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saturated.
    “Take off your clothes,” the other
yelled.
    I’m not sure how I transformed from
a mad-shooting, gun-slinging, baton-wailing raging man to acting like a
mud-crusted boy whose mother was standing with a bucket full of soapy water and
a scouring pad; but without hesitation, I started unsnapping, unbuckling, and
shedding the sweat, blood and ethanol filled polyester. As my shoes and clothes
started to stack in a heap, the other bag was unzipped and out came another
carboy. This time, I closed my eyes before the spray started but the bleach
seemed to go right through my eyelids and my hands went to my face while I
crouched down resting my forehead on one knee.
    Rubbing my eyes with a towel that
one of them planted in my hands, I was able to see one of the medics pulling a
black gun-shaped device out of his bag. He grabbed my arm, placed the barrel of
the device against my forearm and a fiery sting shot from my arm to my
shoulder. When he pulled the gun away I saw an angry star-shaped hole gouged
out of my forearm. The medic, I would later know as Johnson, looked down at the
device. There was a purplish glow coming from a screen on the back. As the
screen flickered in the eyes of Johnson’s partner, I noticed he was shaking.
The man, who had first approached me, reappeared watching Johnson and the
device. Holding an assault rifle in arms and he flicked the safety lever on and
off as he chewed and spit sunflowers seeds. He was wearing no mask.
    “Come on Johnson what is it?”
    “Just chill a sec, Dyer. You know
this thing takes time.” Then Johnson turned to the other medic and said, “The
paper reading.”
    “Oh, yeah,” the guy murmured
fumbling into the side pocket of the bag.
    “NOW!” Dyer yelled. Then those
trembling gloved hands put a narrow sliver of paper on the edge of my lip. Dyer
moved in closer with his gun, pointing it directly at me. “Lick it,” Johnson
told me.
    I licked it and the medic snatched
it back so quickly, he pulled my lip in the process. He held the paper in one
hand while awkwardly maneuvering a flashlight with another. A blue light
eventually flooded the paper and a bright fluorescent yellow appeared. He held
it up.
    “Negative.”
    Soon, there was a beep and a click.
Johnson looked up at Dyer and gave him a thumbs-up. Dyer noticeably relaxed and
swung his weapon around behind him.
    “Nice. A little
good news on a shitty night. Alright Johnson
get him on the bird and get him checked in. And you,” he said pointing to the
medic, “I’ve a notion to bite you myself. This was your first and last
assignment. Go put your seatbelt on.” Turning to the rest of us, he said, “Now,
we’re gonna be outta here
in ten!”
    With that Dyer turned and took off
toward the battle that was still raging on shore at the base of the pier. “You
did some work here tonight,” Johnson told me while pushing a
gauze dressing on my forearm where blood was pooling. “Let’s get you
checked in. Here.” He handed me white Tyvek suit. I
stepped into them and slid the Velcro up to my neck. Then he tossed some
plastic thongs toward my feet. I slipped them on noticing that the elastic
coverall legs came only mid calf.
    “Alright sir it’s your lucky day.
Come with me. We are gonna take care of you.”

Infection

12
    Johnson guided me toward the
aircraft, up the ramp and inside. He motioned to a jump seat along the wall.
Next to me was a corner sealed with two clear plastic drapes, a makeshift room
with Velcro doors. Inside, two individuals sat dressed in Tyvek suits similar to mine. But they also wore booties, hoods and a mask like
Johnson’s. They sat side by side harnessed into seats, one looking into a
microscope on a retractable table and the other dripping clear drops into
consecutive tubes in a tabletop instrument. The clear walls bowed in like an
hourglass, concave and taut. Along the floor, a chill blew from the seams of
the craft itself whose floor and wall junctions were lined with