THE POOL

Planet 'Not Furya.'

Some time after Krone ambushed Riddick and left him to die...

Riddick lay unconscious beneath the avalanche of fallen rock where he landed after Krone blasted him off the edge of a cliff. Despite his inept enemy's best efforts, the once Necromonger Lord Marshal was still very much alive, although badly injured.

His left eyelid fluttered open, but no light came and even with his eyeshine, he couldn't see. The total darkness disoriented him. He didn't know where he was. In truth, it surprised him to be anywhere at all. After tumbling hundreds of feet, he knew he should be dead. But either through divine intervention or just dumb luck, he survived Krone's cowardly attack.

He struggled to breathe, but couldn't. He tried again and managed very little air. The effort hurt. He may be alive, but it felt as if someone had already buried him. He struggled to force more air into his lungs. The enormous effort resulted in a series of eerie squeaks, like someone stomping a bagpipe.

His arms and legs lay folded around him at odd, unnatural angles. One dirty hand stuck up through the loose surface of his burial mound. It looked like a macabre grave marker. Something pecked and nibbled at his blood-stained fingers. The sharp, ripping pains roused him. He grabbed at the creature, missed, and then made a second attempt. His hand closed around something covered in feathers. Not knowing what part of the animal he held, Riddick squeezed with all his might. The creature thrashed wildly and pulled back. As it did, it drew Riddick's arm and head out of the soil. After a few moments, the spent creature collapsed, but Riddick was through the surface. He could breathe.

He ached all over, but it was his left leg that screamed for attention the most. The searing pain had several immediate effects. It flooded his body with adrenaline, reminded him he was still alive and that if he wanted to stay that way, he needed to get up. He forced his limbs upward through the loose soil and his left leg exploded in an agonizing storm of grating pain. Every nerve in his body cried no at once, but no wasn't an option. He would have to deal with his injuries later. As for now, his chief concern was extracting himself. Then he could deal with the Macro scum who did this to him.

Riddick heaved himself out of his not so final resting place with great effort and considerable pain. However, his newly earned freedom brought little comfort. After a few moments, a putrescent stench rose into the surrounding air. It heralded the approach of a life-threatening danger as yet unseen. He breathed deep, expelling a shotgun blast of dirt. Broken ribs ratchet down around his heaving chest and still, he fought for air. His body throbbed and thrummed. His skin burned with an angry warning and liquid fire coursed through his veins. The warning was clear: get medical attention soon or die at the hands of your sworn enemies.

Sworn enemies, he thought and laughed. His enemies had murdered Kera. Even so, he had stayed with them. Until, after years of getting fat and complacent, her ghost had finally invaded his deepest dreams. When that wasn't enough torment, he saw Kera everywhere. Guilts a bitch, he told himself. So, he finally manufactured an excuse to leave. Driven out by the memory of the only person he had allowed himself to love since his wife's murder.

Riddick peered around, wondering how long he lay buried in filth. He did not know the soil on Not Furya was a breeding ground for an array of germs that were just as happy to dine on human flesh as any other. Besides, to a simple germ, meat from one source tastes just as good as meat from another. And Riddick was a big man. There was a lot of meat to partake of.

As he pulled his lower body free, it wasn't the thought he'd become a living petri dish that caught his attention. It was the growing stench of festering pus that turned his stomach and led him to realize his untimely slumber had lasted too long.

If he had any chance of surviving, he needed to get moving soon. Because sitting down was the first leg of a race that ended in death. He heaved himself onto his feet, placed his weight on his right foot. So good so far, he thought. Then he took another step and his left leg bloomed into a fiery jolt of agony. The pain came from deep inside his left calf. The shattered femur hidden beneath his twisted armor failed. He cried out, stumbled forward, and went down hard on his knees. The jarring impact drove down his femur, grinding the jagged ends of the broken bone together, redoubling the agonizing pain. He writhed on the ground, holding his leg. At that mind blurring instant, he hadn't even noticed the myriad of other injuries spreading over his body. He would notice them soon enough, though. But for the time being, they were background noise yet to reach the forefront of his mind.

Riddick sat up again, fumbled at the latch on his lower leg armor, trying to get to the injury beneath. The effort revealed the first of many injuries. His twisted hand was a crushed mass of caked on blood, dirt and twisted, unusable digits. He bumped the heavy steel latch, and the pain flared up so hot his vision grayed out. When his eyesight cleared, his broken fingers had joined the angry assault on his already overtaxed nervous system. He could no longer ignore them. The two smallest fingers of his right hand were bent awkwardly to the side. One bent over the left three fingers and the other one bent underneath them. He grabbed each digit, one at a time, straightened it out and yanked it forward. The result was instant and explosive, but in the end, he set each finger. He tore off a strip of his dirty black t-shirt and tied the fingers together. Each would be a splint for the other.

Blood dripped from his mouth. It was dark red. He didn't like that. He told himself he'd bitten his lip or gritted his teeth hard enough to make his gums bleed, or hopefully, both. But deep down, his ranger training prevailed, and he knew that was only wishful thinking. Surface blood is bright red, organ blood is dark red. Something inside his guts had ruptured and was seeping from his mouth. Bad for him, good for the Necro scum who tried to kill him. At least he was grateful the blood didn't taste and smell like shit. There was no way he could survive a ruptured intestine.

He was on the ground panting and gasping, holding his belly, and listening to his many injuries come to the forefront. A brackish sky spun high overhead in an alien sky. He was a mess and there was no one to blame but himself. He'd trusted his enemies.

Laying in the blistering sun, feeling his heart race and flutter, he considered he might not survive another ten minutes, let alone be able to protect himself from whatever lived on Not Furya. Some alien vulture had already tried to make off with his fingers. It wouldn't be long before something else showed up to claim the rest of him.

He flexed the fingers on his good hand. It looked like a platter of half picked over chicken wings. But it still worked, and the bleeding had stopped. Fucking vultures, he thought. Everywhere I go, there are always vultures.

He peered around, glad he still remembered his old ranger training. He could still hear Drill Instructor Benson screaming at him as he did pushups. "A ranger never gives up. Do you read me, soldier?"

"Sergeant. Yes, Sergeant." he sounded off. He was only 17 back then and had run away from the orphanage with his best friend Martin to join the Company Rangers on Sigma 3. At first the Rangers had been everything he hoped for. A family. But then, everything had gone to hell and his family turned on him. But he had dealt with their treachery and as soon as he got off world again, he'd deal with the Macros, too.

He forced himself into a semi laying, semi seated position and leaned back against his recently disinterred burial mound. Riddick wished Martin were there now. He hadn't allowed himself to think about Martin or the Rangers in years. Thinking about them only reminded him of Martin's sister, Breanna. And this time was no exception. She came to him the way she always did. A long forgotten memory of the first time they had met on the front steps of the orphanage. She represented the life he was supposed to have. The beautiful wife. The little house. Two children and a dog. She was everything decent he had ever known and when they took her from him; they created a vengeful monster.

Riddick peered around. Certain cowardly Commander Krone had already run back to the armada. The lower brain/animal part of his mind hoped not. After conjuring Breanne, he was spoiling for a war. Besides, he'd rather go out in a fight than just flop over and die. The rational part of his mind reasoned an intermission might be in order. But either way, he'd meet his fate without fear or retreat and if he survived this latest treachery, he would make sure that when they met again, he would staple Krone's nuts to his forehead as he died screaming.

Riddick ran his left hand over his injuries. It trembled wildly and worse yet, even in the 85° degree heat, it felt ice cold. He had lost a lot of blood. His hand paused over the spots that cried out, demanding the most attention. There were too many to count and although his leg pained him the worst, it had become the driving force pushing him to go on.

He looked thankfully at his still working hand. Other than the raptor bites, it was fine. At least the bleeding had stopped. But the other hand and a few internal organs appeared they may not have survived the fall unscathed. The bits and pieces he could get to were going to need immediate cleaning and triage. He did the best he could with them, but a layer of dirt covered everything. As for anything going on inside his body, he told himself it wasn't life threatening. If it was, he'd probably already be dead. Then he touched his bruised abdomen and a fiery flame boiled to the surface. He doubled over, most likely his spline had ruptured and if it hadn't failed completely, it felt like it was about to.

"There's no help here," he said to himself and then laughed. The breathy laugh turned to a coughing fit that left a sticky coppery taste in his mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and it came away with that same dark red again.

Blood seeped from the corners of his mouth and his ringing ears. His right ear worked little and everything filtering in through the left one sounded like someone had stuffed a metal bucket over his head.

Riddick peeled the two metal halves of the lower leg armor off and grimaced at the sight of the mutilated flesh beneath. He wasn't wrong. A yellow/green puss oozed out of the open wound. He fought back the urge to gag. "Could be worse," he said to himself, trying not to pass out when a gust of wind sandblasted the injury with most of the loose sand nearby. He cried out, covering the exposed bone with a filthy, trembling hand. Then screamed even louder. A portion of the bandage he had wrapped around his finger earlier hooked a protruding bone and pulled it. His vision tunneled, and he fell back, willing himself not to pass out. He couldn't lose consciousness again. If he did, he was certain he would not wake up a second time.

He stripped off the rest of his upper armor, flung it aside, and sighed in relief. The weight of heavy ceremonial armor was sapping what little strength he had left. A sudden shudder coursed through his body. He was freezing. Whether fever, blood loss or exhaustion caused it, he couldn't tell. He suspected all three.

Over the horizon- he couldn't see how far away- a howling pack of what sounded like dogs prowled the desolate terrain. Riddick looked toward their savage barks. They're too close, he thought. Need to get moving, now. He sniffed himself and grimaced. The wafting stench rising off his cold, sweaty body would surely attract the creatures if the wind changed in their direction. Then whatever kind of shit luck that was keeping him would be gone.

He forced himself up, dragging his shattered limb behind him. His chest rattled when he breathed. The only thing holding the two or three pieces of bone together was the armor wrapped around the stinking, bloating flesh. As he forced himself onward, he cradled his crushed hand against his wheezing chest. The hand throbbed dully, sending waves of pain up his arm and out through his elbow. The faster he went, the more his injuries protested. Lay down and die, they yelled. Just lay down and die.

Sticky blood trickled from both his ears and a shrill ringing combined with a mounting dizziness to threaten what little remained of his waning senses. At least I'm still alive, he kept telling himself. At least I'm still alive. Soon, the unstable cliff base was far behind and survival had become a series of steps forward. And as long as he was making them, he reasoned he would stay alive.

His limited chances of survival depended on either finding help or, at the very least, finding medical supplies. Neither of which seemed likely on a desolate rock out in the ass end of nowhere. But he had to try. So, he kept moving. And the dogs kept howling.

As he walked along, he thought that when Krone had blasted him off the cliff, the deceitful bastard hadn't killed him. And that was good for more than just the obvious reason. Riddick knew Krone would return to the Necromonger armada with a highly embellished story of valor and victory. Krone wouldn't waste the opportunity to increase his own mythos. He was the only one from the landing party still alive. He could make up whatever he wanted. In fact, Riddick counted on Krone doing just that. If he survived, and he planned to survive. These fuckers were going to pay for their deceit. The newest Necromonger Lord Marshal, Siberious Vaako, would think him dead and that misguided belief would leave Vaako and the entire armada vulnerable to attack. An attack Riddick planned to lead. He didn't know how or when. But it would happen.

The pack's howls came louder than before. They were closer now. He peered around, saw the lumbering pack pop up on the horizon. They were a thousand yards to the east and hadn't seen him or picked up his scent yet. That was good. He needed time to find a safe place. But when he looked around, he saw little cover. Riddick was slow, and that was bad. Because these dogs were enormous. 350 pound behemoths. He couldn't outrun them on his best day.

A thin vapor rose in the distance. Water. God, he was thirsty. A pool of warm liquid spread out between him and the milling pack. The bubbling pool threw up wisps of rotten egg smell. Dammit, he thought. Can't drink that. Even in the chaos of the coming moments, Riddick's mind pondered which stunk more, his own putrefying flesh or the sulfur wafting into the air. Both seemed equally noxious in their own right, and he hoped the sulfur would mask his own unpleasant brand. The answer to which stunk the most would come sooner than he realized.

He turned towards the animals, cautiously walking in their direction, trying not to draw their attention. As he approached the pool, he wondered how good their senses of smell were. He assumed very good. But surely the creatures couldn't smell him when he was this close to the pool and so far away from them. It was at that moment, when he was 100 yards away from the pool, the pack saw him and bolted towards him. He ran forward. If he could just make it to the pool before they did, he would submerge himself. He never considered the dogs may stick around until the drowned corpse floated to the surface.

He was less than 50 yards from the pool when he realized the pack had already closed the distance by 400 yards. He poured on the speed, his unsteady, shambling gait quickly becoming a painfully sobering run for his life. His disjointed foot flopped and twisted beneath him. Tears of agony cleansed away troths of dirt on his cheeks. Even though his leg was a searing mess, he didn't falter or hold back his speed. He pushed through the pain and just as the giant beasts reached the opposite edge of the pool and dove at him; he fell face first into the brackish water and sank out of sight. The lead dog barely missed him.

The water, both hot and acidic, seared his already throbbing skin, but he held back the scream. He needed to conserve the small amount of oxygen left in his lungs.

Gravity reached up through the murky darkness swirling in the depths of the descending pool. It slowly drew him into its bowels. His weeping injuries burned as if had fallen into a pool of liquid fire. And although he had escaped the roving dog pack, he now faced a more dire fate. He was about to run out of air and drown.

Blood seeped from lacerations covering Riddick's body. Its gentle flow swirled upwards like crimson storm clouds spreading through the foreboding yellow sky. As the wafting red mixed with the sickly yellow of sulfur, the bubbling pool turned to a brackish orange. The odor of spilled blood was intoxicating to the ravenous pack. The salivating pack circled the pool in a barking, snapping frenzy. They would not leave such a tasty, convenient meal.

He was alone in an unknown world with only his wits and will to guide him. Few knew where he had gone and even fewer yet cared. There would be no help for a drowning man. No hero to save the day. Survival would go to the fittest. And the fittest was not him.

He peered up through the surface of the steaming pool, eyes burning, watching the snarling pack circle the banks as his heartbeat raced faster every second. The grinning, distorted faces of his human betrayers seemed to peer back at him. He had hallucinated. Vaako and Krone had offered answers for his unwanted throne. They had promised truths and aid. But given only treachery and deceit. He regretted the decision to trust Vaako. What had he thought would happen? Why had he trusted a Necromonger? It was a foolhardy plan. But he was desperate to escape Kera's accusing eyes. So he told himself he wanted to locate his home world. To find his people. To understand why they abandoned him. You're a fool, he thought, sinking into the abyss. You should have known this would happen.

As precious seconds ticked passed, the old familiar emptiness that tormented his childhood returned like a throbbing toothache. Here, at his end of days, the answers he had sought his whole life had evaded him one last time. A final fuck you. He would never know the truth. Never find his parents or meet his people, or see tomorrow. What a waste, he thought, sinking deeper. All the running. All the fighting. It was all the bullshit. If I die now, it was all for nothing.