Experiments in the Revival of Organisms, Pt. 1 [closed]

[deadeyedchild]

"Alex—?"

The word comes out like a breath he'd been holding too long. He's barely even aware that he said it.

He's awake. Is he awake? Is he alive?

He's on the ground, propped against a tree, one sweaty hand clamped over his stomach and no camera, and no blood. His legs kick out uselessly, scrabbling in dirt and twigs and dead leaves, as he jerks his head to the side, gasping for breath. Where is he? Where is he.

Where is Alex? Alex was there a minute ago, wasn't he, wasn't he right—

Oh fuck. Oh no, no, no, no.

The dream comes back in little pieces, seeing Tim in that weird cottage, and—remembering—

This time he lurches up, away from the tree, but his legs won't support his went and he pitches right onto his hands and knees, coughing hard, almost choking, hands fisting into the dirt, no, no, no, this wasn't supposed to happen, it wasn't supposed to happen. None of it. And now he doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know what to do.

Okay. Get a grip. Figure this out piece by piece. Where are you.

The woods aren't familiar—and he had been getting pretty familiar with a lot of woods. The trees are all different. It's not as quiet as it seems like it should be.

He gets to his feet and takes a half turn and freezes.

There is a phone booth, bright blue and just sitting there, a few yards away, half-hidden in the foliage. That's not—what the hell? He stares at it for a long time, trying to make sense of it, its brightness somehow making it stranger than all the creepy architecture he's ever climbed on and ducked in his head into only to have It standing behind him—he considers making a move toward it, but no, fuck that, not without a camera. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and he turns again, sharply, half expecting to see a faceless stare from within the trees, but there's nothing.

There's a path, he can just make it out. He wanders clumsily down to it, following it to wherever it'll take him.