Imminent Destruction

Jenson came back to the infirmary on a portable gurney. Just behind him, suited men carried a Buldethian officer whose hands had been blown off. They clutched his feet and stubs tightly in their mechanical arms. Jenson’s gurney went gently by the wall while the enemy officer with neatly cut stumps of burnt flesh tied by gray rubber tourniquets dropped unceremoniously to the floor. The unhanded man groaned and writhed. Corporal Jackson pulled the wounded Buldethian officer on the bed. The injured man waved his stubs with a yell of protest before going into a state of hyperventilation.

Another noise overshadowed the enemy officer. Jenson awoke early from his drug induced sleep. He began screaming at the top of his lungs as he banged on the wall and kicked. Corporal Jackson rushed over to try an assist him onto a medical table but Jenson punched him in the gut. Mobuto’s badly damaged IEV without the helmet came down to assist. Jenson pushed at the arm of the IEV with bestial power and sent Mobuto stumbling backwards.

“You have to relax,” Corporal Jackson said, “Your finger is going to be fine, just stay calm.”

The table took repeated poundings until Mobuto stabilized his stance and used his IEV to force his arms down.

“What’s this guy on, he’s resisting my mobile suit!”

“My finger! I want my finger. You bastards took my finger. It hurts! It hurts! It hurts, damn it! I can’t take the pain! My arm! Let go of my arm!”

The doctor pulled the now bluish finger from his pocket.

“I have your finger; we’re going to reattach it.”

Jenson pushed the IEV unit’s arm away. Mobuto fell backwards; his unprotected head smacked against a pillar and he slumped unconscious. Jenson bounced up, hopped over the table, and wrapped his hands around the medic’s neck ever tighter. The disembodied finger rolled under the bed as the doctor’s face stiffened, more purple with each desperate gasp. A thud rang through the infirmary. An aluminum pipe hit Jenson’s skull with all the force Nicholson could muster. The stranglehold on the medic released as Jenson turned around with a wild snarl.

“You asked for it private. Never interfere with me!”

She retreated a few inches as Jenson released Corporal Jackson.

“You hit like a girl,” Jenson reached forward.

Nicole dodged to the side as fingers swiped at the air. His forehead popped with wild veins. Muscles snapped as they bulged. A punch came for her face but she dodged underneath it and kicked upwards. The kick hit him in the chest; he didn’t budge or even react. The metal pipe dented as it blocked his next punch. She slid backwards toward the wall. Before she could recover her stance, Jenson lunged forward to clutch her jaw. He lifted her body with ease so that her legs kicked at the air. A bloody, four-fingered, fist slammed her chest. Nicholson flew against the wall and slid down. She tried to pull herself upwards only to cough blood. Yet Jenson also dropped as he screamed and kicked in a sudden tantrum.

“My hand! Make it Stop!... Make It Stop! MAKE IT STOP! AAHHHH!”

Corporal Jackson jumped from behind a pillar to jab a short needle into Jenson’s jugular. The thrashing calmed. Jenson went comatose. Drool bubbled out of his open mouth. Eyes rolled into the back of his head as lids blinked in rapid succession.

“Mobuto are you awake?” Corporal Jackson asked.

Mobuto groaned, stood, and fled toward the kitchen. Jackson didn’t have time to go after him or ask questions as he struggled to heft Jenson’s body back on a medical table. The soldier laid completely limp. The combination of Vitrola and tranquilizers would tear his body apart from the inside. Jackson rummaged around until he found an intravenous drip. He’d need stabilizing agents to keep Jenson alive. The finger had slid under the bed, so he placed it in a plastic bag of blue viscous regenerative liquid.

“Private Nicholson?” Corporal Jackson scanned the infirmary.

Nicole huddled on the floor, shaking and grimacing; each attempt to move sent shock waves through her chest. She breathed heavily, wheezing, pulling at the gauze from under her uniform. Blood hung down her chin. Ray lifted the shirt without moving her and cut the gauze from underneath. Her labored breath continued; every movement caused her to shudder until she finally fainted. He gingerly moved her heaving body, lifting her gently to her bed. She sweat profusely. Her breath became a fading pant; each attempt took more effort as air whistled through her trachea. She coughed. More blood spurted past her pale lips and ran down the left side of her mouth. Broken whispers remained of her voice.

“My parents wanted me to be a fashion designer. I probably should have listened.”

“How’s your breathing?” he asked, coaxing her to lay straight.

“Painful, the left side isn’t moving. When he smashed me with his fist, it felt like a sledge hammer. How did he get that kind of power?”

“Virtrolo.”

“What?”

“Don’t speak, I’ll explain. It’s one of the sensory drugs, usually absorbed directly through skin; enhances the senses and the nerves. Time seems to slow to a crawl for the user, awareness is heightened. Physical senses are increased almost eighty fold, including touch, hence pain.”

“Do they give strength?”

“The heightened nerve stimulation causes intense muscular build up during prolonged use, but the drugs eventually destroy the nervous system if used incorrectly.”

“Should be illegal.”

“They are.”

He unbuttoned her uniform, allowing it to lay underneath her. She spit more blood, choking as Ray scanned her with the diagnostic screen.

“You have an injured lung and five additional broken ribs. The equipment here may be able to save you, but I have to work fast. It’ll require surgery this time. I’m sedating you now.”

“Do you think I blew my cover?”

“Hopefully not until you’re better,” he jabbed a needle under her elbow. “You should be more worried about your life.”

When her eyes closed and her breathing calmed, he readied the computer for surgery. A laser powered scalpel was his only option. Before he could cut, a communication light activated on his unit’s chest plate. He removed the microphone and ear pieces from his helmet and attached them to his neck plate because Lieutenant Soel used the Neimun’s systems to contact him.

“How are Jenson and Nicholson?” Soel asked.

“Corporal Jenson attacked me, sir. Private Nicholson came to my aid but was wounded much more severely than before. I’m operating on a badly damaged left lung. I suspect Corporal Jenson is a Vitrolo user.”

“Where’s Jenson now?”

“On a strong sedative, sir. But he needs to be securely detained and I have no time. Mobuto ran off. He probably took a concussion and is confused. I’ll fill you in with further detail after I operate. I have to work fast.”

“Jackson, do your best,” Soel said, “I’ll send you some help to control Jenson. You see that Private Nicholson is taken care of.”

“Will do. I’m proceeding with reconstructive surgery now. Send a medical aid, I need to get Jenson on an IV drip so the drug cocktails don’t kill him.”

A square opening was cut through the left ribcage. Small pieces of her blood coated ribs were removed with heavy tweezers. He placed them on a tray covered with gauze soon to be heavily stained with congealing blood.

In the background, the wounded enemy officer raised cauterized stubs as he laid on his back. His groans served as an ambience while Jackson concentrated on the surgery.