Horror Story: The Grand Shelter (Part 2)

K. N. Johnson
Aug 25, 2017 · 3 min read

The trousers had completely stuck to his thighs. He had not closed his eyes since he woke up a few hours ago, but he could barely move. The impact of the blow had been brutal, but he hoped he could still crawl across the ground to a drier spot in the shelter.
(Sally, I’m a dad. I’ll get home about five-thirty on Friday. We’ll go to the beach and you’ll put sunscreen on my face, and it will probably leave my eyes irritated. Sally. Sally. Daddy loves you. You know. Don’t you? Sally?).
He put his right hand to his head. He did not notice anything, no trace of blood. Probably the blow to the head only caused a bump, but it was fine. He was alive.
He turned carefully, running his hands all over his body, with some fear, hoping to find no trace of blood before trying to get up. He sighed deeply. Nothing. There was nothing. He was safe.
But he was thirsty.

How long he had been dreaming? Hours? Could have been days, he did not know.
He ran his tongue through his mouth again. He needed water. As he laid his knees on the wet and cold stone, he tried to reach for his mountain pack with his hands. He was not sure if he had lost it before he rushed to the ground in the cave, but fear prevented him from trying.
His ankle hurt a little, but he thought it had to be a minor sprain. He searched the walls of the cave to lean on them, but once he found them he realized how big the cave was.
(Louisa, Mom has lit the oven? Maybe Mom will make us the delicious chocolate cake that she always makes when she’s happy, but she cries. She’s sad. She will make everyone angry. We are angry).
He could not shake off that memory, but he could not remember who Sally and Louisa were. Once he found water he would know.
Without resting his left ankle, he moved into the cave. Little by little, he was distinguishing some shadows. He could hear whistles and the sounds of insects. Maybe there were rats in their shelter. He could not know. How would he?

His backpack had not come very far. He found it after half an hour of groping, but the size of the cave was considerable. Gropingly he reached into the pack’s pockets. He did not remember very well where the water was, but he was sure that the food was stored under the sleeping bag. He found several energy bars and laid them on the wet floor as he searched for more food and the bottle of water.
His arms were tense as he did not find the water bottle. Without food, he would last a few days. Without water, he was already dead.
The sounds stopped, as if his tension had reached them. He loved the sounds of nature with all his soul, but the fact that they disappeared calmed him. Maybe there were no sounds. Was everything in his brain? His ears ached and hurt, as if he had just left a rock concert or as if he had spent two hours beside a loudspeaker.
At last he found the water. He took a deep breath and drank the little water he had left. He felt his lips moist again and felt alive, as if everything he had lived had been nothing more than an illusion, a dream he had awakened. At last he was awake.

Trapped and hurt, but awake.

)
K. N. Johnson

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Pretentious, arrogant, little cliché. Novelist and poet. Sadness makes me write, and when I’m happy I do not write. https://www.instagram.com/k_n_johnson/?hl=es