This is an excerpt from the opening of a second part in a trilogy. Currently finishing off the first story with edits (snore). It's aimed for adults and contains language that some might find offensive. Enjoy, and all pointers will be appreciated. Thanks.
Sheppard was bleeding. He couldn't see out of his right eye and the blood from his left brow made his left almost equally useless. Falling masonry made him loll his head to the side; by God, but he hurt. As his still functioning eye began to focus, he slowly became aware that he was being dragged. Unable to find words, he pawed his hand meekly above his head and felt an arm before being quickly smacked down. Whoever was dragging him spoke in a low booming voice. Sheppard couldn't hear anything still; everything was muffled.
By God, but he hurt.
His left shoe was half hanging from his toes and his belt had snapped, leaving his arse at the mercy of the debris riddled floor. With a jolt, he remembered what had happened. The debris around him was obviously from the safe house; he could still vaguely see the old inscriptions and wards on the ruined plasterboard littering the area. He rested his arms on his legs and felt that he had pissed himself. Not the first time, but hopefully the last, he thought. Now wasn't the time for dignity though; how had he survived Franklin's escape?
And why did Jack leave him?
Too many questions, and not enough answers; a ratio that Sheppard wasn't a fan of. He fondled for the knife strapped to the inside of his trousers and stopped once he felt the butt. The odds were against him - whoever was dragging him clearly held the advantage. However, as his mother once said; "if you're stubborn enough, you can change the odds in your favour".
He quickly pulled out the knife and plunged it into the unknown person's hand and cried out as he used too much force, managing to dig it into himself. Sheppard pulled out the knife from his shoulder and rolled onto his side, catching a glimpse at the ragged bearded man who was almost certainly a homeless wanderer. He pushed himself up with a grunt and limped quickly through what used to be a door. The wanderer was shouting after him, but he couldn't hear any of the words. Was it a howl from the pain or was it a warning for him to return?
Sheppard pulled himself around the corner and into an alleyway full of silhouettes running towards him. "Fuck!" He shouted, holding up the knife and slowly backing towards the wall. They were talking to him, but still he could hear nothing. Their body language spoke in an undeniable tone, however; come with us and there was no choice in the matter.
Sheppard put his finger on the trigger of his knife and waited for the silhouettes to make the first move. They circled him like predators, still talking and shouting at him until the one to his left lunged. Sheppard swung his knife wildly, cutting the silhouette and fell backwards, hitting his head against the wall. He held his weapon out straight and shouted an incoherent warning before firing off the mechanism, sending a blade shooting square into the chest of an attacker.
A foot kicked him in the face and everything distorted and flickered back to life like a bad television feed. He felt his wrist snap and his ribs buckle from the barrage of attacks before a bag was pulled over his head. He felt weightless for a few moments until his knees cracked against a metallic surface and the hum of an engine roared to life.
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