[MacsChick]

Wandering Blind Part Three
Rated: R

The dark outline of the house floated on the water, cast in a bluish light, shrouded by fog. Mist and steam rose from the water, ripples of gentle waves glistening in the moonlight that occasionally broke free of the clouds. The mystical scenery seemed to beckon him, inviting him, looking familiar somehow, yet he couldn’t place it in his fractured memory…

The smoky odor of burning wood and the crackling and roaring of a fire greeted MacGyver as he slowly regained consciousness, the orange glow of the flames flickering in the corner of his half-open eye. Pain returned to the side of his face, but it seemed dulled somehow and not quite as unbearable. He felt woozy, lost in a daze, images shifting shape, blurring, and spinning rapidly. His throat felt sore, and he reached up, touching the raw marks the rope had left around his tender neck. Despite feeling weak and beaten, he was warm and comfortable, surrounded by thick, heavy flannel blankets draped over him. Drowsy, he drifted in and out of sleep for several hours before awaking fully, the blurred images he had seen earlier taking shape. He was inside a rustic cabin, small and sparsely furnished, the fireplace dominating the room and creating the only source of light, the wood snapping and popping as the flames licked and devoured it. Vaguely he remembered what had happened to him, distantly remembering the laughter of the madman as he swung from the end of a rope, his body twitching and struggling for oxygen. It all seemed unreal, like an unpleasant dream, yet the rough marks on his neck constantly burned to remind him of the event, proving that it indeed happened. Somehow, he had survived, and he didn’t understand how he had ended up in the cabin or who had brought him there.

His eyes wandered around the room, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He heard the sounds of human movement, rustling fabric and the heavy, almost clumsy tramping of boots. A massive shadow appeared on the wall near him, towering over him and looking like some monstrous phantasm. The man who created the shadow was equally large, hulking, bulky, and rough-hewn, the perfect image of a hermit mountain man, wearing a grizzled, unkempt, and wild beard and looking like a common criminal escaped or recently released from prison. MacGyver stared at him for awhile, the man not taking notice of him, busy in restocking the fire with wood, poking at it and causing bright flecks and sparks of glowing fireballs and embers to dance and bounce as he did so, arching in the air like tiny meteorites. As MacGyver studied him, he was able to see beyond his wild appearance, noticing a gentleness and ease about his manner and a kindness in his eyes. Still, he shrank back from the man in mistrust when he turned and saw that he was awake, approaching him with a friendly smile. Uncertain of his motives, not knowing where he was or exactly who he was, wondering if this man could have possibly had something to do with his hanging, he remained wary, drawing the blankets closer around him as if seeking protection.

“Hey, welcome back,” the man said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He noticed that MacGyver looked fearful, pulling away from him, distrust in his dark, intense eyes. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe now.”

MacGyver relaxed slightly, still wanting more reassurance that he could trust this strange man, watching him carefully. The man seemed to understand, smiling.

“My name’s D.B.,” he said.

MacGyver didn’t know how to respond. He thought he knew what his name was, but he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything. He tried to speak, but it almost seemed as if he didn’t know how or had forgotten how to, unable to make a sound or an utterance, his lips and mouth uncooperative and uncoordinated, so he remained silent, staring up at D.B.

“Don’t you have a name?” He asked.

MacGyver shook his head, unsure.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

MacGyver continued to stare up at him, confusion in his eyes.

“Do you remember what happened to you?”

Nodding, MacGyver moved his hand back up to his neck, gingerly touching the red, livid marks.

“That’s right,” D.B. said. “Someone tried to hang you. I cut you down, and just in time, too. You almost died. Do you know who did this to you?”

MacGyver blinked tiredly and shook his head, his eyes lost and pleading. D.B. felt tremendous sympathy for him.

“Well, you’re safe now,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay at my cabin as long as you’d like. I’ll protect you. I’m a survivalist, so I can handle things. You had a pretty bad gash on the side of your head, but I stitched it up as best as I could and gave you some pain medication for it. I was an Army medic back in ‘Nam, so you should heal just fine.”

MacGyver continued to stare at him, something that unsettled and unnerved him.

“Would you like some water?” He asked, feeling uncomfortable with those piercing dark eyes focused intently on him, as if they were penetrating his soul. They were full of emotion and pain, and D.B. could tell he had been through much in his life. He wondered what the man’s story was, and who would be filled with enough hatred and rage to try to kill him in such a vicious and brutal manner.

MacGyver nodded.

“All right, here you go,” D.B. said, pouring him a glass of water from a battered, dented pitcher. “I pumped it fresh from the well this morning. I don’t have any running water or electricity in this place. It’s just how I prefer to live, completely wild and unfettered, you know? Saves on electricity bills, that’s for sure.” Grinning, he helped MacGyver take the cup and lifted his head. “Sip on it, now. Your throat might still be sore.”

It was, and it burned slightly to drink, but MacGyver was relieved to have his thirst quenched. When he was finished, D.B. helped him lie back down, tucking the blankets back around him snugly.

“Is that better? Are you comfortable?” he asked.

MacGyver nodded.

“Now, you’re probably going to need something to eat, and unfortunately I don’t keep much around this place. I like to hunt my food, and food has been scarce as of late. Don’t worry, though. As much as I hate to go to town, I have enough dough saved up to get you something, some soup or something. Would you like that?”

MacGyver nodded.

D.B. frowned. “You’re a peculiar fella,” he said. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

MacGyver stared at him, puzzled by his question.

“Can you talk at all?”

MacGyver shook his head, not thinking he could, seeming still to have forgotten how.

“Well, don’t worry. I’m not one much for talking, either. I guess that’s why I live out here, alone, so I can be at peace and away from people. I will say, though, that it sure is nice to have you as company. It does get lonely sometimes.” He smiled at MacGyver and patted his leg. “I’ll do all the talking for both of us. I think I’ve done more now than I have in years. But you’re nice to talk to, you know? You listen. I can tell. Most people don’t.”

MacGyver smiled slightly.

“You just rest now,” D.B. said. “I’ll get the old beater fired up and head into town to get you something. Everything will be fine.”

MacGyver watched him as he stood and left the room, having to stoop his broad, rounded shoulders just to clear the door frame. He remained awake for awhile before his eyelids grew heavy and he fell back asleep, feeling contented and secure.

***

A loud slam jolted MacGyver awake.

“Damn it!” A man shouted in the distance, following by pounding and hammering sounds.

Recognizing the voice as belonging to D.B. and curious about what was happening, MacGyver slowly got out of bed, battling a bout of dizziness before continuing, bracing himself against the log bed to regain his balance. Stumbling, his legs trembling weakly beneath him, he followed where the sounds originated and found D.B. outside in a covered area by his cabin that served as his garage, tinkering with his dilapidated old pickup, occasionally smashing it with his fists or kicking at it with his boots, cursing bitterly and silently, almost weeping. The truck appeared to have been the recipient of many such blows before, its entire body pitted and dented as evidence of numerous years of hard wear and tear and abuse. The hood was open, and he was staring down at the engine, flustered and overwhelmed. MacGyver approached cautiously, not wanting to startle him when he was in such a concentrated fury. D.B. heard him and lifted his head, his face twisted and contorted in anger and sorrow, a few stray tears in his eyes, indicating how passionately he felt about and how emotionally he was attached to his beloved old vehicle.

“I’m afraid the old boy just doesn’t want to run anymore,” he said, laughing slightly in embarrassment, wiping away his tears. “He’s past his prime. Without it, I can’t go anywhere, and here I was gonna take care of you.”

Moving closer to the engine, MacGyver examined it. He didn’t know why or how, but something made him feel confident that he could fix it. He began searching the ramshackle garage for items he could use, D.B. watching him in puzzled amazement.

“What are you doing?” He asked, watching MacGyver work. “You’re trying to fix it? Good luck. It’s a hopeless case, I’m telling you. It looks like it might need an entirely new, revamped engine, and those things don’t come cheap.”

MacGyver continued to work, deep in concentration, moving quickly. D.B. was impressed and continued to be amazed.

“You know, I can honestly say I’m not quite sure what you’re doing with all those odds and ends or how they’re going to make my truck work again, but you sure look like you know what you’re doing,” he said. “Are you some kind of mechanic or something?”

MacGyver ignored his questions and continued to work, focusing entirely on the problem that required a solution. He wanted to avoid what was being asked, anyway, unable to provide the answers, not knowing for certain who he was or what he did for a living, also at that moment incapable of speaking, this strange new world he was in and this new identity he was establishing seeming to involve muteness. When he was finished, he pointed at the driver’s side of the truck and then at D.B.

“You want me to try it now?” He asked.

MacGyver nodded.

“All right,” he said, sighing in frustration. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.” He stepped inside the cab and started the ignition. The truck stuttered and rattled slightly, and then it shuddered to life, the engine running smoothly. “Well, I’ll be!” D.B. shouted, jumping out of the cab, the truck rocking from his weight. He laughed and pounded his fists, this time lovingly, on the side of the truck. “You did it! I don’t know what you did, but it works!”

MacGyver smiled, pleased that he could help, wondering how he knew what to do. He couldn’t explain it. It just felt ingrained, as natural to him as instinct. D.B. approached him, grinning broadly. He slapped him heartily on the back, pushing him forward and almost knocking him off his feet.

“Hey, you’re real handy to have around, do you know that?” He asked. “In fact, I think that’s what I’m going to call you—Handy.”

MacGyver smiled and nodded.

D.B. listened to the engine run for a moment, closing his eyes. “That is the sweetest sound I’ve heard in awhile,” he said. “You know, I even think you actually got it to run better than it did before. I wish I knew your secret.”

MacGyver looked at him and shrugged, wishing he knew, too.

“Well, don’t worry about that right now. I’ll help you figure out who you are. As I said, feel free to stay here as long as you’d like until you fully recover. I won’t mind. Now that this baby is working again I’m going to run to the store and get you something. I’ll be back soon, all right? Just rest. I appreciate what you did for my truck, but you really should still be in bed, recuperating. You were badly beaten and have been through quite an ordeal.”

MacGyver nodded.

“See you later, Handy,” D.B. said, smiling and winking, jumping into the truck, the body once again rocking with his weight.

As he drove down the worn dirt path away from the cabin, MacGyver couldn’t help but feel melancholy as he watched the rusted truck disappear. He was filled with uneasiness and apprehension that he couldn’t explain, feeling anxious, as if he was supposed to be somewhere else, that someone was missing him, that he had another life somewhere, the foggy image of the house on the water returning to him, calling him. If he did have another life, he didn’t know what it was supposed to be, this new life with D.B. the only one that seemed real, gave him an identity, his existence feeling like a dream from which he couldn’t awake.

To be continued…

[ghostdoll]

O_o

He can't talk either?!!

XD

Man, Murdoc really hit Mac with something this time! Ha! Mac's mind had nothing to do with his memories. Is something within himself!

Thanks for another wonderful chapter, MacsChick!!