somewhere over a lot of water...
His jaw hurt like hell from where one of the solitary screws -- everyone called him 'the Hammer' -- had given him a going-away present. His right eye was swollen shut, and he was still tasting blood. The accompanying headache wasn't made any better by the constant 'thwacka-thwacka' of the rotor blades. He knew he was in a large cargo-style helicopter -- a Pave, or an Augusta Westland, maybe even a Blackhawk... he couldn't tell from the rotor noise alone -- and he'd been bagged and gagged since liftoff, which MacDougall guessed was at least three hours ago. This last bit of information was a wild guess, as he had been fighting the effects of claustrophobia, which made a minute in the black shroud feel like an hour.
He knew for certain that the chopper had touched down on at least one other occasion, taking on other inmates. There were four from the 'Bay, including himself, and several others were added an hour or so later. It had been seven years, but Niall was still pretty fluent with Military hardware... and he didn't know of too many choppers with a service radius of more than a few hours. Wherever they were headed, it must be close.
His assertion was confirmed about ten minutes later, when one of the unseen screws yanked him to his feet. His hands and feet were zip-tied, forcing the inmates to hop unsteadily in the moving (hovering?) craft. Still hooded, suddenly, panic swept the cabin. There was a row of some sort, and Mac was elbowed hard in the gut, folding like an accordion to his knees. The toe of a boot found his ear, and he nearly blacked out. Amidst all of this, the roar of wind as a cargo door opened. There were shouts, and the crack of a single shot. A heavy weight fell on top of him, and then he was being dragged.
The thrumm of the chopper fell away, as did the rest of the world. Weightlessness. Panic. Move the arms. get them over your head. the hood -- pull the hood... For a split second he was sun-blind, and then the cold salt water shocked the system, and he drew in a breath reflexively, except it was seawater. Panic layered on top of panic, as he sank under the surface of the roiling water.
For a moment, he worked madly at the zip tie holding his wrists together, cutting his flesh to ribbons. Then he forced himself to calm, to relax, or he'd be dead. He kicked like a dolphin, powering himself back to the surface. As his head broke the surface, he saw nothing but ocean, and in that moment, knew he was a dead man. Turning about, he thought it was the same on all sides. Water. Water. But then he was lifted on the crest of a wave, and in the distance, trees. Trees. Land. His reserves of strength almost spent, Mac turned on his back, and kicked. He kicked toward the land-mass, checking on his course every few minutes, as the sun beat down on his upturned face, cooking it raw in the late afternoon sun. He kicked for an eternity, until his lungs were fit to burst and his legs were as lead.
Then, the waves weren't carrying him, creating hills and valleys anymore. They were crashing down on him. There was no recollection of touching land, or of crawling up onto the beach... he simply gave in to the waves. Energy spent, waves washing over him, he lay there in the seaweed amongst the sand and rocks, and just breathed...
Last edited by Archaos; 03-14-2013 at 05:56 PM.
...and my ties are severed clean
Less I have the more I gain
Off the beaten path I reign...