This next part is a little...uh...fantastical
, but enjoyable (I hope)
. Read on, dear friends!
Waking the Dead Part Two
Rated: R
Inconsolable in his grief, Pete sat in MacGyver’s house boat, waiting—for what, he wasn’t sure. He kept expecting to see MacGyver bound through the front door, flashing one of his beaming, cheerful, and charismatic smiles. Instead, he was confronted with the harsh realization that MacGyver would never enter the house boat again. Still, he sat, sobbing at times, staring blankly at others, trying to process what happened and finding it difficult. Images of MacGyver’s dead body haunted him. He remembered how stiff he felt cradled in his arms, how lifeless. It was all foreign to him, thrust upon him unwillingly, and there was nothing he could do to change it. He never felt more helpless in his life, the death of MacGyver spiraling his world into utter chaos and misery, creating an irreparable void. Everything now seemed pointless to him. MacGyver hadn’t just been a friend or a colleague to him—he had been the son he never had, replacing the shame and guilt he felt after his real son Michael had disappointed him. He knew MacGyver had seen him as a father figure, filling a need he had been starved of with the death of his father. Now, they were separated, ripped apart by unimaginable tragedy.
The house boat remained the only tether connecting Pete to MacGyver, and he lingered, not wanting to leave it. Surrounded by MacGyver’s hockey jerseys, old Westerns, and several homemade, improvised gizmos for which he couldn’t even begin to imagine their purpose, Pete felt he at least still had some sense of being near his friend, even if it was only symbolically. It agonized and overwhelmed him when he knew he had a funeral to plan. What would happen to all of MacGyver’s things? Like him, they would probably be buried somewhere, locked away in storage. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. Everything that belonged to MacGyver was an extension of his personality, a part of his essence. Once it was gone, all that remained of him would be gone, too. He couldn’t see the contents of the house boat as merely “things”—they meant something, had a history. He wished he could somehow preserve the house boat, keep it as a shrine to his clever and remarkable friend. What perhaps upset him even more was having to relate the news to MacGyver’s other friends and associates—Jack Dalton, Nikki, Penny, his colleagues at the Foundation—for a loner, MacGyver’s list of acquaintances was extensive. They would all be shattered, stunned into disbelief the way he was. A part of him was selfish, not wanting to share his grief with anyone. Another part of him didn’t want to be the one to deliver the heartbreaking news, not wanting to see the distraught expressions on their faces. Loss and grief drastically altered people the instant they learned of it, their once healthy complexions becoming haggard and drawn, their bodies slumping and shrinking in on themselves in defeat and hopelessness.
Pete remembered MacGyver’s wild, disheveled appearance after Mike’s death, as if he no longer cared about anything, looking beaten, the light drained from his eyes. At the time, Pete knew that death was hard to deal with and accept, but he couldn’t understand fully why it was taking his friend so long to recover from the stinging blow of mortality, something that was painful to endure yes—but also inevitable. Now, he thought he understood. It was one thing to hear about the death of a loved one—witnessing it was something else. That Pete was left wondering if he could have done something sooner to prevent it only made him feel worse, yet how could he have known? He should have known, he told himself. He hated himself and blamed himself for what happened, even though rationally he knew it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t MacGyver’s time. Losing him felt like an injustice.
The circumstances of his death were certainly suspicious. Pete ran the details through his mind repeatedly, trying to make sense of them. If the cause of MacGyver’s death had been bullet or stab wounds, it wouldn’t have done anything to mitigate the immense sadness he felt, but at least it would have offered him a clear, logical, and simple explanation. It would have also made it easier to find the perpetrator, leaving behind amounts of forensic evidence that could be traced back to someone. Instead, all he was left with was a mystery to solve with no clues. He still maintained that it was impossible for MacGyver to just collapse and die, that it made no sense for someone as robust as he was. Then again, he warned himself not to be too dismissive of the possibility that maybe he did just have a heart arrhythmia. Even professional athletes were known to die from heart problems that were previously undiagnosed.
As much as he liked to think otherwise, MacGyver wasn’t invincible. Anything could have killed him, even natural causes. Somehow, it still didn’t make sense. Pete couldn’t shake the disturbing feeling that someone went out of their way to make sure MacGyver’s death appeared natural, insidious enough to cover their tracks by inflicting invisible damage, insuring that no one could find them through evidence or any obvious signs of violence on Mac’s body. He hoped Dr. Carr would be able to crack the code and uncover the secret behind the cause of death. He had given the paramedics MacGyver’s house boat number as the place to call him when he had the autopsy results. He wasn’t going anywhere. Until he knew what happened to his friend, he felt a duty to stay at the house boat, keeping a part of MacGyver alive until he could have some closure. Then, maybe he would try to close the house and sell it, even though the very notion unsettled him. No one could ever replace its original owner, and no one could ever replace MacGyver.
He waited.
***
Locked away in tomb-like darkness and isolation, physically dead while mentally alive, all MacGyver could hear was the steady, eerie hum of refrigeration equipment. He knew he was now in the morgue, the movement and activity surrounding his body as it was transferred ceased. He was only thankful now that he seemed to be numb as well as paralyzed so he couldn’t feel the cold air rushing around his still body. At the same time, he missed the tactile sensations of Pete holding him, feeling his functioning heart beating against his stopped heart. He missed hearing him talk, even if he was overcome with grief. His presence had been comforting. Now, all he faced was uncertainty.
Each moment that passed in that state made him wonder how much longer he could truly remain alive, the potential damage to his organs by suspending them for that amount of time—it felt as if it had been days of unending torment—possibly irrecoverable. One way or another, he knew he would die eventually—either under the blade of the medical examiner or on his own, his body failing entirely, including his brain which for now had been mercifully—or unmercifully—spared. It was inescapable. MacGyver never considered himself a fearful person, but now that his prospects for surviving were grim and he couldn’t do anything to save himself, he was terrified. He was unused to situations where he was completely incapacitated an unable to come up with a solution. It was new and frightening territory for him. He realized the person who had done this to him understood that, and was probably taking great delight in seeing the ingenious MacGyver, the man who could escape anything, handicapped and defenseless.
Not willing to surrender, he kept struggling to move, hoping eventually to get some kind of response from his body no matter how small. If he could make some kind of signal when the coroner entered, he could prove he wasn’t dead and stop the autopsy. He hoped that by fighting his paralytic limbs, he could soon win control over his body again. When nothing happened, his body still feeling as if it was filled with cement, hardened and solid, his patience waned, panic, anger, and frustration once again surfacing.
Come on, Mac! You can fight this! Don’t let it win! He shouted in his mind.
His finger twitched—or at least he thought it did. He knew it was possible that his eagerness to move and his wishful thinking could have contributed to the motion he felt, so he waited to see if he would feel it again. The twitch returned, this time stronger, his other fingers softening and curling in on themselves. Growing excited, seeing an end to his imprisonment inside his body, he tried wiggling his fingers, finding them still slightly stiff but now able to move. He kept working on other parts of his body—his legs, arms, and torso, trying to force them to move as well. The process was gradual and difficult, the poison refusing to release its deathlike grip on him, but soon he made progress, his other limbs twitching and making small movements. The rigidity of his body was easing, and he felt like a stone statue being revived by some enchantment, the hardened material encasing him melting to reveal flesh again.
As his mobility slowly returned, strange, tingling sensations pulsed through him, feeling like millions of tiny needles stinging him. It reminded him of how he felt after waking up and realizing that his leg had fallen asleep. It must’ve been a similar process here, circulation returning to him after being restricted. It was painful, but he welcomed the pain, glad to feel again. His heart began beating again, hammering against his chest, and his jaws unlocked themselves with a soft popping sound. When his breath returned, his lungs burst with oxygen and ached from its absence, causing him to gasp and cough uncontrollably. He bolted upright, opening his eyes, relieved to find that they were no longer sealed tightly shut, even though the blinding bright light that greeted them made him squint, feeling highly sensitive to it as it pierced them. Still gasping, dizzy from the return of air in his deprived lungs, MacGyver scanned the room, his eyes now adjusted to the light. He was definitely in the morgue, but fortunately he wasn’t inside a cramped storage unit for bodies. Still, he shivered from the cold in the room, relieved he could even have that response back, uncomfortable as it was, noticing he was naked except for the sheet that covered him. Looking down, he noticed that the cold, sterile, steel surface he was clutching, trying to remain upright, was actually a cadaver dissection table. Surrounding him were several grisly blade-like instruments he knew would have been used to cut him open. They reminded him of medieval torture devices, and he tried to avoid imagining their macabre functions, especially if they had been used on his own body.
He wrapped the sheet around his body to provide some cover, even though it was inadequate protection against the chill he felt. Once he felt his dizziness subside and his breathing regulate, he tried to stand, clutching the edges of the table for support. He was glad he did, his body trembling and weak, his legs almost giving out underneath him. Pushing on the table, he managed to steady himself enough to where he thought he could begin walking, his steps slow and stumbling at first, his legs not used to the sudden movement after hours of inactivity. He didn’t know how long the poison had held him captive, losing all concept of time. He was just glad it wasn’t permanent. As relieved as he was that his functions had returned to normal, he wanted to be cautious about celebrating his freedom too soon, knowing it could still kill him. Perhaps the cruelest part of the torture it inflicted was yet to come. Releasing the victim from the near-death state, maybe it lured them into a false sense of security, making them believe they had escaped it and the hell was over—only to deliver its final, fatal blow. As MacGyver continued walking around the morgue, regaining his strength and stability, he didn’t want to think that the worst was yet to come, but he had to keep open to all possibilities. The poison could be unpredictable, and he had no way of knowing what it would do next.
Yet, the more he walked, the better he felt. Gone were the painful tingling sensations and aching in his chest and lungs. No longer did he feel wobbly on his feet. He still shivered, but that was from the cold in the morgue hitting his partly exposed skin more than anything that had to do with the effects of the poison. He couldn’t explain it, but soon he began to feel as if he had never been poisoned at all, his health restored. Not wanting to accept the idea that he might yet die, he still waited to see what would happen, but his condition only improved with each step he took—shaky at first, now strong. How could something that seemed so potent at first, so lethal—how could it leave his body without causing more damage? He didn’t understand its behavior. No toxin he could think of would act that way when ingested by the human body. Whatever the substance was, it was highly sophisticated. Someone had manufactured it, that much was for certain—but to do what? What was its purpose? Not to kill, since he was still alive. To punish? To rob someone of life temporarily in order to frighten them and coerce them into complying with demands?
He had to learn more about it, if he could. Now that he was liberated from his paralyzed state, he was fascinated by the properties of the chemical that had been injected into him. He had to know more somehow, but first he had to get back to Pete, to show him that he was still alive. Waiting until the coroner showed up only to realize to his horror that somehow his subject had been resurrected would only cause a scene, and MacGyver didn’t want that. The media would swarm all over the hospital with such a bizarre story, creating more attention that could possibly alert the person who did this to him. Whatever that person’s intentions were for injecting him with the poison, MacGyver knew that there was still a chance that person had wanted him dead, counting on the poison to keep him restrained in the death-like state until he did finally die. If this person discovered that the poison had failed—if it had---then his life would once again be endangered. Getting back to Pete was his first priority. A missing body would still create a stir, but not as much as a dead man now walking around. Also, he remembered how disconsolate Pete had been, sobbing over him. He didn’t want him to suffer from his grief much longer.
Moving over towards the door, he touched it, noticing it was coated in damp, slightly icy droplets of condensation from the refrigeration. It was also locked, bolted shut. Apparently grave robbery was still as serious a threat as it had been in ancient Egypt. Examining the lock, MacGyver tried to figure out the best way to pick it open. Of course they had removed his knife, along with everything else on his body, so he would have to find something else to use. Glancing back at the hideous dissection tools and shuddering when he once again thought about being carved open like a frog in biology class, he found a blade on one of them that looked as if it could be used to pry open the lock on the door. He grabbed it and worked quickly, knowing that the coroner would be there soon. That he had been placed on the table meant that they were planning to start the autopsy, and he knew he didn’t have much time to spare. The lock gave, clicking open. MacGyver replaced the blade near the other instruments, never happier to be rid of anything in his hands besides a gun, the tools of death all the same to him.
Carefully, he opened the door, finding it heavier than he expected and having to use his body weight to force it open. He peered around the corner, watching for medical personnel down the corridors. He saw no one. The dead weren’t as high on the priority list as critical patients in the hospital, relegated to the basement, forgotten. They could wait. The need for extra security and other staff was reduced in this area, giving MacGyver the advantage he needed if he was going to leave the hospital undetected. He slipped out into the corridor, looking for the nearest exit. When he found one, it wasn’t quite what he expected, but the corridors seemed to snake around the hospital forever, especially in that basement area. Instead of a door, he was going to have to use a window.
A narrow, rectangular window was cracked open above him, looking wide enough for him to squeeze through it. It was nearly within his reach, but he was going to need a little boost to get up to it. Looking up and down the hallways once again for any signs of staff, blushing in embarrassment even though he was alone, MacGyver removed the sheet that he had wrapped around his naked body and used it as a lasso, tying it around the window crank. He knew it wouldn’t be stable enough to hold his body weight for long, so he would have to use the sheet to climb the side of the wall quickly. Once again grateful for his fully restored mobility, he clutched the sheet tightly and pulled himself up, just as he did when he climbed mountains. Successfully reaching the window ledge, he began pushing himself through the opening, forcing the window open wider. He untied the sheet around the crank and held onto it, unsure if it was day or night outside. Either way, he didn’t want to be caught naked without something with which to cover himself. Swinging himself around to the outside of the building, he looked down and saw that, thankfully, the drop to the ground was not too far, since he was on the basement level. It was dark outside, dark enough to conceal him, something that relieved him. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, but he slipped at the last moment, dropping and rolling. When he stopped, he brushed himself off and looked up at the window where he had left. For the basement level, it had still been a significant drop, much more than he initially thought, but he had made it.
Tying the sheet around his body again, he looked around for a ride home. He doubted anyone would pick him up if he hitchhiked, looking the way he did, and he wouldn’t blame them. In the distance, he saw a moving and storage truck. Recognizing the company name and knowing that they were located not too far from his house boat, he decided to take his chances riding with them, hoping that they were heading back to their warehouse instead of someone’s house. Quietly, he slipped beneath the truck and held on as the truck started moving down the street, going unnoticed by the driver. Sighing, MacGyver hoped he would be home soon so he could begin to end Pete’s nightmare—and his own.
To be continued…
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."
--Henry David Thoreau
brains+brawn+beauty+personality=MacGyver
