He awoke to pain. It was not a sharp, fleeting pain but an ache. The kind of ache that comes from months of pushing yourself to far, ignoring your body’s complaints, and never stopping. It was the type of pain that comes with a bed and food. A decent home-cooked meal and a soft bed is almost foreign to him now. He sits up slowly while wincing. Bandages are wrapped around his right forearm. Gunshot. He remembers that wound clearly. Touching the bandages wrapped around his abdomen on his left side he grunts. Slashes. Knife. He does not remember those.
“This is not good.” He mumbles to himself. Gingerly he reaches up to the top of his head. No hair. Another bandage. All he can remember is a bright flash of light at the end of a fight with a group of shadowy figures. He hit the ground and his memory ends there. There is more that is difficult to recall. Past details, names, and places. Time is now a blurry concept. Grimacing he stands up and stumbles groggily. Light shines in the dimly lit small bedroom from the cracked door. It’s open and that means he is possibly not a captive. Noticing he is naked he finds clothes arranged for him at the end of the bed. Dark patched blue jeans and a faded gray t-shirt. He smiles to himself. Luck seems to be on his side for the time being. After putting the clothes he walks slowly to the door stretching his limbs. The pain is still in the background but his body is responding. He feels no abnormal fatigue in his muscular arms and legs. He must not have been here long. Days more than weeks most likely.
The light is blinding as he opens the door and walks through to the next room. The smell of boiling soup assaults him. The hunger is so intense it is as if he can smell each and every ingredient in the pot. His stomach growls as he assesses the room. The people he notices first by instinct. He takes stock of the way they stare at him with big eyes and open mouths as well as their postures and stance. The first is a woman with a large splintered wooden ladle near the stove-top. She appears to be in her mid 30’s and of average height. She is skinny with long stringy dirty blonde hair and dressed in a tattered pale blue dress. Her body tenses as she sees him. It is not out of fear but out of defense. She is no stranger to fighting. The other is a young girl around 10 years of age. She must be her daughter as she is the splitting image of the older woman. With a slow nod and no quick moments he makes his way to the nearest chair and sits at the table across from the girl.
The kitchen area is a mess. The table, once polished steel, is now rusted brown, and yet surprisingly stable. Faded plastic storage bins are kept across equally faded shelving in place of any kind of cabinetry. There are three more doors on each of the remaining walls. The building appears to be an old dilapidated makeshift cabin. The walls seem to pieced together from a myriad of different materials. The woman ladles out some of the fresh soup into an old wooden bowl and brings it over to him. She places the bowl and a metal spoon down before him and stands still next to him.
“What’s your name?” she asks quietly with a distinct southern drawl.
“John.” he says firmly. He fights the urge to grab the bowl and consume it’s contents as quickly as possible.
“Of course. John.” she sighs. “And what were you doing out by the well stabbed, shot, and half-dead? Hmm?”
“I do not know, ma’am.”
“Of course you don’t know.” she sighs again. “So, what do you know? What happened? What do you remember? That wound on your skull is horrible enough to kill most everything alive.”
“To be honest, lady, there is not much that I do remember. I remember being shot and hitting the ground. The rest is a mystery. As to what I do know... I know that I am immensely hungry and would really appreciate eating this soup in front of me.”
She frowns. “Fine. Eat that and eat it all. You need the water. Come outside and find us when you’re done. You’ll have to meet the Sheriff for some explaining before anything else is done.”
She motions to the girl and they begin to walk out one of the doors.
“Ma’am.” he coughs. “Thank you. I know you had a choice when you found me. Why did you save me?”
Turning around she chews on her bottom lip a moment thinking. “I used to have me a man like you once. I did what he would have done. That and you were left for dead. I think you were traveling and bandits got you. If you were a real threat they would have just killed you instead of leaving you out there in the Wastes.”
She turns back to walk through the door. “My man... His name was John.” she whispers as she walks out.
It only takes him mere moments to finish the bowl of soup and several others ladled from the large stained metal pot. Once finished he stretches again with a groan and heads out the door.
© Robert Jones and Robots and Rockets, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Robert Jones and Robots and Rockets with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
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