Goliath

by Richard Turner

Jen is bleeding. Mitchell reached over and found himself unable to touch her. Slowly, she began to drift farther and farther away from him. No matter how hard he tried, he could not reach her. He began to panic, and started into consciousness. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was sitting on a bed in a small log cabin. The room was lit by a couple of old oil hurricane lamps that reminded Mitchell of his uncle’s cottage on Lake Michigan. He could feel the welcoming heat coming from an aged lead-belly stove on the far side of the room. The smell of percolating coffee filled the air.

  “Good evening there, young fella,” said an unfamiliar voice.

  Slowly turning his head, Mitchell saw a man with bright blue eyes and a caring face, with a long, white beard, and wearing a faded red sweater, sitting on a chair beside the bed, smiling at him.

  “Let me guess, I’m at the North Pole and you’re Santa Claus,” said Mitchell weakly.

  The man let out a deep laugh. “No, Mister Mitchell, you’re not at the North Pole, and if you ever heard my wife talk about me, you would know that I’m far from Santa Claus,” said the man, as he ran his hand through his thick beard.

  Mitchell took a deep breath to clear his aching head. He looked down and saw that his arms were covered with fresh bandages. His mind went back to the crash. Right away, his heart began to race.

  “There was a woman with me; did you find her as well?” asked Mitchell.

  “Sorry, I only found you lying out there in the snow,” replied the man. “There were tire tracks leading away from your demolished speeder. Perhaps she took a ride to the hospital with those people?”

  “Yeah, perhaps,” said Mitchell, knowing that Jen had been taken hostage by whoever had attacked them, and was probably out of the country by now.

  “You’re damned lucky that I was up here doing some ice fishing, or you would have frozen to death out there, Mister Mitchell. I heard a loud crash and decided to see what happened. That’s when I stumbled across you.”

  “Thanks,” replied Mitchell. “How come you know my name?”

  “When I stripped you down to warm you up, I checked your wallet and found your ID. I’ve already called your work to let them know that you’re all right. They told me to pass on that a Mister Jackson would be up here in the next day or so to take you back home to New York,” explained the man.

  “So, sir, what do I call you?” asked Mitchell.

  “Oh, you can use my first name. Please call me Chris,” replied the man with a broad smile as he offered Mitchell his hand.

  Mitchell shook Chris’ hand and then tried sitting up, only to find his vision blur.

  “Whoa there, you need to lie down, son,” said Chris, helping Mitchell to lie back on the bed. “You’ve probably got a concussion, so you need your rest,” he explained as he pulled up the sheets.

  Mitchell was too tired to resist. Before he fell asleep, a mere minute later, his mind searched for answers: Where was Jen, and why did they want her? But slumber brought no answers.

  15