Mac woke up and blinked in bleary surprise. The last thing he remembered was crashing a plane, then there were vague images of a fight, the gun firing and climbing out of the small plane window and a fall. He frowned. He thought that the fight had been between the body guard that had been in the pilot seat and Derick, who unfortunately had not broken his neck. Mac didn't remember hitting the ground or what happened after that.

Mac slowly took in his surroundings and felt more surprise. He was in a plain bedroom, on a bed. The walls were shedding green and silver wall paper like that Mac had seen in old color photos of Gramps early houses, 1950's? The floor was plain hardwood and there were obvious spider webs in the corners. Beside him was a simple army cot that had been placed on a platform to sit higher than the bed he was laying on. Mac frowned. Discarded on the bed was a bowl containing bloody yellow tubing and bandages. He looked down inside his left elbow was the evidence of an IV site. He ran his hand along his abdomen. He felt a thick swath of cloth bandages wrapped around his torso. He also noted he wasn't wearing anything but his boxers.

Mac slowly sat up moaning in pain. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths. Considering his situation, he actually didn't feel that bad. Mac slid his knees over the side of the bed and rubbed his face. His side hurt like hell, but someone obviously had given him a transfusion. He wasn't dead so he figured it had worked. Mac stood up and had to catch himself on the peeling wall. He took steadying breaths then slowly shuffled out of the windowless room.

There was a short hallway leading to a functional bathroom, which he made use of. He washed his hands and face. There wasn't a mirror or shower. Mac decided he really didn't want to see what he looked like anyway. Walking back down the hallway, he entered a living room, or what probably been a living room. There were bunk beds along every wall and two chests of drawers back to back in the center of the room. Beside them was a card table full of well worn books-well not books exactly more bound xeroxed copies of the same book. Most were highlighted and dog-eared.

Mac's eyes widened as he flipped through them. It was like reading notes from a combination acid trip and anti-government rant. There were lots about the holiness of fire and new age mumbo jumbo pseudo-science. Mac shook his head then had to steady himself by holding onto the dresser. After a minute, he opened a drawer. Inside the drawers were piles of identical shirts and pants. All were obviously home made. Mac sorted through until he found shirts and pants that looked like they fit.

Mac smiled. He sure wouldn't be winning any fashion awards, but he had to admit they were comfortable. They were the color of bleached natural fibers, cotton he guessed, woven tightly. Mac looked closer, the weave was too tight to be woven by hand, but certainly not by machine. He was no expert, but if he had to guess he thought they had to be made by looms similar to those in the 18th century. He frowned tying the simple woven leather belt. The pants were a little short and he swam in the shirt, but the material was light and cool.

Under the card table were organized rows of homemade wooden sandals with woven leather matching the belt. Mac shrugged. Better going barefoot, he frowned after slipping on a pair his size. The wooden soles had no give and the leather immediately chafed at his feet. He'd be fine, but he didn't think he'd be walking or running very far in them. He swayed again. Not that he was up to either anyway.

He crossed to a half aluminum, half glass door that opened with a loud screech. Mac winced. He found himself on the street of a small town. Identical bungalows to the one he'd woken up in stretched along either side of the street. Raising high above behind the small town were gleaming gray cliffs. Mac stepped outside wincing at the sunlight. He stepped down a small cracked cement staircase then had to hang on a simple silver railing. Mac closed his eyes and wiped sweat from his forehead.

At one end of the street to his left was a group of three huge quonset huts. One was open and he could make out machinery in it. He was too far away to see what kind it was. Possibly the looms? At that end two of the bungalows looked newer than the others. He could see large freshly painted squares of siding leaning against the walls which looked half done. The one beside that was already renovated. The other bungalows were in rough shape. Some had windows boarded up or broken. A couple had doors missing an misshapen trees poking out through the roof and windows.

The other end of the street ended at a pond. Mac covered his eyes. He could almost see the other side, it seemed artificially round. A half fallen rusting fence blocked it with rusting chains over a double door. There was a guard tower that had all it's windows out and the door half hanging off.

There was something eerie about the place, something dead. The air didn't move. Mac felt like he was suffocating, like he could reach out and touch the moisture that hovered around him. Mac squinted up the cliffs. He didn't see any trees along the tops of the cliffs. Judging by the evergreen forest he'd crash landed in, he guessed he was somewhere north, maybe Canada. Still there was just a wrongness that made him cringe. He stood up, holding onto the railing.

He didn't see any people, where were they? The sky above was a dirty blue covered by black lace clouds. Mac frowned. They were definitely from a fire, was it the forest fire? He looked down at the pond. Would that be a way out? He slowly walked in that direction. He held his side as he walked. It ached with every movement.

His sandals cloped like horse hooves. In the still deserted town, it was a sad, lonely sound. As he neared the lake he put his hand against his nose. The pond was still, not a ripple. Like everything it was dead. It stank of rotten flesh and fried electrics. Mac winced. There was a cross street in front of the fence lined by more abandoned bungalows. Mac turned and started shuffling back the way he'd come.

Mac wiped sweat and could feel sweat building around the thick wad of dressings pooling at the bottom of his spine. His feet began to slide in the sandals, making him wince as he felt skin burn that would turn into impressive blisters. He paused leaning on his knees to catch his breath and allow his sore side a rest.

Mac looked up. He couldn't see the sun and the place had a surreal stillness. There were no birds, no wildlife, nothing living as far as he could see...but he knew people were around here somewhere. He straightened wincing as his side flared with protest. He kept glancing around him. He felt like eyes were watching every move. Mac frowned. He felt like he was an ant being fried by a mean kid's magnifying glass.

He stopped and stood up straighter, listening. He thought he heard screams. Mac frowned and sped up his pace. As he neared the Quonset huts he saw that like the other end of town there was a cross road, making the town a big "H". Along this street to his left was a dirt road that curved out of sight heading to the cliffs. 4 wheelers and mopeds were lined up along the side of that street. Mac guessed that somehow that road led up to the cliffs. Along the other road was rows of plants in terraced gardens. Like everything else in this canyon, they were withered and dead. Far beyond that, Mac could just about make out some sort of stone building with a group of people sitting on a pack dirt field watching smoke rise from the top of the building.

As if he wasn't creeped out enough, they were silent, unmoving. From the array of different sizes, he guessed they were entire families. Mac's hairs rose as another scream came. By the echo off of the stones around them, Mac guessed it came from inside the stone building. Mac felt a pull of curiosity and concern, but rationality stomped them down. He turned and walked over to one of the 4 wheelers. It was not chained and the keys actually hung from its ignition. Mac frowned. This was actually more unnerving than the creepy town.

He had been shot and kidnapped, but left unbound and actually given medical assistance. Mac felt a cold knuckle run up his spine. He wasn't sure what these creepy folks wanted from him, but he sure didn't want to find out. Mac gasped as he quickly saddled the 4 wheeler. He kicked off his sandals and in seconds had the bike turned and was revving along the dirt road away from the town.

Mac knew there was no way they had not heard him, and the engine was too loud for him to hear pursuit. He opened the throttle. Mac grimaced as every bump and turn pulled at his side. The road went for a quarter of a mile. It ended in a round open area that had rusting mining equipment and parts of land moving equipment piled around the edges. The center had a deep tread of tire marks showing many vehicles came here, then turned around the way they came. Mac killed the engine and gingerly got off. Holding his side he looked at the cliff face in front of him. He could see a tall narrow staircase that looked to be roughly carved into the rock face itself and beside it, again built into the rock face, was a wooden platform with thick chains on a complicated pulley system.

Mac shaded his eyes as he looked at it. It was pretty damn clever and well engineered. Mac wasn't sure if he could come up with a better system for a heavy duty elevator.

"Hello, Beloved, how may I serve you?" A soothing timid voice said behind him. Mac whirled around and almost fell to one knee. Strong hands caught him and helped him back up to his feet. He looked up into the eyes of the last remaining body guard. MacGyver frowned, after caring for him on the plane and apparently saving his life from Derek he really should learn the man's name.

"We really have to stop meeting like this." Mac said. The man smiled. Mac was surprised to find it a friendly and warm smile. The man and the woman beside him were both dressed the same as Mac. Mac realized it was the woman who had spoken. She had straight dark hair in an uneven short style. She had a winning smile and was well tanned with a bevy of freckles scattered on her cheeks and nose.

"Beloved, how may we serve you?" The woman repeated. Mac frowned. The way they both looked at him made him squirrel. It was a combination of blind devotion and the kind of love a super star would get out of his fans.

"I'd really like to leave." Mac said. The woman's smile disappeared.

"I'm truly regretful, Beloved, but it is not yet time for you to leave. Are you hungry?" Mac licked his lips.

"I'm thirsty." He admitted. The woman bowed and turned back to the open area. Mac's eyes widened. His 4 wheeler was gone. He hadn't heard it turn on, so it must have been dragged away somehow, silently. Mac rubbed his arms. He was now ultra creeped out.

"I am Michael, Beloved, I am your Minder." The bodyguard said. Mac looked up at him.

"My guard?"

"Of course not, Beloved, you are not a prisoner. You are Father's only child, we are all at your command." Mac's eyebrows almost threatened to leave his head.

"What? What are you talking about?" He held up a hand, "Nevermind, if I'm not a prisoner, then why can't I leave?"

"It is not yet time, Beloved." Michael said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Mac felt the world begin to wave in front of him like heat on tar, or a mirage. He felt himself list to the side. He blinked as the world suddenly tipped and spun. He blinked and found himself being easily carried in Michael's arms like a baby.

"You can put me down." Mac growled.

"It is my pleasure to serve you, Beloved." The man said. Mac tried to push out of the man's grip, but he had arms like logs and a chest like a boulder. Mac hugged in frustration. With the rhythmic gait, hot air and exhaustion, Mac felt the world fade, his head fell against Michael's chest and his body went limp.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Riley paused and set her pack down. It was almost empty. She drained the last of the water and ate the last of the warm cold cuts. She sat down in the shade of a huge evergreen and breathed in the pine scented air deeply. Birds twittered nervously. Riley frowned. If it wasn't for the fact that Mac was in front of her wounded and there was a gigantic forest fire speeding toward her, this would be a nice hike in the woods.

She took her phone out of her bag. The charge was almost gone, but she had one tiny bar of coverage!

"I'll take it." She muttered. Quickly she dialed Matty's personal line. In a second she was connected to her boss. Riley fought back tears.

"R….y? Wh….u?"

"Matty, I'm up in Canada, there's a forest fire and Mac needs help." Riley blurted this even though she knew she'd already told this to Matty. She was so glad to hear from help. She took a deep breath, thinking furiously. She began to write out a text describing the airplane crash site and where it was in relation to the forest fire. She hit send just as her phone died. "Damn it!" Riley hissed. She had no idea if her message had been sent or not. She took a couple of deep breaths and set herself. Riley was on her own. She could do this, she'd been basically on her own most of her life, right? Riley almost bought her own pep talk. She looked at the phone. She put it in her pocket but left the empty pack behind. If working with Mac had taught her anything, it was you never knew the benefit of cell phone pieces. Besides, she told herself, maybe there would be somewhere to charge it.

Without the weight of the pack she made better time. The faint drag trail ended. She kept walking in the general direction it headed in. Riley knelt. She saw what looked like golf cart wheel tracks. She followed them surprised to come upon a two grooved well worn trail. Riley shrugged and started walking in one of the worn down tire grooves.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Jack paced like a lion. Bozer sat dejected slumped in an uncomfortable chair. They had been camped out in the regional office of the RCMP, and the Mounties did not see the situation as a situation requiring speed. The best Matty could do was have them flown into the closest outpost in the Northern Territories. There was nobody fighting this fire. They all took the big philosophical view of it's nature's natural processes and no one was in danger.

Jack had gone through the entire outpost demanding to talk to the next person in charge. When he hit Captain, the man behind the desk who's sagging eyes and jowls reminded Jack of a Basset hound, listened politely and kindly sympathized but said that as there was no evidence anyone survived the crash, there was no reason to go wasting resources. When asked about Haven, the Captain had harumffed, then sent Jack and Bozer to the waiting room. Jack growled and glared at his watch. That had been three hours ago.

A woman in the traditional red jacketed Mountie uniform poked her head through the door connecting the waiting room to the rest of the building.

"Will you come with me?" She said. Jack grinned.

"Oh hell yes." He said. The mountie frowned at him, but didn't say anything. She led them back to a tiny office that had a chair facing a desk lost beneath piles of folders. A small fan rattled in the upper corner of the room. There were no windows or vents and the walls were covered with charts. Behind the desk sat a tall thin man with a beard that would have made Paul Bunyan blush. More than that, his hair and beard were bright orange, almost like fire. The man looked at Jack with rheumy serious eyes the shade of palm leaf. He stood. He wore a simple plain black T shirt with simple black jeans. Jack raised an eyebrow and smiled. The man stood and held out his hand. He had the hunched bulk Jack had seen in almost every firefighter he'd ever met.

"I'm Freddy Flint." The man said. His voice was deep and seemed to echo from his boots up. It was seasoned with a rolling French accent.

"Jack Dalton, this is Bozer." Bozer waved a hand, his eyes wide at the man. The man turned and came around the desk. Bozer and Jack had to back into the hallway to make room for him. After the stuffy office, the open hallway felt like a vacation.

"I'm the head of the 101 airborne Smoke Jumpers for the Northern Territories." He said. Jack nodded. The man seemed to speak slow and deliberate, but there was a sense of something coiled inside that could spring out if needed. "I listened to your report and I'm sorry I can't dedicate any official resources to tracking down your friends." Jack smiled.

"And unofficial." The man smiled and handed Jack an address written on a crumpled piece of paper. Jack glanced at it and looked up surprised.

"Oliver Flint?" He asked. The man grinned.

"My Dad."

"Dad?" Bozer choked, he ducked when Freddy glared at him.

"Yeah, he's officially retired, but he has a small volunteer squad."

"And you think he'll help us?" Freddy shrugged.

"He's old, bored and crazy as a loon so probably, it's the best you're going to get." Jack grinned.

"We'll take it!"