Oh, back ah-gain, BC75? What kept you? Well, let us count the ways; shall we? There was Mother's Day, then my Dad's birthday, then my Mom's birthday, then Father's Day, a two-day long weekend airsoft match where our team kicked major butt, a NASCAR race that took another weekend, I went home for the Lest We Forget memorial and got to take a ride in an LVT-4 both on land and the water, and then a trip to Chicago. Suffice to say, I've been BUSY. That's about a month and a half of time out in the real world, seeing, meeting, doing, going, getting sunburned...but I think the break was needed. Maybe it was just a vitamin-d deficiency, but the break really has cleared my head. Speaking of heads, we last left off with Haruko having some trouble with hers. So, without making you wait even a second longer, please enjoy!
. . .
Someone had snuck up behind Haruko and pressed the sharp edge of a red-hot knife across the left side of her face. The flash from Rig's GP100 blinded her first, then its bullet carved a gash down to bone, from her jaw, up across her cheek, over her zygomatic arch, then along her temple before sailing off into the sky. She had maintained the presence of mind enough to hurl Rig as far as she could. With Rig displaced, she collapsed with her hands clamped over her face. It had been a long time since she had been terrified to the point of being debilitated. She could not see, acidic tobacco juice burned into her eyes, her broken ribs jabbed her chest so getting enough air was painful, which made her panic and hyperventilate faster, blood was spurting between her fingers, there was no way to tell how bad the wound really was, and worst of all: no one was coming to help her. What was far more likely, was the workers of Voyze Quarry had heard the racket she and Rig had been making, and would be on top of them any moment. They were almost guaranteed to cut to the chase and finish her off.
'Oh fuck! Oh shit! Oh-fuckin'-hell-shit-damn, this hurts! Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!' No contortion or position, nor any amount of thrashing, was making things better. 'Get up…gotta get up…standing…' Wobbling and shaking, she rolled to her knees. She planted her left foot firmly, grinding its boot into the dirt to ensure its grip. Now the hard part. Hands still clasped to her face, blood still weeping between her fingers, she put everything into her legs and stood. Somehow she had not passed out. Yet.
'Okay…okay…better. Think. Right. Too painful. Think…think…think! Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, THINK! Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop, THINK! Okay…anything else, broken?' She looked down with her good eye. Her clothes were so covered in blood, both hers and Rig's that it was impossible to tell if she were hit anywhere else. Waves of radiating pain made it feel like she was. But no blood was gushing anywhere, so she wasn't going to bleed out in the next thirty seconds. The next thirty minutes, however…
'Doesn't seem…to be. That's...good. First…g-guitar, still here…yep.' With her right hand she felt for and found the EB-0's strap still on her shoulder. The Flying-V was lost to her now, there was no time to look for it. She swung a limited gaze on her faithful Vespa and began staggering over. Along the way she took off her shirt, ripped it into strips and tightly wound them around the left side of her head. That stemmed the bleeding, but now her head throbbed with every heartbeat. The sound of approaching pickup trucks echoed down the borehole. Haruko looked up and saw a parade of them descending upon her. Mr. Voyze's men had arrived in a fighting mood, which meant it was past time to leave. She kicked the Vespa to life and with its newly installed Module, rocketed up and out of the borehole. Below her, Mr. Voyze's men didn't open fire as she flew past them, but merely stared in disbelief that she was still conscious; let alone piloting her Vespa.
. . .
It was much earlier than the twelve hours he'd been told. A truck had arrived around ten o'clock; not six in the evening. Naota held the man in the AK's sights as he picked his way up the hill; stopping to examine the stolen Sheriff's car.
"Naota?! You alive in there? The Carsons sent me to bring you home." He'd stopped fifty yards short of the cave.
"Who are you, and how do I know you're not here to kill me?"
"I'm Mister Taero, from Mid-State Airport. Here, I'll put 'em on." Taero unclipped his phone from his belt and dialed. As it rang he put the call on speaker.
"Yes, Mister Taero? Is everything okay?" Tommy Carson answered.
"No, nothing wrong. I found You-Know-Who, but he doesn't seem to trust me."
"As he shouldn't. Nothing personal. Nao', can you hear me? This's Tommy Carson."
"I can hear you. Is everyone okay, are my Dad and Gramps there?"
"Yes they are. I'll put them on."
"Naota? You there?"
"Yes, Dad. I am, somehow. Are you okay?"
"Your Grandad and I are a bit rattled, but no worse for wear otherwise. Tommy said he was sending a Mister Taero from the airport to bring you home."
"Okay, I'll see you soon then." Naota put the AK's lever back to SAFE and emerged from the cave. He would have to ask later what all happened after he left. If Mr. Taero had cell reception, it was only because the police had turned it back on to monitor any calls being made. It wouldn't do to be having full conversations on the phone. Kamon corroborated Tommy's words, and that was good enough. "Sorry about pointing a gun at you." He apologized as they walked down the hill.
"Oh, don't be…" Taero turned and lifted his shirt. Tucked in his waistband was a short-barreled S&W 629. "I'd have done the same. Are you alright though? Anything broke, busted, dislocated, shot, stabbed? You look like you lost some fingernails…" In the daylight, Naota saw his fingers and hands were rust-red with dried blood.
"Yeah, three nails. I also took a rifle round on my back, but the plate stopped it. But other than being tired, hungry and needing a shower…I'm mostly, kinda okay."
"Well that's mostly, kinda good to hear." This the first time meeting him, Naota thought Mr. Taero looked a bit like an old hound, with tired, soulful eyes. That might be why, or a result of why, Rig said Taero took so many naps. "Now, I gotta ask: Where did this come from?" They had stopped at the Sheriff's car. Natoa took stock of how many bullet holes were in it, and how very close they were to where he'd been sitting. "Tommy said you left on a dirt bike?"
"I did. There was a roadblock, over on Six-Mile and Casanova. They took some shots at me, and I wrecked into the ditch. The deputies came looking for me, so I snuck back around and…and drove off when they weren't looking." For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to say he'd stolen the car. Taero simply stared, between him, the bullet-riddled car, back to him, then again the car.
"No shit? You are really something else. Doing something like that takes a real pair of clangin' brass balls to pull off."
"I dunno about that, I was really just trying to not get shot again, is all."
"Uh-huh. Whatever you say. Either way, we've gotta move it, can't leave it here. They've probably got LoJack on it, and we don't want them coming right to this hideout. Follow me." Naota restarted the car, without electrocuting himself, and followed Taero's truck through the trees. A mile later they came to a sheer drop several hundred feet tall. Together they pushed the car off the cliff and into the pond below. It hit with a great splash, then bubbled as it sank into the grimy water. Then they headed south by a twisting, confusing and convoluted back way through Black Moshannon Forest.
"Did you get a chance to ask if everyone from G&R is okay too?" Naota asked as Taero peered up and down an intersection before crossing.
"I can't say specifically for everyone, but Tommy sounded like he had things in hand; that's all I can say for the Carsons and G&R. Now, the rest of the county, on the other hand…" He patted the police scanner on the dashboard. "Makes me glad I live way out in the Sticks."
"How bad is it?"
"Could be worse, a lot worse. But not too great either. It's really quieted down since eight, but from four to six, it was like one've those cartoon bar fights. Just a big dust cloud with fists, feet, and weapons poppin' in and out. But I don't think the cops planned on anyone actually fighting back. They got socked full in the mouth and decided they didn't much care for it. The cops've all hauled ass outta here; bunkered up with the State Patrol in Port Matilda."
"All of them?"
"Yep, they had to. Took serious casualties this morning, the hospital's setting up tents in the parking lot to deal with the overflow. No way to say how many of our guys got hit. They'll only get counted if they make it to their workplace or someone who knows for sure what happened to them does. Otherwise, they'll just be missing. But right now, most've Philipsburg, Chester Hill, and Osceola Mills is empty. Everyone's vamoosed."
"Where are they going, everyone who's leaving?"
"Not far. The police that didn't bug out have set up roadblocks. No one gets in or out; at least not by main roads. The only place left is through me at Mid-State."
"Are there enough flights scheduled today to take them all?"
"Officially? No." Mr. Taero gave him a strange look. "Don't worry, I've got it handled. Arrangements have been made. Your only worry is resting up, and helping clean up. Tommy said G&R's in a rough state. Speaking of, here we are…oh my…"
The smell hit him before the sights. Alone, it was enough to pucker Naota's stomach. Turning the corner and finishing the climb up the Carson's driveway had him reaching for the door lever in case he couldn't hold his bile. Acrid fumes of melted paint, burnt metal, and the nauseous gag of rotten meat and pungent iron of blood filtered through the truck's vents. He couldn't decide if cracking a window would make it better or worse.
At first glance, the house looked worse than it actually was. The back porch and front carport were now pick-up sticks across the lawn, and every single window was broken. The front of the shop had two blackened scorch marks, one by the office, and one on the front door. The rest of the shop's front was as pockmarked as the Moon. An impressive crater scarred the lot that wasn't occupied with broken police vehicles and rigored-up uniformed bodies covered in swarming flies.
"Jesus…let's get this over with." Mr. Taero and Naota exited the truck, kerchiefs over their noses. "Haallloooo…Tommy!"
"Taero! Be right out!" But it wasn't Tommy who shot out of the shop and latched onto Naota in a back-breaking grip.
"D-dad…cannot breathe…hurts, put me…down…"
"Oh right, sorry." Kamon released his youngest son. "I'm just beside myself, it's all such a mess, but you're here, and not dead, and in one piece…" Kamon took several deep breaths to calm himself. "Ahem. Sorry for babbling, it's been a trying day."
"Understatement of the century. Where's Gramps, and George, Rita, Mike, and Rig?" A quick headcount came up short. Kamon looked uneasy.
"George…is, in the hospital. After you left, the police tried to storm the shop, and he was hurt. So, your grandfather, Rita and Mike took him to get some help."
"Oh God, I hope it's not too bad, and he'll pull through. And Rig?"
"I honestly don't know. Tommy and Mister Shaufner sent him off, somewhere, on his dirt bike. I don't know why, nor where, but I'm sure it was extremely important."
"Oh. Well…I hope he's okay too; whatever he's doing."
"Take care, Naota!" Mr. Taero, after speaking with Tommy in excited whispers, was on the move. "Don't be stealing any more cop cars now, y'hear!"
"Stealing…what?" Kamon was staring at him like an N.O. horn had just grown out of his forehead. "Oh, I'm sure it's a long story. One I need to hear."
The cleanup effort was going to take most of the day. Josh and Shifty helped the best they could, but with one unable to walk and the other with the use of only one arm, they were relegated to moral support and keeping watch. Tommy sent Naota down the road to King Coal to ask for help. He brought back ten pickup trucks crammed with volunteers. First they addressed the bodies of the State Troopers. Each was stripped of his weapons, equipment and armor, his personal effects bagged and tied to his belt, and then the body wrapped in a tarp. The tarp was tied closed and set aside in an orderly, growing, row. Once tallied, there were fifty-five in all; and one prisoner sulking inside the shop.
After that, they went around and picked up every piece of debris. Each chunk of wood blasted off the house, every spent shell casing, every scrap of metal from the vehicles. Last, they dismantled the vehicles deemed not worth fixing. The radios and comms equipment were pulled out to be studied and its encryption cracked, the loudspeakers taken down, the armor plating unbolted, and the still operable machineguns appropriated. With Clifford: The Big Red Crane, they shifted the Industrial Bot to a sitting position against the shop wall; next to a bay door. Josh, admitting it would be nigh impossible to get it running again, refused to let the Industrial go the way of the acetylene torch.
While they worked, a convoy of trucks bearing the name VOYZE on their doors pulled onto the lot and stopped next to the house. Each truck was sheathed in a patchwork of steel plate armor and bristled with armed workers; their rifle barrels making the trucks resemble hedgehogs. Tommy met the trucks and led one around to the back of the house. He came back to redirect the rest into a security perimeter, then returned to the house.
Meanwhile, Naota lost track of time. It wasn't worth the effort to keep it. There were no shift cards to punch, the cleanup would be done whenever it got done. The full attention (what little he could devote, being so groggy) the work demanded kept at bay the morbidity and full weight of what had happened, and what they were doing. It didn't hide the grisliness. Bodies still stunk and contorted oddly in rigor mortis. Gravel saturated with pools of blood squished under their feet and caked gore inside an MRAP's cab wasn't any less pungent. He didn't want to imagine the disaster waiting for him at home. But for now it felt, not quite good, but better, to be doing, to be moving and struggling together with everyone else. The only questions occasionally flitting across his mind were: Where was George Carson, where was Rig, and yes, where was Haruko?
. . .
"It's empty, Sir."
"What do you mean, empty?"
"There's no one here." The SWAT commander shrugged. "I mean, the furniture, TV, computer, and all his shit is, but no one is in that apartment."
"That's impossible!" The Chief of State College Police was adamant. "Search it again."
"Sir. We have searched the apartment, and the entire building. We have searched both for six hours. He ain't here. Your source was a dud. Sorry. We've got other calls, we're outta here." The SWAT commander turned and joined his squad in their departing van. Furious, the Chief made a personal call.
. . .
"Sir. His phone is ringing." On Chojnacki's desk, Cole Kauffman's personal phone buzzed next to his wallet, watch, keys, nail clippers, and pocketknife.
"Well, Sergeant." The Man looked up from sharpening his knife. "Don't be rude, answer it. Please, put it on speaker." Sergeant Simmons picked up the phone and was about to press ANSWER when The Man added: "And Sergeant, it should go without saying, but I am not here."
"Of course, Sir." Sergeant Simmons pressed the button. "Hello. Who is this?"
"Captain Fleck? Of State College? Ring a bell?"
"You'll have to forgive me. Things have been…complicated here."
"No shit, Kauffman. Heard you've got a county war on your hands. Anyways, back to me." Sergeant Simmons gave The Man a pained look; who only smiled and nodded. "Your shit is whack, Kauffman. Your intel sucks. The guy wasn't there."
"What do you mean?"
"Gone. Fucker's gone and Houdini-ed on outta here. You promised me a front-page headliner arrest. Guns, bombs, terror plots, the whole cannoli! All we've got to show is less than an ounce of weed one've my guys found in the couch cushion. I mean, they said it's really good weed, but that's a misdemeanor at best. And this's State College, Penn State. Weed practically grows in the medians and through the sidewalks around here. So what do you expect me to do with this? A journalist, with pot! And water's wet."
"Hang. Up." The Man mouthed to Sergeant Simmons; who was happy to oblige.
"What was that all about?"
"Oh…" The Man returned to his knife and its wet-stone. "I made a past acquaintance of mine a job offer the other day. Then, yesterday we met and they claimed to accept. But I said they would have to give me something as collateral. They gave me an address of someone that is a…person of interest, to Medical Mechanica. I then had Cole contact the chief of State College police and submit the address as a favor. However, it seems the resident was forewarned, and has disappeared. As I predicted, my acquaintance lied to me. Oh well…their loss…"
. . .
"Twenty-six…twenty-seven…" With this last stretch, Mana's morning workout would be complete. It was the start of a weekend, but she wasn't one to sleep half the day away. "Twenty-nine…thirty." After rolling up her mat and peeling off her exercise clothes, she headed for the shower. Along the way, she grabbed her touchscreen and brought up the morning news. She'd listen to hear the "What's-What" of the day in the shower. As the water warmed, the news anchor talked:
"…of the Planet Graff have lodged a written, formal complaint with the Galactic Government; with attention to the Galactic Military Command. They are backed by two hundred and seventy-seven other systems; twenty percent of the total in the Galactic Republic. Chief among the list of complaints is a lack of offensive strategy, let alone actions, against Medical Mechanica and The Red Star of The Solar Federation. A key platform of their argument is the loss of the Planet Portum and genocide of Portum's inhabitants: the reclusive Liberas. They argue actions taken were 'too little, too late'. Senator Sarasota of the Graff Congress, sponsor of the complaint, stated further, quote: 'Offensive actions must be not only planned, but carried out. Too long has the Galactic Republic sat on its hands while The Red Star picks off our fellow systems, one by one.' Un-quote."
'Well, the good Senator's not wrong…' Mana thought, making sure to scrub behind her ears. 'It's been ten years since Portum, and what have we done since? Negotiated and talked. How are we supposed to strike a deal with a group that claims their Holy Writ is to convert the entire galaxy? It's part of my role in the I.I.B. to try…but where is it getting us?' Before answering her own posed question, her touchscreen stopped its news broadcast and the screen lit up with an incoming phone call. It also announced the interruption with a jarring WHUM! Brrrt-Brrrt!...Brrrt-Brrrt!...Brrrt-Brrrt!
"Oh please, not now! I just got in!" Mana despaired as her touchscreen chimed the official I.I.B. ringtone. "Disregard." She commanded, knowing fully well the I.I.B. was the only caller she could not hang up on. It was still worth a try. "Answer."
"Good morning, Lieutenant. You didn't pick up right away; screening your calls?" Amarao was on the other end. She could hear water running in his background too. It seemed they were both caught in the middle of their mornings.
"I was…finishing my exercises." She was not about to say she was in the middle of showering. Mana had put her foot down after their mission to Mabase, telling her commander she would not tolerate any more inter-office flirting. He was an excellent commander and she would gladly serve as his X.O., but if he could not keep things professional, she'd drop his head, both of them, off on the desk of Internal Affairs. Thus far, he had kept his word. But it would still feel skin-crawlingly weird to put the images of her into his head.
"Look at you. I just rolled out of bed. Point is, our company has been activated. We are going to a full-combat footing and will be dropping into what could be an active zone."
"What's the mission?" Getting her political junkie fix was pushed from her mind. It was now focused on the dozen checklists she needed to run, and which rifles she would take.
"It's supposed to be really simple. We'll be going to Earth for a prisoner hand-over and transport back here for the Galactic Court Martial. They're High Priority, considered armed and extremely dangerous. And, and…you know who they are." The wheels in Mana's head spun, and then caught traction. Earth. Prisoner. High Priority, transfer to not the regular court, but Court Martial. And even as a prisoner, considered extremely dangerous. Lastly, someone known to Mana. The list of people that fit that bill was very short.
"Space Patrol Officer, First Class, Haruko Haruhara." Mana recalled from perfect memory, four years removed.
"That's FORMER Officer, but yeah. Someone managed to catch up to her and said they were moving to arrest. Their message just reached us today; it's a few days old. They'll have her by now."
"Who was it?" Mana had forgone finishing the shower. Now she dashed around her apartment, hoping her body would air dry so she could save a few seconds. She had several go-bags prepacked for just such a call and pitched them through the kitchen and across the living room into a pile at the front door. "G.S.P.B.?"
"Nope. It was an Overwatch Station. Someone from their Two-Sixty-Second Section."
"…Overwatch? Really? Kudos to them is in order, surprising as that is. I wonder how they managed it?"
"We'll have to ask when we land. It will take us about two weeks or so; says the Captain anyway. I'm curious myself. After all, we and especially the G.S.P.B. have been trying for four years. Anyway, I'll see you at roll call."
"Aye Commander. I'll be there A.S.A.P." Mana confirmed as she buttoned the last clasp on her uniform. So much for the weekend. She gathered the smaller bags and crammed them into one large off-planet duffel nearly as large as her, and hoisted it onto her shoulder. She had been expecting an order of new books and reloading manuals to arrive, but now it looked like it might be a month before she got to crack one open. But…duty called. Her copy of 'Catch-22', and updated ballistic coefficients, would have to wait.
. . .
Geisinger Hospital was overflowing long before Haruko got there. Up and down the block and all across the lawn was swarmed with patrol cars and SUV's, and the perimeter ringed with MRAP's and Bearcats. A tent city of 12-man canvas units had sprung up in the parking lot to handle the excess of patients. Haruko parked around the corner and behind a junkyard's garage, hiding her Vespa and guitar. She then staggered her way past the Windy Hill retirement village, also filled with police and seeming to act as a temporary command center, and joined the line of walking wounded and civilians. Her head swayed and throbbed, leaking blood spilling from under her shirt bandages. It dripped onto her neck, then slowly dribbled down her chest, standing out in stark relief on her paling skin.
"Green, green, green, yellow, yellow, green, yellow…" A nurse was pinning triage tags to people's lapels or tying them around their wrists as they streamed in. He and the other triage nurses then shunted the patients left, right, or center depending on their tag.
"Yellow, green, green, yellow…RED!" One announced upon seeing Haruko, blood now down to her waist and her skin porcelain white. Two orderlies whisked her away into a surgeon's tent. As they carried her, Haruko began thinking she should not have come. The sounds weren't what did it, half her hearing was a persistent ringing. It wasn't the sights, with half her vision gone and the other half going hazy on the edges. It was the Smell. The Funk. The Stench. Nose-melting acid of guts, bile and urine. Damp earthiness of shit and soiled clothes clogged her throat. She could have reached out with her teeth and bit into the blood soaked air and its tang of iron. The final straw was the grove of pine trees surrounding the property, shedding their needles into a thick carpet. With the pungent pine breathed deeply, Haruko fought hard against her own mind before slipping away from Earth.
She woke feeling closely swaddled and a comforting weight pressed on her from neck to toes. The left half of her face was bandaged and the eye covered. But, she could feel it rotating in its socket, so at least Rig had not blown it out of her head. And…yes, there was a little bit of light. Maybe she hadn't lost her sight. She tried to look around with her right eye but found her head locked in place. The rest of her body refused to move as if it was asleep. All she could see was the olive drab tent above her and the edge of an IV stand.
"Oh, look who's awake!" A passing nurse on her rounds spotted Haruko's one open eye. "You gave us quite a, uh, tussle. You broke Doctor Reed's nose, and Nurse Swindon you punched in the groin."
"…Oh. Uh, sorry." Talking only came out as a mumble. Only then did she realize she had a football toothguard in her mouth. She must have bitten someone too.
"You had lost a lot of blood, were seriously dehydrated, and delirious; it happens quite often. There must be something wrong with our equipment, or you're very unique. We couldn't identify your blood type. O negative seems to be working, of course." The nurse explained it all while changing out Haruko's IV bag. "And then you even started talking in tongues! Some strange language we've never heard before; it sounded…well, ancient."
"Really?" The toothguard made it hard to talk, but sensation was creeping back into her body. First came her fingertips and toes, then whole fingers, then feet. Now she could feel the weight was from a body blanket ratchet strapped down to pin her in place. As her body came back online, the rolling and crushing ache of her injuries came with it. Now the blanket was suffocating and she was overcome with a primal urge to break free. With so much suffering, so much death, the sounds of agony, screams of pain and desperate whimpering now too loud and clear, The Man would be circling with the rest of the carrion eaters. She needed to leave, now.
"Oh yes. You have been the talk of the ward. We've never had to use four shots to sedate someone; the most before was three. You really did not want to settle down! So the fact you've only been out for an hour doesn't surprise me. Now…" The nurse had finished her duties with Haruko. "I'll be going to get the doctor and he'll be in to see you soon. Okay?"
"Sure." Haruko couldn't wait to be sure the nurse was gone. She immediately started wriggling and twisting, nearly dislocating her right arm to get it free. Tears flooded her eyes again as the motions strained cracked and broken ribs and showcased every little bump and bruise, but she could not stop. With her right arm free, she slipped off the strap across her head and pulled her head out of the brace. She reached over the side of the gurney and undid the first ratchet. It was enough to free her left arm and then the second ratchet. That allowed her to drag her body free. She wanted to dash off right away, but knew she'd pass out just standing. She'd have to take things in stages. Sit up. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Turn to the side. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Feet to the floor. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. She was pleased to see they had not taken her clothes, had wiped some of the obvious blood off her face and neck, and left her boots next to the gurney. She jammed her feet in them, leaving the laces undone. Now, the hard part. She stood, knees knocking, and nearly fainted. She sat down, taking slow breaths.
'Try again. No. DO again. Cannot sleep yet.' The sedatives were still in her system and all the work was making her drowsy. 'On your feet!' Slower this time, she made it to standing and maintained the posture. Now the trick was to bluff her way out and back to her Vespa. Well, scratch that. Just get to the gate. One thing at a time. She undid and slid out the IV drip from her arm and headed tentatively towards the tent door. A doctor had left a spare white jacket on a coat rack next to the door, so she took it and buttoned up. Stepping out of the tent, she realized she needn't bother with stealth. Everyone was in a hurry, running this way and that, all in the same general task. They were packing everything up or taking it down, and loading patients into buses and onto trucks.
"Here, hold this wouldja?" A struggling orderly handed off a box about ready to fall from his stack. The lid was marked: "HYDROCODONE/ACETAMINOPHEN (Vicodin, Vicodin ES, Vicodin HP, Anexsia, Lortab, Lorcet, Lorcet Plus, Norco, Zydone)" The orderly stabilized his remaining Leaning Tower of Pills, and bade Haruko follow. He was leading her straight to the gate, so she kept close.
"S'goin' on?" She slurred, having forgotten to spit out the toothguard. Once she did, she asked again. "Where's everyone going?"
"Port Matilda, I think." The orderly guessed. "Wherever it is, the cops have decided it's too risky to stay here; at least for now. So they've appropriated everything for themselves, and are relocating the entire hospital. With all the gunfire this morning, I can't think of any reason to argue. Hey, what's your…?"
"Coming through! Make a hole!" A stretcher passed through, parting the crowd with its groaning passenger and anxious carriers. Haruko took the opportunity to slip away from the orderly and out the front gate. Down the block to the corner, she felt far enough away and out of sight. Putting the box down, she hooked her pinky fingers into the corners of her mouth and gave a shrill whistle. By the time she'd picked the box up again, her Vespa had arrived; idling while perfectly balanced with the EB-0 on the seat. She put the guitar back on, eased onto the seat and set off just above a crawl. It was not worth risking a crash now. There was one house she had in mind, and knew for a fact it would be empty. And, since she and Naota had done their detective work so thoroughly, she even knew where the owner kept their spare key.
Craig Kauffman's house was untouched, the yard unmown and overgrown, and a stack of yellowing papers covered the front step. Haruko motored around the the back porch and the fenced in back yard. Now no one could see her Vespa from the road, and once she'd hidden it inside the porch, not even nosy neighbors could. The spare key was in the same spot, under the fake rock along the side of the house, next to the AC unit. Inside, it was just as undisturbed but covered in layers of dust. She checked the door locks, and then wedged furniture against them to impede entry. In the kitchen the faucet still ran, so she gulped down several large glasses of water. Checking the bedroom found the bed still made with clean sheets. Craig hadn't slept in it before they had put him on that train to South Bend, Indiana. A search of a hall closet yielded a stocked medical kit, so she would be able to take off and change her bandages. The shower threatened with a few knocks, but the flow of water stabilized. She stripped off bloody and grimy clothes, unwound the bandages, and stepped in. Key was bracing her feet against the sides of the tub, one hand in each corner of the walls, lest she face plant or crack her skull. Heavy scrubbing wasn't in the cards, it was too painful to move her arms to reach. She just let the water flow over her for half an hour, getting the job mostly done through volume of water. It was morbidly fascinating to watch her own blood drip off, then form little streams before swirling the drain.
Before showering, Haruko had filled a Brita filter from the fridge and left it to work in Craig's room. Once dried off, she retrieved the box of pills and drinking glass from the kitchen counter and headed for bed. The box contained many options, and she opened a bottle labled: Vicodin (Hydrocodone). She palmed two 5mg pills and took them with half the filter's worth of water. Then, and only then, did she allow herself to collapse on the bed. She lay on her back, facing the ceiling, arms at her side. For a moment, she could still feel every sensation of pain, was aware of her face actively swelling and eyes blackening, bruises smarting, bones aching. But then, the pills began working their magic, and once again Haruko slipped out of reality.
. . .
I know this one's short, but after typing huge chunks of text and copy/pasting them into the Doc Manager, I had to find a good point to cut this off. Originally, it was, ready? 15,000+ words! Yow-zah. Nothing terribly earth shattering happened here; or did it? The artist changed ten things between these drawings, can you find them all?
On a side note, Haruko strikes me as that kind of person that should, following some sort of accident, or, I dunno, getting shot in the face, be dead. But they keep on living and pushing forward because they're powered by such raw and pure SPITE at life itself, that their idea of getting back at life is to keep living as long as possible just to annoy it with their continued existence. A simpler way would be to say Haruko is the kind of person who would remove her own appendix if she needed to; like that Russian one doctor did in the Arctic.
Also, the good Lieutenant Mana is on the move and headed for Earth. I don't think her and Commander Amarao's idea of what is waiting for them is going to sync up with reality. They'll have two weeks of space travel to mentally prepare; I hope they use the time wisely.
That's all I have to say here, little blurb for a little chapter. Thank you all again for being infinite wellsprings of patience! I'll see you in Chapter 24!