Extreme Days (PG-13) Part two.

Part 2:

My eyes peeled open, and quickly snapped shut in pain.

Think girl, think. I thought. I tried desperately to focus on what I had seen. But when you’re senses are as zapped as mine, it can be slightly challenging. My body ached in pain and bliss, as I felt scratchy sheets against my body. At least, I think they are sheets. Loud beeps crashed into my mind.

Sound! Sight! Touch! My thoughts had finally caught up. I’m out!

Wait, can I talk? Should I talk? I debated for the longest time. After few moments had passed, I finally convinced myself to open my eyes.

The sights were amazing! White walls, and a amazing looking white clock! There was even a table! I had to pry into my memory to think on what objects were. Slowly everything came back to me -everything- oh joy.

“Hello?” my voice crackled, I coughed a few times and tried again.

“Hey, is anyone there!?” slowly my voice began to come back also.

“What the!?” a sharp pain from my left arm connected to my brain. I glanced down and saw a IV needle in my arm. Hey, hey, my arm! I can’t believe it’s really my arm! I kicked my legs in excitement, and kicked some more, in realization my limbs were still intact. Pain surged though them like fire, causing me to come to a stop.

But hey, at least my legs work.

Pretty soon a knock came on my door, and a man dressed in a white lab coat came in. Suddenly my body almost automatically drawled in close. I think I even hissed at him.

“It’s okay miss, I’m only here because you asked. Are you hungry?” his soft accented voice tried to comfort me. Slowly my memory played back in my mind. My hands drew into fists,

“Go away!” I screamed.

“Easy now, settle down. I’m not like Dr. Thompson. I‘m he-”

I screeched in terror. How did he know his name!? He moved close to my bed,

“Please don’t hurt me!!” I begged, even though I knew he was going to. They always do.

“I’m not going to hurt you, now please relax. I’m going to give you a shot of Diazepam, this is going to calm you down enough so they can brief you in on what is happening to you.” He shot the injection into my IV.

“What’s going on?!” I hissed, quickly my head became light, and my muscles relaxed. I began to feel calm, I tried hard to make myself aware and try to stay on my toes. But everything became so warm and kind.

“Hello Storm,” a strangely familiar British voice came from the doorway. Soft footfalls came towards me, there must have been three people, or so encircled around my bed.

“Who are you?” I mumbled, refusing to turn to face them. I didn’t mean to mumble, but hey, I’m in the loving arms of medication. I’m going to savor it.

“My name is General Carl Crawford. This soldier next to me is Trace ‘Foxtrot’ Dalton, the one who gave you that lovely shiner. And lastly Zack Salinger, the one who carried you six miles through that dungeon you were in,” General Crawford answered.

“Sorry ‘bout that, you kept punching me,” the one named Trace answered.

“Where am I?” I mumbled again; ignoring Trace‘s apology.

“You are in camp U.K, in former New York City... of former U.S.A.”

“Former?” I turned to face the three men. General Crawford was a dashing older man with a scar running cross-ways around his throat. His buzz-cut graying hair and cold brown eyes showed he was living a long life in the military.

“Yes, ever since two-thousand and eighty, America has been a rebel against the U.N and turned on the world. That-”

“Two-thousand and what!? What year is it!?” my eyes grew wide. Last time I checked it was two-thousand and one.

“It’s two-thousand, two hundred and ninety-seven. Or widely called twenty-two-ninety-seven.”

“How long have I been, you know…”

“Two hundred and ninety-six years, love.”

A deep knot logged into my throat. Almost three-hundred years? Tears began to form in my eyes. America becoming a terrorist nation? I was created to keep that from happening. There is no way. I should be dead by now… I should have been dead back when this first started… Three hundred years ago.

“I don’t believe you. I want freaking proof!” I screamed.

General Crawford clicked the television on, news of bombings and assassinations filled the screen. Down at the bottom the news station proudly shown:

'July 3rd. 2297'

Tears strewn down my face, the salty liquid stung my skin. How am I alive?

“I don’t understand… How am I three hundred and fifteen years old, but I don’t feel a day over nineteen?”

“That my dear, is what I am about to explain to you,” a soft smile in pity came across General Crawford’s face.