Hello everyone! I have survived the treacherous turmoil of existence and bring you a new chapter! But first, there are a few readers I need to thank, as well as respond to reviews (if you'd rather I respond via private message, please let me know!):
CountryDream14, Lerrinus, USSTalos, Hannah Michaelis, Sauren's Sister, LCDRFireFly, FreezingTime92, Lustrous Laniformes, linguisticRenegade, SeerFlight1011, Alc Fluteo, and Bliss123: Thank you for adding "Home Away From Home" to your Story Alert lists!
CountryDream14, Axil 2.0, USSTalos, LCDRFireFly, yellowcardgirl13, Lustrous Laniformes, linguisticRenegade, and Bliss123: Thank you for listing "Home Away From Home" as a Favorite!
USSTalos and Lustrous Laniformes: Thank you for adding me to your Author Alerts!
Sunstreaker's Squishy: I'm thrilled that you're enjoying it thus far! This chapter is slightly shorter than the others, but hopefully the following events will make up for it.
Elhini Prime: I know, but that'd be telling. :-P
I am a Band Nerd: I'm glad you're so enthusiastic about the story, and I'm far from giving up on it. Don't you worry!
KeepingThemAtBay: Or was he? Haha! Thanks for the thumbs up!
heavenslilagl420: Thank you!
Cloud-Dancer103: Be anxious no more! :-D
USSTalos: All in good time, my dear. *gives a scheming grin*
And now . . . the next chapter! Onwards!
"TWO WEEKS! Another TWO WEEKS before I can finally get that freakin' car! I should've known there'd be another hitch!"
"Would you mind saying that a little louder? I don't think everyone in China could hear you."
Vivian glowered at her brother across the table. "I don't care if I'm causing avalanches in Switzerland! I'm pissed, and I've been holding this in all day. Actually, scratch that. All day and all last night."
It has been said that people can recognize when someone smiles on the phone. Their voice has a more cheery quality, which is passed on to the listener the moment they hear it. Major Lennox must have been sporting an ear-splitting grin, because the news he gave her the night before was far from cheerful.
"'It'll be two weeks while it undergoes extensive repairs.' What the hell happened to it? Did it go through a shredder? Get hit by a truck? Why would it take two weeks to fix a car?!"
"Maybe there's a backlog or something, I don't know. At least they're trying, sis."
"And the car's condition. What about that? If it's going to take that long to repair it, then it was probably a crap car to begin with. How do I even know if it's reliable? I'm not asking for any fancy gizmos; I just need something to get me from Point A to Point B. I need it to start and go; that's it."
Chris twirled his fork into the pile of spaghetti on his tray. "You couldn't talk to your posse about it?"
"Kate and Eleanor are not my posse," she said. "And no, I couldn't. They're all busy with N.E.S.T. crap; they don't have time for mine."
"Wait, is it 'is not my posse' or 'are not'?"
"Are you even listening to me?!"
Chris set his fork down. "Yes, I am, Viv, but I don't know what you expect me to do. I can't exactly walk up to the major and say, 'Hey, my sister's pissed that she doesn't have a car. Could you hurry it up, please?' He'd probably throw me out on my ass if I did."
"I'm not saying you should do anything. I need someone to vent to, and you're it."
"You couldn't talk about it with any of your patients?"
"Nope. No one came in. I saved it just for you." She grinned at him.
Chris shook his head and smiled, taking the tease in stride. "Oh joy. Just what I've always wanted."
"Call it an early Christmas present. Or would it be belated now?"
A dull roar from overhead drowned out all conversations in the cafeteria. Vivian joined the others who craned their necks for a better view of what was happening outside, even though the source was far out of sight.
"Another plane?" she asked. "What's with all these planes taking off? They've been doing that all afternoon."
"No idea," Chris said while he sliced a meatball in half. "I've got my theories, though."
"Along with everyone else, I'm sure."
Her brother went on, either ignoring her sarcasm or missing it completely. "One of my friends who works nights said he saw a bunch of cars being driven onto one of those planes."
"And they were driving themselves!" Vivian said in a quivery voice, followed by what was intended to be a ghostly moan but turned out more like a bad sound effect for a haunted house.
Chris had spent over twenty years of his life coping with his sister's sardonic sense of humor. He knew better than to criticize it. "No, he could see the drivers, but once the cars were parked inside, no one came back out."
"They were probably the soldiers who owned them or were in charge of them, however that works."
"Yeah, but here's where it starts getting weird. You see, what you said would make sense if they were soldiers. None of them were in uniform. There was one guy driving a black pickup who was wearing leather! He looked like he just walked out of a biker bar!"
Once again, Vivian tried to find a rational explanation. "Maybe they're soldiers who are going undercover. I'm surprised your friend was able to get close enough to look." She picked up her glass of orange soda and took a sip.
Chris acquiesced with a shrug. "You've got a point there, but I'd think you'd have high chances of getting your cover blown if you've got flames all over your car."
Vivian choked on her swallow of soda. "Flames? You've got to be friggin' kidding me! Which one?"
"Remember that semi you saw the first night?"
"They stowed that thing on the plane?" Vivian sighed through her nose. "They can't be going undercover, then. A semi's way too obvious. It's too big to ignore, not to mention the paint job makes it a little conspicuous. I know flames are supposed to be cool and masculine and all that s—t, but it's not exactly covert ops when your car practically screams, 'Hey! Look at me! I'm a moving target! Shoot me, why don't ya?'"
"Dad used to have a motorcycle painted to look like it was on fire."
"Yeah, but he was trying to impress his college buddies. He wanted to turn heads. If you're trying to stay hidden, you don't choose a disguise that draws attention to yourself. You find something more subdued and discreet. It's hard to soak in all the admirations for an over-glorified paint job if it ends up killing you." She picked up her fork to resume eating.
"So you're thinking they're building again, huh?"
"What else could it be?" she asked. "N.E.S.T. is a military organization, so it's logical for it to have multiple bases around the world. They'll need vehicles like semis and pickups to transport heavy loads like they're doing here, so yes, there's probably construction going on elsewhere."
"WRONG!" Chris yelled and jabbed an emphatic finger in her face.
Vivian was not impressed with his antics. "Do you mind? I'm trying to eat, here."
Her brother continued unabated. "Your theory would make sense, except for the fact that a bunch of sports cars were loaded onto the planes too. Mustangs, Corvettes, you name it, they had it. But here's the thing: Not only are they against military regulations, they don't have the tonnage to carry building supplies. How could they possibly help?"
"Maybe they're carrying people."
"Ah, but that kind of goes along with what you were saying earlier about the painted-on flames. Sports cars exist to impress people. They're sleek, fast, and the engines roar when you slam on the gas. In other words, they're like fashion models: Pretty, but impractical. With that being said, who exactly is N.E.S.T trying to impress?"
"And on a construction site, no less." Vivian flicked a joking glance at Chris. "Yes, I know that rhymed."
"Dammit! You beat me to it!"
"Ha! You did it again!"
"GAH!"
Vivian burst into an explosive guffaw. She loved to tease him not only because it was a jovial retaliation for a lifetime of pestering, but also because it was so easy to rile him up. One or two taunts was all it took to aggravate him. A few long minutes later, Vivian had regained some trace of self-control with a minor case of the giggles. Her cheeks ached from the vain effort to stifle them.
Chris drummed his fingers on the table. His patience was dwindling fast. "You done yet?"
"Yeah," she coughed through another giggle. "Sorry. Go ahead."
"Nope. Your turn now, squirt."
"To what?"
"To come up with an idea explaining what the hell's going on."
Vivian ran her fingers through her hair and sighed, gazing out the window as if the answers were written on the glass. Chris harbored a love for all things intriguing, ranging from Sherlock Holmes mysteries to government schemes. As a child, he kept a collection of books and magazines discussing all manner of conspiracy theories stowed under his bed. She was certain that he still hid them somewhere in his apartment, but much like his obsession, the facts regarding their whereabouts were elusive. However, these supposedly despicable plots all shared one trait in common: None of them were real, and this apparent scheme N.E.S.T. had set in motion was no exception. The only hurdle in her path now was to convince him of this.
"You ever heard of 'Occam's Razor'?" she asked.
Chris narrowed his eyes. "No. Is that like Gillette or something?"
She struggled to suppress the urge to sock him in the face. "No!" she said with an annoyed edge to her tone. "It's a logical principle that says that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one."
"So, what are you getting at?"
"I'm saying that there's a reason for what N.E.S.T. is doing that is more straightforward and clear-cut than you're thinking. You keep looking for a ploy or dastardly scandal that just isn't there. Yes, what they're doing right now is weird by our standards, but just because they won't tell us doesn't make it a conspiracy. They're entitled to privacy just as much as we are; everyone has their secrets."
Chris poked at a half-eaten meatball with a tine of his fork. "It wouldn't be the first time they've kept secrets from us," he mumbled.
"It's for our own good," she assured him. "If there's anything we need to know, I'm sure they'll tell us."
"I wouldn't count on it." Before she could respond, he snatched up his tray and marched off in a huff, leaving her alone and baffled.
Not even the sound of the ocean could lull her to sleep.
Vivian found herself staring at the clock again, a monotonous pastime for any insomniac.
2:44 A.M.
She thought about reading a book or watching television, but promptly tossed those suggestions out. Both of those activities would stimulate her brain, making sleep an even less likely possibility. Her mind was already hard at work using subtraction to find out how many hours she had left before it was time to start a new day.
"Less than five. Fantastic."
Chris's blustery reaction to her opinions on N.E.S.T.'s methods worried her more than usual. He often acted this way when she, or anyone else, disagreed with him, especially when it came to his beliefs. However, he normally offered an ear to consider the opposing argument, or debated it to death. This time, he chose to do neither. He had heard her opinion, but never truly listened to it.
Vivian grabbed her pillow, flipped it over to the cool side and lay her head back down on it. Chris demanded honesty in any relationship, but he never appreciated those who gave it to him. She had offered him a dose of reality, and he rejected it. If he wanted to keep living in his world of intrigue and sedition, then he was more than welcome to it, but he would find himself very much alone there.
A loud buzzing from nearby forced her to sit up in search of the noise. Her phone shimmied around on her dresser as it vibrated, its screen casting a vivid white glow on the ceiling.
Vivian sprang out of bed and grabbed it. Maybe Chris was calling or texting to apologize, or at least explain himself.
"Com 2 c ll c3nt3r. I n33ed yu. – Hannah Stokowski"
Or not.
"Come on, Hannah. I know it's 3 a.m., but that's no excuse to butcher the English language!" she muttered as she shoved her phone and keys into a pocket in her pajama shorts. With that done, she knelt down on the floor and shoved her hands under the bed, scrabbling around for one box amongst several. Finally, after much grumbling, Vivian jerked out a plastic container the size of a shoebox, its green lid inscribed with the words "Emerg. Kit" in duct tape and permanent black marker.
For urgent medical cases outside the trailer, Vivian had put together an emergency health kit containing any supplies that could be easily carried offsite, ranging from thermometers and tongue depressors to bandages and Bactine. She crammed the box under her arm, eager to set off. After slipping her feet into a pair of flip-flops, Vivian hurried outside, locked up the house and made her way to the gravel road, using her phone as a guide-light.
This had better be a genuine health issue, she thought to herself, wiping away minute beads of sweat already welling up on her forehead. I'll be pissed if it's a prank text! Is there such a thing as prank texts nowadays?
The noise of civilization had ceased for the night, but that by no means implied silence. Last night, waves and wind filled the auditory void, but now that she was further inland, a whole new cacophony of sounds greeted her ears. The sea breeze that tousled her hair failed to dispel the buzz and whirr of insects swarming in the dank jungles. Sometimes a chirrup of another animal interrupted the main chorus for a brief solo. The dense tangle of trees and vegetation flourished a couple of miles south of the civilian community, but in the darkness, distance no longer mattered. Every breath, every movement resonated with the calls of the jungle. To Vivian, it was as if the wildlife were reminding the human squatters that their presence on Diego Garcia was tolerated, but not wholly welcomed. She hurried on to the call center, keen on uncovering the truth behind the text and making it home early enough to catch some sleep, or at least take another shower.
The sweat-sheened nurse soon arrived at the call center with a brusque shove of the door. "There'd better be a damn good reason for texting me at three in the morning!"
She quickly realized there was. A woman in an orange blouse sat doubled over in her chair, clutching her stomach with one hand while holding a phone in the other. Her dark hair had been plaited into a thick braid flowing down her back, but now was not the time to appraise her sense of style.
"Oh God! Hannah, what's wrong?!"
The secretary squinted up at her. "You the nurse, yeah?"
Just speaking was a draining task. Her face lost all color, becoming nearly as pallid as the copier paper stacked on the desk.
Vivian rushed over to Hannah and set her emergency kit down by the computer. "I am. Now tell me what's wrong."
While the woman explained her symptoms, Vivian set about with a preliminary examination.
"Well, I was feeling fine until a couple of hours ago, when my stomach started cramping, right?"
A little cool to the touch; eyes are clear. No fever. That's good.
"At first I thought it would go away on its own, you know, but it just got worse and worse." Hannah winced and hissed through her teeth. "Feels like someone's stabbing my gut!"
Onset was gradual. Could be heartburn. Or maybe a virus. Please God, don't let it be a virus!
"Is there anything else you can tell me?" Vivian asked. "Are you feeling any burning sensations in your stomach, or have this really bitter taste in your mouth?"
"No, but I-"
A loud belch cut her short. Hannah's white face rapidly darkened to a gray-green hue, the color of an old bruise.
Vivian had treated enough sick children to know what was coming up next.
"BATHROOM! NOW!"
Without another word, the secretary scrambled into the bathroom right behind her. She barely made it in time. Seconds later, a hoarse cough and subsequent splash echoed through the door.
Vivian covered her ears. She had seen many children who were sick to their stomachs, but that in no way insinuated she was desensitized to vomit. Even the sound of Hannah retching a few paces away made her insides churn. Still, Hannah was her patient and therefore her responsibility. She needed to provide the best care available; her failure to do so would undoubtedly give Doc the inspiration to invent and utilize an automobile variant of being hanged, drawn and quartered.
There had been no heaving or gagging noises for a while now. Time to check on the poor woman.
Vivian paused outside the bathroom door and gave a hesitant knock. "Hannah?"
Nothing.
"Hannah, can I come in?"
Still nothing.
Vivian viewed her lack of response as probable cause to enter. She timidly pushed the door open, fearful of what she might find.
Three stalls lined the right-hand side of the bathroom. The floor was still as pristine as before, verifying that Hannah successfully reached the comparative refuge of a toilet. Vivian tried to find her patient via the mirror hanging on the opposite wall.
The reflection displayed Hannah's slim figure hunched over the commode in the middle stall. She gripped each side of the bowl as if she were clinging to a cliff-side, desperate to hang on for fear that she would fall. Nothing over her shoulders was visible.
Vivian called out cautiously. "I know this seems like a stupid question, but are you feeling any better?"
She watched as Hannah slowly eased herself upright, keeping herself angled over the toilet. "I'm not puking my guts up anymore," she replied, her voice hollow due to the ceramic, "but I'm not enjoying the reunion with my spaghetti. Oh God, there's a whole meatball in there!"
"Do you still feel sick?" Vivian ripped a paper towel out of the dispenser, folded it and soaked it in cool water from the sink.
Hannah took a while to answer. "I don't think so, but I'm not moving. I don't want to go anywhere and find out I'm wrong."
"Good idea. Better safe than sorry." Vivian turned off the faucet and stepped into the stall behind her. "This'll be a little chilly, just to warn you."
"What're you doing?"
"I'm putting this wet paper towel on the back of your neck. It'll help with the nausea." Vivian pulled the secretary's braid aside at the nape, then slipped the sodden paper towel under it.
"Will it help with the whole barfing bit?" Hannah lurched forward as she dry heaved into the toilet.
"Well, no. There are medications that can do that, but they're mainly for treating motion sickness, side effects of opioid analgesics, anesthetics and chemotherapy, and morning sickness."
The secretary gulped some air before speaking. "So is there a way I can get one of those medications?"
"All I've got is Benadryl," Vivian said, "but that only treats nausea. What you're talking about is stored in the hospital miles away."
"Damn."
"Anyway, I don't think you need them. You're actively talking to me, a good sign that you're on the mend."
Hannah retched into the bowl again, but nothing came of it. "Gah, my ribs!" she winced.
"Your body's still trying to get rid of whatever's bothering you."
"It already has! I'm looking right at it!"
"It's just going through the motions at this point. Don't worry; the dry heaving will stop soon." Vivian backed away from the sick secretary. Before she stepped out of the stall entirely, the sight of Hannah lurching and gagging spurred her to speak again. "Did you have time to call a replacement? I don't want you answering phones and contaminating everything if you have a virus."
"Yeah, right before you got here," Hannah said, swallowing before she responded in full. "She said she'd get here when she could."
The lack of a specific time frame bothered Vivian, but there was nothing she could do to assuage it. "Okay, well, as long as she said she was coming. In the meantime, don't you move from that spot. I'm calling security to take you home."
Hannah let out a barking laugh, which abruptly evolved into a more foreboding gurgle that forced her head back down into the toilet.
Vivian walked out of the bathroom perplexed at the secretary's reaction. Obviously there was some vital detail she either failed to grasp or was just too naïve to understand. Whatever the reason, it would have to wait. Right now, she needed to arrange a ride for Hannah.
She plopped down in the chair and spun around to face the desk. The thought occurred to her that maybe she ought to use her smartphone, but one look at the flashing orange line on the battery icon changed all that.
"Looks like back to Plan A," she muttered, slipping the now useless piece of technology back into her pocket.
Vivian picked up the desk phone, an outdated clunky black device that would be more suitable as a decoration or possible bludgeon, and rummaged around for a phone book. Thankfully, the search took moments. A directory chart with all the extension numbers to various offices and chief individuals had been taped onto the desk. She rapidly dialed for "SECURITY". The sooner Hannah was back in the seclusion of her bed and bathroom, the better off she, and everyone else in contact with her, would fare.
Ten rings later, and still no one picked up.
"How're you holding up in there?" Vivian yelled back to the bathroom.
"I'm alive," came the muffled response. "Does that count?"
"Works for me. Just checking on you while I'm waiting for someone to answer the damn phone."
"You haven't got a human on the line yet?"
"Nope."
Hannah gave the same sardonic chuckle. "Figures. It'd probably be faster to walk over there."
"In the middle of the night with God knows what crawling around out there? I'll pass."
Finally, after what felt like centuries of ringtones, the line crackled. Someone had accepted her call.
THANK GOD! Maybe I'll actually get the chance to talk to a real human being!
Vivian was promptly blasted with sounds of combat. Explosive bursts of gunfire and men shouting barraged her ears. Discombobulated by the noise, she jerked the receiver away to prevent any permanent damage to her hearing.
"'N.E.S.T. Civilian Security'!" a young man's voice yelled over the racket.
She gingerly pressed the earpiece back to its rightful place and prayed this would not take long. "This is Vivian Bennett, N.E.S.T. civilian nurse. What the hell's going on out there? A war?!"
"Sort of!" he shouted. "What do you want?! I'm kind of in the middle of a crisis here!"
Vivian sat there for a second, listening to the raging battle. Strangely enough, the clamor seemed slightly stifled, as if it were taking place from a distance. "Actually, it sounds like you're nowhere near it."
"Whatever! Just tell me what you want!"
She glanced back at the bathroom, wondering if placing Hannah in the trust of this belligerent security guard was such a good idea. "The secretary at the call center is sick and needs a ride back to her apartment."
"What kind of sick are we talking here?"
"She threw up a little while ago, but she hasn't-"
"Oh NO! Hell no!" he yelled. "I'm not driving her around if she's going to be upchucking all over the place!"
"But she's not doing that anymore! That's what I was trying to say before you cut me off!"
"Don't care! Have you tried cleaning vomit out of your car's upholstery? It's beyond disgusting, not to mention expensive. I'm not having a chunk taken out of my paycheck just to scrub someone else's barf out of my carpet!"
Vivian had reached the crack between desperation and incredulity. "Look, I understand why you're reluctant to do this, and I would take her myself if I could, but I can't. I don't have a car yet, which is why I need you to do this. If it will make you feel any better, I'll give her a trash bag just in case she-"
"HEADSHOT!"
The realization crashed down on her with the suddenness of a tidal wave. " . . . Are you f-g joking?" she asked in a deadly whisper. "You're putting off doing your duty for a video game?!"
A strained silence passed between them. All sounds of soldiers and shooting ceased; the guard had paused his game. "Alright, look," he explained in weary resignation, "it's the middle of the night. You're tired, I'm tired. We're both on edge. Why don't we just take a moment to breathe and find our happy place or whatever?"
"I'd be much happier if you'd get over here and do your job!"
"I'll head over to the call center when I'm ready," he said with determined finality. "Right now, I'm about five headshots away from getting a sniper rifle that fires grenades. See you when I get there."
Click.
An intense heat crept up the back of her neck, pooling to her ears and cheeks. Her free hand tightened into a fist, popping her knuckles up into pale bony knobs. With one swoop, she slammed the receiver back into its cradle, fairly certain she heard the plastic crack under the impact.
Vivian tried to take a deep soothing breath, but her body would have none of it. She sat in her chair stiff as a mannequin, with a nerve occasionally twitching as proof that she was in fact alive. She felt like a taut rubber band: One more pull, and she would snap. What she needed now was some time to be quiet, to settle down and let her surge of rage subside.
The phone rang once before she unleashed her wrath.
"Now listen, you rotten little son of a bitch," she snarled into the mouthpiece with all the malice she could muster, "I don't know who the hell you are or what lowlife scumhole you crawled from, but where I come from, you don't treat people like trash. I have a woman here who's sick and needs to go home. She can't help being sick; s-t happens. I'd take her if I could, but I can't, and I don't think she'd like the idea of me hauling her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. And you know what? Neither do I. So why don't you get off your f-g ass, shut off your g-n Call of Halo Duty Warfare or whatever and do your f-g job?!"
Silence. Then:
"Impressive, but unimaginative. You should meet my weapons specialist or one of his associates. They are so fluent in profanity that it ought to be considered its own language."
A chill swept over Vivian as the voice rumbled through her earpiece. This was not the security guard.
"I'm sorry, who is this?" she asked meekly, all her strength draining out of her. She could barely hear herself speak.
"This is your commander. I was checking the strength of the communications signal from the plane, and I believe I can say with confidence that I can hear you loud and clear."
Vivian could feel her self-esteem crumple like a wad of paper in an angry fist. She even found herself pulling her knees up to her chest, as if to shield what remained of her dignity.
The door creaking open behind her urged the nurse to peek around her chair. Hannah staggered out of the bathroom, her face a chalky gray. Exhausted from the effort, she propped herself against the doorframe and slid down to the floor, leaning heavily on her shoulder as she did so. Once she touched down, Hannah turned her attention back to Vivian and eyed her caretaker with puzzled concern.
"Hey, you okay? You look even whiter than me. Sicker, too."
Vivian gazed back at her, wide-eyed in shock.
"I just cussed out the commander."
Please feel free to drop a review, and as always, constructive criticism is appreciated! (This chapter is slightly shorter than the others, but I hope no one will mind.) See you next time!
