“Easy, there. You’re in pretty bad shape.”
Groggily, the man tried to speak but found his mouth too dry to form words.
The old man stuck his hand out, his palm facing the man. “Hold on. We’re getting you water. Sorry, but we were forced to try to pour small amounts into your mouth while you slept. It wasn’t easy, but we don’t have IVs or anything.”
In the bed, the man could only stare at him, wondering who the old man was, and more importantly, how he himself had ended up in this bed. Weakly, he pointed a finger at the man in the hat.
“Me? Name’s Richard Singletary. I’d shake your hand, but you’re looking a bit weak right now.” He smiled warmly as he looked down at the man in the bed. Movement from the doorway made the man look away. “Ah! Here’s my granddaughter with some water for you.”
The young woman was dark haired and pretty, though very thin. As opposed to her grandfather, her skin was pale, which stood in great contrast to her hair and eyes. Wearing a thin black t-shirt that said Danzig emblazoned across the front, ripped blue jeans with black leggings underneath, and heavy black combat boots, she looked like she was ready for a fight. When she got closer to him, though, she smiled, revealing the young teenager she was.
Reaching carefully behind his head to help him tilt forward, she held the end of a straw to his dry, cracked lips, pushing it between them. “There you go.” She said quietly, watching him.
The first sip of water brought incredible pleasure as the liquid splashed into his mouth, rehydrating it instantly. It ran back into his throat, coating it with moisture, allowing him to breathe and swallow with ease again. He sipped hard on the straw, intent on getting more of the wonderful fluid, and the young girl pulled it away.
“Too fast.” She said, holding it close to her chest.
The old man chimed in from the other side of the bed. “She’s right. Don’t worry, we’ll give you more, but you need to take it slow, otherwise you’ll -”
“Spit it all up.” The man finished, nodding slowly before resting his head on the pillow. Looking at the ceiling again, he realized he still didn’t know where he was. Turning his head to look at the old man, he asked, “Where am I?”
The old man cocked his head. “You don’t remember?”
He shook his head, then leaned over to take another small pull from the straw. The water was just as satisfying the second time, and again, he longed for more.
The man stepped away from the bed and reached for a pile of clothing that sat neatly folded on a chair in the corner. Picking up the top, the old man turned back to him. “Well, right now you’re in my apartment, on the fourth floor in one of the buildings that’s still standing. How you got here is simple. We rescued you.”
He unfolded the top, showing the front of it to the man in the bed.
“My question for you is, ‘What brings you to Los Angeles, Chief Serrano?’”
Surviving Rage | Book 1 Page 80