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His left ankle really didn't look good. The foot was pointed in a little.
Packer's other ankle was only sprained, he thought. At least the swelling had gone way down... and his nose was throbbing a lot less. Last night had been cold, but he pulled as many pine needles over himself as he could and it hadn't been too bad, really. The worst part was that he smoked his last cigarette before he nodded off.
Glancing up, he saw his day pack. Still right there. It had been pulled off his shoulder and was now snagged on a stump, about thirty feet up the ravine. Bright yellow. Water, energy bars - and two full packs of cigarettes. Taunting him, there. The ground crumbled under his hands every time he tried to climb out.
He had a knife, his lighter... and thankfully his gun hadn't slipped out of the shoulder holster. Three bullets left.
Nobody had come yesterday after he shot off three rounds one by one. Guns weren't allowed in the national forest, but Packer guessed he'd hiked all the way through and was in the backcountry now.
It didn't look good at all. Hell of a way to kick, he kept telling himself...
Dying, he could deal with. But staring at his daypack and not being able to get at the smokes was really driving him nuts.

Taking a deep breath, he aimed his gun up at the trees and fired. Twice.
There. He dropped the gun. Nothing else he could do but wait. Only one bullet left, his fuckin' brain kept chanting...
"Get real," he said to himself. His voice was all raspy. "Not... yet."

Around noon he geared himself up for a whole lot of pain.
He'd splinted both ankles as best he could with branches, sacrificing most of his jeans. It wasn't dragging his legs over the hillside that bothered him - but he kept picturing a root giving way, and him slowly but surely edging backward again... to land squarely on that ankle. That was scary to think about. The pain.
Bright yellow nylon. He had to get to to his pack. Period. Just had to.
If I hadn't shot dope for the last three years, he thought grimly, I'd still have upper-body strength to do this. Yet another consequence of being stupid.
"Stupidity s-should be painful," he huffed, moving a few inches. "Owww!"
Packer picked out a little tree to grab next.
It wasn't his fault, really, but that didn't make him feel any better. There was no way to know, he told himself again. Ten feet of the hillside had just dropped away all at once. These things happen.
Never hike alone, his mind teased him again. Bad move -
"I wasn't hiking, I was.. camping," he grunted, moving the better part of a yard. "Detoxing... off the shit."

Oh, wow. He was so tired. Getting loopy.
Laying on his back, Packer stared at his day pack. There it was, only about two yards away now.
"Almost there," he said dreamily. "Smokes."
The slope was really treacherous at that level. But he'd made it that far, and he was going to get out of this. Even if he slid back down, Packer knew it could be done.
"Okay," he sighed.
Rolling over, he yelled as the toes of his left hiking boot made contact. Next, he had to reach up for that vine, there -
Something rustled over him.
It was hard work, just lifting his head.
The day pack. Falling?
No - it floated down to him.
"Yeah," he said desperately. "Please. C'mere."

Packer had to roll over again, but at least his ass was settled in a little dip. He wasn't gonna slide now. He'd remembered his gun about an hour ago, still down at the bottom of the hillside. Screw it. He could always get another one.
He reached for his pack -
It bobbed up. Out of reach.
Nobody was there, holding it - but that movement looked playful or something, just as if some jerk was teasing him.
"Not now," he growled. "Please, please, don't -"
There. It came back, and he clawed at it. He'd never been so thirsty in his life, and he was even of a mind to enjoy the stupid energy bars.
Within seconds, he had a cigarette lit.
"Oh yeah," he sighed, letting his head fall back on the branches. Now he could die...

The light was fading, but Packer didn't care.
After about half a pack he was starting to feel normal. The rest of the carton was in his tent. Getting all the way back there was too much for him to deal with, but at the moment he was okay. There was one bottle of water left, and one energy bar.
Dig in here for the night, he told himself. Climbing up to the trail would be no fun, but he was more confident now. His right ankle could take a little weight. It was amazing what some water and a few smokes could do, he thought - and then he caught himself believing it, and laughed for awhile. Even that felt good.
His nose was sideways. So long as he didn't touch it...
Getting that fixed would hurt worse than the ankle. Packer could breathe through his mouth for a while. That didn't bother him -
A branch was falling.
He tensed up, but it didn't make contact. And it was shiny.
As it came closer, down the slope, his jaw dropped open. It looked like metal.
Aluminum... stretcher.
No one was carrying it.

Before he could even figure that one out, he noticed a white nylon pouch strapped to the top.
Uh-oh, his brain said... right before it cheered.
This is one of those tests that come along. If there are drugs in there -
"Come to papa," he whined, reaching toward the pouch.
Like magic, the straps pulled loose and it floated right to his hand. He just about tore the zipper -
Oh, yeah.
"Yeah!," he shouted.
I don't need to do this, Packer thought calmly.
His hands ignored him. When he couldn't push his sleeve up far enough, he wasted no time shrugging off the jacket. It was like watching a movie, or maybe a real good dream. The fingers rooting in the pouch moved like they belonged to somebody else - and that dude was real desperate to cop.
Out came a rubber tourniquet. Check.
He wrapped the latex above his elbow. "This is not something," and he paused long enough to pull the rubber tight with his teeth, "that I wanna do. I came out here to kick."
Unwrap the rig. Get the bottle. Poke it - check.
"I have a choice," he muttered.

Five. Don't overdo it. His fingers kept pulling back, as if they really were attached to a dope fiend, until there was ten in the syringe. Doctor knows best, he thought dizzily, tapping the spike impatiently and squirting the air bubbles out.
Clutching the needle, he got his thumb all set and lined up right over the big vein with all the healed-up tracks. And it was eager too - the vein. His whole arm was happy.
"The pain... really isn't that bad," Packer told himself, sweating. "Maybe there's Tylenol in the bottom of the -"
Down.
Shooting up always made his dick hard.
Morphine wasn't really his thing, but right then it was close enough.

Ten was too much, maybe. He couldn't lift his head.
Life was absolutely wonderful, though. Maybe fifteen left in that vial, and he'd felt another one in the pouch. Maybe two. So the future looked real good.
Packer felt like he was floating...
Oh, look.
"Stars," he said, starting to giggle.

He was moving - for real. On the trail.
"You are a fine human being," he said. "Both of you."
Nobody said anything. The stretcher just cruised along. Not bumpy, like Packer would've expected. The trees were all at an angle...
So the slope must've been bad. But the paramedics just kept moving steadily. That didn't make sense.
For that matter, he couldn't see the guys at all.
Morphine, he thought. What a trip.

Packer woke up. Not much moonlight.
He was lying on the ground. The stretcher was still under him.
Something thick was being spread out...
"You're the best," he said, yawning. "I owe you bigtime."
It was his sleeping bag. Hands slowly tucked it in along his ribs, and the straps tightened back down. They were being really careful. Nice guys.
A smoke sounded real good, but he was on the nod. The last thing he remembered was looking at his backpack - the bigger one. Left back at his campsite, but now it was following him. Bringing up the rear. His tent wasn't strapped onto it.
There were five packs of cigarettes tucked down by his clean socks. And a bottle of naproxen. Everything he needed. Nice.
Settling down again, he was almost ready to nod off. There was a question rattling around in his head. All of the stuff he'd left in his tent was now coming with him. Somebody must've found it, except maybe they forgot the tent, but still.
They got him off the hillside and back on the trail. Saved his life, maybe.
 

His ankle woke him up.
"Ow," Packer groaned. The sleeping bag fought him, a little, but he managed to get his cigarettes out. Then his lighter -
Much better.
It was dark, but he was pretty sure he was staring at a roof of some kind.
The day pack was next to him. After a few seconds, he reached over and dug for his flashlight.
It was an old cabin. Part of a wall had caved in, and most of the windows were broken. The stone fireplace had fallen down.
The white pouch was by his left side.
His ankle hurt...
"Five, this time," he ordered, unzipping the pouch.
After a major battle with himself, Packer stopped at eight.
 

Soft.
Daylight, far away...
Things were different. Packer was woozy, but he shook his head hard and got a smoke.
There was a pad under him. Pretty comfortable. Green -
Tent.
"No way," he laughed.
Running his hand over the material, though, Packer was pretty sure he was right. The rain cover from his tent had been stuffed with something soft - maybe heather? - and that's what he was laying on now.
Packer propped himself up on his elbows.
Somebody had taken his clothes off and washed him down. The lower half of his legs were strapped to metal frames. White tape held 'em in there...
Further away, he saw a half-dozen books laying on the floor. Squinting, Packer made out the word "emergency" on one cover, and "orthopedics" down the spine of another.
Maybe a doctor found him.
At least he still had the pouch.
Just do five, he told himself firmly, knowing full well he was gonna do twice that.
 

Dark, again.
He made his hands move until he was smoking a cigarette. Phase one, he thought. Then he found the last water bottle in his day pack and drained it quick.
The morphine would run out soon. He had to eat, even if the thought made his stomach lurch. And he was going to have a problem if he didn't take a dump real soon, but that was just another one of those swell things about doing opiates that he'd somehow gotten used to, back in the day.
"At least I'm off the junk," he told the cigarette. "You gotta give me that."
These were unusual circumstances, alright -
He was damp.
Oh, great. Packer had pissed his pants...
His hand found puffy plastic.
"What in the world?" he said. But it was obvious. Somebody had put a diaper on him.
Weird, he thought, reaching for the pouch. Too weird.
He tied off, and poked a brand-new bottle of morphine -
As he pulled it up into the rig, something touched his thumb. Closing around... almost like fingers.
Packer blinked. Nothing there.
Dope kept racing into the syringe. This wasn't the usual battle with himself, wanting more. There was pressure. He tried to drop the spike - and it didn't fall.
In the beam of the flashlight, he watched the morphine rise to the fifteen mark.
"Too much," he said. "I'll sleep for the whole day." With an effort, he stopped the plunger -
The spike and bottle were taken away from him.
Nobody was there. He blinked a couple times to make sure.
"Who are you?" Packer asked, louder than he intended.
Pressure curled around his bicep. And his wrist.
"No," he barked, trying to pull loose...

But the hands pinned his arm down. When he reached over to grab at it, more hands took his right forearm and held it tight against his belly.
The rig was moving in. All by itself. Magic. He kinda liked that, even though it was scary just then.
"Don't push it all," he warned. "I'll really be out of it."
Slowly, the point's angle was adjusted -
"Ow. Owww! There, you got it," he hissed. "A little more." Not good with needles, Packer thought.
There.
Fifteen, he thought. And somebody's holding me down. The tourniquet was pulled loose...
After I wake up, it's time to go. Yup. Convince 'em to carry me to a ranger station or something -
Fingers were touching his face. Rubber, he thought vaguely. The drug was kicking in real nice. He jerked his head away.
Several hands took hold. Forehead, neck -
They weren't warm enough to be real hands. But they sure seemed strong...
Trouble, he thought. But he was too high to do anything. Something very weird was going on, and it was time to clear out - with the pouch - and make his way back.
The rubber fingers were bothering his nose again. Two gloves -
A hand took hold of his jaw - really clamping on.
He tried to throw his head around, and immediately all of the hands got serious. They weren't about to let him move.
"Get off me, dammit!" he yelled. It took a lot of effort to shout and fight at the same time. The buzz was really taking him under...
Hands pinned his shoulders down. Sat on his chest -
The rubber gloves were strong. One of them moved his nose a little.
"Oww!," Packer barked. Why were they laying on his cheeks like that?
A little more pressure - sideways - made him realize what was about to happen. They were lined up as if they were going to straighten out his nose.
Stunned, Packer told himself that they wouldn't really do it. The morphine was already taking him down, and he just wanted to sleep... but he had to stop them. Magic gloves - no, somebody had to be wearing 'em. But probably not a nose doctor, or whatever.
"Don't -"
Movement.
A loud click.
Bright, solid wall of pain swinging down...
 
 

He could breathe through his nose.
Do a spike first, or have a cigarette?
While Packer was pulling himself together - the old familiar tourniquet-tightness grabbed his upper arm, and his dick started to stand up.
A needle hit him.

All foggy and nice.
 

Wow. He was so hungry...
And the tourniquet was wrapping him up again.
"No," he said, holding up his hand. Gesturing hard - stop, stop. He pointed at the day sack, and when no hands grabbed his arm he tore into it.
He couldn't eat the energy bar fast enough.
There was a white thing on his nose, but it wasn't nearly as swollen.
From the smell, and the squishy feel between his legs, it was all too clear that he'd made the mother of all loads in the diaper. Runny, too. It reminded him of the first time he got drunk, when he was twelve -
A laxative? Would they do that to him? Sure, he needed to dump. But c'mon.
That wasn't the most pressing issue. "Food," Packer said, looking around. He pointed at the pack, and pretended to chomp a few times.
A scraping sound revealed a match, blazing up. It went over to a huge fat candle and lit it.
From the wall, a box floated over.
"Oh, yeah. You rock."
Peanuts, and trail mix... and some of those self-heating MREs.
Seeing a carton of cigarettes in there didn't hurt either.

The smell of the beef stroganoff almost drove him wild. It was too hot to pick up with his fingers -
Something rustled in the box. A bag of plastic flatware tore open.
"Thank you, oh yeah. Thanks," he sighed.
There were two more bottles of water coming out, already being uncapped and everything.

He took a drag and looked himself over.
His right ankle had one of those elastic bandages on it. Packer thought he could put weight on it soon. Rocking it back and forth made him hiss with pain, but not anywhere near as bad as before.
The really good news was his left ankle. It looked a whole lot better. Bracing himself for the pain, he tried moving it around...
Hey, definitely not as bad.
Nodding, Packer tugged on his smoke and laid back down -
Hands took hold of his left arm.
"Not yet," he said, trying to pull it loose.
Hands shoved him down. Really anchoring both of his arms...
A new cigarette floated toward his mouth.
As it unwrapped, a syringe met up with a much bigger bottle.

It was real good shit. Everything turned into a warm blur.
 

He drank water when he was thirsty, and ate every so often.
New diapers came, and he ruined 'em.
Every so often a rubber glove brought a bunch of different pills in its palm and wouldn't go away until he took 'em all.
 

All warm and toasty.
He heard a snap.
Packer opened his eyes. While his hands fetched a smoke automatically, he looked around the cabin.
"Wow. Somebody's been... busy."
How long was he out, anyway?
The hole in the wall had been boarded up, there was glass in all the windows - and he was laying on an air mattress covered by a new white sheet. Not on the floor, either. A pedestal had been stuck under him while he slept.
There was a fire going strong in the woodstove -
"Huh?" he said, kicking out smoke.
The stove was new... and so was the big black pipe disappearing into the ceiling. The crumbling fireplace was behind 'em.
A whole bunch of wood had been chopped and brought in.
He had the weirdest feeling. Grateful, sure. But there was a creepy "pet" vibe, somehow -
The rig floated up.

"Wait," Packer told it, shaking his head. "Darn it, wait a minute. Uh..." He made the big chewing gesture with his teeth.
It was a big ol' relief to see the spike lay back down on the table. That hadn't been there before, either - a crude little table - and there was another one to the right of the bed. With an old water bottle on it, holding a scraggly bunch of flowers. That was really nice of... somebody -
A box slid over. He took it to be a step, and swung his legs around so he could sit on the side of the bed. Then Packer got a good look at his feet.
Excellent. The right ankle was wrapped but it felt great. He'd even set the left one down without even remembering it had been hurt. There was a rigid plastic boot strapped tight around it. Felt really good.
He touched his nose - barely a twinge of pain. There seemed to be a bump, but Packer thought it was fairly straight.
"I guess the chicks will dig it," he murmured. "Broken nose."
A box started sliding. More.
There were five boxes of supplies coming over for his inspection.
Five?

He saw all kinds of food in the boxes. Beer. Candles, he thought, and maybe medical supplies. But the last box made him do a double-take.
Twenty-five cartons of cigarettes. Firelight played across the brand name. Five rows, five deep.
Bottles, in the same box, looked like fifths of whiskey. There were quite a few magazines too...
But he couldn't take his eyes off all the smokes. That many.
"I'm doin' a lot better. Really," he finally said. "Not gonna be here that long."
Oh yes you are, his brain said. They're not going to let you go. Flowers next to the bed and everything. You can't hobble out of here yet. When those smokes are gone, I bet they'll get more. This is where you live now. Right here.

After a few minutes something hissed softly. He looked down and saw an MRE by his hand. Macaroni and cheese, or maybe goulash.
Packer looked back at all those smokes.

He took the fork when it floated to him. The food was pretty bad, but his mind was racing and he didn't care what he ate.
A bag of cookies floated over. Packer ate a few, mainly to be polite, and reached out for the bottle of water that was next to show up. Then he heard a different kind of bottle -
Beer.
Somebody thought he'd like one...
Still, it weirded him out. There was a quiet, final thing goin' on in his head. It wasn't like he could run away yet. Not fast enough.
"You know I'm, uh, almost ready to go," he said awkwardly, taking the beer as it approached and unscrewing the cap. "Can you even hear me?"
Nothing happened.
"If you're hearing this... pick up my lighter."
He watched it for fifteen seconds.
"Okay. Then I gotta go with the theory that you can't hear what I'm saying." He looked around, wishing there was a pen. Packer had an idea.
Holding one hand out, he pretended to write in the air.
One of the boxes shifted just a little bit. Something rose up.
"Give it to me," he said anxiously, reaching down. It was a felt-tip pen.
Packer pulled the cap off, looked around - and wrote on his palm.

 CAN YOU READ THIS? 
 TOUCH MY HAND. 

After thinking for a minute, he added:

A hand started rubbing his shoulder. Nothing there he could see, but Packer sure felt it -
Two, four, six hands.
"Okay, okay," he laughed nervously.
His beer was taken away. More hands picked up his legs.
Squirming - but not really daring to fight too much - he was slid back to the center of the bed. His cigarette was taken away next, and another pillow flew up.
Hands lifted his head slowly. They were real careful with him.
It almost seemed like they were still communicating their answer. He opened his mouth to complain, but then he remembered they couldn't hear him. And the pen was gone - one of 'em must've taken it away...
Hands pulled his hair out of his eyes. They were almost tender about it. Affectionate. Other squeezed his arms. It seemed friendly, to Packer.
He tried to relax. If they wanted to cop a feel - and the idea made him grin - he supposed they were entitled. Changing his diapers, and all that.
The rig floated up.
"No!" he said immediately, fighting again.
The hands pushed him back down.
Within thirty seconds he was off to dreamland one more time.
 

He laid there and tried to do the math. Three, four packs a day was his usual. Divided by 250.
"Not gonna happen," he said quietly. "Nuh-uh. Adios."
Getting a smoke, he sat up. Tried putting most of his weight on the bad leg -
"Ow, ow, ow, ow..."

A crutch would've helped, but for now he could limp.
His backpack was in the corner. By the time he dragged it back to the bed he was sweating, and there was already a water bottle floating within reach.
"Thanks," he puffed, taking it. As soon as he got outside, the first thing he had to do was pick out a strong branch with a 'V' in it, to use like a crutch...

To get the cutoff jeans over the fancy plastic thing on his ankle, he had to tear the denim almost all the way up to the waistband. But Packer finally got it done. Then he set the left hiking boot down and wrapped his favorite flannel shirt around that foot.
Hopping over to the boxes, he dug around and found a roll of tape. That would keep the shirt in place.
It was almost like shopping. He took peanuts and beef jerky, candy bars, six bottles of water - and a carton of smokes. If he cut down a little, they'd last for five days. That had to be more than enough time to get somebody's attention.
When Packer had arrived at the trailhead - hitching the last ten miles with a couple of thoroughly stoned college kids - he'd filled out a card and left it in a metal box. But people probably took off all the time without pulling their cards and formally checking out. More often than not, he guessed. The kids he rode with had gone off in the opposite direction... so the rangers probably didn't even know Packer was still around. He was probably farther east than he thought. Starting a fire was an option - that would've been a good idea down there in the gully, to attract attention, if only he'd thought of it then.
Matches, three disposable lighters, batteries for his flashlight - and a candle...
Packer turned. The white pouch was right there, on the floor. Taunting him.
He was getting wobbly, so he pulled another water bottle out of a box and limped back over to the bed. This needed some thought.

His camping fry-pan, there on the table, was almost full of butts...
Two rigs were sitting right next to it. One of the syringes hadn't even been taken out of the wrapper. It was a comforting sight. And that, right there, was the problem.
Packer smoked one cigarette after another.

There were more drugs in that box - the one with the tape.
Wow, did he want to get loaded. The thought made him sweat buckets. About ten of whatever was in that big bottle would do him up right...
He'd gone through the worst two weeks of his life in the detox. Strapped down, puking. What a nightmare.
But that was chiva, his brain said. Too bad there isn't any here.
He groaned.
Why couldn't he find a place like this when he first started shooting? Get as much smack as possible - and just crash here. Hands bringing him water whenever he needed it, wiping his ass for him... forcing him to stay loaded.
"The point," he said to himself, frowning at the pun, "was to get off it."
And you are, his brain said soothingly. This isn't junk. You can handle the drugs they got here. So nice.
Oh, it was hard. He had a... window of opportunity, here, and Packer didn't want it. But he wanted to get hep-C even less. Keep going, he thought, and eventually you'll have to go home. On the street. Stupid decisions -
He pushed himself off the mattress.
"Twenty-six, going on fourteen," he muttered. "No. Uh... No more."

It was depressing, and he got really pissed off - but he picked up the bottle of antibiotics. His fingers slid over four big vials, and six little ones. Calling to him. Packer almost imagined he could hear them screaming. High-pitched voices, pick me, pick meeee-eeee...
"Gotta start over," he said disgustedly. "Day one. I'm clean - again. Whoo-hooo."
Before he could change his mind, Packer got busy with his backpack.

The weight was okay, but somehow there was too much stuff to take. All part of the mystery of camping.
After looking around, he swiped the bedsheet. Since his tent was nowhere to be found, all he really needed was something to keep the dew off - until he could find somebody to help him. Uh, make that somebody else - normal, and visible. Not so quick to draw up that sweet downer into a spike and hold him down.
Okay. Something had to go. Not the sleeping bag, or the food...
Sadly, he took the left hiking boot back out and looked at it. They cost almost seventy bucks.
"Sorry," he said, letting it fall. Then he dug out a pair of socks, one of the MREs and the candle. Packer added another bottle of water and knew he should take more, but he still had his little purifier-pump.
He crammed five more packs of cigarettes into the side pockets.
There. All bulgy, but it was good to go.

When he pulled it on, Packer fell over.
"That hurt," he told himself. Without thinking he'd put too much weight on his left foot. A crutch would make the difference. He could pad it with the sheet. Then he'd be able to walk.
Carefully, he got back up.
"Seeya," Packer said over his shoulder. Not very nice, but the hands couldn't hear him anyway. He went to the cabin door and opened it.
Unbelievable.
"Uh-oh," he sighed.
No way. Packer was in an even deeper ravine.

The trees were... incredibly thick. It would be slow going, alright.
A deep wash was cut a good ten feet into the ravine, not far from the left side of the cabin. But the walls were vertical.
Packer didn't want to go further down. When he fell he'd been hiking into a valley that never seemed to end. Apparently his campsite had been at a much higher elevation than this place -
Oh, you didn't really think you were getting out of here, his brain mocked him. Not unless you're carried. Just go back in and ask 'em, real nicely, and see what happens. Find the pen. And while you're in there, you could do about ten of that drug - one last time.
He licked his lips.
Not knowing where he was, or how he'd ever get to a place where other people could find him - he still took a step forward. And a limp.
Something stung his right calf. He swatted at it absently, studying the trees. Maybe right through there...
Hold on.
A needle pulled out.
He looked down - and saw a spike backing away from his leg.
Some drugs, he thought, could be trouble if you pushed 'em into right into the muscle. Just like that. You had to hit a vein. But other drugs just didn't care.
"You didn't," he sighed. Then his knees buckled -
Hands were right there, catching him.
They dragged Packer back into the cabin.
 
 

He woke up after many dreams, leaving him with the fuzzy idea that he'd been out for a lot longer than usual.
Something was different. He finally put it together - his teeth didn't hurt when he clenched 'em real hard. In fact, his tongue found patches of the same grainy texture everywhere... instead of the cavities.
There had been a nightmare about rubber gloves and picks, the taste of blood - but the big bottle had come to his rescue. Clear fluid being drawn into the syringe, filling it up. Good magic. Taking him away from all the pain -
Packer took a drag.
Wait. Did he light that cigarette? No. It had been handed to him.
After a couple minutes, he reached for his flashlight. Nothing much had changed...
Except for the shiny new lock on the door.

Using a piece of firewood, he managed to break a window and get part of the way outside before a spike took him down again.
 

Bars.
I am in a jail now, he thought hollowly. Built just for me. Totally secret. With candles everywhere, but still...
The windows had bars over 'em. Big screws were sunk through the ends, and into two-by-fours above and below the glass.
A thick bar blocked the door, and it had a padlock keeping it closed.
Cabinets had appeared at the far end of the room. They were chained shut.
He searched all over, but there was no metal laying around. Not even his backpack frame. Trying to unscrew the window bars, or the hasp holding the breaker bar's lock, was definitely not gonna be allowed.
His ankles felt pretty much normal.
Packer sat on the foot of his bed and lit one smoke off another, watching the fire in the stove. His boots hadn't turned up either. He really needed that right boot, at least. Maybe it was locked in one of the cabinets, along with his knife and his flashlight.
Even if they quit shooting him up, there didn't seem to be much chance that he'd make it out of this ravine on his own. That might explain the locks and bars.

The hands always worked together. "They" didn't seem right anymore. It. Yeah. One mind. Something he couldn't see. It sure had a lot of hands, though. Strong ones. Carrying him here, fixing up the cabin. Washing his hair, and so on. Then it went out and got all the hardware to make sure he wasn't gonna get away. Firewood, food... and all those cigarettes.
Well, he tried to tell himself, I'm not totally healed up yet. Maybe that was the only thing his nurse - make that his jailer - was waiting for. When his ankle was strong enough...
How long would that be? Winter couldn't be too far off.
Make yourself at home, his brain sneered -
"Shut up," he said.
A sting in his right tricep made him tense up.
Too late.
Packer just shook his head at the rig.

Great drugs, here...
He had to find out the name of whatever was in the big bottle. It wasn't like him to have gone this long without already checking the label.
Snuggling happily into the pillows, Packer kicked out a happy sigh.
A cigarette was tucked between his lips.

I don't have to do anything, he thought. This is perfect.
There was a smell. Not the soap it used to wash him down. Something else...
It reminded him of being a little kid.

Blocks, he finally thought six or seven cigarettes later. Pine.
He leaned on one elbow and looked around. The cabin was different.
A-ha. There was a shape in the corner. An old tub.
It was building... a bathroom? But there weren't any walls started. Privacy was a joke here anyway.
The whole place was hidden by the trees. No one would ever find see this place. Or find him.
Too private...
 

Daylight showed him the sawdust on the floor, in that one corner, and a weird little toilet. The claw-foot tub was huge. And orange.
Something moved. Dragging along the rim -
Packer got it. Sandpaper, taking off the rust. The tub could be prepped and... recoated, or something. It seemed like a lot of work.
But nothing was too good for the dope-fiend house pet...
Frowning, he rolled over and got a smoke. Something crinkled under his arm.
A magazine.
Outdoors.
"Right," he mumbled. "I used to be outdoors. But it looks like I'm stayin' indoors now." Packer looked around -
A bookcase was between the windows now. Half-full...
He got up. No spikes were coming at him, so he limped over to take a look.
Three shelves were full of medical books. Hmmmm.
The last full shelf had about twenty new paperbacks on it, and maybe the same number of magazines. He pulled one out at random, far enough so he could read the title. Modern Photography.
"No," he said, with a smirk.
Next was Live to Ride, and then High Times.
"No, and definitely no," Packer sighed.
Hung, Oiled and Hungry.
That one puzzled him, so he pulled it off the shelf. He saw the cover photo - and shoved it back quickly.
"No. Getting warmer, though..."
How long had it been, anyway? Since he'd jerked off? Damn drugs.
Packer shot a glance at the sandpaper, moving all by itself.
Well, if it wasn't gonna let him out of here...

The next magazine he found was All Bound Up. The chick on the cover was easy on the eyes.
Packer tossed that one on the bed.
He leafed past some sports magazines until he saw Outlaw Nookie. More tits greeted him. Some guy in leathers was holding a gun on a handcuffed blonde chick. That almost seemed to fit Packer's present situation.
She'd work. He took the magazine and laid back down.

Jerking off was so incredibly good, he decided to do it again after he rested up a little bit.
The sandpaper had stopped moving. Packer was sure he was being watched. Puttin' on a real good show.
He lit another smoke and finished off a bottle of water. Two more bottles had shown up, at some point, next to the pan which served as his ashtray.
Packer felt better than he had in a long time. Flipping back through the bondage magazine, he noticed an ad. The woman in it was smiling. She looked like his second girlfriend.
For a whole cigarette he studied the photo and thought about how she'd given him most of the best blow jobs he'd ever had...
Then he went to turn the page - and Packer finally noticed the rest of it. Up near the top, almost next to the ad he liked, there was a picture of a sweaty guy strapped down to a bed. Serious leather pinning his limbs, huge erection. It looked like the walls were padded. Somebody's playroom.
He ogled the chick on the next page, and then started to wonder. The cover of the magazine didn't say anything about dudes. Flipping through, there were only two pictures in the whole magazine of guys in restraints.
He tossed the magazine aside. It was aimed at dudes, obviously... Maybe some of 'em liked to imagine being tied down too. He didn't know about that whole deal.

Outlaw Nookie was just twisted. Packer liked it better than the other one. Mysterious bad guys catching women and doing whatever they wanted.
One photo was worth looking at again. The chick was just incredibly gorgeous. Fresh. Maybe it was the cover story, because gloves were coming at her in the picture. One held handcuffs, and the other was pointing a nine at her chest. He'd read a little bit of the story - put these cuffs on now. And then the dude had laughed, and caught the handcuff chain with a hook clasp. Spreading her legs...
He curled his hand around his meat.
Packer was usually satisfied with the mainstream smut, and he'd never take a chick at gunpoint or anything. But it was just a jerk-off fantasy. And he wasn't usually doing it in a place where bars had been put on the windows just to keep him from running off.
He wanted to be the jailer, not the prisoner. Calling the shots -
Got you now, he thought, looking at the picture as he pumped his dick. Those legs are staying spread for me, and I'm gonna take you for a ride...
His arm flipped the page. Same story. Two photos, and the bottom one was slightly smaller. It didn't do anything for him. Gloved hands tickling a cuffed foot. But the top picture was what Packer liked to see. She was arching. Wild look on her face. Some excitement there, too.
Yeah, he thought, I could stare at that all day.

It was taking him a while to finish, but Packer figured that was because he had an audience. Always watching -
He had to stop thinking about that. Back to the photos. She was cuffed down, and nobody could hear her moan. There were worse things he could think of than being that guy. Changing her mind. Making her hot. Crazed, and still stuck right where he wanted her.
"You... want more?" he panted. "Not g-going anywhere. Stuck. Wiggle all you w-want."
She was definitely getting into it too, in his imagination.
"Help me," he said, chortling. "Oh yeah, baby, okay, you got me. Let's have some fun. Keep it up. Work it. Dig in, now. Tease me right. It feels so good. Don't you stop... Oh, yeah, keep it coming. Do it, don't you dare stop, I can't stand this but you know just what I need, oh baby..."
Packer was getting closer.
"All - night," he grunted. "All over. Big fun. Stroke it. Stroke... me. Take me now. Don't stop. I... I just can't... It feels so good. Go, go, g-"
And he came, growling good and loud.

Sleepy, he took a last drag and punched out the butt. It took some care to get the pan back on the table without tipping it over, but Packer did it.
The magazine was still there. He was too tired to move it over.
"Stuck," he sighed, looking at the photo of the chick. "Right? So hot. Can't help it. Staying here, all I want, gettin' some more. Oh, yeah, let's party. Do it nonstop..."
He closed his eyes.
 

Packer woke up with a boner. He thrust a few times. Yeah, he wouldn't mind taking care of that. His old girlfriend was on his mind. Well, honey-babe, let's just shoot the moon...
He reached for his dick.
Huh?

Leather cuffs. And chains holding 'em out.
His arms were far apart. And his legs. There were elastic bandages all over his left ankle, under the leather.
"This isn't funny," Packer told the approaching cigarette. "Get these off me. Right now."

That wasn't in the cards, apparently.
He pulled for a long time.
The only thing that changed was a jingling sound, from past the foot of the bed...

A third chain was attached to each cuff. They weren't there for show, either. Pulled so tight.
He was fed, and given water. The smokes kept on coming too.

"I'm bored," he said again, louder. All day, stuck like this -
The rig and bottle came.
"No you don't. No, no... Ow. Dammit. Just... great."
 

It was dark when he woke up again.
Some muscles, in his shoulders, were pretty much numb. It seemed to Packer like they hadn't been used much before - but not like they were really getting damaged or anything.
The diaper was gone. Being completely naked was a lot worse, somehow, when he couldn't even bring his hands down to cover up at all.
"You got me. I already knew that," Packer announced, watching his cigarette bounce. "Now what?"
A pair of black leather gloves floated up.
Too shiny... Candlelight played across the surface. They were oiled.
Magic hands -
"Well, this can't be good," he said quietly.

Why was it doing this to him?
The gloves looked dangerous. But he knew... well, how nice it had been to him, ever since it carried him out of the gully. And still -
They were getting closer. Very capable-looking gloves. He was more nervous every second. Why leather, anyway? That oil on 'em had to be intentional. His cock was waking up.
Clearly, the gloves were stopping a whole lot lower than his crotch.
"No," he hissed, finally catching on.

Packer's smoke was taken away - and it was time to pull at the cuffs harder than ever. This is crazy, his brain shouted. It had been so nice to him, though it went overboard with that, and now -
A thought hit him, and the importance of it made him stop flailing around.
Maybe it was still trying to be helpful. That made sense, with all the other stuff it had done for him. There were fingers, magically heading for his feet - to keep him happy. Entertained. It had to be a horrible misunderstanding.
"Stop. Not this," he wailed. "You don't underst-"
They didn't stop.
Leather slid up one sole, and down the other.
"Aaawk! Oh no, no, knock it off. Noh hoh hoh hoh hah huh huh."
The straps were tight. Holding him all too well. Unbelievable.
Slippery fingers. It didn't just tickle his feet with 'em. That would've been bad enough.
It kept on tickling, getting better and better at it.

Up and down his soles. So crazy. It felt good - for the first second or two - and then ten times too good, and immediately a hundred times too much to take in, and the fingers weren't even pausing.
I just gotta get my feet away from 'em, Packer thought wildly - and I can't.
"Noooo hoo hoooooo ooooooo nnnnno," he barked, shaking his head and kicking like crazy. "Nuh hah hah hah huh huh..."
Oh, wow. It still wasn't backing off.

There was something innocent and, well, sweet about the whole thing - even if Packer was going out of his mind.
It meant well. All along. This, too.
He could thrash all he wanted, but it kept right on getting to know his feet. Skating here, raking there...
The jailer wanted to please him. A little tickling. He had to be restrained, because nobody would just lie there and take it. The cuffs were sturdy... and its gloves weren't stopping.
Make that a lot of tickling. Oh, no. More and more fun, then.
Could it really think he was glad to be there? Trapped? Was it trying to win him over?
He was willing to bet it had picked these gloves on purpose - just for this. Good intentions. So proud to show 'em off. Use 'em, just like this.

One unbearable second after another...
"Don't stop," and he had to roar. "Wait, fuck that, I didn't mean you. When I said shit like that..." He had to howl laughter. "The guy in the magazine. Go for it. No, no, the chick - you got me, hah hah hah hah, don't you fuckin' stop. Sss-stuck here, for this, now we're talkin'. Don't you dare fuckin' quit now. That was a fantasy, with that chick - me doin' her! Not this. Fuck. Now it's really -"
He exploded with rowdy laughs.
"Keep going - see, that's what I wanted to hear, when I was him. In charge. Aaaaw, shit. Aaaah hah hah hah aah, too much, d-don't stop m-"
He had to laugh for awhile."Not helping right n-now. For real, not enough, dammit. I mean, not like this! Get serious. Really ssstoooh hooh hah hah aw, faaah haaawwsssstaaaap whah haaah hah hoooo-ooowheeee!" Two more gloves zipped to his fuckin' feet.

It had to be at least a full hour of that shit.

His feet were totally killing him. Packer had no idea they were so ticklish. Of course, he'd never been tickled for anywhere near that long...
Unbelievable. It seemed like a good two hours. There had been a smoke break, which he seriously wished could've gone on a lot longer. Two or three other times he'd felt hands cradling his head while he drank water - and then the tickling always started up again.

You have to stop this, he kept thinking.
Packer even yelled that, over and over - right at the gloves that waited over his toes while he smoked. Explaining, demanding and finally begging didn't do any good. It always reached down again and picked up right where it had left off. He could screech, and arch, but the gloves kept busy.

He gave up on talking. Or laughing. It was too much work, somehow.
That meant he couldn't help but concentrate even harder on the moving fingers, and that made the sensation just about double up.
They hadn't even dug in yet. Not really.
The cuffs still kept him from lifting his ankles off the mattress...
The gloves tickled, and tickled, and tickled.

His brain still couldn't believe it. But what was so hard to understand?
It brought cuffs, so he couldn't move around. And gloves. It planned this out. While he slept, it got everything ready...
I'm going to try something. Spread him out and make sure he can't hardly move. Extra chains, even. And then I'll oil up these gloves and tickle his feet. All night. Won't he be surprised?
Look down here, Packer. Now try and guess what I'm going to do to you...
Wonderful. It's working out so well. He laughs and laughs. Even when all the noise dies out, he's still coming unglued. Trying everything to get free - and now I understand why I had to strap him down. Overwhelming pleasure. But his feet will still lay right where I want 'em.
Aw, he's so incredibly happy. I'm really on to something here. Why should the fun stop now? He can get just as wild as he wants. The sensation must be incredible. That must be why he fought so hard at first.
Nothing but fun for him now. Intensely happy...
And I do mean all night.
Yes you will, Packer. These feet aren't getting away from me. Let's try putting oil right on your feet. Tickle, tickle, tickle, tic-
He opened his eyes.
Something occurred to him - where did he see this? Foot, cuff, leather gloves...
The picture in the magazine. Of course. Right next to the photo he stared at. He refused to believe it. His tickler here must've taken it wrong - he stared at the picture next to the feet getting tickled! What he said when he was jacking off was intended for the foxy prisoner - and the fantasy wasn't supposed to happen to him! If his rescuer actually was able to hear him, this freaky scene made sense in a warped way.
Packer laughed harder. Stupid move. Gonna pay for it now...
He roared for a long, long time.

Can you read my mind? Packer thought - when he could manage to think about anything else. He desperately hoped the jailer was telepathic.
I know you mean well. You've done so much for me. And now this. Very kind, what you're trying to do - but this is torture. Too much. One finger, maybe. Not ten...
Way too hard to take.
You wanted to do something nice for me. I was bored. But I wasn't staring at the tickling picture while I jacked off. Really. Or the guy strapped down. You probably think I want this... but you got it all wrong.
This tickling is driving me insane. It may sound like I'm loving this, just thrilled to death, but the truth is it's about twenty times too much of a good thing.
You're going to get around to my armpits, at some point. My ribs. And I can't even imagine how bad that'll be. Intense. This is way more than I can stand, already.
And the way you make the fingers hold off when I'm getting lightheaded - well, listen, you've got to let me pass out. Then maybe you'll see what I mean.
I'm so stuck, here. Stop tickling. Right now. Call it off. Your good deed has backfired in the most horrible, breathtaking way. Give me the pen. Please? You have to let me write something down. If you don't give me the pen, I won't be able to write it down, and you won't know this is way too much. I'm out of my mind. Not pleased. I know I sound all happy and everything -
Stop the gloves. Please. This is torture. But I don't think you realize - aw, look, I can't take any more of this. Really. You're gonna keep right on tickling, though.
I can't believe how much I'm feeling this. My head could explode or something, you don't want that...
This isn't helping. Just the opposite. And I can't get my feet away -
Too much. Way, way, waaaaay too much pleasure. You don't know that. About ten seconds after you started, it was like an overload. And you keep bringing the gloves back down. Starting over and over again. I just can't stand this.
Take the fingers away. Stop tickling now. Right now.
Oh, please. I've never been strapped down like this and when you get those fingers going in my armpits I'm gonna absolutely freak out. I have to make you understand that this is torture. You meant well, but I'm going out of my mind. Serious mental damage. You don't want that. I mean, you reset my nose and everything. My ankle. And now my sanity is on the line. Nothing I can do, either.
My legs won't move. But you know that. And you keep on tickling. That's a bad combination. I can't stand it when I kick and pull and your fingers never stop. I'm still laid right out, and if you find out how ticklish my belly is I'm gonna snap or something. I mean it. You're torturing me, not making me happy, and I can't even get through to you.
Too much. I can't even kick your hands away. My sides are open. And I'm horny, for some reason. I need to get myself off and that's not gonna happen with my hands cuffed down. Wide open. This is driving me crazy and I can't get away from it.
Stop, stop, stop, aw please, this is just wrong. Not kind, not nice at all. I'm too excited. You've got to see that. Right? Even if you think it's something I like... I'm begging you. Make the gloves stop.
This isn't fun. I'm serious. You think it's what I like, so perfect, laughing - hour after hour. A good deed. Another hour. That's what you think. But you're so wrong. Another hour, and another, and another, and another, and another, more tickling - oh, please, please, you gotta lay off now.
You can't read my mind either, can you? I'm so incredibly screwed now. Being locked in here was bad enough. Waking up and seeing the cuffs on me - but this is more than I can take. Do you really think this is fun for me? Seriously. You do. That's the only explanation. Big, endless fun. Make him happy. There's no way you'd tickle for one more second if you knew how intense this is for me. Too much pleasure. You'd stop right away, but I can't get through to you.
I can't get my feet away... from your helpful, generous, hard-working fingers. And you know it. But nobody could take this. You're all over my feet. It's way too much.
Call it off.
Give me the pen. I need to tell you. Suffering - not happy. Don't let the laughter fool you... I don't love this. Stop, please, now. Now. Knock it off.
I can't believe this.
You're not going to stop tickling me.

After a while - another hour? Three? - rubber gloves floated over him and got into the act.
Packer shook his head at them, but they came down anyway.
Right to his sides.

Roaming all over his legs.
Fingering his dick.
Something slippery magnified the effect of each finger.
He was far too wild to cum...

Morning light showed him the gloves, still nuzzling and tracing and digging in.
He counted ten rubber hands. Not a single one was of 'em was lazy. The jailer was really into this. Were the gloves so dedicated because whatever wore 'em dug what it was doing to him as much as it seemed to?
Somehow the tickling energy - sharp, sweet power - kept climbing. All through his body, too, and not just the places where a glove was actually working him over right then. His neck throbbed, and so did his own palms. They felt like they were gonna explode as soon as fingers returned to 'em, and it hadn't even really spent any real time on those places yet.
A fist got him to jump...
No, he was thrusting again. Yeah. That wasn't too bad, squirting off. But after the last time -
The fingers started moving again. Everywhere else. Packer didn't even have time to tense up...
The impact went through the roof.
A hundred hands. All tickling. That's what it felt like. So into tickling him. Almost as if the gloves kept doubling, and doubling again. Slow fingers.
Stronger.
Incredible. So much worse. And better too, somehow.
Both.
 

Packer yawned - and it hurt. His whole chest was sore.
He tried to move his arms, and they didn't go anywhere...
There were straps hugging each upper arm - and each calf. Another one over his hips kept his ass down.
He kicked out the most extended, gravelly, hopeless moan.
Then he lifted his head to look. Restraints - check. There were even little leather cuffs around his toes. No more squeezing 'em together or trying to curl his feet. Can't have that.
There was a new box - another big one - past the foot of the bed. More bondage stuff.
Feathers.
Bottles, and what he took to be different kinds of brushes.
A good half-dozen books had been added to the shelf. One was lying on its back - the cover showing a big photo of bare feet, and a little blue feather. The whole open edge of that one was littered with colored bookmarks.
The newest books had titles that were... just about what he expected, after last night.
Perverted Massage - For Him.
Marathon Tickling Techniques.
Masturbation For Horndogs.
Tickle Like A Master.
He made himself look away. If he read those titles again, he was going to start whimpering. Screaming. There wasn't another soul around to hear him, except the jailer.
Packer strained at the cuffs.
"Yup," he sighed. "It's on, now."
And then, as he watched, two fluffy white feathers started to move - being pulled free from all the others in the box.
 
 
 

When the spring thaw was pretty much over, he looked around one night and saw that the ol' homestead was getting a little cramped.
Row after row of firewood was stacked neatly along the short wall. Racks, stocks - all handmade, but too heavy for him to budge - and thick leather slings were in their usual places. Manacles here, spreader bars there. Fat rings were clustered all around the tub, and the toilet... well, everywhere he looked.
More shelves faced him, filled with boxes and books.

The jailer had been able to hear him all along.
Packer figured that out a few days after the tickling started, thinking back on some of the things he'd said. Or moaned. The fateful decision to strap him down and tickle him - what it thought he wanted - completely made sense now.
From that night on, it had a whole new mission.
That one novel clinched the deal. He'd been given his own copy and forced to read it a few times. There were some parts it wanted him to memorize. Sentences and scenes floated through his mind all the time.
No more cigarettes came, but Packer was usually way too busy to think about 'em much. And there was the weekly cigar he got when they played blackjack.
He was so freakin' cut. Muscles on his muscles.
Even the paddles had been ignored lately. It had been big on spanking him whenever he got his back up. And it never got tired of playing with his meat, either. Milking, denial, vibrators... Sometimes he used to wonder if he'd ever be able to get it up again. But that was just as stupid as hoping that his feet couldn't get any more ticklish. Ridiculous.
It loved tickling more than anything else. That had scared Packer, at first, but it kept taking care of him. The reason changed from affection, or whatever it had been motivated by at first, to his ticklishness. But still. When he really thought about it, he always felt a little bit responsible for the way things had turned out. It really had been trying to please him, that first night, but from then on it was hooked.
One by one it tickled all the negative feelings away. Fear, despair, anger. Since the hysteria kept swamping him anyway, there came a time when he understood that there was only one thing that kept him in its hands. There was no other choice left open to him, and the lesson was drilled into him every day...
More tickling. Always.
Finally he did what he had to do, just to cope. Ever since then - well, he dug it. Craved it.
That kept him from going nuts, for real, when it turned out there was no such thing as too much tickling.

The jailer had changed too.
It was tough now. Harder. Big attitude. One thing or another reminded him constantly that he was a slave, and it ruled over every second of his existence. Hysterical days. Long, horny nights... And then every so often he'd wake up dressed in leathers and have full run of the cabin for a few hours, until the cuffs floated over and invisible hands started pulling off his clothes. Reading, getting drunk, noodling on the guitar it had brought for him - until it finally ended the suspense and made him howl again. Weirder than ever.
It had pushed Packer to places he never thought he'd get. Five hundred pushups. A hundred pullups with each arm...
Fiercely intimate tickling. Ironman tickling.
There was no satisfying it.
And definitely no getting away.

15nov2005