There was a water station, where coffee mugs of water were served by people wearing vests and a single glove. "DRINK!" said the sign, so he did.
After that, a nervous 'G' with a facial tic asked him to follow, so he did. There was a large tent, with a chair and a table, and two men in uniform seated on the other side of the table. One had a clipboard; the other a laptop computer. The G motioned him to sit in the chair, then took up position at the tent's rolled-up flap door.
"Name?"
It took an effort to dredge it up.
"Jason."
"Last name?"
He blinked slowly.
"Last name?" the soldier patiently repeated.
"Nesbitt."
"Spell it."
It took an effort.
"Date of birth?"
He gave it. It was annoying, but it was better than not answering.
"City and state of birth?"
Cleveland, Ohio.
"City and state of birth?"
"Sir?"
"Sir?"
"Hometown?"
"CLEVELAND! CLEVELAND GODDAMN IT!" he shouted, instantly causing the G to get out his stick and one of the two soldiers to put his hand on his pistol.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he babbled, and sat back down with his hands on his lap.
"We're sorry too. We have to ask these questions. There's a war on, and we saw you looking around at the defenses. What was your occupation?" Pause. "What did you do for a living?"
He blinked. He wasn't going to say anything. He wasn't going to lose his temper again. And worse than thinking, he was remembering.
It was very painful.
"Search him," the soldier commanded suddenly, and three additional Gs came into the tent, stood him up, had him put his hands on the back of the chair, and carefully went over him from head to toe.
The knife. A Red Lion ration bar wrapper. A shoe lace. A small scalpel blade wrapped in tape. A rag.
Nothing else. No weapons, no electronics.
"Sir, he's got tattoos."
This drew instant hard attention from both soldiers.
One got up to look.
He did not resist as the Gs took off his jacket and shirt. He didn't want them torn.
"Goddamn," said one of the soldiers.
His left shoulder was tattooed with the Maltese Cross. The symbol of the American fire service.
His right shoulder had a eagle holding a ribbon. The ribbon read 9-11-01.
The soldier at the laptop typed, typed again.
Now with one G standing on each side of him, he was permitted to put his shirt and jacket back on.
"Where did you graduate high school? What was your last address? What was your father's name? What was your mother's name? Where did you go to community college? What kind of car did you drive?"
He gave the answers. They meant nothing.
The one soldier showed the laptop to the other.
He nodded grimly.
"Jason, we've determined that you're not a threat to our mission. We are going to take a picture of you, and your prints. Then we are going to let you go. It's important that you not go back south for the duration of the War. Do you agree to that, to keep going north?"
He nodded.
They took their pictures, including close ups of the tattoos. There was a device for taking the prints, which fed into the laptop.
The two soldiers talked to him some more. They didn't ask questions, so he didn't say anything.
"You know, Medical could really use him."
"Not like this they can't. He's not a paramedic, he's a casualty."
The words woke something up in him.
Medical.
Paramedic.
Casualty.
They gave him a piece of thick paper with some writing on it. He didn't read it.
"When you get to North Folk, give this card to the duty officer at the control point. We'll see what we can do for you then. You got some water? Are you hungry?"
Of course he was hungry.
They gave him two ration bars and sent him out of the tent.
He was in time to see what happened next.
###
The man had been carrying two buckets, one in either hand. But lots of refugees carried buckets.
But he mumbled to himself, and stank.
The buckets stank. A harsh acrid smell.
Someone heard what he mumbled, and she moved away from him.
He started to approach the inner guard. He'd already passed the chicken pit.
The soldier had been talking on radio.
He shifted his grip on his rifle.
The man mumbled louder.
"The power…" mumble "… compels…"
Several times a shift, something happened that caused the soldier to bring his rifle to low ready. It was nearly always nothing.
But there was a reason why the danger positions - the chicken pit, the control point - rotated every thirty minutes.
He listened harder, not quite pointing his rifle.
"…you. The power of Christ…"
Oh shit.
"YOU MAN STOP! PUT THE BUCKETS DOWN!" the soldier screamed as he brought his rifle to his shoulder.
People moved out of the way. They knew what happened next when men pointed guns.
The man threw the bucket in his right hand past the soldier. It landed behind him.
He did not throw the bucket in his left hand. He dropped it when the soldier shot him, again and again and again.
Both buckets landed with a crunch and tinkle, as if they had contained thin glass bottles.
They had.
The bucket plastic lid flew off and a disgusting green slime surged out, as if squeezed from some hidden reservoir.
The soldier dropped his rifle as iron bands tightened around his chest and his vision blurred then went black. He tasted burning. His lungs filled with burning. He tried to spit, and threw up, and pissed and shat involuntarily. He tried to hold his breath and crawl sideways.
He failed.
###
From fifty yards away, the other side of the control point, Jason saw the buckets
And what surged out of them.
With a diamond hard clarity, the mist of years cleared away. And all his skills came back to him, in a painful epiphany made of rage and pain and overwhelming fear and imminent deadly threat.
"Hydrogen sulfide! Hydrogen sulfide! RUN RUN RUN!"
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2020-03-09 09:03 pm (UTC)There was a water station, where coffee mugs of water were served by people wearing vests and a single glove. "DRINK!" said the sign, so he did.
After that, a nervous 'G' with a facial tic asked him to follow, so he did. There was a large tent, with a chair and a table, and two men in uniform seated on the other side of the table. One had a clipboard; the other a laptop computer. The G motioned him to sit in the chair, then took up position at the tent's rolled-up flap door.
"Name?"
It took an effort to dredge it up.
"Jason."
"Last name?"
He blinked slowly.
"Last name?" the soldier patiently repeated.
"Nesbitt."
"Spell it."
It took an effort.
"Date of birth?"
He gave it. It was annoying, but it was better than not answering.
"City and state of birth?"
Cleveland, Ohio.
"City and state of birth?"
"Sir?"
"Sir?"
"Hometown?"
"CLEVELAND! CLEVELAND GODDAMN IT!" he shouted, instantly causing the G to get out his stick and one of the two soldiers to put his hand on his pistol.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he babbled, and sat back down with his hands on his lap.
"We're sorry too. We have to ask these questions. There's a war on, and we saw you looking around at the defenses. What was your occupation?" Pause. "What did you do for a living?"
He blinked. He wasn't going to say anything. He wasn't going to lose his temper again. And worse than thinking, he was remembering.
It was very painful.
"Search him," the soldier commanded suddenly, and three additional Gs came into the tent, stood him up, had him put his hands on the back of the chair, and carefully went over him from head to toe.
The knife. A Red Lion ration bar wrapper. A shoe lace. A small scalpel blade wrapped in tape. A rag.
Nothing else. No weapons, no electronics.
"Sir, he's got tattoos."
This drew instant hard attention from both soldiers.
One got up to look.
He did not resist as the Gs took off his jacket and shirt. He didn't want them torn.
"Goddamn," said one of the soldiers.
His left shoulder was tattooed with the Maltese Cross. The symbol of the American fire service.
His right shoulder had a eagle holding a ribbon. The ribbon read 9-11-01.
The soldier at the laptop typed, typed again.
Now with one G standing on each side of him, he was permitted to put his shirt and jacket back on.
"Where did you graduate high school? What was your last address? What was your father's name? What was your mother's name? Where did you go to community college? What kind of car did you drive?"
He gave the answers. They meant nothing.
The one soldier showed the laptop to the other.
He nodded grimly.
"Jason, we've determined that you're not a threat to our mission. We are going to take a picture of you, and your prints. Then we are going to let you go. It's important that you not go back south for the duration of the War. Do you agree to that, to keep going north?"
He nodded.
They took their pictures, including close ups of the tattoos. There was a device for taking the prints, which fed into the laptop.
The two soldiers talked to him some more. They didn't ask questions, so he didn't say anything.
"You know, Medical could really use him."
"Not like this they can't. He's not a paramedic, he's a casualty."
The words woke something up in him.
Medical.
Paramedic.
Casualty.
They gave him a piece of thick paper with some writing on it. He didn't read it.
"When you get to North Folk, give this card to the duty officer at the control point. We'll see what we can do for you then. You got some water? Are you hungry?"
Of course he was hungry.
They gave him two ration bars and sent him out of the tent.
He was in time to see what happened next.
###
The man had been carrying two buckets, one in either hand. But lots of refugees carried buckets.
But he mumbled to himself, and stank.
The buckets stank. A harsh acrid smell.
Someone heard what he mumbled, and she moved away from him.
He started to approach the inner guard. He'd already passed the chicken pit.
The soldier had been talking on radio.
He shifted his grip on his rifle.
The man mumbled louder.
"The power…" mumble "… compels…"
Several times a shift, something happened that caused the soldier to bring his rifle to low ready. It was nearly always nothing.
But there was a reason why the danger positions - the chicken pit, the control point - rotated every thirty minutes.
He listened harder, not quite pointing his rifle.
"…you. The power of Christ…"
Oh shit.
"YOU MAN STOP! PUT THE BUCKETS DOWN!" the soldier screamed as he brought his rifle to his shoulder.
People moved out of the way. They knew what happened next when men pointed guns.
The man threw the bucket in his right hand past the soldier. It landed behind him.
He did not throw the bucket in his left hand. He dropped it when the soldier shot him, again and again and again.
Both buckets landed with a crunch and tinkle, as if they had contained thin glass bottles.
They had.
The bucket plastic lid flew off and a disgusting green slime surged out, as if squeezed from some hidden reservoir.
The soldier dropped his rifle as iron bands tightened around his chest and his vision blurred then went black. He tasted burning. His lungs filled with burning. He tried to spit, and threw up, and pissed and shat involuntarily. He tried to hold his breath and crawl sideways.
He failed.
###
From fifty yards away, the other side of the control point, Jason saw the buckets
And what surged out of them.
With a diamond hard clarity, the mist of years cleared away. And all his skills came back to him, in a painful epiphany made of rage and pain and overwhelming fear and imminent deadly threat.
"Hydrogen sulfide! Hydrogen sulfide! RUN RUN RUN!"
And Jason ran, as he kept shouting.
But he ran as firefighter-paramedics do.
Towards.