The Fabric of the Cosmos

Primeval
The Beginning

October 4th, 2008
1:03 PM, The Lincoln Tunnel

The copper stink of dried blood makes Matt’s stomach clench and roll, forcing a rush of bile to rise in his already abused throat. The sour tang of vomit is heavy in his mouth, making him gag and cough, the sound echoing in the silence of the tunnel before he can muffle it. Eyes’ widening fearfully, Matt presses a hand to his mouth and freezes, muscles tensing painfully. Ears straining, he waits, heart pounding excruciatingly against his breast. He couldn't – wouldn't – be able to live with himself, much less forgive himself, if he draws attention to their position now, after they had come so far.

Deafening, deadening silence is his only reply, making something inside him inexplicably catch and tighten. Surely, there should be a sound? Some kind of sound, any kind of sound, even if just the sound of his own breath or the unearthly horrifying incessant moan that those – those things – gave off? Even so, there's nothing. Nothing, not even the sound of Matt’s stomach bubbling because, honestly, he’s too frightened to even shit himself.

Swallowing thickly, Matt ignores the acrid acidic burn in his throat. The sickly sour flavor on his taste buds. God. Oh, God. Shit.

Why hadn’t he listened to Lucy? She’d been the smart one. She’d been a fucking genius, as far Matt was concerned, because she hadn’t lost her shit like he had and gone tearing off like it was no big deal.

No big deal. Yeah. Right.

A strangled giggle drifts from behind Matt’s pressing hand, soft enough not to echo in the darkness. He can hear it reverberating in his mind though, over and over, with an underscore of deep-bellied moaning and the sound of shuffling feet. Jesus Fucking Christ, he was an idiot. A big huge douche of an idiot.

And now, he’s going to pay for it.

With his life.

Oh, my fucking God, McClane. John. Where are you when I need you? 
 

 Two Weeks Earlier

The news is on when he wakes, the newscasters’ voice a muffled noise in his otherwise silent apartment. Matt Farrell blinks groggily, eyes gritty from too little sleep, before wiping futilely at a thin line of drool trailing from mouth to cheek and pooling damply on his ratty sofa. His mouth tastes of stale Red Bull and the cold spaghetti he’d wolfed down in front of the computer, the tangy sauce like curdled milk on his tongue. God, he really needs to stop staying up so late. He always wakes up feeling like a bucket of shit.

Yawning widely, his jaw popping noisily, Matt knuckles the sleep from his eyes before forcing himself to sit up. A sharp shock of pain ricochets from his knee up his thigh and back again, jolting him towards wakefulness and making him cradle his thigh above his knee, a hiss escaping his lips. Fuck, he shouldn’t have moved that quickly.

Squeezing his eyes closed against the pain, tears leaking at the corners, he reaches out blindly, questing fingers tumbling a half-empty can of flat Sprite Zero to the ground, making him swear. Ignoring it, he blinks, tears blurring his vision, as his fingers scramble through power bar wrappers, a computer tech magazine, old junk mail, and a crinkled techno-thriller paperback he’d thoroughly enjoyed scoffing at, and then…pay dirt. Fingers closing around the small brown plastic bottle, the rattle of pills clinking against its sides, Matt pulls it close and opens it with trembling hands.

The white safety lid pops open with practiced ease and he shakes out two white pills thankfully, popping them into his mouth and dry swallowing them. For long drawn out minutes, he waits for the pills to take effect, the agonizing sting in his knee and thigh pulsing to the beat of his heart. With his empty stomach, it doesn’t take long and soon the pain peters out to a dull throb.

Sniffing, Matt chokes a watery laugh, using the heels of his palms to rub the tears from his eyes. Jesus, he’s got to start remembering not to move so fast. It’s seriously fucked up to be in so much unnecessary pain all the time. Especially when it’s just because you forgot you can’t move any faster than an eighty year old when you first wake up…or sit down for long periods of time.

Another laugh and Matt drops his hands to his lap, eyes seeking out the time. A battered clock sits above his television, the ambient light from the screen making the red LED stand out starkly. 2:49 P.M. Fuck, he’s overslept.

“McClane’s going to kill me,” Matt mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face and through his hair. He needs coffee and a shower. In that order. Then maybe he can think about dealing with Detective John McClane tearing him a new one for being two hours late to Lucy’s birthday lunch.

I’m so dead, he thinks morosely, before pushing himself, slowly, to his feet.

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