Читать книгу The Immune - Doc Lucky Meisenheimer - Страница 16

After manhandling him into the van, marines grabbed and restrained John. His arms, now folded behind him, had plastic ties binding his wrists. The soldiers patted down his dripping, light blue shorts and, satisfied he didn’t have a weapon, backed off, leaving him lying on the floor. A small man in a military uniform with captain’s bars on his shoulders spoke in a demanding voice, “Terrorist, where’s your gun?”

John thought, What’s going on? Maybe they found his gun hidden in the condominium. They might be trying to entrap him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” lied John.

The officer was so furious, he was shaking. He was partially balding, and his comb-over was standing up. As he reached up to smooth it down, he winced. John noticed he had a bandaged left hand and a dressing on the left side of the neck.

“We know you have a gun,” said the officer, “Do you know the penalty for owning a gun?”

“You’ve got the wrong man,” said John, “I’m Dr. John Long. I’m an internist and not affiliated with any terrorist group. I see from your injuries you’ve been in the fray with terrorists, but please don’t project militia’s defiant actions on me.”

“I just saw you attack and kill an airwar,” screamed the captain, “You’re a terrorist! You know there’s a world ban on attacking airwars. WHERE’S YOUR GUN?”

The man’s jugulars were bulging so much John thought the captain’s neck wound might start bleeding. His fingers were tapping on his gun holstered to his side. He looked as if he was deciding whether to shoot John right then.

“Do you know how many deaths were caused today by the antics of you and your ilk?” the captain said with a shrill voice. “Well, I’ll tell you, two hundred, and the toll is rising.” His finger flicked the snap of his holster open.

“Sir!” said the sergeant with the flat-top haircut. He spoke with such force the captain hesitated.

“Look, I’m not a part of Mad Mike’s Liberty Fighters,” interjected John, “Do I look like I came to attack airwars?” He nodded down to point out his still-dripping pale blue shorts, “I clearly don’t have a gun.”

“So you say,” said the captain snidely, “I have a feeling our interrogators will have you singing a different tune in a few hours” and, he added, “That’s, of course, if I don’t shoot you here and now.”

John took a deep breath and tried another approach, “Look, my fiancée was killed by an airwar a week ago. I wandered down to the park and—”

“—you thought, I’ll just kill an airwar for revenge?” screamed the captain, “Why, I lost my wife and two sons, and you don’t see me attacking airwars.” The captain thumped his chest, “I follow the law. I don’t create mayhem. I don’t cause the birth of thousands of those bastards, but you do.”

“There were no juveniles that I saw,” said John.

“That’s not the point,” screamed the captain. “You are . . . are

. . .” He seemed lost for the appropriate word, “Gobshite!” The captain pulled his gun from the holster and waved it wildly in the air.

John wanted to wake up from the nightmare. The whole episode had a dream-like quality. He was about to be mistakenly shot as a terrorist while wearing only a pair of wet, light blue surfing shorts by a man who called him an expectorated wad of tobacco. Gobshite was an arcane term he heard used once in his life. A 102-year-old patient of John’s uttered the word after being informed he needed a rectal exam.

The sergeant sitting next to the captain put his hand on the captain’s shoulder. The captain jerked away. He gave a venomous look at the marine. The marine, showing no reaction to the captain’s stare, said, “Sir, you need to take this call.”

The soldier tapped a monitor above the sliding door and it flashed on. A tiny camera embedded in the monitor allowed video conferencing. A frowning woman’s image appeared on the screen. John immediately recognized Senator Snivaling.

“I’m Captain Flinch, Madam Senator,” he said to the screen. His voice dropped lower and into a stilted military style, “Senator, we’re currently transporting the terrorist to the hole.”

John read about these “holes” on the Internet. Holes were former jails converted into interrogation areas for presumed terrorists. Executions occurred in the holes as well. John struggled from the floor of the van to a sitting position.

“I’d just as soon shoot him now,” said the captain, “I witnessed him kill an airwar. He doesn’t deny it.”

“No!” said Snivaling, “don’t kill him or take him to the hole. He is an Immune.”

The captain nodded and asked, “Do you want me to take him to quarantine?”

“Absolutely not!” she said in a sharp voice, “Take him immediately to the processing unit.”

“It would be my pleasure,” said the captain with a grin.

John looked at the marines in the van. Unlike the captain, their faces didn’t register any reaction to the order.

Snivaling then said, “Captain, after the—“

“Senator Snivaling,” interrupted John, “my name is Dr. John Long. I’m not a terrorist. I’m a medical doctor. There’s been a complete misunderstanding, which I’m sure I could explain if you would give me a few moments to—”

“YOU SHUT UP!” shrieked the Senator, “Gag this man if he speaks another word. After processing, I want extractions delivered to me personally by you, captain. Do you understand?”

The captain appeared shocked by the Senator ’s vitriol and nodded without speaking.

“Senator, there’s no information to extract from me,” said John, “I’ll happily cooperate and explain what happened if you—”

“How dare you speak when I clearly told you to SHUT UP,” screamed Snivaling, “Captain, do I need someone else to do your job?” Her face contorted into a sneer.

The captain slapped John on the side of his head with the gun. Pain wracked John’s skull and he saw stars, but remained conscious.

“Captain, please repeat that correction to impress on the doctor that when I say shut up, I mean SHUT UP,” said Snivaling with a hiss.

The captain struck John again. This time John slipped away into darkness.