Disclaimer: This work contains drug use and implied sexual content. If you are uncomfortable with any of these subjects, I highly suggest not reading. Additionally, this is a work of historical fiction; any and all relation to real people are coincidence unless indicated otherwise.

The Third Blink

June, 1967

It was too hot. That was all Sarge thought of this heat wave. Temperatures were projected to be in the high 90s and low 100s... That was just too goddamn hot.

The drive out to the town had been a figurative hell. His military-issue Jeep (older than him, to say the least-he'd heard it had been used in the Belgian front of the second World War) was painfully lacking any sort of air conditioning, forcing him to roll down the windows. However, even that offered little relief from the prison of his olive-drab dress uniform, which clung to him uncomfortably. The weather alone made him regret coming out here.

Finding the festival wasn't hard. There were cars parked in the desert for what seemed like miles, many of which were painted in psychedelic themes of love and war. His Jeep stood out among them all, its star and serial number seeming horribly out of place amidst the arsenal of acid buses and hotbox beaters.

Underneath a massive butte sat the crowd: topless women, men with flowers in their hair, and tie-dyed individuals. Someone played that horrible music-the whine of electric guitar matched with the tempo-lacking drums-over a car radio, and it echoed throughout the valley. Some danced along, some smoked, and some sat languidly around doing nothing in particular.

Maybe it's for the best, Sarge mused, taking off his aviators and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. Someone could get hurt in all of this heat. Though, maybe that would give them a wake up call. If someone were to get hurt, then maybe they'd go home.

Sarge descended into the cesspool of humanity, immediately taking notice of the overwhelming smell of pot. It seemed like there wasn't a single person who was sober. A part of him hoped that they'd take notice of him quickly; he was wearing a military uniform, after all, and didn't these people hate the military? Yet somehow, he just blended in with the humidity of the crowd.

A hand landed on his shoulder, effectively preventing him from going any further. "You seem a little lost, soldier," a man's voice said as he was spun around. "What brings someone like you to join our ranks?"

Sarge's eyes were met with that of a hippie with shaggy brown hair and a daisy tucked behind his ear. He bared his teeth in something of a grin, though it seemed more mocking than friendly.

Sarge brushed his hand off his shoulder. "I'm not here to join you," he spat indignantly. "I'm here to-"

"Woah, man," the hippie interrupted, once again replacing his hand on Sarge's shoulder. "You're here to shut us down, aren't ya?"

"Yes." Sarge picked up the hand and flung it back at the hippie. "And it's in your best interest to cooperate, or-"

"Or what?"

"Or, I might have to call in reinforcements." The threat was meaningless. There were no reinforcements to be called. Just him, and whatever police were back in the town.

The hippie laughed, long and drawn-out. Still mocking, still resentful. "Did Sheriff put you up to this?" he asked, putting his hand on Sarge's shoulder for the third time. "Go on home, soldier, we aren't gonna leave."

A small crowd had gathered around them. People had begun to take notice of the black sheep in their midst. Sarge pulled his collar from his neck. It was getting hard to breathe, maybe his tie was too tight...

"Listen here," he said, plucking the hand off his shoulder and watching it fall limply back to the hippie's side. "I don't care if this is a demonstration or a be-in or what, you folks need to go home before-" He swallowed, wondering vaguely why it was getting harder and harder for him to think clearly. "Before someone gets hurt."

The hippie was getting aggravated. "No one's going to get hurt." He'd dropped the hazy tone from his voice in favor of a stronger, more lucid bite.

"Well, then I suggest you speak to-to the Sheriff about that." Sarge fought his way through the sentence. It was getting harder to think, speak clearly. Something had muddled his mind, slowing him down and slurring his words. "Do you have a permit? O-rr are you out here illegally?"

The universe seemed to rock on a pendulum. Was it an earthquake? His imagination? Or the secondhand pot smoke that reddened his eyes and made it hard to breathe? The dark spots in his vision were encroaching further into the center.

"We applied for a permit, but-woah-"

Sarge passed out, inky black taking over his vision in one swift motion, and the excess noise of the world fading into obscurity.

He woke to the sound of argument and the bright-white light above him. For a moment,

he toyed with the possibility that he might be dead. He'd read somewhere that people saw a light when they died… That's nonsense, he thought as he forced himself to sit up. He doubted that heaven was a hospital, nor that the angels might bicker so much.

"-told you that something would happen!"

"Peace, Sheriff, it's not my fault the dude showed up wearing four layers of clothing."

At the foot of the hospital bed stood a face that Sarge recognized: Cpl. Sherman, Military Police. Sherman was the whole reason he was here in the first place, he was the one who'd called begging for his help ("There's hundreds of 'em, all just… out there, in the desert," he'd said, perplexed. "It's dangerous. Someone could get hurt, and I don't want to do that paperwork...). He stood arguing vehemently with one of those hippie-types, gesturing exasperatedly as he talked. The hippie looked considerably young, and had shaggy brown hair with a daisy tucked behind his ear… Sarge nearly groaned aloud as he recognized the hippie he'd argued with back at the festival.

In one quick, mind-numbing blink of the eye, he remembered what had happened in its entirety: the music, the pot, the argument with the peacenik, and blacking out for some unknown reason. With a strange realization, it came upon him that his uniform was missing, leaving him in just his white undershirt and olive-drab slacks. Suddenly feeling very exposed and uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and the two aggressors turned their eyes on him.

"Oh, thank goodness, you're awake," Sherman sighed in relief, expression quickly changing from annoyance to concern. With a weary chuckle, he added, "Thought you'd never wake up."

"Can't kill me that easily," Sarge returned, now painfully aware of how dry his mouth was.

Sherman huffed in a sort of laugh, before: "I better go get Doc, he wanted to talk to you before he lets you go." He turned his attention back to the hippie and frowned slightly. "You stay here. We'll talk later."

The hippie huffed edgily as Sherman rushed out, before turning his eyes on Sarge. "I knew you were with the Sheriff," he grunted, as though he'd uncovered the answer to a grand conspiracy.

"I thought I'd made that clear."

The hippie shrugged. "Maybe you did, maybe you didn't. Doesn't matter now, the whole thing's getting shut down." He barked the same mocking, resentful laugh. "I'm glad that you're alright, though. When I was drivin' you back out here, I was scared you were a goner, man."

Sarge gaped. "You brought me here?"

The hippie looked at him strangely. "...Yeah?"

Sarge turned it over in his mind, grappling with the fact. "Thank you," he said quickly. "If you ever need anything, uh-"

"Don't bother with any of that," the hippie said, batting a hand at him as if to shoo the sentiment away. "I was just doing my part as a citizen of this planet."

Sarge accepted it. It seemed that was the only sentiment the hippie would offer about it. The room devolved into vaguely uncomfortable silence, the only sound being the beeping of the heart monitor.

"Can I get your name, soldier?" the hippie asked suddenly. "I want to know who you are."

"Sarge," he replied in a half-stupor, offering his hand to shake. "And you are…?"

"Fillmore." The hippie shook his hand, before re-crossing his arms. "So, Sarge… Is that some kind of nickname?"

"I-er-I suppose you could say that," Sarge replied. "That's the most anyone ever calls me anymore."

"Really?" Fillmore raised an eyebrow. "So, what's your real name, then?"

Before Sarge could answer, the door burst open once again and Sherman (or, rather, Sheriff) re-entered, this time followed by a young man in a navy-blue summer shirt-perhaps in his mid-thirties-with dark hair pushed back over his head and striking blue eyes covered by horn-rimmed glasses. He had that kind of face that Sarge would swear he'd seen before, like a celebrity on television or in a magazine.

"Good to see you're awake," the man said, approaching the bed. He handed Sarge a small plastic cup of water and gestured for him to drink it. "It's not too much to worry about-just heat stroke."

"Well, that's good," Sarge replied. The cool water hitting his throat was a blessing. "I take it you're Doc?"

"Yes, sir, the one and only."

It seemed that Doc had the cocky personality to match his looks. "It's a good thing that Fillmore brought you to me," Doc said. "I'm not sure anyone out there would've known how to handle the situation."

"That would probably be right," Sheriff agreed.

It was quiet for half a moment, in which Sheriff and Doc exchanged glances with each other. It seemed Fillmore hadn't noticed the obvious dig at his festival, as he continued to examine his hands like nothing had happened.

"So!" Doc said, in a clear attempt to diffuse the situation. "I suggest you go right on home and get some rest. And, Christ's sake, don't wear a full suit in this kind of weather." He winked. "Doctor's orders."

Fillmore snickered, and Sheriff shot him a frown.

"No, I-er-won't make that mistake again," Sarge affirmed.

Just as quickly as he had woken up in the infirmary, he was ushered back out. Sarge was returned his suit, though he opted not to put it back on. Sheriff lead him out, and, for whatever reason, Fillmore followed.

"I'll take you back to your car…" Sheriff said, taking a key out of his pocket.

"I'll do it," Fillmore volunteered. "I have to go back that way, anyways."

"Fillmore, I told you-"

"Don't sweat it, man," Fillmore interrupted. "I'll tell everyone to go home. They'll be gone by morning."

Sheriff huffed, but allowed it. "They'll listen to you more than they'll listen to me, anyways," he grumbled, before going back inside.

Sarge followed Fillmore to a lot beside the infirmary. He, unsurprisingly, drove one of those horribly-painted Volkswagen buses; it was likely green when he'd bought it, though the majority of it had been coated in hippie-dippie swirls and flowers and bumper stickers. On one side, the word "PEACE" was written in large bubble lettering.

"Are you coming or what?" Fillmore called as he turned the key in the ignition.

Sarge quickly got in the passenger side door, noticing that the interior was just as awful as the exterior. Beads hung from the rear view mirror, and there were flowers and a few crystals on the dashboard. The back of the bus had been completely gutted; in place of any seats, there was a bean bag and a few pillows tossed haphazardly on the ground.

As Fillmore pulled out of the lot, Sarge couldn't help but ask, "Do you live in here?"

"Nah, man, I live here in town." Fillmore gestured to an equally garish geodome a few lots down from the infirmary. "That's my pad."

"I'm not surprised."

"Oh, and what about you?" Fillmore bit. "D'you live on a military base?"

"Yes, I do."

"I'm not surprised," he mocked. "Roll down your window, wouldja?"

Sarge shook his head in mild annoyance, and did what he was asked.

"So, uh…" Fillmore began, his tone obviously implying that he was trying to make small talk. "You ever been to San Francisco?"

"God, no," Sarge scoffed. He'd heard of the kinds of people who lived in San Francisco… It was a hive for drug addicts and runaways; a revolutionary monster that preached the word Free! Free! Free!

"You really oughta. It'd do someone like you a lot of good," he said, nodding in agreement with himself. "You know, I went to college out there. Good time."

"Explains a lot…" Sarge trailed off. "How old are you, anyways?"

"Nineteen," Fillmore replied. "Twenty next March. I'm a Pisces."

"Nineteen!" Sarge exclaimed, flabbergasted. "What, did you drop out, or something?"

"Uh-huh, sure did."

He sat silently, struggling to find something to reply with. Nineteen, dropped out of school… That would make him eligible for the draft… Sarge's eyebrows knit together with this realization. For whatever reason, something about it didn't sit right with him.

"Well, what about you?" Fillmore asked, startling him out of his thoughts. "How old are you?"

"Uh-twenty-three." Sarge was still stunned.

"Far out, man."

Fillmore put the bus into park, startling him into the realization that they'd made it back to the festival. The Jeep was a few dozen yards away.

"Yeah, anyways, you should go to San Francisco," Fillmore reprised. "Whole lotta love out there, you know?"

"I'll pass, thank you," Sarge replied.

It got quiet, except for the low hum of the bus's engine and the sound of wind over the butte. The sun was just beginning to set, casting pink and orange strands across the deepening blue sky. Sarge thought he should leave, get out of there before the conversation restarted, but he found that suddenly he didn't really want to move.

"Cigarette?"

Fillmore was holding an open carton out towards him, one already hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Sarge declined, and Fillmore shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, pulling a Zippo from his pocket and lighting his own.

"So, how do you know Sheriff, anyways?" Fillmore asked, puffing smoke out of his mouth as he talked. "You seemed tight with him earlier."

"Oh, Sherman? He was an MP in Vietnam back in '63." Sarge said nonchalantly.

"Sheriff's been to Vietnam?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Sarge sighed. "I wouldn't ask him about it, though. Not much happened to us, we were just advisers."

"So you enlisted?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

The question took Sarge by surprise, so he struggled to answer: "We-ll, uh, my parents were in the war when they were younger… So I suppose I was carrying on the tradition."

Fillmore hummed in response, something that was a cross between "mm-hm," and "uh-huh." Either way, it sounded distasteful. "So I suppose you think that the war is a good thing?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"What would you say, then?"

Something about this stuck Sarge as odd. Why was he so adamant about knowing his political views? It wasn't exactly necessary for them to get to know each other… He responded, although somewhat cautiously: "I think it's pointless. It's just attrition, at this point."

It's quiet for a moment. Sarge can feel Fillmore's eyes on him. He doesn't look back.

"Why don't you leave the military, then? If you don't support the war, and all…"

"I won't get out until my contract ends."

It was silent again, the air filled with nothing but the crickets and the distant sound of music. The festival was still going strong, even in Fillmore's absence.

"I should probably get going," Sarge said, somehow reluctant. "I was supposed to be back hours ago."

"Wait, hey-" Fillmore said quickly, "You never told me what your real name is."

Sarge looked at him for a moment. His eyes were brown, he noticed, and there was still a daisy in his hair. The evening had softened him into a reflection of his age; it was incredibly clear now, just how young he was. He saw no harm in telling him, especially when he looked so earnest.

"It's Willie," Sarge said, and Fillmore glowed.

"Willie," he repeated, grinning. "I like it. But I think I like 'Sarge,' more. It has a better ring to it, y'know?"

Sarge shrugged. "Doesn't matter much to me." He gathered his suit reluctantly, somehow not yet willing to leave. "I really ought to go."

"Yeah. Okay." Fillmore looked a little sad as he flicks his cigarette out the window. "You're an alright dude, Sergeant. Didn't expect that."

"You're tolerable."

Fillmore laughed. Sarge gathered his suit in his arms and started to get out of the bus.

"Hey-hold on a sec." Fillmore said, now leaning forward as though he were going to stop him from leaving. "I really meant that, man. You're alright."

He was watching him earnestly, his eyes filled with something that Sarge couldn't really place (and, if he was being honest with himself, he didn't really want to know). So, he just laughed and shook his head. "Goodnight, Fillmore," he said, still smiling as he got out.

"See you later…Sarge."

As he set off into the night, he cast a glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, Fillmore was still watching him, one arm thrown over the seat. He waved over his shoulder, and continued on. Sarge chuckled as he turned away. He was a strange guy, granted, but… there was something about him. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on, but lingered on the edge of his mind. Something different.