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.
CHAPTER 11
THE PROCESSING UNIT
John didn’t know how long he was unconscious. He awoke to a splitting headache and the sergeant holding pressure with a handkerchief to the side of his head. As John moaned and opened his eyes, the sergeant released pressure.
“It looks like you’ve stopped bleeding,” said the sergeant. He threw the saturated, makeshift bandage on the floor next to John and returned to his seat, “Doc, I didn’t know a small cut could bleed so much.”
“Yeah, scalps bleed a lot. There are quite a few blood vessels up there,” said John, hoping he could strike up a conversation with the sergeant, “Thanks for your help.”
The sergeant nodded. Two other marines were sitting with the sergeant, eyes fixed forward, not looking at John. He couldn’t see the captain. He had moved to the front passenger seat in the vehicle.
“How long was I out?” John asked the sergeant.
The sergeant looked toward the front to see if the captain was paying attention. Then he said, “Oh, not long, five minutes max.”
“What’s the processing unit?” asked John.
“I haven’t a clue,” said the sergeant with a shrug, “Some interrogation facility I guess. Never been there—”
“Sergeant Clark,” The captain’s angry voice interrupted from the front of the van, “Did I ask you to carry on a conversation with the prisoner?”
“No Sir,” replied Sergeant Clark, fixing his eyes forward, away from John.
John sat in silence for the next twenty minutes with the van speeding to its destination.
The van came to a sudden stop, and the sliding side doors opened. A gated chain link fence topped with coiled barbed wire blocked their passage. Beyond the gate, John could see one solitary windowless building looking similar to a warehouse. Behind the building, multiple wood fences gave it a stockyard-like feel. Additionally, a dark brown, three to four acre lake abutted the side of the building.
A peculiar stench filled the air; the odor of benzene mixed with an animal smell. He hadn’t smelled benzene since organic chemistry lab in college. The animal smell he couldn’t place, but it reminded him of the large animal housing at the zoo, only worse.
The marines with Captain Flinch escorted him to the gate. John’s wrists remained bound. The gate opened, and two large men, both wearing black hoods, appeared. Each grabbed one of John’s arms. They began roughly ushering John to the building. Sergeant Clark started to follow.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, soldier?” said Captain Flinch, “Your mission is complete. You and your men return to Central immediately.”
“Yes, Sir,” Sergeant Clark gave a salute. John noticed the lower half of his neck flushed red.
“Let’s go!” said Captain Flinch as he caught up to the masked men.
The party of four entered the building through the only door John could see. John was woozy from the blows to his head and occasionally stumbled. The guards firmly held him upright. As the group walked in the dark hallway, the strong smell of benzene and an associated repugnant animal smell nearly overcame him.
John heard a multitude of inhuman screams
