I was beginning to wonder whether my R rating was relevant for this story or not, but I now know that for this part, it is. Consider yourselves warned!
Catastrophic Failure Part Six
Rated: R
The opacity of the fog enshrouding the forest gave it a feeling both claustrophobic and infinite, as if one could never escape its confines. Sound was also muffled, almost eerily absent. Yet it also provided the refuge MacGyver needed from his attacker, allowing him time to examine his shoulder wound. Wincing, preparing himself for the excruciating pain and biting his lower lip to stifle his groans, he began to gently pull at the arrow shaft, attempting to remove it. It would barely move, embedded deeply into his tissue. Releasing a gasp at the sharp pain it caused, he decided to stop, knowing he could cause more damage if he forced it. Leaning against a tree to brace himself, feeling faint and dazed from the loss of blood, he tore a piece of his shirt off to use as a makeshift bandage, hoping to at least slow the flow of blood from the wound so that he would not weaken further or die. He needed his strength to outrun his unseen enemy, who had to have seen him flee and was now stalking him, tracking his movements as any expert hunter would.
Tying the cloth tightly around the arrow wound as best as he could despite the obstruction of the shaft protruding from his shoulder to apply pressure and prevent more blood from flowing, he fought his nausea, weakness, and pain and tried to think of his next strategy for outwitting this unknown person, knowing they would find him eventually and that he couldn’t remain where he was. He also wondered about the attacker’s identity, realizing he had many enemies who wished him ill. The list was extensive, and he ran through it rapidly in his mind, trying to imagine who had enough hatred, skills, and organization to do something like this. As he considered possible suspects, he heard soft footfalls echoing through the eerily calm forest approaching his location. At first he was prepared to run again, trying to stagger to his feet, dizziness overwhelming him and sparks of light from the sharp pain exploding in his shoulder dancing in front of his eyes, but the person was coming quickly and heading directly towards him, allowing him little time to outrun him. Instead, he collapsed back to the forest floor, almost in relief that he wasn’t going to have to run, holding his bloodied shoulder, and thinking of a new idea. He gathered as much underbrush, leaves, soil, and other debris as he could with his healthy arm around him, covering his body and trying to camouflage himself and remain as still as possible, hoping he could fool the person pursuing him into continuing down the path past him. Once they were gone, he would move again.
He remained perfectly still as the footsteps grew louder and came closer, holding his breath and trying to ignore the constant intense pain that throbbed in his shoulder, wishing he could see and identify his attacker. The sound of the footsteps now indicated that the person was only a few feet away from him. He heard them pause, their feet grinding into the ground in a halt. He listened to their breathing, calm and steadily as if they hadn’t walked very far at all, clearly in excellent physical condition and well prepared for the challenges of the vast, immense wilderness that surrounded them. They seemed to be searching, their feet shifting on the ground occasionally as if turning and looking in all directions. MacGyver continued to remain perfectly still despite the jarring, incredible pain he continued to feel in his shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t be discovered and that his disguise looked realistic enough to avoid detection. When at last he heard the footsteps begin again and then slowly fade, he knew he had succeeded and was out of danger again, at least for the moment. Carefully, he unburied himself, brushing off the dirt and leaves that covered him. Looking around, he saw no one, but he also knew that the fog could be deceptive and could easily be concealing his attacker. He saw the footprints left, the tracks imprinted into the damp soil appearing to be work boots of some kind, leaving behind an intricate impression of deep, grooved, and jagged treads. They were the average size for a standard man’s work boot, but beyond that they could tell him little, except for the direction they took, which appeared to be away from him and deeper into the woods.
Fighting another bout of dizziness and gripping his shoulder, MacGyver slowly stood, prepared to run in the opposite direction, hoping to gain some advantage over this person and overtake him. He began to do just that when another arrow whooshed through the forest and struck him, piercing him deeply in the thigh. Releasing a stunned cry, MacGyver fell to the ground, turning his head to examine his new wound, the arrow shaft penetrating just as deeply as the one in his shoulder, new blood flowing from it. Fresh, sharp waves of pain raced up his leg, and he released an involuntary cry, holding his leg, trying to see the wound better. The arrow had gone completely through his leg, and he saw the tip of it sticking out from the other side. He pulled on it, but it also would not move, his flesh and muscle too thick. More arrows shot through the fog towards him, missing him and hitting the ground. Struggling to get to his feet despite the pain in his leg and his shoulder, he crawled up a small, nearby rock outcropping, straining to make the slightest progress, battling the pain as his shoulder and leg screamed in protest, weakness from the loss of blood making even the slightest movement seem as if he had expended all his available energy, ready to pass out, blackness gathering around the corners of his eyes. Still, he pressed as hard as he could, refusing to give up, pushing as hard as he could despite his injuries, his entire body trembling with weakness and spent adrenaline. He could hear more arrows behind him, smashing against the rock and thankfully missing him. The constant assault stopped, replaced with the sound of footsteps, this time running towards him.
MacGyver clawed desperately at the rocks, climbing them as quickly as he could, his hands becoming cut and bloody as well from their rough surface. He slipped several times, nearly tumbling back to the ground, but he managed to secure himself, continuing to press ahead even as new waves of pain in shoulder and leg pleaded with him to stop. His attacker was not far behind him, trying to pull him to the ground, yanking on his leg, renewing the pain where the arrow had struck him. Turning his head, still unable to clearly see the person, he kicked at them, trying to knock them off the rock, but they remained clinging to it, chasing him up the face of it. When MacGyver reached the top, panting heavily from the strain his exertions had placed on his injuries, he heard his mysterious attacker not far behind, nearly to the top. He waited, trying to regain his breath. When the person emerged, he stretched out his good leg, ready to kick him off, but the man reacted quickly, pointing his crossbow at MacGyver’s heart, prepared to fire.
***
When Pete arrived at the cabin, it took him a moment to process what he saw. Arrows from a hunter’s crossbow were strewn all over the ground, several of them in the now flattened tires of MacGyver’s jeep, as if someone was trying to prevent him from escaping. Bending over, he picked one of them up at examined it closely. It was thick and sturdy, meant for bringing down large game. The tip was so sharp that when he barely touched it, it drew blood on his fingertip. Wiping the blood on his pants and scanning the nearby forest, he saw nothing. Cautiously, he approached the cabin, clenching the arrow tightly in his hand. The door was closed, and much like the houseboat, there was no indication of any forced entry. He peered inside, but he saw nothing unusual or out of place. Unlocking the door with his own set of keys, he entered, getting a clearer look. Except for the chaotic pile of sheets on the bed, everything appeared to be in order, but the cabin was unoccupied, MacGyver missing.
“MacGyver?” Pete shouted, running back outside and looking around again, the fog making it difficult to see very far. “MacGyver, are you out here?”
All he received in response was his own voice, answering him in an echo. Beyond that, the forest was still and silent, blanketed in the thick fog. He stared at the arrow again, trying to make sense of its bizarre appearance on the property along with all the others. Whoever had fired them was now gone, and MacGyver was nowhere to be found. It meant there was a possibility that his friend was still alive and had run from his attacker, but it also meant that he still had someone after him, someone who obviously wanted him dead. A list of possible scenarios and suspects formed in his mind, but he knew he had little time to waste on useless conjectures when his friend was in danger. Looking down, he noticed a drop of blood on the ground. Instantly, he knew it belonged to MacGyver. He was hurt, and whoever was pursuing him wouldn’t stop until he was mortally wounded. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew he had to find him and help him before it was too late. He ran, disappearing into the forest.
***
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man pointing the crossbow at MacGyver’s heart said calmly in a striking, unforgettable British accent, smirking.
“Murdoc,” MacGyver said weakly, gazing up at him.
“Let me guess, you thought I was dead,” Murdoc said, laughing.
MacGyver continued to stare up at him, stunned and speechless, feeling his life draining from him, spilling onto the rocks and staining them.
“Do you like my new toy, MacGyver?” Murdoc said, waving around the crossbow and grinning gleefully like a proud child. “As you no doubt can tell, I’ve become quite the expert at using it.”
“What are you doing here?” MacGyver managed to ask, feeling cold and exhausted, his body going into shock, fighting the urge to sleep, trying to remain alert. He could barely move any longer, his entire body sore as if it was completely riddled with arrows besides the ones in his shoulder and leg.
“Why MacGyver, I should believe that the answer to your question is quite obvious. I’m here to kill you, of course.”
Pointing the crossbow at MacGyver again, this time he aimed for his throat. He laughed again and grinned sadistically, his eyes gleaming unnaturally. He delighted in watching his wounded prey suffer, weak and shivering, pale from loss of blood, arrows piercing his shoulder and thigh, blood leaking from him, gradually working to kill him, fear and pain in his pleading brown eyes. At last, he had him right where he wanted him, completely vulnerable and defenseless, cornered on a slab of rock, an arrow ready to end his life the instant he fired it. The whole tableau struck him as incredibly beautiful, a work of art in its highest form.
“Before I do, however, perhaps you would like to hear a story,” he said.
“Get on with it, Murdoc,” MacGyver groaned, closing his eyes, once again fighting the urge to sleep.
“Oh, but I should think you would like to hear it. You see, it’s about a clever, inventive fellow and this bridge he designed.”
MacGyver opened his eyes and glared at him, his alertness returning, rage boiling beneath the surface of his wounded body, every muscle tightening and tensing at his words, preparing to strike in retaliation.
“What do you know about the bridge?” He asked, his voice almost a low growl in anger.
“Funny thing about it, actually,” Murdoc said, laughing again. “You see, I was the one who made it collapse.”
“You…
you caused it to fail?” MacGyver asked, his anger as well as his strength increasing.
“Yes. You see, it was all part of a wonderful plan I had for you. I knew if I destroyed something you made it would erode your confidence in yourself and your abilities. You would feel guilty about those poor people who died on the bridge and blame yourself. You would hide from the world…where else? Pete’s cabin. Glorious reconstruction, if I do say so myself. I’m still sorry I had to burn the other one down to nothing but rubble.”
“No you’re not,” MacGyver said, wincing and clutching his shoulder. “You’re not sorry about anything, Murdoc. You never are. You don’t care.”
“Well, perhaps I don’t. But you do. That’s the difference between you and me. I used that difference to my advantage. You see, by feeling miserable and sorry for yourself because of the damage you believed you caused, I was able to weaken you, and at last move in for the kill, just as any successful predator in nature would. You weren’t paying attention, MacGyver, not even to yourself.” He shook his head. “A rather foolish mistake for someone like you to be letting his guard down and allowing his emotions to rule him as if he were nothing but a pathetic slave to them. I’m not a slave to my emotions, MacGyver. I am their master. That’s why I’m able to do things you couldn’t even conceive of, why I have more power than you ever will, and why, ultimately, I will win.”
“You killed hundreds of innocent men, women, and children to prove a point with me?” MacGyver asked. His eyes, which earlier had been dull and glazed with pain were now bright, glinting and dark with fury. The constant pain he had been feeling from his wounds was now barely noticeable. “I …I can’t believe this…I mean, I knew you were low, Murdoc. I just didn’t realize how low you would stoop. Why them? Why did you have to kill them? Why not just come after me? Why did you have to use them as pawns in your sick game?”
Murdoc shrugged casually, smiling. He was still pointing the crossbow at MacGyver’s throat. It pleased him to know that shortly he would end his tiresome sermon about morality by piercing his throat with an arrow and silencing that annoying voice of virtue forever.
“Oh, I don’t know, MacGyver,” he said. “Perhaps because I wanted to do something more creative, something on a much grander scale. I succeeded, wouldn’t you agree?”
MacGyver couldn’t bear it any longer. He couldn’t listen to Murdoc sounding so flippant about loss of life, as if it was meaningless. He couldn’t believe all that time he had been torturing himself about something that wasn’t his fault but the fault of a madman trying to manipulate and confuse him psychologically. Summoning all the remaining reserves of energy he had, he swung his uninjured leg high in the air, kicking and knocking the crossbow out of Murdoc’s hands. It skidded across the surface of the rock. Surprised and angry, Murdoc lunged for it to retrieve it, and MacGyver lunged after him, knocking him to the stone. They struggled and fought, rolling across the rock, punching each other. Murdoc rolled on top of MacGyver, pinning him. Grinning playfully, he twisted the arrows deeper into MacGyver’s flesh, causing him to scream in agony. He laughed as he listened to him. Even through his pain MacGyver managed to knee him in the stomach, causing him to relax his grip and giving MacGyver the advantage again, this time pinning Murdoc. The crossbow was within Murdoc’s sight and he reached for it, straining and fighting against MacGyver’s grip. At last, he had a good hold on it. He used it to knock MacGyver on the side of the head, briefly disorienting him and causing him to fall backwards. Laughing, standing back up, Murdoc pointed the weapon at him again, prepared to fire. He wiped the blood away from the corner of his mouth.
“Give it up, MacGyver,” he said, panting. “You’re not going to win this time.”
He was standing near the ledge where the rocks were weaker and crumbling. They began to crack and give beneath his feet, much like the bridge had given way beneath the feet of those innocent African villagers. He slipped, and before he knew it, he was plummeting to the ground below.
“MacGyverrrrr!” he screamed.
MacGyver listened as his body thudded below. Pulling himself along, once again feeling himself slowly dying, he reached the edge of the rock to where it was still safe and craned his neck, trying to see if his foe had indeed died this time. What he saw was more shocking and gruesome than what he expected. A mountain lion was snarling and tearing Murdoc apart, bloody pieces of his body lying everywhere. He was still screaming, a terrified expression on his face.
“MacGyverrrr!” he screamed over the hungry snarls of the mountain lion. “MacGyverrr!”
Soon, the cries died, and MacGyver couldn’t stand to look any more. He rolled onto his back, shuddering, and closed his eyes, succumbing to the unconsciousness that had been beckoning him.
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
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Holy Hannah!! (to quote Stargate Sg1 brainy character Samantha Carter) Ahhhh, Murdoc ...again.... 
Great job!!! You had me on the edge on my seat. Anymore to the story? 
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