Twisted Death

16. Motivation

"Rise and shine, Sir!"

Brandon slowly opened his eye at the call. His vision blurred and shook for a moment before steadying. His nose felt weird; something stuffed his nostrils while shooting a steady gust of cool wind into them. Annoyed, he pulled the thing out. A transparent tube that split into two air-spewing prongs on one end now lay on his bandaged hand.

"It's just a nasal cannula."

Brandon flung it away and looked up. Albert stood before him, shrugging.

"My lungs are fine after such a nice rest," he grumbled.

"Well, that was actually why Dr. Douglas replaced your mask with a nasal cannula last night." Albert chuckled. "Anyway, you just slept as soundly with a weaker breathing aid."

Brandon searched for the remote control beside the railing of his bed and pushed the buttons on it. Once the lower third of his bed descended into a leg rest, he stood up. The left side of his chest burned only slightly, which made him smile.

"Sit down, Sir. Just rest some more before Dr. Douglas and Boss come."

Brandon dropped down and began doing push-ups. Albert only sighed.

Fifty push-ups later, sticky sensation crawled across his body as his sweat drenched his bandage and clothes. Although fire now roared in his chest, he could feel the surge of energy that spread across his muscles. He could surely conquer the tourney and kick Zach's ass.

After thirty more, the blaze in his chest erupted into fiery needles that pierced his wounded lung. He groaned and collapsed at the sudden pain.

"Sir!"

He could hear Albert's incoming footsteps, but he simply got up and resumed his exercise. The flame within his chest now transformed into a torching barbed wire that wrapped itself around his lung. Gritting his teeth in exasperation and determination, Brandon pressed on.

"Stop it!" Albert seized him by his sound leg, knocking him down. "You're hurting yourself!"

Brandon looked over his shoulder and gave Albert a peeved glare. If his pesky sidekick thought he could stop a necrolyzer by clinging to a limb of his, then fine; he still had another form of exercise in his training regimen. After rolling to his back, Brandon lifted both his leg and Albert into the air.

"I won't let you go."

"You, a scrawny little shrimp, wish to be my ankle weight? Very well." Brandon lowered his leg before lifting it again and again. His annoyance shielded his vulnerable lung from the inferno within his chest.

Face white as sheet, Albert finally released his leg. "You're one hell of a mule," he murmured, hobbling towards the metallic bench beside Brandon's armchair.

Brandon resumed his leg lifts, stopping when several knocks came from the trailer's entrance. As he sat up, a flurry of needles punctured his lung and made him wince.

The trailer's door opened with a click and a creak. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Biscoe stepping into the chamber while Albert went to activate the ramp for Douglas and his trolley.

"What are you doing down there, Brandon?" Biscoe asked harshly.

"I did a few push-ups and leg lifts."

Biscoe shrugged. "What a bullhead."

Brandon sighed. Why did everybody view his obstinacy as something bad? He had fought for years and suffered grievous wounds many times, and only through sheer persistence could he live to see this day.