It swirled around him deep and thick, eating the light and leaving nothing behind but an inky void. A fog choked his thoughts—the words tried to come together, tried to form a cohesive sentence, to find meaning, but the moment they seemed close, they were swallowed up and gone, replaced by a growing sense of dread, a feeling of heaviness—his body sinking into the murky depths of a long-forgotten body of water.
Sam Porter wanted to open his eyes.
They fought him though, held tight.
His head ached, throbbed.
A pulsing pain behind his right ear—at his temple too.
“Try not to move, Sam. Wouldn’t want you to get sick.”
The voice was distant, muffled, familiar.
Porter was lying down.
Cold steel beneath the tips of his fingers.
He remembered the shot then. A needle at the base of his neck, a quick stab, cold liquid rushing under his skin into the muscle, then—
Porter forced his eyes to open, the heavy lids fighting him. Dry, burning.
He tried to rub them, his right hand reaching out only to be pulled back when the chain at his wrist went taut.
His breath caught, and he forced himself to a sitting position, his head spinning as the blood rushed out. He almost fell back.
“Whoa, easy, Sam. The etorphine will work out of your system quickly now that you’re awake. Just give it a minute.”
