Humankind_Saga 1

by Mic Shannon

  The long wait was killing her. She had to pee, and the thought made her touch her stomach briefly. When they finally passed through the double doors of the Medical Building, the inside of the steel-kit building was strikingly similar to the old hospitals of the 2010’s. Sure, it was a little dated, but the smell of alcohol and iodine comforted her, if only to know that they were sanitary.

  She sat in the lobby area and waited as the first of the boys was called back to get examined by the Pediatrician. She clicked a button on her wristphone, wishing she could login to Social Status and read her timeline, then dropped her wrist. The thing was useless anymore. All it could do was tell time.

  As they sat in the quiet room waiting for the examinations to be complete, Manny interrupted Cynthia’s thoughts.

  “Cynthia,” he whispered, poking her in the ribs, “see if Ms. Tanya is here. I wanna see her.”

  She nodded, looking over at the nurse’s station on the other side of the room. She made the boys stay put then stood up and crossed the large open area, approaching the counter where the nurse’s station had been positioned. The nurse sat at a desk full of record jackets and an old laptop, manually inputting information into the Electronic Medical Record system.

  “Excuse me,” she said politely, flashing a fake smile, “yes, I’m looking for a friend of mine. Her name is Tanya.”

  “Do you have a last name honey?” asked the lady in scrubs as she chewed on her spearmint gum.

  “Um, no I don’t,” she replied, scratching her head, “She, like, came in with us a few weeks ago. She had diabetes and they didn’t have her insulin so she got really sick. They had to take her off the bus on like, a stretcher thingy…”

  “Honey, I need a name,” she said sincerely, looking up from her paperwork.

  Cynthia sunk her shoulders, then sighed and looked at the floor. She was exhausted. She’d been caring for those boys day in and day out, and it had begun to take a toll on her strength. She needed help, or guidance, or maybe just someone with some more experience. Someone like Ms. Tanya. The nurse, picking up on her distressed facial expression, sat forward in her chair, interlocking her fingers and placing her forearms on the desk.

  “Was she here or in emergency?” asked the nurse.

  Cynthia thought for a moment, “Um, they like, took her off the bus when we arrived. Soo, I guess that’s emergency?”

  “Emergency is next door, honey. In the other building. They can help you there.”

  “Oh okay, thanks,” said Cynthia, turning to walk away then stopping and turning back around, “Um, I kinda can’t leave right now because one of my kids is in the back with the doctor. Do you have like, some records or something?”

  The nurse looked up from her paperwork and eyed her up and down, the sleeves of her oversized dingy hoodie hanging over her hands as she held them in front of her mouth.

  “Let me check with them, okay?” said the nurse as she slid an old IP phone attached to a wired cable in front of her from behind some files.

  “You guys have phones?” asked Cynthia, shocked.

  “Well, I can only call emergency next door or the Headquarters building, but yeah,” she said, picking up the receiver and dialing.

  There was a pause, “Hey, who’s this? Gladys? How are you? It’s Lonnie. Listen honey, I have a girl over here who’s looking for an uh, a friend that came in with her about three weeks ago. She says she got pulled off their bus and rushed to emergency, most likely treated for diabetic shock. She only has a first name…Tanya.”

  Cynthia leaned on the desk.

  “How old is Tanya, honey?” asked the nurse, placing the receiver on her shoulder.

  “Um,” thought Cynthia, “I don’t wanna be wrong. I’d say, like, between thirty and forty.”

  The nurse scrunched her eyebrows, “She says between thirty and forty.”

  Another pause.

  “How long ago? You said a few weeks, right?”

  “Like, four weeks maybe?”

  “Like four weeks, she says,” relayed the nurse as she popped her gum, “Ok, I’ll wait.”

  The nurse positioned the receiver between her shoulder and her ear, going back to her task typing on the tiny keyboard. Cynthia ran her fingers through her long black hair, untangling the matted strands.

  She waited at the counter for several minutes, playing with the sleeves of her hoodie with her hands. The nurse stopped typing and grabbed the receiver with her hand.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” she said. She paused for a moment, then handed the receiver to Cynthia, “She wants to talk to you.”

  Cynthia grabbed the phone reluctantly, biting the nails of her left hand as she lifted the receiver to her ear.

  “Hello?” said Cynthia nervously.

  “Yes, hello,” said the nurse, “are you Tanya’s next of kin?”

  “What does that mean?” asked Cynthia.

  “Are you her related to her?”

  “Um, no,” said Cynthia, “I just came with her.”

  “Oh, I see,” said the nurse, “Well, I’m afraid I have some bad news…”

  Cynthia froze, dropping her hand to her side as she held the receiver quietly.

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Tanya died last week. Were you not informed?”

  “No,” replied Cynthia, frowning.

  “I apologize, dear. We did notify Headquarters that she had passed. I’m sorry that you didn’t receive the message.”

  “Where is she now?” asked Cynthia.

  “Her body was cremated just a few days ago. I’m sorry.”

  The line went dead. Cynthia handed the receiver back to the nurse without looking, staring at the wall behind the nurse’s station in a daze. She wasn’t sure how to tell the boys. She knew they would be devastated. More so, she was worried about what she was going to do. Those boys were her responsibility now, and she had some big shoes to fill.

  “You okay, honey?” asked the nurse, concerned about her.

  “She’s dead,” said Cynthia calmly.

  “And Headquarters didn’t notify you?” she asked, concerned.

  Cynthia turned without saying a word and walked away, slinking back to the other side of the room in a deep state of trance.

  “What did they say?” asked Manny as she approached and sat down without talking.

  She looked at him, then began to tear and looked away.

  “What is it?” asked Manny, curling his lips into a frown, “Aw, c’mon no!” he said, dropping his head into his hands once he saw Cynthia weeping. She wrapped her arms around him while they both sobbed, the rest of the eyes in the waiting area peeking at them with curious empathy as they mourned.

  --- 11:42 am ---

  The wait for the screenings was long, about two hours, and she had broken the news to each of the younger boys delicately. They took it well enough, bottling their sadness like they had been accustomed. She hugged them and rubbed their backs to comfort them, but deep down she knew they missed her. Manny had gone back with the pediatrician, wiping and sniffling as he went.

  Suddenly, a commotion broke out in the lobby. An older man, in his mid-seventies, had begun shouting at one of the staff. She wore an old pair of scrubs, with a stethoscope hanging around her neck and a wound scanner in her pocket. Cynthia could tell that she was one of the physicians, since they all were dressed in a different color. Her light caramel complexion was delicate and inviting, and her hair and neck were covered by a light pink hijab. The man was confined to his wheelchair, the long white hair on the sides and back of his head twisted in knots, the top of his head bald with moles protruding from his scalp. He scolded her, shouting his frustrations throughout the lobby.

  “GET ME ANOTHER DOCTOR!” he shouted, grabbing the physician by her shirt.

  “Calm down, sir,” she replied.

  “I’m calm!” he shouted, “But I don’t care how sick I am, I am not getting seen by a TERRORIST from the NIC!”

  The Muslim physician covered
her mouth and turned away, hanging her head. Another male doctor, scurrying quickly through the lobby area had overheard the shouting and stopped, touching the Muslim woman on both arms as she held her head in her hands with her back to the wheelchair.

  He leaned in and whispered something in her ear then dismissed her, pulling his wound scanner from his pocket and scanning the barcode on the man’s wristband.

  “Hello sir, I’m doctor Dimka,” he said unenthusiastically, “I’ll be taking over for doctor Hamed…”

  “Goddammit, I live in America!” he shouted out, pounding his fist on the arm of his chair, “I don’t wanna be seen by crimmigrants! I DEMAND A WHITE DOCTOR NOW! GO GET ME A WHITE DOCTOR!”

  “Sir, it doesn’t matter what color the doctor is,” said Dr. Dimka, trying to defuse the situation, “we only have whoever is available right now. You need to understand that you have a very serious condition, and if you don’t get treated, things could get very complicated for you.”

  “I DON’T CARE,” he shouted, “GET ME A WHITE DOCTOR!”

  The lobby was dead silent. The nursing staff continued working, ignoring his outbursts, their faces strewn with anger and resentment. Cynthia looked at the boys, then back at the man, with utter disgust in her heart.

  Another nurse came over and grabbed Dr. Dimka by the arm, leading him away. The old man’s rant had quieted everyone, and they shied away from him.

  “You! You know what I mean, don’t ya?” asked the old man as he leaned over in his chair toward a young gentleman sitting near him, “I want an American doctor!”

  The young man turned in his chair, putting his back toward the invalid.

  “These crimmigrants in here are a disgrace! I’d have a better chance sitting here to die!”

  Another woman nearby lifted her chair and moved it further away from the old man. Yet another mother, sitting across from him, covered her children’s ears.

  “Ehh, fuck you!” said the old man, directing his insult at the entire room for their lack of support, “You’ll see. Just as soon as they get a chance to kill ya, they’ll do it!”

  Cynthia shuddered at his words. She thought back to the woman who spit on her. This was exactly the type of false propaganda that had fueled the hatred in that woman. She just didn’t understand it. They were all human. They all had feelings.

  By now, the entire Medical lobby was ignoring him. He continued his rant, spewing his prejudice like vile venom from his lips. From one of the examination rooms in the back strolled a young doctor in his mid-thirties, with pale skin, a thick blonde ponytail, and rosy-red cheeks. He stood there for a moment, listening to the man as he shouted obscenities throughout the lobby, insulting the staff…his staff. The doctor looked at the time on his wristphone, then called for the next name.

  “Ronald Atterwater,” shouted the doctor.

  “Right here!” yelled the old man from his chair as he began to push on the large metal wheels to inch his way toward the doctor, “It’s about goddamned time! Finally got a white doctor in here!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry sir!” said the doctor, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for another doctor.”

  “Whaddya mean?” asked the old man angrily, “I’ve been waiting here for two hours just to see a white doctor!”

  “That’s the problem sir,” he replied, “I’m afraid I’m not white…”

  “What?”

  “I’m black,” said the doctor, smirking, “…and Muslim.”

  THURS, JULY 6th, 2034

  Fort Benning, GA, USA

  8:01 am

  T he chatter amongst the men was a vast array of hearsay and rumors, sprinkled with altered truth. After graduation, they were assigned over to Ground Force 1, Second Platoon, and were marched a few hundred yards to the other side of the base to stage their gear. They reclined on their packs, sitting on the grass outside of the Headquarters building, amassed in a large group waiting hours for their travel orders.

  “I heard we’re going to be protecting the border!” said one of the privates.

  “I got a cousin over in GF3 says he overheard one of the Colonels saying it’s some sort of Army. That they’re tearing us apart. Sank a battleship too!” yelled Bucky.

  “Army?!” said another private, “Man, this is insane. We don’t have a chance.”

  “I don’t believe anything you say, Bucky,” said Tee, soliciting a few snickers in the crowd.

  “Screw that, I’m coming back with some heads!” replied Bucky.

  Michael sat quietly and listened to the conversations. He wasn’t sure if the information was true, but he knew that the other men most likely knew just about as much as he did.

  “So, what do you think? Do we have a shot?” asked Michael, leaning over to Tee.

  “I dunno man,” he replied.

  “Wait, what’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’re getting all soft on me now after you’ve been preaching to me,” snickered Michael.

  “To be honest…” said Tee, looking up at Michael, “I just miss my uncle man…”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Michael, quickly changing his demeanor and scratching at his trousers with his fingernail as he thought of his mother, “I just try not to think about it.”

  It was true. Boot camp had taken his mind off a lot of things, and instead gave him a direction. A purpose. Tee looked at him, then looked away without saying a word.

  “Hey, let’s go,” yelled their new platoon sergeant, “Formation. Now.”

  “Is this all we ever freaking do?” whispered Tee to Michael playfully, “Damn man, we just got out of a formation now we back in one! I thought we’d be doing some groovy shit shooting more guns but all we ever do is this.”

  Michael scoffed, “Yeah, feels like it.”

  The platoon sergeant gathered the privates in formation, calling out their names and marking them off on his sheet. Once he was satisfied, he put them at ease and addressed them.

  “So, here’s the situation gents!” yelled the platoon sergeant with a bellowing voice, “We’ll be leaving here and heading to the Army Airfield over at Lawson in three hours. From there, we’ll be flying via C-130 into our staging area at El Paso International. Make sure you get some chow, and be back here at seventeen-thirty, hooah?”

  --- 12:11 pm –

  Somewhere in Southern Mexico

  By now, the two men had been all but demoralized in their efforts to make it home. The past few nights had been extremely rough, their malnourished bodies stretched to the limit. The only thing that kept them going was the same thing that made them perfect for the job; their drive to finish the mission. They knew that they had information, and the sensitivity of the information was not just valuable, it was vital.

  They had stuck to the coast mostly, constantly watching the ocean’s horizon for any signs of activity. They did their best to keep maintaining their low profile. The fog was still looming, and it made them wary of being too exposed. By now it was just past noon, and the two men had been traveling for hours. They approached a small pier, with several drift boats tied to the wooden dock. Stopping to rest, they both took a knee.

  “I’m thinking, if we keep moving north, we’ll eventually run into friendly forces,” said the Chief as he knelt next to James and contemplated their strategy.

  “Chief, I’m thinking this boat might be a better option,” replied James.

  “Traveling two thousand miles by boat isn’t going to work, Jim.”

  “But avoiding the kill zone will,” he retorted.

  The Chief looked at the young man, the area around his eyes dark with bags underneath them. They were both tired, but James seemed to be crashing.

  “We’re already in the kill zone. What would we do for food, water, and fuel?”

  “And what’s the alternative?” asked James in frustration, “Wander the countryside until we starve to death? We’re going to need transportation.”

  “Listen Jim, you’re not thinking rationally,” said the Chie
f, “Our lives are important, yes, but the intelligence that we have supersedes that. We have a better chance of running into friendly forces on the ground than we do in the open ocean!”

  James scratched his nose and thought about it again. The Chief was right. Being out in the open ocean could definitely be a bad move. And with whatever this new weapon was, the one that sunk the battleship, there would be no way for them to evade in open water.

  “Fine,” he said, “but we still need to find transportation. We’re not going to make it another fifteen hundred miles on foot.”

  “Okay,” replied the Chief, running his hand across his forehead, “let’s find a ride.”

  They had stayed away from the populated areas, which provided for better cover as they moved north. But now, they knew they were going to have to risk it all to get home. They moved inland from the coast, approaching the city of Villahermosa. As the small, one story brick homes came into view, the two men both became instantly alert, freezing at the faint sounds of gunfire.

  Both men knelt again in the grass, the city roughly three hundred feet in front of them. Their hearts began to race, instantly trying to analyze the situation.

  “Sounds like a firefight,” said the Chief, spitting his wad of dip out onto the ground in preparation to move.

  “What scares me is what they’re firing at,” replied James, prompting both men to look at each other.

  “That body on the beach,” said the Chief, “we’ve got its coordinates. They can recover it and finally figure out what we’re really facing.”

  “We have to get this intel back to HQ,” replied James.

  “Keep it tight and follow me.”

  They moved toward the brick structures, advancing to the cover of a wall, then settling into a secure defensive posture. The Chief peeked around the corner, then signaled to James that the coast was clear. In the distance, a mile or so they guessed, they heard the gunfire pause, accompanied with screams and a few more shots.