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Post by icefire on Mar 4, 2013 18:16:47 GMT -6
Yeah, the bane of Einar's existence, but only because Kilgore is RIGHT, if only Einar can learn to accept the fact. If he ever COULD, a LOT of his "issues" (the mental ones at least) would be resolved. The PHYSICAL issues are a result of the mental ones, as well. Einar has GOT to learn to "let go". Even better, he needs to learn to turn it all over to The LORD!
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EdD270
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deceased
Posts: 201
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Post by EdD270 on Mar 4, 2013 19:09:52 GMT -6
So true, icefire.
It's interesting how EA often thinks spiritual thoughts, giving the Lord the credit for the beauty of creation, and preserving him and many other things, but then he steadfastly refuses to let the Lord carry any of his burden of guilt. He must understand that's the whole purpose of the Lord's coming into mortality, to take away guilt if we let Him. And it's especially sad since in EA's case he feels guilty for no reason, over things he didn't do and had no control over whatsoever.
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Post by suvalley on Mar 4, 2013 19:19:55 GMT -6
Guilt and pity are handmaidens of each other, but I don't think Einar has worked that out yet, in his addled state.
Prolonged starvation is going to mean months of decent groceries and very careful exercise to return him to good weight and health. It would be a good respite if they were able to stay put for about two months (or longer) to give Einar the time to recover.
He could stay mentally sharp by thinking through the proposal Bud laid out for him, true?
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Post by FOTH on Mar 5, 2013 17:41:31 GMT -6
No chapter for today, but I'll be back with another tomorrow.
Thank you all for reading, and for the things you have to say.
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Post by FOTH on Mar 6, 2013 16:30:31 GMT -6
Yeah, the bane of Einar's existence, but only because Kilgore is RIGHT, if only Einar can learn to accept the fact. If he ever COULD, a LOT of his "issues" (the mental ones at least) would be resolved. The PHYSICAL issues are a result of the mental ones, as well. Einar has GOT to learn to "let go". Even better, he needs to learn to turn it all over to The LORD!Yes. "Letting go" was never something he was too good at. And I think he resents Kilgore sometimes for reminding him of that, but probably knows he's right, at the same time. So true, icefire.
It's interesting how EA often thinks spiritual thoughts, giving the Lord the credit for the beauty of creation, and preserving him and many other things, but then he steadfastly refuses to let the Lord carry any of his burden of guilt. He must understand that's the whole purpose of the Lord's coming into mortality, to take away guilt if we let Him. And it's especially sad since in EA's case he feels guilty for no reason, over things he didn't do and had no control over whatsoever. It's the things he didn't do--and believes he ought to have been able to do--that are the problem. Yes, of course he ought to be able to recognize these as the Lord's domain and turn certain things over to Him, and he knows this in his mind but sometimes it just isn't enough. Guilt and pity are handmaidens of each other, but I don't think Einar has worked that out yet, in his addled state.
Prolonged starvation is going to mean months of decent groceries and very careful exercise to return him to good weight and health. It would be a good respite if they were able to stay put for about two months (or longer) to give Einar the time to recover.
He could stay mentally sharp by thinking through the proposal Bud laid out for him, true? Yes, that, and planning their escape from "civilization," and the next steps in their life. Good food and exercise would certainly go a long way towards improving his physical condition (the severity of which I don't think he's really yet acknowledged) if he's able to allow himself to settle in and take advantage of such things, in this current situation. Not sure what you mean by the guilt and pity thing--that may be a concept which is beyond the rather limited comprehension of both Einar and his biographer... Thank you all for reading, for you patience and for keeping the discussion going.  |
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Post by FOTH on Mar 6, 2013 16:31:37 GMT -6
Finally, morning nearly come, Einar did sleep, though not where Liz or his hostess might have wished, and not entirely as a matter of choice on his part, either. Through the long night hours he kept watch, having returned to the house with Bud and drank the tea Susan reheated for him, maintaining, though some supreme effort of will, his wakefulness even as the warm liquid seemed to seep into every corner of his body and push him almost inexorably towards sleep, remaining upright against the log wall, rifle propped on his knees and eyes staring off into a distance which was for him alive with dangers that at times had nothing at all to do with his present location surrounded by timber in the secure log house on the mountainside. This position he maintained even after Susan went back to bed and Bud rolled up in a blanket on the couch, silent vigil through the night. Towards dawn though, Bud up again to make his rounds in that, the most likely time for an attack if one was to come, Einar’s exhausted body finally took charge and he fell into an unconscious slumber in a rather awkward position halfway behind the living room sofa, against which he had been bracing himself in a last-ditch attempt to prevent just such an occurrence. Kilgore, getting into his boots for a trip outside, let him lie. He would wake, given time. Or the women would find him, leading to one tremendous ruckus, no doubt, but everyone would survive it. He hoped.
Maybe better hurry a little with the outside chores, try and be in here when he wakes. No telling where he’ll think he is at first, and I’d hate for Sue to get her nice tidy house trashed by some wild critter trying to make his escape through one of the walls or windows or some such. Yep, best if I’m around for that. He ought to sleep a while though, now that he’s out. Could be a very long while even, though I sure won’t count on that, not with him. As an afterthought, Kilgore carefully approached Einar, set the rifle aside—not an easy task, tightly as the unconscious man still gripped the thing—, freed his knife and laid it on the table, and pushed him further behind the sofa so as to delay his being seen when Susan and Liz got up, before slipping out the door, quickly climbing the ridge adjacent to the driveway to begin his morning’s surveillance of the property.
For a long time Einar did not wake, struggling, in the dreams that came after an initial period of blessed, silent blackness, to return fully to the world and to rise—hip hurting terribly, the cold seeming to have sunk in and replaced his bones with ice and a knowledge of their precarious situation on the edge of civilization gnawing at him, prodding him to be up and doing—but meeting with no success, and then the blackness swallowed him again, and there was nothing.
Nothing, and then sunlight, a golden, shimmering shaft of sunlight falling across him, touching his face, loosening cold-stiff muscles so that he trembled and shook and the hip pained him worse than before but he did not care, for it was a wonderful dream, the kind that came so seldom, those days, and he meant to do nothing to disturb it. Gradually inexorably, time creeping, the sunlight moved, and as through a great muffling wall he began to hear sounds, the soft speech of his Lizzie, a happy chortling and prattling of the little one learning to use his voice, the sizzle—and eventually also the smell, glorious, but how it twisted his insides; must be hungry—of frying bacon, and he smiled, drifting, would have slept again but then he remembered, and the remembering left him wide awake and in a cold sweat as he stared wild-eyed at the back of Susan’s brown plaid sofa.
Daylight. Not good. How long had he been out? No way to tell for sure, but one thing was for sure, which was that he must be up and having a look at things. The sun had shifted again, golden dreams of the past minutes vanishing as it left his little hiding place, left him cold to the bone and very nearly too stiff to collect himself for movement, but he managed it, rolling to one side and lifting himself with his arms. No luck. Soon as he raised his head it took him again, a sudden coldness at the base of his neck, and then the blackness. This time, not entirely disconnected from the world as he had been before, Einar fought, and thus it was that he managed to get himself into a state of near wakefulness by the time the others became aware of his absence and came looking.
Hurrying and out of breath, Kilgore burst into the house, arriving just ahead of the breakfast being prepared by Liz and Susan, the two of them joking that he must have smelled it and come running, but they exchanged worried looks when Einar did not follow him into the kitchen. Their concern was not allayed by the puzzlement on his own face when he glanced around and saw that they were alone.
“Where’s Asmundson? He give you any trouble? You have to run him out of here with that rabbit stick? Meant to be in sooner, decided at the last minute to go check along the high ridge, make sure nobody had been there. Which they haven’t.”
Liz was on her feet, distress showing in her eyes. “We thought he was out there with you. His boots are gone, and…”
“Doggone fool’s wearing his boots. Never took ‘em off after we came in. Had to be ready, he said, and there was no talking him out of it. Look behind the couch. But let me be the one to wake him, why don’t you?”
Not a good way to wake, especially out of the sort of dream which had occupied the last few minutes of Einar’s restless sleep, and he froze at froze at the sound of the voice, eyes open just enough to give him a fuzzy view of the world—dim and confined, near as he could tell, which didn’t surprise him, and he felt around for his rifle, knife, anything, but nothing was there—but not so far, he hoped, as to alert his adversary, and then he was moving, somehow managing to shoot nearly straight up from the confinement of his little sleeping area and getting a deadly serious arm around the tracker’s neck before the man threw him off, taking a quick step back in the hopes of giving Einar time to recognize him before he made his next move. It worked, more or less, Liz’s voice doing more than anything to bring Einar back to the present, where he stood swaying and dizzy, arms braced on the sofa, wishing to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. They were all staring at him, and he couldn’t stand it, so he moved, hurrying over to the table where rifle and knife stood awaiting his waking, reclaiming them.
“Long night.”
Kilgore agreed, nodding, sitting and motioning for Einar to do the same.
“Yeah, it was a long night, and now before we go and have another one like that, let’s get some things real clear.”
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Post by FOTH on Mar 8, 2013 16:45:25 GMT -6
When Bud Kilgore wanted to make things clear, he was not a man to waste words, and sitting across from Einar at the kitchen table, he used only a very few of them to impress upon his guest that while at his house, certain rules must be adhered to. Like no sleeping behind the sofa and scaring the womenfolk. And always letting someone know when he was headed outside, because really, anything less was likely as not to get him shot as an intruder, and that would be a real shame.
Bud wanted to add something about firearms and knives and how really they perhaps ought to spend the night in a location at least slightly separate from wherever a person might choose to fall asleep, just to ease the waking time and reduce the probability of a mistake, but he kept that one to himself. Not too practical under the circumstances, and he knew how he would have reacted if such a suggestion had been made to him, at a similar time in his life. Well, at any time, really. He’d been a guest at Asmundson’s house more than once, under Asmundson’s roof and his rules, and had survived the experience, so was pretty sure he could manage to do so once again. But doggone it, the man did seem out of place in a house. The old wolverine. Be a lot better off when he could be turned loose again in the wild, where he belonged. Well. The tracker appraised him critically, shaking his head at what he saw. If anything, the fella looks worse than he did yesterday, which is no mean feat. Looks like he’ll be here with us for a while. If he knows what’s good for him, anyhow, which is highly unlikey…
“You got all that, Asmundson? Are we clear?”
Suppressing the beginnings of a grin—would have been a mistake, he was pretty sure, and the way his hip was hurting that morning, he really didn’t need any further bumps or bruises—Einar nodded. Understood.
“Yeah, I got it. No sleeping in odd places and jumping out to scare folks, and no wandering around outside acting like the enemy unless I inform somebody first. Good enough?”
“It’ll do. For now.”
“We’ve got some other things to discuss, Kilgore. Got through last night, but you know it’s not safe for us to be here, long term…”
“Yeah, we’ll get that all worked out. But not before we eat breakfast, because there’s no sense at all in letting it get cold, and not before Sue has a look at you, it seems, because here she is with her thermometer and all.”
To which Einar wanted to make strenuous objection—she’d done all that the day before, and really, how often could a person get curious about such things?—but saw the look on Liz’s face, pleading, almost, the little shake of her head, he didn’t feel so much like resisting, and kept still.
Sitting down beside him Susan took one of his hands, taking his pulse and examining his fingers. It hurt, with the frostbite he’d managed to sustain in working to dig himself out of the avalanche, but he did not pull away, let her continue.
“Your nails are pretty blue this morning. So’s the rest of you, actually. Looks like you may be a little low on oxygen…”
“No problem. I’m just cold.”
“Yes, you sure are, but that’s not the whole cause of it. Your heart rate is 26. That’s pretty low. Very low. You need some energy real badly.”
“Not so low, for me. I’m an athlete. I run a lot. Climb things.”
“Sure. But now you’re a fellow whose body is consuming its own muscles just to survive, including the heart muscle. It’s shrinking, can’t work as hard. That’s probably why your heart rate’s so low, more than anything.”
“Maybe a little of both.”
“You’re not making sense. The two are not compatible.”
“I make it work.”
“Breakfast would work better…”
Liz was already sitting, so he sat beside her, suddenly very tired, word swimming around him. Maybe Susan had a point. But he intended on sticking to his story. Will was awake, had already enjoyed his morning repast of milk and was looking curiously about for the next course, wanting to try Susan’s buckwheat pancakes and starting with especial interest at the pint jar of home-canned raspberries which she was pouring out into a bowl for the enjoyment of all. Making a sudden lunge as he reached for the berries, Will nearly escaped Liz’s grasp before she got a better hold on him.
“Slow down there, little one. You’ll get some, but not the whole bowl, and not head first across the table!” With which she handed the indignant little fellow to his father, Einar quickly fighting to get a better grasp on the by-then rather indignant Will. Before either father or son could do anything drastic—one wanting to move towards the food, the other, for his own reasons, away from it—Susan served them with a big plate of steaming hotcakes, smothered in butter and dolloped with enough raspberries to satisfy even the rather enthusiastic Will.
Eyes wide, the youngest Asmundson made an immediate dive for the raspberries, coming away with a sizeable fistful of the red, gooey stuff and promptly jamming as much of it as possible into his mouth, only to be startled into even wider-eyed amazement at the berries’ tartness. Einar, silently grinning as he helped clean up the mess, tried some of the berries himself and appeared only slightly less amazed than Will at their flavor, and at the instant energy they gave him. So, sharing with Will, he had some more, cutting one of the cakes into little pieces so that the child could experimentally mush one around in his mouth, and trying a few of those, too. This pleased both Susan and Liz immensely, and they could only hope the trend might continue.
Which it might have, for the remainder of that meal, at least, had not an insistent electronic tone in the next room told them that someone had just started up the driveway…
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Post by FOTH on Mar 10, 2013 15:45:03 GMT -6
Einar guessed at the meaning of the tone even before Bud could react and he was on his feet, leaving the table and crouching at a front window with rifle at the ready, watching. Far below the vehicle, a tan pickup truck which upon Kilgore’s quick inspection with binoculars looked to have two occupants, appeared tiny amongst the trees at the bottom of the half mile drive, vulnerable, at that distance, to everything from long range rifle fire to the pre-arranged snow and rock slides which could be touched off from the ridge above by anyone knowing the location of the charges…
Einar did not find any of this particularly reassuring, not even when Bud quickly spelled it all out for him, all these safety measures, and was not in the least placated when the tracker assured him that he recognized the truck, that it belonged to friends. That was the worst part, the thing that confirmed to him the sure existence of a plot whose details he knew he ought to have previously guessed, willing collusion on the part of the tracker, apparently, in their upcoming capture, and with that knowledge came a fierce determination to see things go another way, to keep them all free.
“Shouldn’t be coming up here unannounced, that’s for doggone sure,” the tracker allowed. “but they don’t mean any harm at all, have no idea you’re here, and aren’t gonna find out, either, if you just slow down and use some sense. Now. Remember the time you folks stayed in Sue’s basement, a good while back?”
Einar wavering, unsure. Maybe the man wasn’t in on it, after all. Perhaps he’d been fooled, also, kept in the dark as to the details and allowed to believe that he was simply helping his friends, even as he signed their death warrant. “No basement. Not going down there. Trap us down there like rats in a barrel, that’s what they’d do. Have to get up into the timber.”
“You’re not making any sense, man! How’re you gonna get up into that timber without leaving tracks a blind fella could follow, in all this new snow? They’re friends, I’m telling you, and the only thing we got to do is to hide you folks until they leave, and everything’ll be just fine again. Stop and think about it for a minute, it’ll start to make sense. You’re just real short on sleep, that’s all. And food. And probably a lot of other stuff, too, and you know how strange the world can get to looking at times like that. Come on, down the stairs. They won’t be here long, and you folks’ll be safe down there.”
Liz was staring at him, pleading with her eyes, seemed to have bought Kilgore’s line, but Einar did not answer. Wanted to leave, had his boots on already, having spent the better part of the night in them, and was busily urging Liz into hers, helping her on with her parka and sliding Will down into the protective warmth of its hood. Had to hurry, had to get something of a head start on these invaders, these would-be captors, for with fresh snow on the ground and a calm, clear day, pursuers would be at a definite advantage. Almost an unbeatable advantage, if looked at realistically. Probably the best he could hope for would be to get Liz and the little one up onto the ridge and then do his best to hold off their pursuers long enough to allow his little family to escape. Deal with the two in the truck, create a diversion, lay, if he was allowed the time and managed not to get himself shot too soon, a false trail or two which might mislead whoever would be coming to back them up and cause enough confusion to give Liz a chance, maybe get away himself and hope to meet them later, but more than likely not.
Real dim prospects, slight chance of success but sometimes you’ve got to take what’s handed to you, and in almost every case, if backed up to the wall, it was better to go down fighting than to… Yeah, not sitting there and waiting for their capture to be secured, and with Liz dressed and ready—she’d been quick about it, though appearing very reluctant and inexplicably sad at the same time—he took her by the hand and made his dash for the door. Only to find it blocked by Bud Kilgore, who could make quite an imposing obstruction of himself, when he chose.
“Hang on, Asmundson. There’s a carpet of fresh, untouched white all over everything out there. Where do you think you’re going that they won’t see and follow, if they were the sort to want to be following? Much as you may dislike it, you folks are here for the present. Here to stay. Not going anywhere, not until we either get another storm to cover you, or arrange a trip by vehicle…”
Rifle coming up just a bit, Einar’s grip tightening. “Out of the way, Kilgore. Wasting my time. Have to get up the ridge, make a go of it.”
“You wouldn’t go very far. For a number of reasons. Now give me that rifle, Sergeant Asmundson. You taken this one plenty far enough.”
Truck reaching the halfway point, Einar getting desperate. They were running out of time. Glanced around for another way out, but Susan was standing in front of the basement door, right hand resting down perilously close to the .45 that she always wore around the place, and besides, he wanted to leave by way of the porch, take advantage of what little concealment it offered, should someone already be watching from the air. A trap, all of it, as he had suspected from the beginning, and he cursed his complacency in allowing them to be led into such a bind. Might still be a chance, and not wanting to shoot the tracker—sound would give them away—he let the rifle hang on its sling, made a lunge with his knife, handily knocking the big man from his feet and landing astride him, blade darting for his throat and nearly striking home before a sickening blow to the base of his neck halted all immediate ambitions and sent him cascading into a fractured, splintering maelstrom of blackness, world falling away around him...
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EdD270
Full Member
deceased
Posts: 201
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Post by EdD270 on Mar 11, 2013 20:29:01 GMT -6
Dear Lizzie, the fastest rabbit stick in the West. Thankfully she has much better judgement than EA, at least right now in his seriously physically and mentally deteriorated state.
Too bad EA has allowed himself to get into such a poor condition that he can no longer care for himself nor his family. He's just not up to it either physically nor mentally.
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Post by FOTH on Mar 12, 2013 14:51:12 GMT -6
Dear Lizzie, the fastest rabbit stick in the West. Thankfully she has much better judgement than EA, at least right now in his seriously physically and mentally deteriorated state.
Too bad EA has allowed himself to get into such a poor condition that he can no longer care for himself nor his family. He's just not up to it either physically nor mentally. He's definitely not moving--or thinking--as quickly as he'd like to be at the moment.  But would still have a pretty good chance, at least so far as he's concerned, if only he could make it up into the timber... Thank you all for reading. _____________________________ Next thing Einar knew he was waking in the darkness, total darkness and not a sound to be heard, or at least so he thought at first. Didn’t appear to be able to move. Even raising his head seemed far too much effort, and when, becoming a bit agitated at the situation and throwing all his rather questionable strength into the effort, he tried again, he was only able to clear the floor by an inch or two before his muscles betrayed him and sent his head flopping back to the ground. Not good. Hurt, a stab of pain between his eyes for his effort but he did not mind, for it seemed to be helping him to wake up. Wanted to do it again, but this time nothing would respond, so he lay motionless. Needed information, needed to know where he was, where Liz was—Liz and the little one; the realization that he had no idea where they were filled him with a sudden, sickening dread which would have sent him immediately to his feet and out in search of them, had he been capable—and after trying very hard to move eyes that seemed somehow locked in their sockets, dry, grating and unwilling, he was able to get sight of a faint light over to his right side. A narrow, horizontal strip of blurry, wavering light that appeared to hang some distance from the ground, and it took quite a bit of squinting and figuring before he slowly came to realize that the light must be coming from a window, blind mostly drawn and the dancing shadows of densely-growing spruces likely accounting for the changing pattern of the light. Those shadows he would recognize anywhere, but the rest of it made little sense. He was coming to think, now that the ability to do so was somewhat returning to him, that the most likely explanation for his current plight must lie with the pickup truck that had been grinding its way up the driveway last he knew, that he must somehow have been captured, whether through treachery on the part of his hosts or the failure of some ill-fated escape plan which he did not quite remember putting into effect, but not even that made complete sense. Because of the trees. Had he been captured, he wouldn’t expect to be seeing trees. Would probably never be allowed the sight of trees again in his life, yet there they were, shadows dancing in that strip of light, good, unquestionable and real, if at the same time rather ephemeral and unreachable. Too dark to learn much of his surroundings through visual inspection, so he tried feeling about with his hands, but could not find them. Which was rather unfortunate, as he was beginning to think a weapon of some sort would be a very good idea indeed, but how was he to locate one, much less be prepared for its use, if he could not even find his own hands? Silly idea. They had to be on the ends of his arms where he had left them, and he tried again, this time got some sort of response, but still lacked the dexterity to make much use of the appendages. Perhaps, he thought, he was simply cold, and could remedy the entire situation by warming his hands to restore some flexibility. Who knew how long he might have been lying wherever it was he found himself, and certainly, now that he thought about it, he did seem to be pretty thoroughly chilled. Wanted to get his hands in closer to his body, into contact with stomach or sides or perhaps even tucked under his arms for some warmth, but they wouldn’t seem to go that far—couldn’t figure out the reason, everything still seeming oddly disconnected—and after a while he gave it up. Felt like sleeping again, felt as though he couldn’t resist it, actually, and though for a time he did so, fighting, sleep eventually claimed him. No trees this time when he woke. Trees had been a dream. Wishful, fever-induced memory of home, of his old life. Before this. Before it all ended down there in that tunnel, pistol butt to the side of his head, blackness, and then the cage. The ropes. That explained it. Explained why he hadn’t been able to use his hands, earlier. Were never much use after they freed him from the ropes. Took a long time for much circulation to return. Surprising, now that he thought about it, that they had left him so long alone, long enough to begin feeling his hands, to dream into existence his trees, the dear, sheltering spruces beneath whose cover he had so often in the past taken refuge. Even if the dream had not lasted, it was a strange, singular thing to have been allowed so much time in the first place, and he wondered what his captors might be thinking. What had made the difference. Regardless, he was sure they would soon be back to start all over again. With the questions. And with the rest of it. Thirsty. Could hear the endless lapping, lapping of the water beneath his enclosure, so close but always out of reach, as if they’d designed things that way, meant it to be part of the torture. Doubted it. But an effective means, nonetheless. He’d lost track of the days. Five, six, perhaps more since he’d last tasted water. No wonder he felt so dry, eyes gritty and tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth with thirst. Beyond thirst. He didn’t even feel it as thirst anymore, not the way a person is used to feeling. But would, once he started moving about. Or trying. Body just wouldn’t respond, and he figured they must have finally taken things just a little too far. Past his limits, unable to come back, and it didn’t bother him nearly as much as he knew it ought to have. Beneath him, the bamboo floor felt strangely soft, welcoming, pain almost non-existent for the first time in what seemed half a lifetime. Closed his eyes. Felt so near to accepting, acquiescing, lying quietly as he waited for whatever they next had planned for him. Close to not caring anymore what that might be, nothing they could do any longer holding terror for him. Or hope. Finished. Would surely be finished, if he allowed himself to let go like that. Wouldn’t last long at all. He’d seen it happen. Knew, but let it come over him anyway. Drifting. Breath barely coming. Not bad. Not bad at all. Head back, mouth open, Einar lay unmoving for a time, an unaccustomed peace beginning to steal across the sunken features of his face, but before it could get too far the start of a snarl took its place, eyes coming open in the darkness and he was fighting his bonds, the wraps of cord with which they had him secured, struggling until blood came and he could feel it trickling down his arms, but he did not stop, dared not cease until he’d made some headway. Couldn’t be finished. Not yet. Had to fight. Die fighting if it came to that, sure, but don’t willingly die lying in your own filth in a cage suspended over the swamp just because you’re too tired to raise your head anymore. Don’t acquiesce. That’s no way to do it, and he wouldn’t, but neither did he seem to be making much progress at freeing himself, and he could feel the strength leaving him, efforts growing more feeble and heart doing the strange, unsettling things it tended to do when faced with the combination of heavy exertion and not a drop of water for who knew how many days... Rest for a moment—but only a moment, lest he again start slipping towards sleep—try again. If he could free himself, free his hands, at least, he might be able to retrieve the substantial fragment of broken bamboo with which he had at every opportunity been working away at a weak spot in his cage, begin that work again or, if finding himself incapable, use that sharp-ended fragment to go after the next guard to open the door to his enclosure, make an attempt at escape while he still had the strength to do it. There. Snapped one of the cords. One hand free. It was quick work to free the other. Now all he must do was wait. Couldn’t find the bamboo sliver. Would just have to use his hands. |
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EdD270
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Post by EdD270 on Mar 12, 2013 17:57:53 GMT -6
FOTH: "He's definitely not moving--or thinking--as quickly as he'd like to be at the moment. But would still have a pretty good chance, at least so far as he's concerned, if only he could make it up into the timber... Thank you all for reading." That shows how far wrong his mind has gone. With the fresh snow and all the open country between him and the trees, and the drones, helicopters, and searchers on foot, he has no chance at all in trying for the trees. His only hope is to stay hidden where he is, and leave no sign anywhere of his travel either to or away from there. Sad he's allowed himself to get into such poor shape, both physically and even worse mentally. |
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Post by icefire on Mar 12, 2013 19:56:27 GMT -6
Einar is in such bad shape, that his mind has taken him back to that cage in the jungle. Maybe, though, he will realize that in the shape he was in, he He NEVER would have been able to free Andy and escape with him. Maybe the realization will come to him, and he'll be able to FINALLY lay that ghost to rest.
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