The next couple of parts take place three weeks earlier in the story, when Mac went missing. Now you'll get a chance to see what happened to him. Enjoy, and as always, thank you for your readership and support!
Oh, and there is some violence in this part, hence the R rating.
Wandering Blind Part Two
Rated: R
Three weeks earlier…
Murdoc pointed the gun at him. He said nothing, merely smirking and laughing fiendishly as he fired at point-blank range, the bullet striking him in the head. Complete blackness quickly consumed him, and he knew nothing more… MacGyver awoke with a start, gasping, sweat beading on his forehead. His terror quickly gave way to confusion as he looked around his houseboat and realized he didn’t recognize what should have been familiar surroundings to him, not knowing where he was or how he had ended up there. He didn’t even understand what he was afraid of, or why he had awakened in such an alarmed state. All he knew was that he was afraid and he sensed danger. Something was pursuing him, some invisible, malicious enemy, and he had to flee. To where, he was uncertain, but the desire and urge to run and disappear overwhelmed him. Stumbling out of bed, his appearance and clothing disheveled from sleep, he didn’t even bother dressing or grooming, mindlessly shuffling down the spiral staircase and grabbing the keys to his jeep. For a moment, he stared blankly at them, not sure how he knew where they were or how he knew where to go to navigate through the strange house he’d never seen before, but some part of his mind vaguely recognized them, vaguely understood them to belong to him. Continuing in this confused, disoriented state, he left the houseboat and entered his jeep, turning the keys to start the ignition, all of his actions automatic, almost robotic, a part of his mind remembering while the other forgot.
He did not know where he was driving. He just drove, continuously, leaving the city and getting farther away from civilization with each mile that passed, going deeper into the wilderness, the roads growing narrower and more rugged, almost impassable, the jeep rocking, bouncing, and swaying violently as it struck deep ruts created by rain erosion and large stones that lay in the middle of the unpaved trail. Eventually, the trail ended, but MacGyver took no notice, driving the jeep into the woods, the terrain becoming more uneven and treacherous. His thoughts were a blur, no purpose or intention clear to him any longer. Even the sense that he was in danger was gone, replaced with rambling, random thoughts that made no sense to him, brief images and flashes of memory intruding, interrupting, and working to confuse him further. He felt numb and disconnected from the world, lost in it, unsure of who he was. Everything was a complete blank, and he could barely concentrate. All he could do was drive, following no clear path or direction, the forest growing denser, trees closing in around him, confining him, restricting his movement. Panicking, he continued to press forward despite their obstruction, desperate to keep driving no matter what, some inner force insisting that he continue but giving him no further instructions, no destinations. It seemed for awhile that was all he could do, as if something was controlling him.
The jeep began to struggle and shudder, and then it stopped. Perplexed, not prepared for the sudden stop, MacGyver turned the key several times. Nothing happened. A flashing red light on his dashboard indicated that he was out of gas. Getting out, feeling nervous and uneasy about something he couldn’t identify, worried about not being able to continue his drive, he decided to walk, wandering aimlessly, almost zombie-like, further into the woods once again without purpose or direction, following the path illuminated by his jeep’s headlights as they slashed through the darkness, the trees cast in silhouette against the starry night sky, their jagged shapes creating nightmarish, freakish looking creatures that would vanish once the sun rose, transforming them once again into the harmless beings they were. Tripping over exposed tree roots and other natural hazards, his footing unsteady, sliding on the gravel and unable to see clearly as he retreated further into the woods, his headlights no longer shining on him to guide him, he continued walking, once again with the determination and will of someone impelled by an inner voice commanding him to continue. He did not know what he would find once he reached the end of his journey. He did not even know why he was taking it. He just kept walking, unable to think or see clearly, longing to keep traveling no matter what the potential risks and dangers were to his life. His life at that moment was meaningless and empty, a series of disconnected memories that made little rational or logical sense in his jumbled, disordered mind. It was as if someone was calling on him to walk, to wander without ceasing until he collapsed from exhaustion.
“MacGyver…” a voice whispered faintly as if carried by the wind, sounding sinister, almost hissing.
Stopping, his undefined mission momentarily halted, MacGyver turned his head in the direction of the voice. He did not know what it said, did not recognize the name it called, but he responded to it anyway.
“Hello?” He called out. “Hello, is someone there?”
“Over here, MacGyver…” Once again the voice was faint, almost unreal, like a fabled sprite of the forest playing mischievous games with mere mortals, incorporeal and able to assume many shapes to tempt, mislead, and bewilder unsuspecting travelers.
“Where are you? What do you want?” MacGyver asked, trying to follow the sound of the voice.
“You,” the voice said, this time stronger, sounding as if it were right behind him.
MacGyver turned, and as he did he was struck on the side of the head with a shovel.
***
Awakening to sharp, throbbing, brutal, intense waves of pain, the entire left side of his face feeling cracked and broken, caked in blood, his eye swollen shut, MacGyver could barely see the shadowy, blurred figure of a man standing in front of him. He realized that he too was standing somehow, and it made him dizzy. Trying to sit down to relieve the nauseating sensation and the excruciating pain he felt, he found that he couldn’t, something restricting his movement, tugging at his neck as if he were on a leash. He tried to at least touch the wound on his face and examine it to see the extent of the damage as well as comfort it, but he couldn’t raise his hands. He felt something around them, too, something binding them tightly together, rough and chafing his skin, constricting his circulation and causing tingling sensations to race up his wrists. Struggling, he soon discovered that his legs were similarly bound and that he was completely helpless, imprisoned by ropes. Whatever he was standing on was unstable, and it began rocking beneath him. Laughing, the man steadied it.
“Not yet,” he said. “After all, I don’t want you doing the job for me. What would be the satisfaction in that?”
“Who…who are you? What do you want?” MacGyver asked, gasping and wheezing, finding it difficult to speak, the rope around his neck tight and already restricting his breathing, the pain on the side of his face increasing.
“Now MacGyver, must we play that same tired game? You know damn well who I am,” the man said. “We shall have no more delays. It is time for your execution at last. Quite a lovely evening for a hanging, if I do say so myself. Also, quite inspired, don’t you agree? You can die like one of the heroes in your western films.”
Grinning, he kicked the flimsy crate that MacGyver’s bound feet had barely been standing on for support out from underneath him, gravity pulling him downward, the noose tightening around his neck, choking him. MacGyver struggled to breathe, his body twisting, writhing, and swinging at the end of the rope, his surroundings growing dimmer, his consciousness fainter. He heard his unknown, unseen enemy laughing in the background, enjoying his suffering.
“Now, unlike some hangings where the impact of the drop causes a man’s neck to snap, providing him with the relief of instant death, I have chosen a slower, more painful method. You see, I had you closer to the ground, so that you will slowly strangle to death. Beautiful, wouldn’t you agree?”
Choking, unable to breathe or speak, MacGyver wanted to tell him that he didn’t agree, that what this man was doing was sick, that he had done nothing wrong, nothing to warrant such treatment. He wanted to plead for his release, but even if he could talk he knew there was nothing he could do to reason with this madman, whoever he was. Wriggling, he tried to pull himself up so that he could reduce the pressure of the rope around his neck and get some air, but it was useless. Everything around him slowed down, grew distorted, his senses failing him. He was beginning to die, slowly losing awareness.
“Now, even in an area as remote as this, the police will inevitably find you, so I had best be on my way before they arrive,” the man said calmly, almost cheerfully. It was chilling for MacGyver to hear as he continued to strain and struggle to breathe. “Goodbye, MacGyver.”
MacGyver listened as the footsteps of the man receded into the woods, fading, leaving him alone to face his imminent death, blackness gathering around the corners of his eyes…
***
D.B.’s hunting expedition had proved to be a disappointment. He hadn’t landed a single buck. Now, he was returning to his cabin later than he expected, and he didn’t even have a fire ready, so it would be both dark and cold inside, an unwelcoming prospect after spending a miserable day outdoors in the freezing rain after another fruitless day on the hunt, leaving him with little food to cook and eat, either, his stores growing more meager by the day as his desperation for fresh food increased. As his old, rusted, battered, barely running rattletrap pickup rolled over the worn path his tires had created after a long period of use on that route through the woods towards his isolated cabin, his faded headlights lit something unusual ahead. As he drove closer, he saw that it was a man, dangling from a tree limb at the end of a rope, his body motionless.
“My God…” he said.
Not hesitating, he immediately stopped his truck and pulled out his hunting knife, cutting the man down, gently holding him so that he would not crash to the ground in a limp, lifeless heap. Carefully, he lowered him down and removed the ropes binding him, feeling for a pulse. It was nonexistent.
“All right now, buddy, don’t do this to me,” he said, beginning to perform CPR. “Come back, now.”
As he worked, D.B. realized he couldn’t know for certain how long the man had been hanging there, that it could be a hopeless cause to try to save him, but he didn’t care. He was barely thinking as he performed his work, his medical training assuming control, acting on knowledge and instinct.
“Come on, come back now,” he muttered. “Come on…”
Gradually, MacGyver revived, coughing and gasping, his breaths coming from him in sharp, short, raspy wheezes, his eyes open to mere slits.
“That’s it, breathe,” D.B. said, not sure if the man could hear his encouragement or not. “Keep breathing, that’s it. You’re going to be all right now.”
MacGyver was barely conscious, unaware of the man and his efforts to save his life. All he knew was that he was breathing again, and that he was grateful. He slipped back into a deep oblivion, lost to the world. D.B. felt for his pulse again, this time finding one, although it was weak. For the first time he noticed the deep, bloody gash on the side of MacGyver’s face and examined it.
“Who the hell did this to you?” He asked.
Unconscious, MacGyver could not provide him with an answer, not that he would have been able to give him one, anyway. He did not recognize his assailant. He didn’t even know why he had traveled into the woods, unable to give any explanation other than he felt the need to wander. He couldn’t even be sure of who he was.
D.B.’s eyes scanned the darkened forest as if searching for the man’s attacker, gripping his hunting knife tightly, prepared to defend himself if necessary. When he didn’t hear or see any signs of humanity besides himself and the unknown victim, he calmly put the knife back in its sheath. He looked back down at the bloodied face of the stranger and saw that there were rough cuts and abrasions around his neck and wrists where the ropes had been.
“You are in bad shape,” he said, knowing he was stating the obvious. “You could use a hospital, but then that would also involve the cops and turn into one big hassle I don’t need right now. I’ll take you home with me and I’ll take care of you there. You’ll be just fine.”
A large man, D.B. was able to lift MacGyver’s body without much effort, hoisting him up and draping him over his broad shoulder in a fireman’s carry, carefully lowering him into the bed of his truck where a deer would have been had his hunt proved successful. MacGyver stirred slightly, his breathing still ragged and strained. D.B. watched him for awhile, wondering who he was and who had tried to hang him. He didn’t know why, since he didn’t know the man, but he was beginning to feel deep sympathy for him and his condition. Something about the man’s appearance suggested that he was decent, that what had happened to him was undeserved, that whoever had committed the barbaric deed was inhumane, sadistic, and cruel to have ever conceived of perpetrating it.
“You’re going to be all right,” he said. “I’ll take care of you and see to it that no one hurts you.”
Taking one last look at MacGyver to make sure he was secure in the truck bed, D.B. turned and got in the cab, driving towards his cabin.
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
I wish he would just leave Mac alone.
