Fog Bastards 2 Destination

by Bill Robinson

  At some point, I must have fallen asleep in the chair, because I am standing on the path, surrounded by a cool fog. No wind, no swirls, just the gently floating sheet of white, interspersed with the black of night. I hear the footsteps and he is in front of me.

  "I'm sorry." Strange thing for him to say. "But you can't heal her."

  "Fuck you. Worked fine before."

  "And it cost you. We figure about a week. The light knew you wouldn't mind. But this, heal her now, and it will cost you a year, maybe two."

  "I don't care."

  "I know you don't, but we do. Wait, please, wait until she's done all the healing she can on her own. Then talk to her about it."

  "No."

  "You know she wouldn't want you doing anything without asking. Respect her enough to ask." He's right.

  "And if I wait until she's finished healing, then what will it cost me?"

  "Six months. At least six months."

  "I can live with that. But if she takes a turn before then, you know I won't let her die, no matter what it costs."

  He nods. I don't know how I can tell under that hood, but he nods.

  Its six a.m., and I wake up from the sound of the door to the room opening, my dad appearing around the edge of the metal and glass.

  I jump up and give him a hug. There's a tall dark skinned man next to him, broad shouldered, a little paunch. I reach out to shake his hand. He looks at my weapon holstered to my side. "Thank you." His handshake is two handed and warm. There's also a nurse in the room now, going over the equipment.

  Dad and I wander down to the public restrooms to give Perez's parents some time alone with her, even though she's still asleep. He's got something on his mind too.

  "That could have been you. You could have been with her. Maybe it's time to go back to just being a pilot. Your mom's been crying, and it's not just for Kiana."

  "I walk the terminal helping old ladies find gates and lost parents find their kids. They don't send reservists out to make drug busts."

  "Think about it? Or at least have a long talk with your mother."

  "Yes, dad." The question is, do I include 784 in the conversation?

  There's a delegation of people in white headed for Perez's room. We follow them.

  They are changing her bandages, the doctors examining the injuries as they go, talking like we are not here. I don't like the tone of it, even though I can't make out the words. Too many heads shaking, too much quiet argument.

  The doctors take her dad and mom aside. I move close enough to listen in. Basically, they still have no idea how bad things are, they aren't sure she will live, or how long she will have to stay in the hospital if she does, or what her long term prognosis is. Everything is speculation. Then they leave us alone.

  It's why they call it "practicing" medicine. I know better. She's going to be fine.

  Perez's tia arrives with breakfast burritos, and sixty seconds later five of us are surrounding her bed, eating, taunting the sleeping Perez with homemade tortillas, eggs, and cheese.

  We must have been too loud and smelly, because she opens her eyes. She's a little groggy, and more than a tad uncomfortable. I don't care. She's alive. We talk about nothing that means anything, except the simple fact that she can talk means everything. She holds up for 10 minutes, and then we leave her alone to sleep.

  Her mom and dad are staying with my mom and dad, plus the married brother and his wife. The seven other brothers are going to stay with their tia. Dad and I, along with Mr. Perez, head out to LAX to pick up the arrivals in my dad's big SUV. The airline owns a bunch of 15 passenger vans, and we're borrowing one for a while.

  Using assorted badges and airport ID's, we cheat the system and are waiting at the gate when they appear. Five of them are on the 10 o'clock, the three still at home brothers, the eldest brother, and his wife. It takes a long time for the introductions and the hugs. By the time we get to the far end of the terminal, the last four brothers are landing, and we start the process all over again.

  Finally, we get all nine through baggage claim, and out onto the shuttle over to dispatch, then into the van. I follow dad back to the hospital driving his SUV, Perez's youngest brother, Roberto, Jr., 14, riding with me to talk about flying.

  We're violating just about every rule of intensive care. We had food in. We have 15 people crammed in her room. We're staying longer than 20 minutes at a stretch. We're armed. Finally, Ariela tells everyone to get their behinds over to the restaurant for lunch. Kiana gets a hand squeeze and/or kiss on the not injured part of the forehead from everyone.

  Before we can leave, she surprises us by talking, as best she can, hardly a whisper. "Everyone get lost, I need to talk to Air Force alone. He can drive himself over." I walk back to her, pull up a chair, sit and lean toward her. I can see the pain in her eyes.

  "Under no circumstances," she starts, then pauses, "are you to try to get your inner friend to fix me without my permission."

  I give her my best WTF expression.

  "I dreamt last night that I was standing on a path, red, surrounded on three sides by grass. Foggy, so foggy I couldn't see more than a few feet ahead. There was a wind moving the grass, but not the fog." Fuck me. Been there, done that.

  "Then I heard footsteps and a very tall man appeared, taller even than your other self, all in black. I could never see his face. He told me not to let you fix me, that it would cut two years off of your life, that you already sacrificed a week to heal my bruise, that even waiting until I'm better on my own could cost you months. Promise me you won't do anything to help me."

  I reach my right hand down and take hold of hers. "I can't make that promise. I am not going to let you die."

  "This is not your fault, Air Force, not your fault."

  I shake my head. "Isn't it? If I hadn't identified the first three drug packages the feds would never have gotten involved, and the cartel wouldn't have retaliated. For the two hundredth time, I got involved, and people ended up dead."

  She looks at me, gathering herself. This has obviously been an effort. So I ease her mind, at least a little.

  "I promise you that unless you are in danger of dying, I won't do anything without talking to you first."

  She smiles, sort of, there's pain in it. "I'll take that for now, but we're not done talking about this."

  "OK.," I pause, "Do you think they'd care if I brought a cat to stay with you?"

  She laughs, and then stops in pain. "Unlike you Air Force, I didn't mind my visit from the Fog Dude. I don't need a little five pound girl to protect me."

  I try to look hurt. She starts on me again. "Go eat, and come back later. I know you're going to want to do something stupid soon, and we need to talk about that too."

  Pushing the chair away from the bed, I stand up, then bend over and give her a soft kiss on the cheek. "See you in a few hours, get some rest."

  I get to the restaurant as everyone else's food is arriving. Perez's tia plunks a plate of tacos down in front of me, I guess it's nice when the owner knows what you like. There is tension around the table, expected when we go don't know if she's going to live.

  When we get back, they've moved Perez out of intensive care and upstairs to a private room. Apparently, the 15 of us were disturbing the sick people. Who knew?

  The doctor comes in and tells us all we need to go. There's moaning, but Mr. Perez rounds everyone up except his wife and we hit the road. I get to say goodbye last, acutely aware of how much pain she still is in. She orders me to go in to work tomorrow, not knowing I had already decided to. I hit her gently on the arm, and follow the families out.

  We meet up at Perez' aunt's house, talk, browse the fridge, and generally do nothing until nine-ish when it's time to go. I am wearing my pilot's uniform from yesterday, pushing 40 hours on me, and getting ripe. I make plans for tomorrow, go home, feed an angry cat, shower, change and sit up all night figuring out how to attack a drug cartel.

  I pick up four of Perez's brother's in t
he morning from her aunt's and the five of us squish into Starbuck. They wanted to come into the LAPD offices with me to look around, are not impressed, grab my keys and head off to the hospital. They, like their sister, think it's funny I have a Civic named Starbuck.

  The feeling in the office is depression and anger. Four dead brethren, two more in the hospital. I find Sergeant Johnson and he tells me I'm working with Bradford in Terminal 7. Then we talk about Perez. He's going over this afternoon, but wants to know what to expect. I give him the honest truth, brutal though it is. He gives me a handout with details of the memorial service, Sunday. I'll be there.

  Bradford and I walk the day away, it being unusually quiet in the terminal. One of Perez's brothers comes and picks me up after and takes me to Ariela's restaurant for dinner. I pop over to see Kiana, even though she's sound asleep by the time I get there. I wonder if Fog Dude is visiting. Perez no better, but no worse. Still no answer from the doctors.

  Friday is different. I spend the day with her family at the hospital, and by dinner I know it's time I did something stupid. Her breathing is more irregular, the beeping is weaker, the doctors look nervous, she hasn't said a word in hours.

  I get back about nine, do some Internet research on the hospital, and then head out to Anaheim. No drone sign anywhere, I go through my normal procedure for the first time in a month. Feels off and good at the same time.

  Naked, I easy bake some molecules and lift myself gently up, then flash north to Cedars. From the hospital directory, I know that the billing department is on the top floor, east wing, and that it closes at five on Friday. I land on the roof of the shopping center across the street, and identify the area where billing should be. Lights, but not bright, just a few, night light bright.

  I wait until my light gives the all clear, then jump across the street and onto the roof of the hospital. From the distance, given my normal human eyes, I could not tell if any of the windows were open. From close up, I can tell that they are not, so I pick one that is somewhat shielded from ground view, and float next to it, my back to a concrete protrusion from the wall. It turns out to be closed, but not locked, and I can push it open. The screen is another problem, and I simply push it out of the way. Once inside, I put it back in as best I can.

  The computer in the office is off. I need one that is not only on, but logged in to something useful. I leave the office and enter the main room, just a big open area with 20 to 25 cubicles, none with doors. The first five computers I check are off. The sixth is on, but is asking for a password. Seven and eight are off. Nine is off, but the nice person who works there has written a login and password on a yellow sticky note and put it on the side of their monitor. Someone who, I'm sure, is violating security protocols, but is my new best friend.

  I turn their computer on. It boots, does not ask for a password and does not log in to any application. It takes me a few minutes of trying before I find the right icon, and get logged in. It is a nice billing application, which connects directly to the patient record files. I search for Perez, there are two in the hospital, but only one Kiana.

  The cut on her forehead is minor. No concussion. Her eye was punctured by numerous pieces of metal, she can make out light, but not see otherwise. Prognosis unknown.

  They removed four sections of her intestines, three feet in total, and had to glue her liver back together. Prognosis unknown.

  Her chest was punctured, lungs and heart damaged. Prognosis unknown.

  Her left leg is broken in two places, and her left knee is gone. No ACL, MCL or PCL, plus damage to the meniscus. Prognosis: Will not recover full use.

  The record shows she's been approved for three months of paid leave, and that LAPD and her union have been notified that she will likely require a disability retirement if she lives. Fuck me. I am going downstairs. The light nods in agreement.

  It tells me we need to go. I hesitate. I am, therefore, lost. The door flies open and the janitor wheels his cart in. I am naked, 20 feet from him, and he is blocking my way out. Trust the light. Frak me.

  I turn the computer off, then, keeping my head low, run over to the far side of the cubicles. As the janitor opens the office door, I run at superhuman speed to the windows in the cubicle area, only to find they are the not opening type. The idea is to get out of here without leaving any evidence, which kind of negates the idea of breaking them, so I pop back behind the cubicles.

  Strategy B. I wait until he turns his back again, and run into the corridor he came from. No one there, but no windows, and the office doors I try are all locked. I keep moving down the hall, trying every door.

  One opens, I go in. It's a closet, and it's full of cleaning supplies and hospital clothes, no window. I have a totally stupid idea. The light is egging me on like it hasn't egged me since that first night on Kona. The doctors all wear these outfits, greens, pants that tie, pullover v- neck shirts, the hospital logo on the front. I find ones that fit and put them on. There are slippers too, and I grab a pair.

  Then I nonchalantly walk out into the hall, and push the button for the elevator. Inside, I push three. A right turn when I get off, four doors down, and there she is, asleep. Quietly, so as not to wake her mom in the other bed, I slip into the room, walk over to her, and kiss her on the forehead. A little trail of light jumps from my lips to her.

  Nothing happens right away, but maybe 30 seconds later there is a marked change. The beeping thing is louder. The beeps more regular. Her breathing is strong, normal.

  I squeeze her hand and turn to walk out of the room.

  "Air Force?"

  "Just came by to say hello." I whisper, don't want her mom to hear.

  "Dumbass."

  "That's Superdumbass to you."

  Another squeeze, then I'm gone, over to the elevator, down to the first floor, and out into the night. The strip mall across the street is deserted, and the alley behind it empty. I remove everything, take off the slippers, ball up the shirt and pants, and head for Starbuck. Instead of going home, I fly around all night, afraid that I might accidently fall asleep otherwise.

  A little before sunrise I get home, feed and calm the cat, run, shower, and head back to the hospital. She's sitting up when I get there. Whatever it cost me, totally worth it just for that.

  Everybody's there. Everybody's smiling, laughing.

  Over the course of the day, the story is settled. She's going to live. The doctors admit they were sure yesterday was the end, but she surprised them.

  Later, she makes everyone leave us alone again. When they're gone, she hits me, hard, on the arm. Gives me a mad look. Doesn't actually say anything, doesn't have to. I give her a happy look. She hits me again. I laugh, kiss her forehead. It seals a deal between us, one I will almost certainly break.

  "See you tomorrow Perez."

  Chapter 16

  The next morning is the memorial service for the four officers. There are six Perez's there in uniform, looking impressive, and me in a suit, not having a dress uniform. Then off to mom and dad's for a barbeque. I set up my laptop in Kiana's room, so that first she could watch the memorial with her mom holding my brand new tablet, then we set the tablet on the picnic table in the back yard at my mom's so she could watch the family games, and be with us for dinner. She got intravenous fluids, we got smoked tri-tip and veggies.

  Monday morning we transport everyone to the airport and put them on flights back home, except Perez's mom, who is staying down. The plan is for Kiana to go to the Bay area for a while once she's able to travel, but that involves setting up physical therapy and other doctor stuff when we don't even really know the full extent of the damage.

  I consider cancelling my flight to Kona, but Perez insists I go, something about normalcy, which is a silly thing to think about when you consider my life. We spend a couple hours alone, but don't talk about business or my next dumbass move.

  Taylor Mankat is there when I get to dispatch Tuesday, which is the point that I remember that we were supposed to go
to lunch last Wednesday. Fuck me. Now she's probably not going to. But I find out I'm wrong.

  "That was your partner who was blown up?"

  "Yes. Taylor, I'm so sorry I messed up." I explain the past seven days in five minutes.

  "I'm impressed," she says, "Not with you blowing me off, but with your dedication. How about we try again for Saturday night?"

  I tell her I'm in. Then Captain Don the Perfectionist appears and I have to run off with him. I call Perez from Hawai'i, and she tells me they plan on letting her go next week. I tell her to tell my dad, so that we can put her on a flight. She tells me her parents still can't get over all the free flights dad arranged for them. He's flying her dad down here again on Saturday. I remind her she's family.