man.
Just then, the standing stones toppled over, crashing into the oncoming waves. They flickered in and out of focus. Static crackled across their otherwise beautifully white surfaces, giving them the look of an early television’s bad reception. The men backed away and raised weapon sights to their eyes. Only after the final stone vanished into the river did Sgt. Harmon allow himself to look in the direction the guns were targeting.
He didn’t recognize the naked man on the far side of the shore. So malnourished, you could see virtually every bone in his body outlined through his flesh. The pallid white of his skin was almost translucent. The shiny long hair and matching beard looked freshly washed and dry for someone who just clawed his way out of the water. He moved, but not much, and very slowly at that.
Sgt. Harmon reached to put the book and key into his pack, but they were no longer in his hand. Checking the water before moving to help the old man, he didn’t see either of them anywhere. Saving a life was more important than some old artifacts, no matter how mysterious their appearance. He made a mental note to have his men help find them once everything was squared away with this new long-bearded development.
They turned the old man on his back and checked his vital signs. His eyes were clamped tight shut and he held one forearm up to cover his face. A pitiful, childlike moan issued from between his clenched teeth. He was obviously in a great deal of pain.
One of the men removed his jacket and wrapped it around the poor soul like a blanket. The white and grey camouflage jacket was too big for him. He wore it like a little boy playing dress-up in Daddy’s clothes. The bearded man tried to take a few sips of water from a canteen. His teeth chattered so violently that most of it ran out of his mouth and into his beard.
They asked him who he was and where he came from, the first of hundreds of other questions waiting to be asked. The man appeared broken, more unable than unwilling to respond. He flinched at each word. Sounds entering his ears like bullets piercing flesh. Sgt. Harmon hushed his voice, and the men followed suit. The bearded man slowly calmed down a little.
Sgt. Harmon called in their position and requested a rescue chopper for their new patient. He decided they should head back across the river and light a small fire to help warm the man. They quickly built a makeshift stretcher from branches and jackets. Everything seemed simple enough when they lifted him. They carried him slowly and stepped gingerly around the rocks. He seemed to be doing well until halfway across the river.
The bearded man opened his eyes, pointed directly at the wall, and began to howl. He kicked and pulled, screaming like he was being attacked by the devil himself. The stretcher twisted and broke apart from his wild thrashing and dropped him into the freezing water. The two men holding the remains of the stretcher in their hands were dragged down, along with the screeching mass of bony splashing limbs and hair, the powerful current dragging them all forty yards downstream before they could regain their footing.
After making sure his men were safe, Sgt. Harmon sprinted down the shoreline, chasing the flailing bearded man. Shifting rocks and rotten branches strewn everywhere impeded his progress. Fortunately he was fast, and as soon as he was within reach, he dove into the water, reaching for his quarry. The man’s borrowed jacket had slipped off somewhere in the struggle with the disintegrating stretcher. The only grip Sgt. Harmon could get was when his fingers interlaced with the old man’s long beard.
Ignoring the screams, he planted his feet into the thick mud and pulled hard to lift the old man above the waterline. He dragged him to shore, and they collapsed in a tumble of limbs, both men gasping for breath. Each sputtered up muddy water while Sgt. Harmon reached a hand beneath his back to pull out a
Just then, the standing stones toppled over, crashing into the oncoming waves. They flickered in and out of focus. Static crackled across their otherwise beautifully white surfaces, giving them the look of an early television’s bad reception. The men backed away and raised weapon sights to their eyes. Only after the final stone vanished into the river did Sgt. Harmon allow himself to look in the direction the guns were targeting.
He didn’t recognize the naked man on the far side of the shore. So malnourished, you could see virtually every bone in his body outlined through his flesh. The pallid white of his skin was almost translucent. The shiny long hair and matching beard looked freshly washed and dry for someone who just clawed his way out of the water. He moved, but not much, and very slowly at that.
Sgt. Harmon reached to put the book and key into his pack, but they were no longer in his hand. Checking the water before moving to help the old man, he didn’t see either of them anywhere. Saving a life was more important than some old artifacts, no matter how mysterious their appearance. He made a mental note to have his men help find them once everything was squared away with this new long-bearded development.
They turned the old man on his back and checked his vital signs. His eyes were clamped tight shut and he held one forearm up to cover his face. A pitiful, childlike moan issued from between his clenched teeth. He was obviously in a great deal of pain.
One of the men removed his jacket and wrapped it around the poor soul like a blanket. The white and grey camouflage jacket was too big for him. He wore it like a little boy playing dress-up in Daddy’s clothes. The bearded man tried to take a few sips of water from a canteen. His teeth chattered so violently that most of it ran out of his mouth and into his beard.
They asked him who he was and where he came from, the first of hundreds of other questions waiting to be asked. The man appeared broken, more unable than unwilling to respond. He flinched at each word. Sounds entering his ears like bullets piercing flesh. Sgt. Harmon hushed his voice, and the men followed suit. The bearded man slowly calmed down a little.
Sgt. Harmon called in their position and requested a rescue chopper for their new patient. He decided they should head back across the river and light a small fire to help warm the man. They quickly built a makeshift stretcher from branches and jackets. Everything seemed simple enough when they lifted him. They carried him slowly and stepped gingerly around the rocks. He seemed to be doing well until halfway across the river.
The bearded man opened his eyes, pointed directly at the wall, and began to howl. He kicked and pulled, screaming like he was being attacked by the devil himself. The stretcher twisted and broke apart from his wild thrashing and dropped him into the freezing water. The two men holding the remains of the stretcher in their hands were dragged down, along with the screeching mass of bony splashing limbs and hair, the powerful current dragging them all forty yards downstream before they could regain their footing.
After making sure his men were safe, Sgt. Harmon sprinted down the shoreline, chasing the flailing bearded man. Shifting rocks and rotten branches strewn everywhere impeded his progress. Fortunately he was fast, and as soon as he was within reach, he dove into the water, reaching for his quarry. The man’s borrowed jacket had slipped off somewhere in the struggle with the disintegrating stretcher. The only grip Sgt. Harmon could get was when his fingers interlaced with the old man’s long beard.
Ignoring the screams, he planted his feet into the thick mud and pulled hard to lift the old man above the waterline. He dragged him to shore, and they collapsed in a tumble of limbs, both men gasping for breath. Each sputtered up muddy water while Sgt. Harmon reached a hand beneath his back to pull out a
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