Every Thought Captive
Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.
Chapter 3 Sight Unseen
Murdock woke slowly to the sound of a decidedly feminine moan somewhere near him. He thought he recognized the voice, if you could call it that, but he couldn't be sure. The headache which he fell asleep with came back full force and throbbed dully across his forehead. When he tried to open his eyes, all he could see was black around him.
Hann'bal had me doin' somethin' important. Don' 'member what it was.
Whatever it was, he figured it had to have something to do with the producer of the moan he heard upon regaining consciousness.
Don' even know where I am.
He took in some deep even breaths to get oxygen-rich blood flowing to his brain again. Maybe then he would remember. The moan sounded again, this time accompanied by a softly murmured "Murdock?"
I know that voice.
"Amy? Chica, is that you?" He tried to reach out in the blackness to find her but discovered his wrists restrained to what seemed to be a chair with arms. His ankles were restrained in the same manner to the chair legs. When he pushed against the restraints, he detected a wide band of some kind around his chest and another over his thighs, preventing him from moving very much.
"I can't get t' you. Can you get t' me?" He strained to hear from which direction her voice was coming but she did not answer. "Amy? Ya still with me?" Her failure to respond sent a shiver of apprehension up his spine.
There was a small whimper to his left and he turned his head toward the sound. "Talk t' me, darlin'. Are ya hurt?"
He felt a swell of protectiveness rise up within him. At the same time, he realized he was helpless to do anything if she was injured. Gritting his teeth he struggled harder against his bonds.
"Murdock?" Her voice was like that of a frightened child. She sounded close to tears.
"I'm here, chica. Don' stop talkin', 'kay? Now tell me if you're hurt." He held his breath, waiting for her to answer.
She began to cry. Her sobs wrenched at Murdock's heart and he renewed his efforts to get free.
"I can't see ya, Amy. Can you see me?" He hoped she would respond with either a yes or no. Anything but the hitching sniffles he could do nothing to comfort.
"I . . . I can see you." Her soft answer did not reassure him.
He realized something new with her statement. What he thought was a darkened room may not have been dark after all. If Amy could see him but he couldn't see her . . . By squinting, he felt the coarse fibers of a cloth rub slightly against the skin around his eyes.
He was blindfolded. Maybe the ones who left him in this condition were even now watching him. Sensory deprivation, it was called, and for someone who reveled in the wide open azure of the sky, blindness, no matter how temporary, was the worst.
"Sweetie, what else do you see? Tell me what the room looks like, 'kay?" He tried to prevent his voice from reflecting the uneasy feeling he had about all of this.
All seems somehow familiar, like I been here 'fore.
His thought processes were beginning to race randomly from one thing to another. It wouldn't be long, fifteen minutes to a half hour, before he would start to "see" tiny bright white dots. The hallucinations and anxiety attacks would soon follow. It was a direct result from being blindfolded for long periods of time. He knew that from his experiences in the POW camps, during past missions, through his Agency training . . .
Oh, God. Is that what this is?But why'd they grab Amy? Why not jus' me? Means I gotta get 's much info 'bout my surroundin's as I can now 'fore I lose my mind.
His other senses were compensating for his loss of vision. He could smell antiseptic. The heavy odor barely covered the faint scent of sweat and blood. His ear picked up the plunk-plunk of liquid drops splashing onto a hard surface from somewhere to his right . . . a sink, maybe? The surface sounded metallic, maybe stainless steel.
There was a slight coolness to the air. He felt wisps of hair on his head gently moving and he reasoned that there must be a vent somewhere above him circulating the air in the room. Mildly surprised, he sensed something else. He had been stripped down to his boxers. A shiver passed through his body and he could feel the hairs on his arms and legs raise with the corresponding goose bumps.
When Amy began to describe what she saw, her words served to confirm what he was already suspecting.
Her voice was so quiet and childlike, he had to work hard to hear and understand all of what she said.
"White walls. White acoustic tile ceiling. White tile floor. A long table with straps hanging from it. A cart with metal things in a tray. Looks like stuff a doctor would use. Shelves and tables along a wall. Beakers, test tubes, burners . . . " her voice trailed off.
"Go on. Yer doin' good." He felt panic rising from the pit of his stomach.
"Why do you have those tubes in your arms?" Her question startled him. Until then, he had not felt them because he could barely move his restrained arms.
"I don' know, sweetie." Truth was, he had a bad hunch he knew exactly why they were there and the answer was not good. "Keep talkin'. Ya gotta keep talkin'."
"I'm bleeding." That bit of information was delivered in such an innocent, confused tone, he wondered if they, whoever they were, gave her something to disorient her.
He clenched his fists, something he was still able to do, and cautiously asked, "Where're you bleedin', darlin'?"
No answer but a small shuddering sigh.
"Amy, ya gotta talk t' me."
Still no answer.
"Chica?" He struggled against the restraints only to hear another moan and a soft gasp. A sound of squeaking wheels and a door opening and shutting made him move with more urgency, trying to escape the bonds. Had they taken her away? And where? The restraints were chafing, rubbing the topmost layer of skin away from his wrists and ankles.
Pain is good. It'll keep my mind focused . . . maybe.
"Amy?" He shouted her name as if she would answer more readily if she heard it louder.
She didn't respond. Silence except for the plunk-plunk of droplets against metal and a very faint mechanical hum.
If he listened to that for much longer his mind would conjure up all kinds of horrific hallucinations. Digging his fingernails into both palms until he was certain he was almost piercing the skin, rubbing the already broken skin of his wrists and ankles against the restraints, he created enough pain to keep the internal demons at bay. At least, for now.
Sooner or later, he knew he would grow weary, his efforts would stop and the hallucinations would begin. Or his captors would come up with a new way to make his life miserable. Either way, he was in for a highly unpleasant time.