Note: This is short because I'm really, really tired. I have more ideas, but I don't want them to come out crappy. personal preference.
Part Four: Eye-Dentity
The water from Patrick’s canteen had long since dried on his lips, had become a distant memory in the pain and the dry, unrelenting wind that swirled around him. The hunger and thirst were twin pains gnawing at his chest.
Guilt was the triplet pain, and the worst of them, but in the crucible of fear and starvation, it was transformed into anger, blazing hot as the sun overhead. It had been a week, and if he’d seen one man die, he’d seen a hundred. There were maybe two-hundred of them left, scattered about the field. Someone had once said that no man was an island; that someone hadn’t sat on the surface of some gorram rock, watching everyone around him die. If that wasn’t an island, than nothing was.
True, sometimes a man or a woman would walk by—might even make some attempt to talk to him. He’d answer with a few words, close his eyes, and be alone when he opened them again. Gabriel didn’t know if they’d even been there, if they were real.
He was barely conscious when the Alliance arrived; he’d felt near to death himself, burning inside and out, and to tell the truth, he didn’t hate the notion. It’d stop the burning, the thoughts rushing through his head, and the smell of bodies slowly going to dust around him.
He heard voices talking to him, but the words didn’t make sense. With a barely audible groan, he opened his eyes and saw hazy figures standing next to him, blue-grey and stark against the morning sky. Two strong arms took him under his shoulders, and lifted him up, so that only his shins were touching the ground.
Suddenly, his vision was obscured by a bright green flash; in the afterglow, he could see a small, hand-held unit was being pulled away from his face. The man holding it looked at it, frowned at the display, then looked to his men.
“Eye-dent scan says he’s one of ours,” the man said in a low voice. “He’s AWOL. Take him.”
Gabriel’s vision grew sharp and focused as the glow faded; the hatred burning in his chest also grew sharp, pierced him from front to back, hard enough to make him cry out. He shook off the man holding him and tried to run, only to receive a punch in his side.
It wasn’t enough. He staggered, but ran, took a swing at the nearest man. They caused the pain; they could take it back. He swung again and again, sometimes hitting, mostly missing, until a kick took him between the ribs and he fell to the ground gasping. Another kick hit him in the shoulder, and another in the head, until the world spun and faded into a white nothingness.
Guilt was the triplet pain, and the worst of them, but in the crucible of fear and starvation, it was transformed into anger, blazing hot as the sun overhead. It had been a week, and if he’d seen one man die, he’d seen a hundred. There were maybe two-hundred of them left, scattered about the field. Someone had once said that no man was an island; that someone hadn’t sat on the surface of some gorram rock, watching everyone around him die. If that wasn’t an island, than nothing was.
True, sometimes a man or a woman would walk by—might even make some attempt to talk to him. He’d answer with a few words, close his eyes, and be alone when he opened them again. Gabriel didn’t know if they’d even been there, if they were real.
He was barely conscious when the Alliance arrived; he’d felt near to death himself, burning inside and out, and to tell the truth, he didn’t hate the notion. It’d stop the burning, the thoughts rushing through his head, and the smell of bodies slowly going to dust around him.
He heard voices talking to him, but the words didn’t make sense. With a barely audible groan, he opened his eyes and saw hazy figures standing next to him, blue-grey and stark against the morning sky. Two strong arms took him under his shoulders, and lifted him up, so that only his shins were touching the ground.
Suddenly, his vision was obscured by a bright green flash; in the afterglow, he could see a small, hand-held unit was being pulled away from his face. The man holding it looked at it, frowned at the display, then looked to his men.
“Eye-dent scan says he’s one of ours,” the man said in a low voice. “He’s AWOL. Take him.”
Gabriel’s vision grew sharp and focused as the glow faded; the hatred burning in his chest also grew sharp, pierced him from front to back, hard enough to make him cry out. He shook off the man holding him and tried to run, only to receive a punch in his side.
It wasn’t enough. He staggered, but ran, took a swing at the nearest man. They caused the pain; they could take it back. He swung again and again, sometimes hitting, mostly missing, until a kick took him between the ribs and he fell to the ground gasping. Another kick hit him in the shoulder, and another in the head, until the world spun and faded into a white nothingness.
posted by Gabe at 1:34 PM
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