Free Second Sight by George D Shuman

he fell to the floor and the soldiers were smiling at the camera and laughing.
    Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, twenty-five, twenty, fifteen, ten…
    There was a dirigible floating just above his head—it was massive—approaching a tall steel tower. There was lightning and the dirigible caught fire and exploded in a ball of flame. People were falling from everywhere, charred black people, and the people on the ground were catching on fire as the debris fell.
    He looked away from the wall and tried not to watch, but voices kept telling him not to turn away, voices not from the cone-shaped objects or the hole in the door but from in his head, his own head, and they would not let him look away.
    There was a young girl. She was wearing a sailor’s cap and red lipstick. She was wearing a white shirt tied above her stomach and red pedal pushers. She was smiling at him and waving and a friend, another brunette, ran up next to her and was pushing an elbow in her side.
    He forced his eyes down. Something was burning his skin on the arm of the chair. The gun on the table had a cylinder and he could see the ends of the shiny brass cartridges in the chambers. It was a six-shot revolver, double action, it had no safety, required no effort but to point the barrel and pull the trigger.
    Thirty, twenty-five, twenty, fifteen, ten…there were wet spots on the table next to the revolver, beads of perspiration that had fallen from his cheeks. He didn’t want to watch the girls on the wall, he didn’t want to know what the shadows coming up behind them were.
    There were marks on the table by the gun, grooves cut into the wood, the scars from someone’s thumbnail that had been carved into the wood. He put his thumbnail in one and rocked it back and forth. His fingers were only inches from the revolver, it was shiny and he wanted to pick it up, pick it up and end it all…ten, five, zero, thirty, twenty-five, can’t…on, can’t…on.
    It was dawn and he was awakening from sleep. He was covered with mud and lying on his side on the ground. There was an open-bed truck with the rear end facing him. It was full of corpses and next to the rear tire soldier helmets had been stacked. Next to the helmets were web belts and canteens and gas masks. A man wearing rank and chaplain corps insignia was putting his hands on each of the bodies. He rolled to look away, then he looked down, pulling a green leather-bound journal closer to his body.
    Can’t…on, can’t…on, can’t…on, can’t…on, can’t…
    “Sherry?” Dr. Salix shook her shoulders roughly. “Sherry!”
    Her eyes fluttered, but remained shut. Sherry could hear words, but they were far, far away. Suddenly she saw something pink, blue orbs floating in space, dark caverns that oddly reminded her of a nose and she felt as if she were falling through a soft warm light and the light would protect her. She was awareof the old man’s hand. She could still feel the energy coursing between them. It wasn’t over.
    There is a riddle, she thinks, something she must solve. “Can’t…on, can’t…on,” she repeated, thinking it would be dangerous to say anything else, to say the wrong thing.
    “Sherry, it’s Dr. Salix.”
    “Monahan,” she said suddenly. “Thomas J., private first class, serial number 7613779…”
    “Sherry! Sherry Moore, I want you to focus on my voice. I want you to concentrate on the date. Tell me what day it is?”
    “Can’t…on, can’t…on…”
    “Sherry,” he said sternly. “Tell me what day it is. Think about the day.”
    “Thanksgiving.” She began to falter. “Can’t…on, can’t…on…”
    “Sherry, you’re in a hospital. You are in Philadelphia. Do you remember Philadelphia? That I’m Dr. Salix?”
    She shook her head no, distrustful.
    “Sherry!” he said, turning and pointing toward the ceiling. “Somebody, give me some light!” he yelled and one of the technicians turned on the overhead surgical lights.
    He