Less Than Alive: Still Kicking

Bandages: They Must Be Counted

I woke up with a groan. My senses came back like waves breaking on a shore.

And no, I’m not just using that analogy randomly. Something wet and sloppy had hit my face, which up until then had been pressed against the rough gravel. As my hearing returned, I caught the sound of off-note humming coming from somewhere above me, presumably the source of the wet sloppy stuff.

“Hey, look,” said a girl’s soft voice, the same that had spoken earlier about stuff being worth nothing in the long run. “He’s not dead, yet.”

Yet?

“Seems that way. I just have to apply two more bandages,” said another voice, this one scratchier, like a preteen whose voice was not all there. I was hit again, another wet, sloppy thing wrapping itself around my midriff, before somebody lifted me up and brought the bandage around. It burned like bloody Tartarus when it rubbed up against one of my bruises.

“Mister, are you sure he needs more bandages?” the girl asked again. “He already has quite a few, and in the long run, wasting material like that could be bad for the environment. Though in a world with finite resources....”

Something grabbed my thigh, and I almost gasped as fingers wrapped themselves around my leg. At that point I was really, really hoping that the bandager was a really hot tomboy who had a thing for wanna-be heroes. “I can’t just leave him with B poultices. B is an uneven number. This city works on a duodecimal system, or base twelve. Hence, I shall give him ten balms,” the scratchy voice said.

Okay, so a tomboy that likes wanna-be heroes and is really into weird math?

“What about the plaster on his forehead? Won’t that complete your count?” Soft Voice asked. (As I am calling her, until a full name could be extracted.)

“Ah! You’re right! Well, one is a fair number, and the total count is 11, which is perfectly fine since 11 is prime. Prime numbers are always good. Also, thanks to that one, the layout of bandages is somewhat similar to the Fibonacci sequence. Surprising how those brutes really went for his face. Anywho, with that logic complete, it means that I only have to add one more. Brilliant.”

Again I was lifted and a bandage was wrapped around me, seemingly over nothing this time.

I laid a hand against the ground near by my battered head, and pushed, lifting the forward end of my body, while my legs tried to figure out where they were supposed to go. A surprisingly difficult task with the massive thundering headache that moving seemed to have awakened.

A warm body pressed itself against me, helping me. I leaned on it and stood on wobbly legs for a few moments.

“Hey, you’re really alive,” she said, somehow not conveying the enthusiasm I would have hoped for. “That’s good; I really hate funerals. You have to wear black and pretend that you’re sad for the dead person, while knowing full well that everyone else in attendance is going to get their own funeral one day. Lots of wasted potential in dying.” She pressed a palm against my forehead, like a nurse checking for fever. The motions made my head turn, bringing my face within millimetres of her own.

She didn’t pull back or flinch. (Pity points rule!) Instead, her brilliant crimson eyes stared into my own, not betraying any feelings she might have had. “You okay there?”

“No, I’m not okay, I’m Tight.”

What? You expected me to say something smart? After being beaten to a pulp? And while in the company of an attractive person of the opposite sex? You put far too much faith in me.

The soft stroke of a hand touched my side, drawing me away from Pretty Eyes (I changed her fake name based on newly acquired information—get over it), and brought me around to face a tall, lean fellow with leg muscles that did not seem normal. Not normal in the sense that I instantly suspected the use of certain medical drugs that are banned in sporting establishments.