OOM: Cancun, Mexico
[two & a half weeks after this]
He can't remember how he got to this bar, but he supposes it doesn't matter, in the long run.
(It's not Milliways.)
The sunburn he got on his first two days in the country has faded to an actual tan -- much to his surprise -- and he hasn't bothered shaving in a day or two, leaving a rough stubble peppering his chin and cheeks.
He's cradling a cold Corona between his palms, eyes focused on the wooden countertop of the bar. Behind him, a stereo is pumping out a stream of Latin hits, spurring the drunk tourists to dance and holler. There's a group of sorority girls on break and a bachelorette party, competing with a stag night and what he's pretty sure is a bunch of football players from California.
The crowd is thick enough that he has to elbow his way through the crush to get from the counter to the doorway; the few minutes it takes to make it outside is enough to finish the beer and start his lungs closing from the 'lack' of oxygen he feels. It's almost sundown.
He heads for the beach.
(One advantage to wearing combat boots is the lack of sand infiltration.)
He walks along the packed sand, ignoring the water that splashes against the leather -- there's a reason he still shines the damn things a few times a week, other than the comfort that the habit and routine brings him -- and he's ignoring the remaining crowds.
It's hard to feel like he's not being followed until well after sunset, when most everyone has retreated back to their hotels and the bars, to the dancefloor and the lounge, to the never-ending party that is Cancun.
He sits a short distance from the water.
(It starts with the rumble and crash of the waves, and then he hears the hiss -- foam against the sand -- and it spirals from there.)
He can't hear a damn thing.
Rothke and Miller are on the ground.
Bleeding.
Miller's missing his helmet.
(And half his skull.)
He can't hear a damn thing, just a hiss.
Someone is screaming at him.
Captain--
Miller's missing half his skull.
Rothke isn't moving.
Captain, you alright--
Miller needs to get his helmet back on.
Benton--
Helmet.
(Where the fuck is Miller's helmet?)
Captain, we've gotta--
Just a hiss, crashing all around him.
(Where the fuck is Miller's skull?)
He can't hear a damn thing.
He can't hear a damn thing.
The palms of his hands are pressed hard against the sides of his head, covering his ears (from the grenade) and his forehead is pressed against his knees, he's too close to the goddamn stairwell and there's too much noise--
(The ocean in front of him blurs into darkness and he can't feel his legs until a wave laps against his ankles and shocks him into awareness.
He yells.
Out of fear.)
He practically runs the few miles back to his hotel room, checking every shadowed doorway and fire escape, listening to the sounds of the late-night crowds moving through the beachfront town, of drunks laughing and singing, of sirens wailing, the pulse and breath of the night.
His hands are shaking as he packs his bag.
His fingers curl around a prescription bottle.
(The painkillers they gave him on the flight home from Germany.)
He does not want to sleep, anytime soon.
(The painkillers get stuffed into the bottom of the rucksack.)
He leaves a tip for the maid on the dresser and ducks out of the hotel room.
(It'll be another three weeks before he'll find a door back to Milliways.)
He can't remember how he got to this bar, but he supposes it doesn't matter, in the long run.
(It's not Milliways.)
The sunburn he got on his first two days in the country has faded to an actual tan -- much to his surprise -- and he hasn't bothered shaving in a day or two, leaving a rough stubble peppering his chin and cheeks.
He's cradling a cold Corona between his palms, eyes focused on the wooden countertop of the bar. Behind him, a stereo is pumping out a stream of Latin hits, spurring the drunk tourists to dance and holler. There's a group of sorority girls on break and a bachelorette party, competing with a stag night and what he's pretty sure is a bunch of football players from California.
The crowd is thick enough that he has to elbow his way through the crush to get from the counter to the doorway; the few minutes it takes to make it outside is enough to finish the beer and start his lungs closing from the 'lack' of oxygen he feels. It's almost sundown.
He heads for the beach.
(One advantage to wearing combat boots is the lack of sand infiltration.)
He walks along the packed sand, ignoring the water that splashes against the leather -- there's a reason he still shines the damn things a few times a week, other than the comfort that the habit and routine brings him -- and he's ignoring the remaining crowds.
It's hard to feel like he's not being followed until well after sunset, when most everyone has retreated back to their hotels and the bars, to the dancefloor and the lounge, to the never-ending party that is Cancun.
He sits a short distance from the water.
(It starts with the rumble and crash of the waves, and then he hears the hiss -- foam against the sand -- and it spirals from there.)
He can't hear a damn thing.
Rothke and Miller are on the ground.
Bleeding.
Miller's missing his helmet.
(And half his skull.)
He can't hear a damn thing, just a hiss.
Someone is screaming at him.
Captain--
Miller's missing half his skull.
Rothke isn't moving.
Captain, you alright--
Miller needs to get his helmet back on.
Benton--
Helmet.
(Where the fuck is Miller's helmet?)
Captain, we've gotta--
Just a hiss, crashing all around him.
(Where the fuck is Miller's skull?)
He can't hear a damn thing.
He can't hear a damn thing.
The palms of his hands are pressed hard against the sides of his head, covering his ears (from the grenade) and his forehead is pressed against his knees, he's too close to the goddamn stairwell and there's too much noise--
(The ocean in front of him blurs into darkness and he can't feel his legs until a wave laps against his ankles and shocks him into awareness.
He yells.
Out of fear.)
He practically runs the few miles back to his hotel room, checking every shadowed doorway and fire escape, listening to the sounds of the late-night crowds moving through the beachfront town, of drunks laughing and singing, of sirens wailing, the pulse and breath of the night.
His hands are shaking as he packs his bag.
His fingers curl around a prescription bottle.
(The painkillers they gave him on the flight home from Germany.)
He does not want to sleep, anytime soon.
(The painkillers get stuffed into the bottom of the rucksack.)
He leaves a tip for the maid on the dresser and ducks out of the hotel room.
(It'll be another three weeks before he'll find a door back to Milliways.)