Staying Grounded [BXB]

In The Deep, Dark Woods

CRAIG:

A moan escapes me, roused from me by the curious sensation of something warm and insistent nuzzling at my crotch.

I stir, shift ever-so-slightly, as something else, far rougher, nudges my shoulder — once; twice; three-times — then stops.

Every other inch of my body feels under attack from a lashing deluge of icy daggers, plunging core-deep. Joints tender; legs cramping; fingers numb. The air scrapes my tight throat as I draw it in, and all I can smell – all I can taste – with each jagged gulp is a heady cocktail of dirt and damp and rot that makes my gut churn in a way my mind can't yet grasp.

"Hey," a deep voice thunders through the dense white noise that blankets me, commanding. "Enough, Dobby." Too loud. Too close. "Come away!"

The snuffling between my thighs abruptly ceases, my only source of heat cut off. I don't know where I am, or how, or why. My face throbs as if it has a pulse of its own, and I have no clue what the hell is going on now. A sound, a little too much like a growl, is followed by a soft brush against my shin.

Then, another jab to my arm. "You with us?"

Eyes snapping wide, I bolt up.

And, holy shit! I immediately regret the move.

Nausea sweeps me as my fragile skull shatters like glass under too much pressure. A hiss slips through my gritted teeth, and I gag on a rush of bile that tries to chase it. I rapid-blink against the nightmarish carousel dancing around me, and I am not at all surprised to discover that even my eyelids ache. No other muscle dares to so much as twitch.

Yep. Moving is a definite mistake.

There are trees. A vast army of great, looming sentinels with monstrous limbs caging in close on all sides; winter-bare and ominous.

It's raining. A sleeting downpour that has me soaked and frozen through, caked in filth from the squelching mulch I've unwittingly purposed as my bed.

The sky is leaden grey. Glimpsed through the intertwining branches, thin strips of pink cut across it, suggesting dawn has recently broken.

And beside me—

I stop blinking.

—An indistinct shape edges my peripheral. A low snarl rumbling through to my bones.

I cautiously slide my gaze.

A black nose twitches, dispassionate brown eyes stare out from a rain-bedraggled face. And a full eternity passes between one heartbeat and the next as bared canines anchor me.

"Feeling rough?" The words pound into my head.

"Wh—?" I'm beyond disturbed. My tongue feels thick, unwieldy, my mouth out of sync with my brain. I try again, "What?"

Even more unsettling is the glass bottle that skids seemingly from nowhere, across the carpet of sodden, decaying foliage to bump against my hand. A quart bottle of Jack Daniels. Familiar. 

Empty. I flinch away from it. And again harder, as the hellhound finally moves, tail thumping once off my leg, furry head cocking.

"Shocker!"

When a heavy boot appears to nudge the bottle right back toward me, I jolt sharp enough to slam my heart clear of my chest. My head snaps up. The boot wearer hunkers down. The beast is blocked from view by a decidedly greater and distinctly human menace.

"I should leave you here." Hazel eyes pierce me through a slick curtain of hair.

It's too much.

"I should just turn around and walk away."

This, it's all too much.

"But my conscience never has been smart."

I can't hold focus and nothing makes sense.

"You have a phone?"

Rough bark grates my shoulder blades as I surrender myself to the solid but hostile support of the thick trunk at my back.

"Phone?" The stranger prompts again.

I think I nod. Or maybe I don't... because, next, I'm cursed at and shaken.

"Oi! No, you dumb sack, get up!"

I'm jostled and prodded and groped. Hands track intrusively over the whole of me, digging into my pockets, searing against my skin. The dog barks, whines, pacing a tight circle around and around. I clamp my eyes shut tight. The world refuses to slow its wild spin, and I curl in on myself.

"Son of a bitch," I hear. A violent shiver wracks my body as the ground seems to drop away beneath me, anger clipping the callous tone. "His damn battery's dead."

Yes, I agree. Yes, it is.

And then, oblivion graciously reclaims me.