Every Man for Himself
"Jim? Can you hear me?"
He heard the words but couldn't answer through the layers of lead wrapped around his body, his brain, his thoughts.
"Jim! Come on, wake up!"
Angry words. Sharp and scared at the same time. Jim wondered why. He felt anchored deep in muffled darkness, weighed down by circumstances beyond his control or knowledge. He knew that as long as he didn't move he'd be fine, and that was all that mattered. To that end he resisted the pull of Simon's voice, which dragged at him like a hook raking the bottom of a murky lake.
"You've got to wake up, Jim. Sandburg needs you. I need you."
Jim cringed mentally at the words. He didn't want to be needed. He wanted to sink back down into the safe haven of nothingness. One of his father’s favorite sayings came to him across the gulf of time – every man for himself. But obligation scraped across his conscience, pushing his father away. He couldn’t abandon his responsibilities to his partner and superior officer, especially with Simon flinging such challenging words at him.
"Jim!"
Damn. He really was going to have to wake up. Jim struggled to pull himself from the molasses of his thoughts. Agony instantly exploded in his wrists and across his chest, pain so vicious and horrible he gasped out loud. He tried to propel himself backward but succeeded only in slamming his back and head against a metal support post. He fought wildly against the hundreds of steel spikes clamping his wrists and scraping bloody tracks back and forth across his chest--
"Jim!" Simon's voice again, loud and strong. "Jim! Calm down!"
He could see only a shifting, twisted landscape of black and gray. The piercing spikes turned his breathing into screeches for precious air. Jim squirmed wildly and tried to fling himself back into darkness and safety.
"Jim!" Over and over again, his name. Simon's voice calling his name. Jim's panic abruptly fled and he collapsed back into place, pinned and sitting upright against the post, the heinous instruments still embedded tightly in his soft flesh like oversized bands of barbed wire. He could feel his heart hammering three times its normal rate. Sweat slicked his skin, leaving him cold in air that stank of diesel and salt and old fish. He closed his eyes against the humiliating wetness streaming down his cheeks. Horrible to cry, to be weak. His father would have turned his back on him, appalled at the lack of discipline.
"Better?" Simon asked.
Jim swallowed hard.
"Jim, talk to me. That's an order."
He dragged in a shaky breath. "Simon," he said hoarsely.
"Thank God," Simon muttered. Then, louder, "How's your head? They must have hit you pretty hard."
His head did hurt, with a migraine-strength pounding that utterly paled in comparison to the sharp steel impaling him all the way to his bones. "Where . . . are we?" he rasped out.
"They left us in the basement."
Basement. Of his loft, of the police station, of the White House? What did Simon think he was, psychic? "What basement?"
"The old fish market. Don't you remember?"
As a matter of fact, he didn't. Jim forced his eyes open again. His vision blurred, swung back into focus, blurred again. He couldn't think with the spikes nailed into him. Couldn't think, couldn't clear his head, couldn't even suck enough air into his constricted chest to breathe. "Hurts," he gasped.
"What hurts? Your head?""S-spikes. . . "
"What spikes? What are you talking about?"
Words failed him. Redness swam before his eyes, the color of his own blood. Simon's voice floated through his semi-consciousness, sounds that formed words and sentences.
"Jim, listen to me. It's Simon. We're tied up in the basement of the old fish market down by the waterfront. You and Sandburg disobeyed my direct order to stay back at the station and followed me here. Carpenter’s crew got you, hit you in the head. Do you understand me?"
Jim wanted to tell Simon that of course he understood him. His father hadn’t raised idiots, just treated his sons that way. He remembered bits and fragments of the case they were working on. Simon had taken a personal interest in the late-night shooting of his old partner Mike Linsen. He’d commandeered Jim’s investigation into waterfront boss Abel Carpenter and his black market operation. Jim and Blair had spent the last week frantically dogging Simon’s footsteps and trying to keep their captain in check. And now this, a basement in an old fish market, tied up and abandoned in the darkness, with Jim impaled by spikes.
Simon said, "This is me, right against you. Feel me?"
Jim did feel something, a scraping against his left hip, but it took him a moment to identify the tap of fingertips. He straightened against the post and turned his faltering gaze downward. A thin slash of gray ran across his chest and he blinked several times at it. It looked as harmless as a strand of rope.
A length of coarse rope, with strands and fibers pressing against his windbreaker and the flannel shirt beneath.
Jim closed his eyes. Rope? The muddled realization that his sense of touch had gone into hyper-awareness dawned in his brain and made him groan.
"Jim?" Something twisted against him. "What's wrong?"
"My senses," Jim managed to say after a minute. "They're haywire."
"All of them?""Most." Knowing that his Sentinel senses were responsible for his agony didn't ease the pain in any way. He internally groped for the pain dial Blair had taught him to manipulate, but he couldn't even visualize it. "Oh . . . man. Where's Sandburg? I need him to . . . talk me out of this."
Silence from Simon. Deafening silence that washed like cold water through Jim's veins.
"Simon? Is he--"
"No. He's alive, I think. They dragged him in a few minutes after you and left him tied up on the floor a few feet away from me. The light's not very good in here, but I haven't seen him move at all."
No. Blair was not dead. To prove it Jim reached out with his hearing and tried to identify a heartbeat and respiration that didn’t belong to him. Nothing significant came back to his ears. He couldn't even hear Simon's vital sounds or any other background details of their small prison. The coldness didn't leave his flesh or blood and made the intense pain from the ropes even worse. He tried desperately to hold onto his fraying thoughts.
"I have a . . . Swiss army knife. . . in my back pocket." Each clipped word sent red-hot bolts of pain careening through the mush in his skull. "Can you . . . reach it?"
For several minutes Simon twisted and groped for the blade. Jim closed his eyes--is head hurt fractionally less when he did--and listened to his captain’s exertions. His surroundings took on a surreal edge again as smells swirled in and out of his hyperactive sinuses, peaking and falling randomly--Simon’s cigars, Jim’s own deodorant, rotten fish guts, Irish Spring soap, blood. He even thought he could faintly smell his father’s cologne, but that had to be a hallucination. Jim didn’t even try to follow the blood smell back to its source, too afraid of what he might find.
Simon cursed under his breath several times before slumping back against the post.
"It’s no use. I can’t reach," he said angrily. "But I bet you can, if you turned just right."
No. Absolutely not. Jim’s brain knew the rope was not composed of steel spikes but his flesh believed otherwise, and the icy conviction filled him that with just a few pulls he would rip open his flesh, sever his arteries, bleed to death. All the logic in the world couldn't save him from his own hyperextended senses."I can't," Jim said. "Wake Sandburg up."
"He hasn’t moved--"
"He’s alive, Simon. He can . . . get the knife."
Simon took in a deep breath. "Jim, listen to me. Blair’s hurt, maybe badly. We have to do this on our own. I know your head hurts and your senses are all crazy, but it’s got to be us."
"No!" Jim’s skull began to cave in on itself in little pieces with the effort of arguing. He slumped back against the post.
"Maybe I can talk you through it. Like Sandburg does."
Jim didn’t answer. Only Blair’s voice was his safety rope back to sanity. He liked Simon as a friend and respected him as a police officer, but he didn’t have Blair’s innate, instinctive ability to call Jim back from Sentinel brinks.
"We have to try," Simon said, sounding grim and determined. "We can’t wait for someone from the station to find us, or for Carpenter’s men to change their minds about leaving us here alive."
Jim sat in a red haze, torn between reason and pain.
"Jim, listen to me. If Blair is badly hurt, he needs a doctor. Every minute we delay could be fatal."
Unfair. So horribly, cruelly unfair to use Blair’s life as a weapon like that. Though, under the same circumstances in reversed positions, Jim would probably do the same. His emotions seesawed back and forth, from hope to despair to resolution. God, his head hurt.
"Try," Jim said. "Try to do it like he does."
The sound of Simon taking a deep breath floated to Jim’s ears. "Okay. Just tell me what he does."
"You’ve seen him do it."
"Yes, I’ve seen him, but I don’t have the magic act memorized, you know what I mean? What would Blair do right now?"
"He would . . . tell me to find the dial . . turn it down."
"What dial?"
"Pain dial."
"Then do that, Jim. Find the pain dial inside your head and turn it down."
Jim bit back a groan of frustration. "Not so quick. Not so . . . direct."
"More finesse, huh?" Simon asked, with what might have been a tiny chuckle. "Okay. I can do finesse. Give me a minute to think something up."
Not exactly reassured by the sound of that, Jim obediently waited.
"Okay, Jim, listen to me. Block out everything else but the sound of my voice. You are very relaxed, very calm, very tired. You’re getting sleepy. Your eyes are heavy, and you want to close them - "
"Simon."
"What?"
"Sandburg doesn’t try to . . . hypnotize me."
Simon’s voice shook with aggravation. "Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not Sandburg!"
The captain’s tone revealed the stress he too was under, but Jim couldn’t bear Simon’s pain and frustration in addition to his own. The barbed wire-- the rope--still cut into him viciously, and his butt and legs felt cold from the bare floor. Tired, he retreated further toward the darkness, his thoughts spinning off-kilter. He needed Blair. He needed his Guide. But Blair was beyond helping him and in dire need of assistance himself.
Every man for himself. If Jim wanted freedom, he would have to get it on his own.
Minutes passed before Simon broke the silence between them. Sounding measurably calmer, he said, "Jim, I’m sorry. I’m trying the best I can."
It took superhuman effort for Jim to dredge up the energy to answer. "I know. You can’t do exactly what Sandburg does. How long has he been unconscious?"
"Since they brought him in. I don’t know - maybe twenty minutes. Maybe thirty."
Jim opened his eyes. His vision still wouldn’t focus properly, and all he could really see were alternating swaths of Sentinel-enhanced light. He tried stretching his hearing again, earning the discomforting feeling of his eardrums blowing up like balloons, ready to burst. But Simon’s answer about Blair distressed him and made him try again. The longer the unconsciousness, the worse Blair’s condition could be. Jim knew that from his own medical training. Fears of skull fracture, hematoma or other neurological damage made his stomach churn.
"Simon, let me. . . just try something here. Don’t talk ‘til I say so."
"Anything you say."
"And think happy thoughts." It was something Blair might have said. A deep ache rose in Jim’s chest. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if Blair died because of him. Afraid, hurt, in danger of losing his best friend and partner, he nevertheless pushed aside the fear and self-pity to focus on the task at hand.
Bracing himself against expected agony in his chest, he took a short and shallow breath. Not too bad. He tried a longer, deeper one. Unpleasant but bearable. The third breath made him gasp sharply. Too much. He backed away to the second level and concentrated for several minutes on breathing regularly in and out. The pounding in his head remained as constant as ever and he could feel cold sweat drenching his back and pants. He didn’t try to envision the elusive pain dial. He worked hard to keep images of Blair dying on the floor of a skull fracture out of his head. Instead he focused only on his breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
Memories of Blair’s voice in other situations floated to him--calm words of reassurance, delivered in soothing tones by one of the smartest people Jim knew. Not that he told Sandburg that. Better to keep the younger man motivated and working hard to improve his knowledge base. A little hard work never hurt anyone. That was one of the few lessons Jim had learned at his father’s knees that proved true and valuable through Jim’s college, Army and law enforcement years.
A little hard work. He could do his share of that now, especially to save Blair’s life. Maintaining his steady breathing, consciously keep the muscles in his jaw and shoulders relaxed, Jim tugged his right hand toward his jacket pocket. The spikes jabbed further into his flesh, searing his nerves. No, not spikes. Ropes. Fiber strands. Reality didn’t help. Fears of mortally damaging himself made him stop, and he realized he’d lost control of his breathing for a moment.
In. Out. Easy and loose. He forced his teeth to unclench and his shoulders to relax from their height near his ears. A little hard work never hurt anyone. The refrain ran through his head, over and over, his father’s pragmatic words in his familiar stern voice. He had no need for his father in the basement, no desire to slice open old wounds better left alone, but the unexpected mantra helped him steel himself against the task he had to do.
He moved his wrist half an inch. He waited for hot, sticky blood to flow down his fingers, but all he could feel was tiny currents of air. A little more. Bile rose in his throat, making him sure he would vomit, but after a second the danger passed. After several more adjustments he realized he would have to shift in his sitting position on the cold floor, which would mean dragging the rope across his chest.
This was more than just a little hard work. This was agony. He couldn’t do it, not even with his father’s dictating shadow in his mind and heart. Jim bowed his head, exhausted and hurting, defeated.
"Jim?" Simon asked. "Are you okay?"
Stupid, stupid question. Jim’s anger flared. Every man for himself. Simon wasn’t helping, Blair wasn’t helping--they both expected Jim to do the hard work, to fight against his own head injury, his cursed senses.
"Jim, talk to me. What’s going on?"
"Nothing," Jim growled. "Nothing at all."
Every man for himself. The strong temptation to just slip into unconsciousness nearly overwhelmed him. He would fall into the darkness and blankness and leave Simon to get them out of their predicament. If Simon hadn’t been so hell-bent on vendetta they wouldn’t have had to follow him to the fish market in the first place. If Blair had been a better fighter, or carried a gun, he might have been able to fend for himself and get away for help. Both of them had let him down.
In one small part of his mind he wondered if the head injury was responsible for his selfishness and caustic disregard for his friends. Before he could reach a decision on that, his sense of smell brought him more odors, both pleasant and foul, and his hearing expanded.
"Can’t you feel the knife?" Simon's hand groped for Jim’s. "You’re close, aren’t you – "
Jim thought he caught a snatch of a low groan under Simon’s voice. All of his bitter and unreasonable thoughts vanished, replaced by hope that made his blood surge.
"Sandburg?" he rasped out."He hasn’t moved. I’m sorry, Jim."
"He’s waking up, Simon! I can hear him. Blair . . . come on . . . talk to me. . ."
"He’s not waking up. He’s still unconscious – "
"I tell you, he’s waking up!" Nearly ebullient with glee and relief, Jim momentarily forgot about the spikes. He twisted and tried to see his partner. His fingers scraped on the edge of the pocketknife and the smooth, cool metal slid toward Simon’s hand. The razor-sharp daggers stabbed into Jim as clearly and awfully as if an Iron Maiden had just slammed closed on his entire body, and he screamed.
He regained consciousness in a dim place, with a worried-looking Simon leaning over him. Someone had cut him free from the ropes and laid him out on the floor. Simon’s jacket covered him, warming him to a small degree. Pain rolled in and out of a dozen aches and bruises on his body, but his migraine seemed better and the spikes had disappeared completely.
"Just hang on, Jim. Paramedics will be here soon."
Jim liked that thought. He closed his eyes to wait for them. Flashing memories brought his lids back up again. "How’s Sandburg?" he asked, the words badly slurred.
"What? I can’t understand you."
Jim forced himself to speak more distinctly. "Blair. . ."
"Right here, man," a voice said from very close by. Jim turned his head as much as he could. Blair sat cross-legged beside him, groggy and pale, dried blood from a nasty forehead cut marking rivers on his face. His eyes looked glassy. "How do you feel, Jim?"
Jim rose up on one elbow with mammoth effort. "Forget about me. What about you?"
"Just a little worn around the edges," Blair said, swaying slightly in place. "I feel fine."
"Both of you are pathetic. Jim, lie down," Simon ordered, his hands pushing at Jim’s shoulders. "You did great, but you have to rest now."
"Him too," Jim insisted, tugging on Blair’s sleeve."Yes, him too," Simon said tolerantly. He persuaded Blair down to the ground at Jim’s side. The anthropologist went without complaint. Jim turned slightly to keep an eye on him and was disturbed to see Blair shiver. The Sentinel edged closer so that they laid side-by-side, and with one hand tugged Simon’s jacket over to cover them both.
His father had been wrong. Jim knew that, had known that for years. Not about everything, but about some things. He reached down and snagged Blair’s cool hand, reassuring himself. Blair turned his face into Jim’s arm with a mumbled word or two, then fell silent.
"What, Jim?" Simon asked.
"Huh?"
"What did you just say?"
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken the words aloud. "Not every man. . . he was wrong."
Simon’s face creased with concern. "You’re not making much sense. Who was wrong?"
"Doesn’t matter. Thanks for getting us loose.""You’re the one who got the knife out."
"You cut the ropes."
The captain’s gaze shifted to some interesting spot on the floor. "Well, I’m the one who got you into this. I’ve been racing around trying to find Mike’s killer without giving any proper thought to justice or procedure. You were right to follow me. I’m sorry it’s going to end with an ambulance ride for both of you."
"It’s not going to end." Jim's headache had started to flare up again, and it took concerted effort to keep talking, but he wanted Simon to know he had their support. "We’re down, but not out. Right, Sandburg?"
A muffled sound of assent came from his partner.
"Told you." Jim closed his eyes. He could hear the approaching wail of ambulances and cruisers, and tried to enjoy the relative quiet while it lasted. "Just give us a little time, okay? And promise me you’ll wait, that you won’t go off by yourself."
A moment of hesitation.
"Simon . . . "
"Jim, I don’t know when you’ll be back on your feet. Either of you."
"Then take someone else from the department. Just . . . promise."
"I promise." Simon’s warm hand squeezed Jim’s shoulder. "Now rest and get well. Both of you."
"Good idea." Jim closed his eyes, cut back on his Sentinel hearing and let his body relax as much as possible on the cold floor. The odors that had assailed him during the whole ordeal fell away into a low mild presence--salt from the sea, tobacco from sunny fields. He continued to hold Blair’s hand, the link between them unbroken. He genuinely believed what he’d told Simon. Within a day or two Sandburg would probably be bouncing off the walls with his normal cheery enthusiasm, and Jim would be back to efficiently juggling the demands of police officer, Sentinel and research project.
Until then, though, he could rest. With Simon to watch over things and Blair safe at his side.
He couldn’t ask for anything more.
The End