By D. S. Johnson
Fresh, cold steel presses against each temple. A reassuring glow fills the visipod and sight is softly restored. Far off alarms. Shouting, muffled by layers of cloth and plastic and doorways and distance. The distinct and sickening smell of burnt flesh and fresh blood. A moment for things to sink in and Harvey springs to life, to action. On with pants, shoes, shirt. Up and out of the room. To the right flashing cold, artificial red; the left burning hot, hateful scarlet. Hubbub and hullabaloo, mayhem and madness, panic and pain.
“THIS IS NOT A DRILL” flashes through hearing and across eyes. The nearest exit or to help? Harvey stops, unsure, for a second or more. The screams are dimming; footfalls growing closer, louder, desperate.
“Harvey?!”
“I’m here, I’m safe.”
“Oh thank the Universe.” Henri, Harvey’s sister. Unhurt, red eyed beneath a blue visipod glow, dishevelled.
“How many hurt?”
“I don’t know, I ran.”
“Should I help?”
“You should leave.”
“I should help.”
“You should GO.”
Her hands grab his and drag him away, over shoulder a deep rumble, increase in pressure, warmth and cold dancing back and forth. Lights flicker and fail, cold visipod torchlight instantly restores vision. Henri’s face is slick, tears and sweat mingled. Harvey pulls away, turns back.
“I should help.” Henri grabs again and pulls him away, reluctantly but silently – secretly – thankful. Sat in the rescue shuttle Harvey’s nails are chipped from the morning’s panic. Henri’s hands are chapped from constant wringing.
“I – we should have helped.”
“Nothing you could have done. Anyone in there was dead the moment it went live” – a static-clouded but still intelligible voice over the intercom. The pilot is also a Harvey, Harvey Johnson or Jonas or Jefferson.
“He’s right, I saw it on the Loop.” The other passengers chip in, beginning with a kindly older woman. The reassurances are strained, forced. Each person aboard feels the same – relief, fear, guilt, shame.
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