Title: Fall to Earth
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I do not own CSI or its characters. I'm just a fan
Author's note: I hope you're not confused with the previous chapter. I like to write stories that speak about the past, present and future in no particular order. Makes things interesting, right? To be honest, I was hoping for more reviews and feedback, but I'll still continue to do my best. For the ones that wrote me a review for the previous chapter, I thank you. I look forward to reading and reviewing your stories as you did mine. A good turn deserves another, don't you think? :)
Okay then! On to the next chapter!
Chapter 2
Tick tock, tick tock… Time was running out.
He stared at his watch and cursed, his breath huffing in and out of his lungs in thick plumes of vapour. It's been almost a day since the crash, and so far, things haven't really gone according to plan— He woke up alone with a dead man. It rained heavily; visibility was close to zero. The cockpit was wet and cold. Search and rescue was delayed and he's stranded in the middle of nowhere.
At least he was still alive. Thinking back, he wondered how he had managed to survive this misadventure.
The mangled husk of the downed helicopter had saved his life, serving as a protection and insulation against the elements. He woke up to find his world diagonal; the metallic shell of the helicopter leaning on its side, its base propped up against a tree, its blades detached and broken. He slipped in and out of his conscious state repeatedly, much to his dismay. All he could see was the blurred imaged of a damaged window screen, the cracks focusing into solid fractures with every blink of his lead-laden eyes.
All he wanted to do was to fall asleep.
When he finally opened his eyes, he didn't think that he had died and gone to heaven. The gods would not be so cruel as to dump his soul in the middle of the forest encased in a cracked eggshell. The pain was his secondary proof of that—earth pain, unique and unmistakable. He was damp, heavy and covered in blood and leaves. The thick, sticky liquid coagulated onto his jacket, pooling like wax, weighing him down.
The blood was enough to jerk him awake. Startled at the sight, he immediately surveyed his injuries. He had several broken ribs, a gash on his forehead and several cuts and bruises. Other than that, he was physically healthy. Apparently, the seat that he chose suffered the least damage during the crash. He unclipped his seatbelt and fell on— what used to be— the door. The metal container groaned with disapproval as he moaned in pain. At least he wasn't the only one upset with the current situation.
Getting oriented to his new, surreal surroundings, a drop of fluid fell onto his shoulder. He would have thought it was bird crap by the feel of it, but he knew he wouldn't be that lucky.
The blood on his jacket… not all of it belonged to him. The blood was from the pilot, who was hanging above him by his seatbelt, dangling like a puppet without his master.
It was sad, really. He barely knew the guy…
But it wasn't the presence of the pilot that bothered him. Rather, it was the absence of his passengers. All that's left of their existence were two bloodstained chairs and wet leaves coming through a broken door.
Where did everybody go?
He did a quick inventory check and took everything he needed. First aid kit, flashlight, matches, radio and more… all the things he would need to survive this situation.
Everything's accounted for… Except a Swiss army knife in the first aid kit and his gun from his holster…
Nightfall approached steadily. He had spent the last of daylight, frantically searching the area, and he came across no one. No living humans, no dead bodies. He leaned against a black tree and slid down to take a break. The sounds of pine needles squished and crunched under his weight; the shadows swallowed him up without comment.
Demoralised and uninspired, he sighed, taking in the smell of the earth. It smelled almost like earthworms and decaying wood. Normally, its aroma would have made him feel alive, but this time, it made him miserable, and pathetic. The blood on his collar contributed a copper odour to his environment. Fortunately, there was an extra work jumpsuit in the helicopter; enough to keep him warm and to keep animals at bay.
By now, the rain had lessened; the giant drops of fresh water had reduced into a drizzle. He wasn't even sure that was a good thing. He pulled back the hood of his jacket, feeling the icy sting of rain as it pelted his skin. The storm had definitely passed, but its frigid minions remained in its wake.
He appreciated the storm. In a way, he could blame the weather for the tears trickling down his face.
He reached for the radio that was still clipped to his shoulder. He wasn't sure if it would work this time. The forest and rain had made reception almost impossible, but he was desperate enough to try. He thumbed the button on the radio.
"Brass? It's Nick." He said with a sense of dread.
"I think we have a problem…"
Earlier that day…
"I don't think you'll have any problems. You're going to nail this one." Sara said, carrying a box filled with evidences. She held the phone to her ear with her shoulder while meandering through the lab's corridors. It wasn't easy…
Muffled sounds over the phone signaled a reply.
"Don't be silly… I'm sure you'll be fine. What time's your prelim again?"
She tiled her head and looked sharply at her watch. 5 hours before the person they're looking for dies… she reminded herself, almost not listening to Greg on the phone.
"Right… okay. Remember what I told you… Speak slowly. Use simple terms. You got to help the jury to understand what's going on…"
Will they make it in time? She thought as Greg thanked her for her advice over the phone. From a distance, she noticed Nick, walking towards her, looking confused, and a little upset. Sara knew that was her cue to hang up the phone.
"You'll be fine, you've been through this before remember? Okay, let me know how it goes alright, Greg? I got to go… Talk to you soon."
She placed the box down on the desk and hung up the phone just as Nick approached her.
"I can't believe you did that. Why would you do that?"
Sara froze for a moment, surprised at his tone. "Do what?" She looked at her phone in her hand. "You wanted to speak to Greg?"
"No. It's not that… How could you agree to go with John Allen to find his victim? Do you know how dangerous he is? He's a serial killer. He kills women, you know."
"I'm aware of that." Sara said, slightly annoyed at Nick for pointing out the obvious, and yet swayed by his intentions.
Nick—maybe it was the way he was raise— disagrees with anything involving putting a lady in harms way. Sara's agreement with a serial killer goes against every virtue he had growing up as a kid. If he could talk her out of it, he would. He spent part of the day immersed in this case, trying – but failing – to get the suspect to tell him the location of his victim, and trying – but failing – to convince Brass to persuade Sara not to go.
Nick's a Texan gentleman at heart. He was nicknamed well—a modern-day Pancho, righting wrongs and fighting injustice wherever he finds it.
"He'll only reveal the victim's whereabouts if I come along. I'm not going to sit around bargaining with him on a better deal when someone's life is on the line." Sara quickly added, as if saying that would justify her decision. Nick would understand, right? A part of her knew that he was right; dealing with a serial killer like John wasn't the best idea. But another part, a bigger part of her, was thinking of the victim.
That was her biggest flaw, her weakness. People…
"It's a small sacrifice to make, Nick. In this line of work, we do it all the time…"
But…Of course he'll ask for you. He'll want you to come along because you fit the profile. Nick bit his tongue before the words could slip out, but they echoed in his mind anyway. He knew—base on experience and gut feeling—that killers would often take something or someone that reminds them of the crime, whether it's a future victim or a memento. It would take very little for them to pounce and attack the first thing they see.
John was the type of killer who is thrill-oriented; he is in it for the fun and would kill for the excitement. The last thing Nick wants in this world is for Sara to be alone with a psychotic killer.
"Does Grissom know what you're planning to do?" He asked sharply, cutting her off.
"… Brass and I talked to him."
"And he's fine with it?"
"He wasn't at first, but Brass managed to..."
"Does anyone else know you're doing this? Does Catherine or Greg?"
Please stop this…
"... What do they have to do with this...?"
"... Because I think if they knew, they would have talked you out of it, in the exact way I'm doing right now!"
"We would not be able to come up with another course of action, let alone execute it in less than 5 hours!"
Why are we arguing?
"Did you even try?"
"You're not listening to me..."
"You didn't even try!"
"Nick..."
"Do you think for a moment, if Warrick was still alive, he would have let you go?"
The room became deathly still. The shouting stopped as soon as the sense of regret seeped in. Nick sensed a shift in the surrounding atmosphere and looked at Sara with an expression that he could only imagine to be one of surprise, like a man realising the consequences of his crimes.
He turned his face a little to the side, shamed by words that he just said. Through the glass doors, he could see people looking towards their direction, wondering what on earth was going on.
"What?" Sara finally said.
Her voice trembled.
Her hands trembled.
He looked at her hands and could not believe that he had put her in that state of anger and sadness.
The silence lingered uncomfortably. Nick noticed that the people on the other side of the glass doors begin to move. Hearing nothing more, their curiosity in Nick and Sara's argument began to fade. They shrugged in confusion, moving on as if they had imagined the whole commotion.
"I just... I just don't want to see you get hurt."
Please don't look at me like that, Sara.
She turns away and her trembling hands are hidden from view.
"I think its best that you leave now."
He wanted to do what she asked of him, as reparation for he had said, but the shaking that envelopes her stopped him.
"I will." He said after a long pause. "But only if you let me come along with you."
A peculiar feeling was rising from the pit of her stomach, and for a moment she did not know if she wanted Nick around her or not.
"Officer Metcalf's riding with me..."
"I know. I'll talk to Officer Metcalf. He'll be fine with it." He said, interrupting her gently. "Let me ride with you and I'll do as you ask and leave this room right now... let me ride with you."
He felt abhorrence for himself and wondered whether Sara felt it too. For him to hurt her and then asked something of her was as bad as stabbing her and cutting a piece of her flesh to keep for himself.
It took her a long time to reply, and his abhorrence only grew during that time.
"Okay." She said quietly. Even though her back was turned, he could tell that she was crying. He had hurt her with words alone.
The feeling of abhorrence still lingers.
"I'm really sorry for what I said... I'll make it up you somehow..."
The words "Too late" echoed in his mind.
He took one last look at her before leaving.
But she didn't look back at him.
TBC