More clues are revealed, and this part is intense, so be warned!
When He Wakes…
Part Five
Rated: R
“I demand answers!” an irascible Pete Thornton shouted, furiously pacing his office and showing his obvious dislike and distrust for Brandon, seeing him as nothing more than a callow dilettante, a boy pretender playing spy games, unaware of the real world implications and dangers involved. “What in the hell happened out there?”
Still in a state of shock, Brandon stared blankly, his body crumpled and slumped in his chair as if he lacked any bone structure at all and was nothing but a gelatinous pile of formless flesh. His lower lip quivered as he fought to suppress the tears that moistened and stung his eyes and threatened to spill down his cheeks. A cold, clammy sweat beaded on his pale skin.
“Mr. Thornton,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m so sorry…I…I don’t know what happened. We were well concealed under the cover of night—there wasn’t even a moon out that night. We took all precautions, and it didn’t seem as if anyone would discover us when…it all…happened so quickly…out of nowhere…we were approaching our target destination when the bridge…it just exploded…right before my eyes. The men I was with…they were gone in an instant, gone in a pile of rubble and fire…”
“How do you explain how you managed to survive and escape unharmed?”
“I was…bringing up the rear. Jenkins, the lead man…he insisted because I had such little experience.”
Even in the midst of tragedy, Pete thought he saw a brief sullen, resentful expression on the young man’s face that struck him as unbelievably inappropriate, selfish, and narcissistic given the circumstances.
“So what you’re telling me is that you had not even reached the bridge yet before the explosives detonated,” he said.
“No sir,” Brandon said. “I hadn’t.”
“Then how do you account for not being struck by any flying shrapnel?”
“I was…a few miles back, making sure we weren’t being followed. I guess we were, anyway,” he said sadly.
“How did you avoid capture?”
Brandon shrugged. “The enemy probably figured they had succeeded in eliminating all of us,” he said. “I remained hidden in the forest until I felt it was safe, slowly making my way to the border. They never spotted me.”
Pete sighed. “Well, you were fortunate,” he said. “Those men on the assignment with you—the men who died—were among some of the best we had. Whoever did this must have known that and knew they would make valuable, high-profile targets.”
“I’m sorry,” Brandon said, a look of horror on his face as he remembered the events. He released a sob that he had forcibly been biting back. “If I could replace them or somehow take their places, I would…”
“I’m sure you would,” Pete said, watching him. He seemed to be genuinely upset, looking fragile and shaken, his swaggering attitude gone, his dreams of glory and adventure shattered. “This is, unfortunately, how things are in the field sometimes. Nothing is certain. People lose their lives.”
“I know. I just wish I could have done something to save them, or at least obtained the information we had come there to gather. Now, everything is lost.”
“Well, we will conduct a thorough investigation into this matter,” Pete said.
“Yes sir. I want you to know that I will cooperate fully,” Brandon said, looking eager, like a guilty, remorseful child desirous to avoid stern punishment, to prove he was worthy of reconsideration, that he was actually an obedient, innocent child that had been led astray, that had made a mistake, a grave error in judgment that he promised never to repeat again, desperately seeking his parents’ approval and validation. “I want to help you any way I can. I…will try to remember more details about that night, if I can…”
“I know you will, and I appreciate that,” Pete said, watching as the young man shuddered and struggled with his emotions, holding back tears and burying his face in his hands, clearly distraught. He realized he had been hard on the young man, partly because he wanted to temper his arrogance and partly because he refused to allow the young man to usurp MacGyver’s position within the Foundation, something he seemed to feel he was entitled to and something that irritated Pete greatly for him to assume that he was automatically his successor. “Look, you’re obviously dealing with a lot right now. I know it isn’t easy for you. It was your first assignment, after all, and you feel that you failed—not only it, but the men with you. While it still isn’t completely clear to me what happened, I want you to know that I don’t find fault with you. The attack was so sudden; there was nothing you could do to prevent it. As we learn more, we’ll try to figure out who was responsible. I’m sure I’ll have more questions for you in the future, but for now I want you to get some rest.”
Brandon’s face was still buried in his hands. “Yes sir,” he said quietly, his voice muffled.
Pete watched him, feeling some sympathy for him, his earlier anger softening. Before Brandon explained his version of the events, he thought that maybe the young man’s ego and recklessness had interfered with the mission and inadvertently caused the deaths of those men. Now, at least according to the young man’s story, the blame appeared to rest solely on the enemy’s side. Certainly, surprise attacks by the enemy weren’t unheard of, making Brandon’s story plausible. He wasn’t prepared to accept it completely until he heard more facts and gathered more evidence from his many sources, but for now it was all he had. Still, he had to admit that something about the young man’s demeanor bothered him. He seemed penitent enough, but there was that earlier moment, that brief flash of wounded pride and bitterness that made him wonder if it was all a cleverly designed façade.
***
“Are you sure this will work?” An unfamiliar male voice echoed in MacGyver’s mind.
“There is no need to worry,” a female voice said. Unlike the man’s voice, he recognized it—throaty, businesslike. He had heard it repetitively through his dreams and flashbacks. “The serum has successfully passed all laboratory tests we’ve conducted, and it’s ready to be used. Its chemical structure is so complex that it will be untraceable once it enters his bloodstream and breaks down into his system. When I inject it into him, the needle I will use is so small, it will barely leave a mark. No one will ever know. And when he wakes…he won’t remember a thing…”
When MacGyver heard those words that had been haunting him the past few days return once again, he strained to open his eyes to see the source of them again, trying desperately to see her again and get a clearer image of where he might have heard them for the first time. It required all the effort he had to open his eyelids, feeling heavy as if they were cemented shut, his entire body feeling weak and helpless, numb and paralyzed. He managed to crack them open only slightly, allowing a piercing light to enter, almost blinding him and making him want to close his eyes again to protect them, but he forced them to remain open and adjust to the light. It was round and looked like a surgical light, aimed right down on him. His eyes wandered, trying to search the room and gather as many details about it as possible. He saw that he was strapped down to a table of some kind, and when he tried to struggle, his movements were so small, feeble, and ineffective that the people standing over him didn’t notice. Even those slight motions wearied him, and he felt himself drifting back into unconsciousness, but he forced himself to stay awake for as long as possible. Next, his eyes moved towards the woman’s face. The bright, round light created an eerie aura around her strong jaw and high cheekbones, casting shadows over the angles in her facial features and giving her a sinister, almost otherworldly appearance… “That’s good, MacGyver,” Dr. Ladd said, listening and making notes. They were still in the padded room. “What else do you see?”
“Nothing…just…the table I’m on…the light…that woman…” MacGyver said, staring straight ahead as if in a trance, trying to recall more about the visions he had been seeing along with his flashbacks. They were increasing in frequency and becoming clearer in his mind, but some of the information still remained vague.
“Do you know where this place is or how you got there?”
“No…I’ve never…seen it before…”
“You said they were going to inject you with something. Do you know what the purpose of it was or why they brought you there to use it on you?”
“No…”
“MacGyver, do you know how you ended up at this place?”
“No…” he blinked slowly, licking his lips. “I…was just driving, through the desert…going on…vacation…I made camp high up in the canyons and went to sleep. The next thing…I remember…I’m there…I-I don’t know how…”
Dr. Ladd paused in his notes and perused them, tapping his chin with his index finger, lost in thought and fascinated by what MacGyver was telling him. It seemed to have no connection whatsoever to his torture, yet he had heard the reports from Pete about the investigation they performed after finding him stranded in the desert. His jeep had been abandoned, but there was no sign of a struggle. When they found his camp, it was also undisturbed. If someone had actually taken him and it wasn’t some hallucination leftover from his delirium from being exposed to the intense heat and sun for such a prolonged period of time, then they had been precise and methodical, leaving behind no clues, nothing to indicate that something unusual or suspicious had happened. Still, an untraceable drug? Hypodermic needles that left no marks or bruising around the vein?
“MacGyver, why do you think you’ve been seeing these things and hearing this woman?” He asked after a long period of reflection and consideration.
“Doc, I-I just…don’t know...where they come from…or how…” MacGyver said, his voice so distant it sounded as if it were in another room. “I don’t know…what’s happening to me…” tears moistened his eyes.
Dr. Ladd smiled, trying to be encouraging. “It’s all right,” he said. “That’s why we’re doing this—to try to understand. You said there was a man in the room as well, along with the woman?”
“Yes…he sounds younger…”
“Can you see him? Have you ever seen him? What does he look like?”
Back in the room, MacGyver tried to see the man, but his face remained cloaked in shadows. For an instant however, he did move into the halo of light, allowing him a glimpse… “He—
A loud gunshot interrupted MacGyver. He turned his head and saw El Diablo, firing at the little boy who had offered him water at his most desperate moment, dying of thirst. Once again, he had to relive the horrifying moment as the bullet struck the boy in the head, blood squirting from the fatal wound, his body collapsing lifelessly to the ground, innocence murdered. “NO!” MacGyver screamed.
Dr. Ladd watched the sudden change in his patient, his eyes wide with shock. “What is it? What do you see now?” He asked.
“NO! Why? How could you do that? Why?” MacGyver shouted, his expression turning fierce, tears of rage and sorrow in his eyes.
“Tell me, MacGyver, please!” Dr. Ladd shouted. “What is it you see? Can you hear me? Please…come back to me!”
Somehow, the inconsistencies in his memory didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that when he actually witnessed the barbaric act, he was beaten and starved half to death, crippled by broken bones, fever, weakness, hunger, and infection, incapable of acting. Irrational thinking had overcome him, and he was too enraged by the brutality and senselessness of what he saw to care. He could do something. He might not have been able to stop the killing of the child, but he could punish El Diablo, and that was what he planned to do—mercilessly. Never before had he considered himself a hateful or vengeful person, but El Diablo had driven him to hatred. Now that he saw he was physically capable of fighting him, his body fully functional somehow, miraculously unhindered by broken bones or disease, that was what he intended to do… MacGyver lunged at Dr. Ladd, knocking him to the floor. He wrapped his hands tightly around his throat, squeezing, strangling him, his face contorted with rage. Fortunately, knowing that MacGyver was about to attack, Dr. Ladd had managed to press the security alarm button before MacGyver had overtaken him. As he felt his throat crushed by the force of MacGyver’s strong, large hands and his grip on consciousness grew more tenuous, his head feeling light and spinning from the lack of oxygen, dots of blackness gathering before his eyes, he only hoped they would make it before his patient killed him. He had been struck once before by a different patient, so he was not unused to their sometimes unpredictable, violent behavior, but this time, his life was in dire jeopardy. As he looked at MacGyver’s face, he had never seen it distorted by so much hatred and anger before. He looked like a completely different man, almost like a wild, uncontrollable beast. He knew that MacGyver thought he was probably facing his torturer to be reacting with such a murderous, blind rage, exacting revenge for being so cruelly abused and victimized. His usual code of ethics, morals, and scruples did not matter. He was reduced to his baser, more primitive, almost atavistic and animalistic instincts. It was a version of MacGyver that he knew was possible, buried beneath the surface after all he’d suffered. Now, he was at least releasing it, unable to stop himself.
The security guards burst into the room right before Dr. Ladd almost lost consciousness, working to restrain MacGyver, but he was too fast for them. Releasing his stranglehold on his psychiatrist, his eyes now filled with terror, he darted from the room, slipping past them.
“Hurry! Stop him! Secure the ward!” One of the guards shouted, his voice booming down the corridors.
Alarms blared and men scattered, filling the halls in their pursuit of the escaped patient, some of them carrying weapons should they have to resort to lethal force to stop him. None of them wanted to have to take such an extreme measure ever, but sometimes, it was the final and only decision that was available to them to make. Gasping deeply for breath, recovering, Dr. Ladd was helped to his feet by one of the guards.
“Are you all right, Doctor?” He asked.
It was a few minutes before Dr. Ladd could speak, heaving and coughing, leaning hard against the guard for support, trying not to slip back to the floor. He nodded.
“What’s happening?” He croaked.
“Your patient escaped,” the guard said. “We’re tracking him down now.”
“Oh God,” Dr. Ladd said, his voice still raspy. “Please…don’t hurt him…I mean, if you have to…but…don’t… please…try not to...he doesn’t know what he’s doing…”
“We understand that, Doctor, but right now, you need to rest. We’ll find him and bring him back. I promise.”
Nodding again, Dr. Ladd slumped to the floor of the padded room, feeling around his now sore, bruised neck, surprised it wasn’t broken by the power of MacGyver’s destructive anger. He made a few more sharp wheezes as he tried to inhale.
Confusion and illogic reigned in MacGyver’s mind. He was seeing El Diablo everywhere, as if he had multiplied. He was chasing him, one version of him carrying a whip, another the meat cleaver. He couldn’t escape his presence, no matter what he did. He was everywhere, determined to kill him this time, to drag him back into hell with him… The guards at last managed to surround MacGyver, grabbing him and pinning his arms behind him.
“No!” He screamed, his legs kicking and flailing, his eyes wild.
Soon, they were able to grab his legs as well and force him to the floor, holding him as he struggled. It was difficult to control him, adrenaline increasing his strength. He wailed and cried out as they held him, a nurse nearby ready to administer the sedative. Once she injected it, he began to calm down, but he still had not lost complete consciousness as they dragged him back to the padded cell. When they returned with him, placing him gently on the floor, Dr. Ladd couldn’t help but feel devastated. He was relieved his patient hadn’t had to be killed, but he still felt tremendous sympathy for the nightmarish existence MacGyver was living, robbed of his sanity, a captive to his delusions, his grip with reality seemingly growing looser every day. He was a veteran to the field of psychology and a professional that had seen and experienced some disturbing behavior in his time, but what MacGyver seemed to be going through was the worst he’d ever seen, making it hard for him to contain the tears that were forming in his eyes, no longer able to remain clinical and detached.
He was back in The Tomb, locked in chains, bleeding, broken, dying, in constant agony. He felt insects and snakes crawling all over him, tickling him with their hairy legs, their large, hard, exoskeletons and leathery skin dragging across his body. The hole was teeming with life, life MacGyver did not want sharing the dreadful, cramped space with him. His body twitched and squirmed in the chains, trying to remove them and the constant tickling sensations. His whole body itched, and he couldn’t relieve it… Dr. Ladd and the other hospital staff in the padded room with him watched as MacGyver moaned and dragged his fingernails across his skin, raking them so hard against it that he was creating raw, red scratches, drawing blood from some of them, ripping the bandages that were already on his arms to shreds.
“We should think about placing him in restraints,” one of the nurses said. “He’s just going to keep damaging himself.”
“It won’t last long,” Dr. Ladd said sadly, once again choking back tears and emotion, still not wanting to risk confining his patient any more than was absolutely necessary for his safety, considering restraints only as a final resort. “He’s been sedated. It will stop.”
Soon after he said this, the effects of the sedative completely overtook MacGyver, and he became motionless, lost in a heavy, drug-induced sleep. The nurse entered the room and began ministering his new scratches, treating them with antiseptic. Dr. Ladd closed his eyes, as if he could shut out the heartbreaking sight of what his patient had been reduced to, sighing. He wondered if MacGyver’s madness was like a fever, and that it would only get worse before it improved. It was what he hoped, and it was this hope he clung to in desperation, as if he could make it the truth.
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
Have some banana icecream, dear, for all your hard work!! 
Yes! Update! 
