Sentinel: A post-apocalyptic thriller (The Hurst Chronicles Book 2) by Robin Crumby

Author:Robin Crumby [Crumby, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Novatum Publishing
Published: 2017-05-12T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Zed regained consciousness with a gasp that made his whole-body flex. The pain in his wrist exploded up his arm as if every fibre in his body was crying out. He rode the wave of nausea, staring down in horror at the stump where his left hand had been.

Blood-soaked bandages covered his lower forearm and wrist. He closed his eyes, retreating into an inner-world. His mind was playing tricks on him. He could feel sensation in his fingers as he tried to wiggle them, but there was nothing there when he opened his eyes.

His head was woozy, his thoughts jumping around as he tried to remember, to make sense of what had happened. The Doctor had given him morphine. He should be grateful for that at least. He recognised a numbness in his very sense of being, a total loss of sensation, of caring. He was experiencing a delicious disconnection with reality and the world around him, but as that protective envelope began to dissipate, pain had broken through. A rhythmic throbbing began to drown out his every thought.

He struggled for mastery of his senses, gritting his teeth. Opening his eyes, he realised it was dark again. He was back in the same bare concrete room in the basement, dimly-aware of the moans and sobbing coming from surrounding cells. Overnight, the world had been turned upside down into a place of torture. They were all now at the mercy of their executioners in chief, Briggs and Copper. Their whims would determine his fate, whether he lived or died. Nothing he said or did would change that. The sense of helplessness was disconcerting, and at the same time, disarming. His father had always told him not to worry about things outside his control. This was one of those times. He must resign himself to his situation, accept its constraints and then work with what he had. Unfortunately, that wasn’t much.

His only hope was that others were in better shape than he was. He had to believe that some of their party had escaped captivity. He remembered little after the crash. He knew from the discomfort that he had been knocked out. There was nothing broken, but he was badly bruised down his left side. That pain was eclipsed by the terrifying sight of his arm, cradled tenderly in front of him. He needed to disconnect somehow, block the agony, stop it from overwhelming his senses again.

He rolled on his side, trying to stimulate his circulation again and relieve the pressure on his injured shoulder.

His private introspection was punctured by a metallic scratching coming from the door. It sounded like someone inserting a foreign object into the lock, testing the handle. Perhaps it was the Doctor coming back to check on his dressing, give him some more morphine to help him sleep. He opened his eyes wider to try and discern the source of the commotion, but the door remained closed. There was a loud thud as if someone was throwing

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