten anything. Two days, three days, longer? He wasn't sure. He rubbed his face, feeling the thick stubble of growth on his chin. At least three days, he thought.
When he thought he could move again, he pushed himself up to his knees and crawled over to the two bowls set dutifully near the cage door. He drank about half the water, then eyed the other bowl. The raw meat was gone; they'd obviously decided that wasn't in his diet. In its place was a bowl of leaves. It almost looked like dried-out lettuce, and John fingered it carefully. Under the leaves was a pile of grass clippings. He lifted the bowl to his face and sniffed it, but it smelled exactly the way he expected—like grass and leaves.
His gut twisting painfully ultimately made the final decision for him. He was starving and he needed food. The leaves were a far better option than the chunks of raw meat, so he sampled a few on top. They were bitter and hard to chew, and he almost gagged, but he forced himself to swallow them. Without food, he wouldn't have the strength to fight or run when the opportunity to escape presented itself. He grabbed a handful of the grass and used the remaining water to wash it down. The bowl was still at least half full of leaves, but John pushed it away. He'd eaten as much as he could of the bitter stuff.
After a quick check to make sure the room was empty, he relieved himself in the litter box again, then crawled over to his blanket. He was still exhausted to the point of shakiness. It seemed like that was all he had done since he'd been captured: unconscious or asleep, or awake and feeling like he hadn't slept in weeks. He stared at the ceiling and tried to take stock of his injuries.
As near as John could tell, he'd lost his team three or four days earlier in the animal stampede. He shuddered a little at the thought of his team. He had no idea if they'd survived the animals or been captured like him or escaped. He hadn't seen or heard a single sign of them since waking up captured, though, so he took that as a positive. He'd had water and now a little bit of food too—another positive.
His worst injuries were now the bruises on his back—thanks to Pavlov. He looked down at his wrists. They were red where he'd pulled at the straps, but the skin was not broken. He imagined the redness would fade pretty quickly. He pressed his hands into his stomach, like Jane had. Dark bruises tinged in yellow covered both his gut and chest. They were sore but not the stabbing pain he'd experienced the first day. His chest, hip, and shoulder were stiff, sore, and colorfully bruised as well, but they were also not as bad as they'd been the first day.
That left the unknown drugs he'd been shot up with and the aftereffects of the cattle prod. The longer it took him to either escape or be rescued, the worse off he'd be, but he figured that assuming he received the same treatment as he had so far, he had at least a few more days where he'd be in shape enough to realistically stage an escape.
He sighed, feeling the pull of sleep. His eyes were drooping closed despite his attempts to stay awake, and he finally gave into it. If he was going to escape, he'd need to be focused and alert when the time came. Most of all, he'd need his strength.
John woke up groaning, his hands automatically reaching for his stomach. He twisted on the ground at the sudden, sharp cramps before he was even fully awake. The dark room came into focus around him. It was night again, and the only light was the desk lamp at the end of the room around the corner from his cage. He wondered how long he'd been asleep. Another cramp ripped through his gut, taking his breath away, and he curled into himself. He pressed his fist into his stomach, as if he could hold back the flood of pain.
Oh God, what's wrong now? John thought. It had to be the leaves. That was the only thing he'd eaten since arriving. The nausea was starting to build as well, and he pulled his knees up to his chest. He was panting, and he could feel the drops of sweat pouring off his face.
His stomach twisted again, and he cried out through clenched teeth. He dragged himself over to the litter box, having just enough coordination to push himself along the floor. He kept one fist pressed into his stomach, willing himself to not throw up too soon.
He started gagging almost as soon as he reached the edge of the box. He held himself up on shaky arms as he retched. Pieces of dark green, undigested leaves splattered onto the gravelly sand, causing his stomach to buck and clench even more. He hadn't eaten much, so there wasn't much to throw up, but his body continued to convulse in dry heaves long after he'd thrown up every leaf and ounce of liquid in his stomach.
Sweat poured down his face and into his eyes. He gasped in air as his stomach seemed to settle down, resting his shoulder against the edge of the litter box in exhaustion and letting his head hang limply over the sand. The cramps in his stomach continued to wrack his body, but their intensity had died down a little—not quite taking his breath away. John heard the clanking of keys and the door of the cage opening up, but he could barely open his eyes, let alone lift his head to see who was coming in.
Large rough hands wrapped around John's chest, lifting him away from the litter box. A hand on his forehead raised his head enough for him to glance around his cage through slitted eyes. He saw the older alien, the one that usually sat at the desk and tapped his pen. His fur/coat thing was gray and mottled with darker, uneven spots, and his hands were wrinkled and dry.
He lifted John up and held a bowl of water in front of his face. John's mouth was dry and sour tasting, but he couldn't make his arms move to hold the bowl. The old alien lifted the bowl higher, tilting it so that John's entire face was in the water.
John sucked in as much water as he could, but the old alien seemed to have trouble holding both him and the bowl. He moved around, causing John to suck in both air and water. Eventually, John breathed when he should have sucked, and the water tumbling down his windpipe seized in his chest. He started coughing, which quickly turned to gagging, and he threw up all the water he'd managed to drink.
The old alien held him over the litter box as he heaved, making sounds John could only interpret as being noises of disgust. The vomiting had caused John's stomach to cramp up again, and he shook from the pain of it. When he finally stopped, he felt completely washed out. He tried to lift his head, to turn away from the sight of the half-digested leaves and bile seeping into the sand. The smell alone was making him nauseous again.
The old alien evidently decided John was done throwing up, and he began to back out of the cage. He held John securely against his chest as he stood up. John moaned as another cramp ripped through his gut. His arms and legs dangled toward the floor, swinging slightly as he was carried through the hallways.
His shirt was soaked completely through with sweat, and he shivered, feeling hot and chilled at the same time. The painful bruises on his back had taken a back seat to the demands for attention from his stomach, but now they were screaming just as loudly.
The old alien turned into a room, setting John down on a table. John cracked his eyes open, looking around enough to know he had not been brought to Jane's lab. This room was smaller with fewer countertops but more cupboards along the walls. The old alien went to one of those cupboards now, pulling out bottles.
A few moments later, he was lifting John up to a sitting position and holding the sick man steady with one arm around his chest. John leaned back against the old alien's stomach, its fur-like coat or skin softer than anything he had lain on in days. His stomach cramped up again, and he tried to curl into himself or pull his legs up, but his body shook with weakness. His eyes closed of their own will, and he felt himself sliding toward unconsciousness.
A hand around John's face forced his jaw open and something was roughly shoved into his mouth. He jolted awake, the surge of adrenaline giving him just enough strength to flail his arms. The old alien's arm tightened around his chest in response. John looked down at the largest syringe he had ever seen being held in his mouth by the old alien's rough, wrinkled hand.
His heart began to beat at a frantic pace, but then his tongue found the end of the syringe and no pointy needle. The alien squeezed on the end of the non-needle syringe, squirting the liquid it contained into John's mouth and down his throat. It looked like nothing more than water, but it was cold and burned all the way down his throat and into his stomach. John squirmed in the old alien's arms, and even tried to spit out whatever he'd been given when the syringe was yanked out of his mouth, but the alien cupped his weathered hand over John's mouth, forcing John to swallow.
John struggled against both the alien holding him and the cramps in his stomach, but his actions became increasingly weaker. The old alien removed his hand from John's mouth just as black spots began to dance around his vision from lack of oxygen, and John gulped in air. He was cold again. The arm around his chest loosened as John relaxed. The alien was not exactly gentle, but he didn't seem intent on hurting him—at least not immediately. The pain in his gut was fading as well.
The door to the lab flew open, and Jane ran into the lab. Her face was etched with worry and fear, and she spoke rapidly to the old alien holding John upright. John shuddered in relief.
I must be pretty messed up if I'm happy to see her, he thought. She seemed to be firing rapid questions at the old alien, which he answered back slowly and calmly. He laid John down on the table, and Jane helped stretch him out. Her face came into view overhead as she petted the side of his face. She was speaking to him now, but he stared back at her listlessly.
Jane pressed her fingers into his stomach, causing John to whimper and groan. The old alien, in the meantime, was setting something up near his head that vaguely resembled an IV bag full of something thick and dark brown. Jane rubbed John's face with both hands, massaging his cheeks and forehead with her thumbs, as the old alien rolled another piece of equipment that looked like a tabletop over most of his chest and stomach.
Jane paused in her massage and held John's face in her hands. She spoke to him again softly. Her eyes were wide, almost sad looking. She looked up at the old alien, and then they switched places, and John felt rough hands grab his head, pulling it back uncomfortably far and holding it firmly in place against the table.
What are you doing? What are you going to do to me now? John wanted to yell, but all that came out was a soft, pain-filled moan. Jane fiddled with the IV bag near his head, and he watched her attach a tube to one end of it.
Then she turned on him, prying open his jaw and forcing the tube down his throat. John gagged as the end of the tube hit the back of his throat, but the old alien tightened his grip, preventing him from moving. John's arms flailed but he couldn't seem to bring them up to his face to pull the tube and Jane's hands away from him. He tried to bite down on the tube, but Jane immediately pried his mouth open again and jammed something between his teeth to keep him from biting down.
Something thick and cold dripped into his stomach. John looked up at the blurry IV bag full of brown liquid swinging behind the old alien's head. The tube that had been shoved down his throat was big, making it hard to breathe and inciting his gag reflex every few seconds. The old alien held John's head in place, his fingers digging painfully into skin as John struggled against him. He felt slightly lightheaded as he dragged in a deep breath.
Jane stood over the tabletop, and John wondered if it was some type of live X-ray machine. At that moment, he was glad he wasn't a doctor. Knowing exactly what all the alien equipment and various tests were for—or at least being able to make an educated guess—would probably have freaked him out even more than he was. Ignorance is bliss, right?
John drifted, his energy drained completely from being sick and from struggling against the larger, stronger aliens. Minutes later—or hours? He had no idea—Jane moved the tabletop X-ray machine away and began pulling on the tube in John's throat.
As soon as the end of it hit the back of his throat, he started gagging. Jane threw the used tubing to the side and grabbed a flat, plastic bucket. The old alien lifted John up and turned him to the side, lining John's head up with Jane's bucket. Brown, viscous gunk spewed from John's mouth, the taste a cross between black licorice, bile, and rotting vegetables. It was enough to cause John to heave again.
The cycle continued until there was nothing left in his stomach. John shook uncontrollably in the old alien's arms. The hands shifted, lifting him so he was almost upright, and then something was shoved into his mouth again. Liquid was squirted into his mouth, hitting the back of his throat and sliding down to his stomach. It tasted like water, but the second it hit his stomach, he started heaving again.
The old alien flipped him over and held him over the bucket. The vomit was a lighter brown color, but the taste was still strong enough for John's stomach to coil and buck until he was dry heaving. He sucked in a breath, and then the old alien lifted him upright and the process was repeated all over again.
John was pretty sure he passed out periodically throughout the process, so he wasn't sure how many times he was lifted, forced to swallow water, then held over a bucket to puke. He woke up heaving, slipped unconscious as soon as his stomach settled, then woke up heaving again and wishing he would just die.
.
.
.
He didn't die. He woke up in his cage, staring at the ceiling. The room was bright, indicating daytime, and John wondered how long he'd been unconscious. The memory of being sick was both hazy and terrifying. He blinked slowly, hearing noises in the room but unable to turn his head or move his body. His head was pounding, and he felt feverishly hot. Within seconds, he drifted off to sleep again.
.
.
.
He woke up again in the same position. The shadows across the top of his cage had changed, and again he wondered how long he'd been asleep. He felt his eyelids pulling down and was on the verge of drifting off again when he was startled awake by the creaking of the cage door opening.
John tried to turn his head but nothing happened. Before he could even begin to panic about the weakness of his own body, the old alien was kneeling over him, holding the now familiar non-needle syringe. A baby bottle, John thought in disgust. He tensed as much as he was able to—which was hardly at all—as the alien lifted his head slightly and stuck the bottle in John's mouth.
John could do nothing beyond blink and swallow when the water was squirted into his mouth. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until the water began sliding down his throat, but given the amount of throwing up he had done, he was probably severely dehydrated. The old alien was gentler this time around, squeezing the water into John's mouth slowly and giving John time to swallow and not choke.
The water was gone way too soon. John would have begged for more if he thought any of them would have understood him. That, of course, was assuming he had the energy to speak in the first place. The old alien lowered John's head back to the floor and backed out of the cage.
.
.
.
Another day passed, then another. John slept through all of it, periodically waking up when the old alien, or Jane, or sometimes an unknown face would open up the cage and give John water. John would suck down the water greedily, then slip off to sleep almost immediately. Gradually, his headache died down and each time he woke up, he felt a little bit stronger.
Finally, John woke up on his own and was not instantly consumed with the need to go back to sleep. He rolled onto his side, groaning when the sore muscles in his stomach and around his ribs pulled. The room was dark, so it was sometime in the middle of the night. He felt stronger this time, which filled him with endless relief.
A bowl of water was set nearby, and he pushed himself up on shaky limbs toward it. A second bowl, filled with red and yellow leaves was set next to it, but John steered clear. He wasn't sure if he could survive a repeat of the last few days. He drank all of the water, however, then crawled carefully over to the litter box to relieve himself. He noted that the gravelly sand had been changed out since he'd thrown up, and he wondered what else he'd missed during his long bouts of oblivion.
He crawled back to his blanket and curled up on the side, wishing he had more than just boxers on. It was almost chilly, and he shivered a little. He'd almost drifted asleep when he heard a soft whimper from across the room. John looked up, peering through the darkness of the room. In the cage directly across from him, he could see something moving around in the shadows. It paced back and forth, never pausing long enough for John to get a clear view.
John felt his spirits lift, followed almost immediately by dread. He was tired of being alone and wanted someone else to be here as well, experiencing what he had experienced so that they could stare at each other from across their cages and say, "Yes, this is really happening to us." At the same time, he wouldn't wish this on anyone, especially someone he knew. Like his team.
John swallowed against a sudden pain entirely unrelated to anything that had been done physically to him. He counted back in his head, trying to figure out again how long it had been since he'd been separated from them. At least three days of being sick, maybe even four, then before that…
He frowned, rubbing his forehead and then the thick beard on his face. He couldn't remember before that. Had it been three days? More? Less? It felt longer. Maybe it had been a week. He sighed. His body felt heavy with exhaustion again. For all he knew, it could have been three weeks.
John took a deep breath and rubbed his hand against his chest. He wondered if his team was looking for him, but knew they would be. Assuming they'd survived the animal stampede. As long as his team wasn't here, he decided, then he could believe they were safe. There was a soft growl from across the room, and John looked up in time to see an animal poke its head against the bars of its cage. Its short fur was a dark purplish black and glinted in the pale light, and it dragged long, sharp claws across the floor.
John laid back. Another animal to join the fun, he thought. He grinned a little, surprised at the relief he felt that he was, in a way, no longer alone.
TBC…