You're going to hate me
, but I'm going back and trying to finish another story I started. It's been awhile, so you might want to read the first part of this story before continuing on to this part. This incredibly strange, wild, crazy, and experimental idea came to me for this story one night, and I want to see where it goes and if it works. So, without further ado...enjoy!
Harry’s Legacy Part Two
Rated: PG
Sitting astride the cabin roof with hammer and nails in hand, basking in the brilliant Colorado autumn sunshine, MacGyver began the task of rebuilding Harry’s cabin—and his own life. While most would consider the intensive labor it required to restore the ramshackle, dilapidated structure to make it livable again tedious, he found it liberating. No longer did he have to prepare himself against the constant threat of danger. Surrounded by miles of nothing but sprawling, vast wilderness, he could relax, he could live, and he could just simply…exist. He never realized before how calm, peaceful, and steady the pace of life could be, how he could enjoy life and take what it had to offer without any concerns, protected and sheltered by the pines and crystalline mountain lakes. What he was building was solid and permanent, unlike the roaming, chaotic existence of his past, and he planned on embracing his new life fully without doubts or regrets, his experience with death teaching him that he could no longer afford regrets. He had to move ahead onto the next stage of his life, and not take a moment of it for granted.
“Well Harry,” he said, grinning and closing his eyes, tilting his head upwards towards the sun, feeling the cool, soothing breeze caress his face. “It looks like I’m taking your advice at last. I’m learning to be more careful.”
A part of him knew it was absurd to conduct a conversation with someone who wasn’t there, who couldn’t possibly be there, but another part of him found it oddly comforting. Ever since he had awakened from his coma and related his story to Pete about the visions he had seen of his parents and grandfather in the afterlife, he wasn’t sure what to believe. It all seemed so fantastic and yet it had felt so real. In the evenings when he had finished his work for the day and he would sit on the rickety back porch, MacGyver often thought he saw Harry’s ghostly apparition in the woods watching him, but he would quickly dismiss it as an optical illusion created by the overactive imagination of his mind and the frosty mist that developed over the lake, rising like steam off the placid surface.
***
He heard voices. Faint whispers. The shuffling of feet. Stirring from what had up until then been the most peaceful, restful night of sleep in his life, MacGyver’s body tensed and reacted, instinctively remembering his previous, dangerous existence. Where were those sounds coming from? Remaining perfectly still, he listened. The voices were indistinct, but they sounded as if they originated from the living room area of the cabin. Deciding to investigate but wanting to approach the situation with caution, he grabbed a flashlight from the nightstand and Harry’s walking stick. The walking stick was a fine, ornate piece of woodworking that had taken his grandfather years to whittle and carve to perfection. It was almost a work of art. MacGyver was uncertain whether it would make a decent weapon against the mysterious intruders and hated to use such a fine work of craftsmanship in such a manner, but it was heavy, sturdy, and it was about the only thing he could find in the urgency of the moment.
Creeping slowly into the darkened living room, he heard the voices grow louder, yet he still could not understand them. He felt an intense energy surrounding him, something that he could not explain and something that felt extremely claustrophobic, stifling, and uncomfortable. It was as if he were being surrounded by bodies, pressing against him and crushing him on all sides, invading his personal space and smothering him, making it difficult for him to breathe. Yet even in the darkness he did not see a single silhouette that resembled a human form. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness all he could see were the familiar outlines of the furniture in the room and nothing else. As abruptly as they had started, interrupting his sleep, the voices were gone, leaving nothing but silence. The feeling of being crushed also lessened, and MacGyver released a gasp, grateful to be able to breathe the cabin’s musty air once again. Something skittered out the front door, and he turned in that direction, seeing the door gently close behind whoever had left.
“Hello?” He called out, his voice echoing in the cabin, making it sound desperately lonely and melancholy, though he didn’t feel either of those things. What he felt instead was fear and uncertainty, the exact feelings he had been trying to relieve himself of by coming there. “Hello? Is someone in here?”
Receiving no response except the complete stillness and silence that only comes with nighttime, he turned on his flashlight and shone the beam around the living room, once again finding no one. Nothing had been disturbed, and there was no evidence of a forced entry. Turning toward the door, he stepped out into the cool evening air and searched the periphery of the cabin’s property, finding no trace of human activity; the only footprints he found were his own. Still, he knew something wasn’t right. He knew he was being watched. He could feel it. Years of agent and field experience had taught him to expect the unpredictable, to be ready for anything, to know when the enemy was close, but was this presence the enemy? Who were they and what did they want from him?
“Hello? Is anyone out there?” He called out, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound, his shouts reverberating off the nearby mountains.
Once again, nothing but silence responded. After waiting a few more minutes, deciding he was safe, no longer feeling as if he were being watched, he returned inside the cabin. Turning off his flashlight, he sat in the complete darkness on one of the worn, threadbare couches in the living room, trying to compose himself and gather his thoughts. He didn’t know why, but he felt shaken and uneasy. The familiar, disturbing feeling of being hunted by an unseen enemy returned to him, causing trickles of icy sweat to roll down his spine and his body to shiver uncontrollably. He felt himself panting, his heartbeat racing, panic and adrenaline surging within him, his body tensed and coiled, prepared to spring and attack to defend himself.
“Come on, Mac, get ahold of yourself, that’s right,” he whispered, rubbing his face with his hands. “Just breathe…it was nothing. You’re having a panic attack, that’s all, or it was just a nightmare, your mind playing tricks on you. It’s understandable, after all the stress you’ve been through, but it’s over now. Just breathe…just relax…just stay calm…that’s it…that’s it…”
He had never felt more frightened in his life. At a time when he should have been at ease and happy, the old feelings he had so desperately wanted to run away from and suppress had resurfaced and pursued him into the mountains, haunting him and playing cruel games on his still fragile, recovering psyche.
“Maybe Pete was right,” he said. “Maybe I can’t settle down, because if I try to for one moment…” he sighed, looking around the dark room. “Or maybe I’m just cracking up, losing my mind.”
Another part of himself told him that he was being ridiculous and irrational, that it was nothing but the illusions of his subconscious as he slept, with no basis in reality. It was merely a dream, residue left over from another time when he had to remain alert and aware of his safety. Naturally, it was going to take some time for that old way of life to disappear before he could completely transition into his new life of peace and tranquility. After all, what did he expect? That it would be easy to change his life after so many years on the run, on assignment? His mind and body had been overactive for years, and now they had stopped, slowed down—first by the coma, and now this new life he was trying to make for himself. Of course things would not run smoothly immediately. It was going to take some time. He was going to have to learn to relax, to learn what it meant to enjoy life instead of living it in a constant, chaotic blur.
“Then again, maybe Pete’s right,” he said. “Maybe I can’t sit still. Maybe I don’t know how to live that way.”
He sat there for the rest of the night, brooding, protecting himself from enemies real and imaginary, wondering what had been real and what was simply the product of his exhausted mind.
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
Can't wait to read where you'll take Mac this time, MacsChick!
