Young and Pregnant

The corridor swam into Cassandra's view. She was lying down and light seemed to dance before her. Air was thick, a dragon's breath. Light streaks above in a nauseous green. Nausea. She tried to breathe in but she couldn't. It was being strained and it hurt trying. A disembodied hand pushed her gently down onto the vinyl black mattress. She became vaguely aware there was talking, like a radio play or an audio book.

"Wilson at ER said she had enlarged lymph nodes. Her BP's holding but still low. Eighty over sixty...."

"She's pregnant, you moron. She's going to have low blood pressure anyway..."

"Oh my girl, my lovely girl hold on. Hold on..."

"Tommy, you're such a dick. You know that the X-Ray department is this way. You're taking her to urology."

"You're taking the piss."

"That's my daughter you have there! Do your damn job or God help me, I'll sue this damn hospital!"

She had no idea why the place was as fuzzy as this. Life had seemed to have taken a surreal turn and she didn't like it one it. She tried breathing again but nothing. A beat strode into consciousness, a squealing cry for help. Eeeeeeee eeeeee eeeeee. She tried to cover her ears with her hands to block out the noise but something in the back of her hand stung and she put her hand back down.

She had a vague notion that she was dying and going to Hell. It was the heat that marked it clear for her. It was all consuming. Dragon's breath, all sulphur. The air was chemical alright but she had no real idea if it was sulphur. It seemed to follow her. All of the senses that seemed to work so freely were just giving her falsity, plastic motives and it was unreal. The voices left and a petulant face morphed into view. She was dressed in black and her voice was leaded and husky.

"Who brought you here?" she said with all the kindness of a shrew. "Can't X-Ray you. Not with Little Baba here." There was a scribbling of pencil and voice smiled. "I'm sending you over to to Ward Seven. You need some rest." she looked at her puzzled for a moment before she called out again. "Has she been given morphine? She's high as a kite."

Paper rustling and the wheels were moving again. She was in hospital, that was made clear. She couldn't remember coming here or even feeling sick. What if she had crashed the car? Something grabbed her hand and she tried to bat it away. Pain lurched and she tried to stay still.

"Cassie...I'm with you sweetheart. Dad's here." a voice said, lips made of that glaring green light and a shadow. She tried searching for a face but saw nothing. Instead, a wriggling in her throat started to make her heave and heave.

"Whoopsie daisy! Seems the antiemetic hasn't kicked in yet. Usually takes a while. Might get the nurse to give you a little top-up dose. In the meantime..."

Something sticky seemed to pour from midair into a carton. Once the liquid disappeared, so did the carton.

"Is that normal?"

"Afraid so. Morphine causes nausea...and she was throwing up a lot when you brought her..."

"No, no, I mean the blood in the vomit!"

"She's torn a layer of her stomach. If it was a lot more, we wouldn't be going to Ward Seven."

The floor sank miserably as it had given up supporting their overwhelming weight. Would she be like that, she thought? Giving up when this baby grew so large it engulfed her? Maybe it would die. Maybe she would die. Even her thoughts seemed to turn against her and feel absolutely ridiculous.

---

Alex wasn't quite sure that this training was all it was cracked up to be. He had read the books back to front and knew the drill. That didn't mean that it was pleasant or that he resented every moment he saw Drill Sergeant Banks. The guy in the bunk above him - a nice enough guy from Vermont called Jack- called him Bank the Wank. He didn't quite appreciate this nickname until Jack explained the British slang.

It didn't quite cover it. Daniels had been okay - a bit pedantic but okay. Banks was another league. Alex had a sneaking suspicion that under his bulldog-eating-a-wasp exterior, he probably spent his freetime being rode around by some leather clad, masked prostitute he paid to call Mistress. The thought comforted him as he slugged through the constant calisthenics, marching and having the joy of wiping the projected spit off his face. That combined with the abysmal heat, the chow that sucked and not being able to hold Cassie at night was making it intolerable. If it wasn't for the Fire Guards at night, he wouldn't have stayed. He tried to tell Jack that over lunch that but Jack laughed him off.

"Goddamn Alex. You've been here five minutes and you wanna give up?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "It's Hell week. I think the clue is in the title."

He reminded Alex of his friend Jackson back home. He seemed to gel well with him and his determination to keep going was making Alex feel both inspired and lazy at the same time.

Banks had called them in for the usual "Sergeant Time." Alex thought it would have probably been adequate to call it "Eardrum Suicide Time". Banks stood up in front of the recruits, forcing his lips into a less severe grimace. "Recruits, we have started to improve. This is only the beginning! We will work harder because you are still a bunch of hand-wringing slouches! There are men and women just like yourselves dying for this country, for you and me. You may not be able to be worthy of licking their boots but by God, some of you show potential."

It was a shorter rant than usual and Alex guessed he must be doing something right. He started mail call afterwards and he was surprised to get a FedEx Express letter. Signed in very precise, arched letters, he got a sinking feeling reading the prim address. He kept it in his hands, not opening it under he was in his bunk. He kept turning it over in his hands, almost certain of bad news. He could almost feel it seeping through the manlla paper.

"Whatcha got there, Lexy?" Jack said interested, looking up from wiping the floor.

"A letter." he replied duly. He heard Jack click his tongue and shake his head.

"Man, you're so descriptive. It's pure poetry-"

"Shut the hell up, Jack," he said, shaking his head. "Sorry but I know this fucker is bad news," He got an idea sitting up. "You open it."

"My hands are all disinfectant." he said, looking at Alex as if he had lost his mind. "Open it your goddamn self. If you can't handle a letter, how are you going to handle seeing someone get shot?"

"Soulless bastard," Alex said, half grinning. He knew Jack was right. "At least I'll be able to handle the sun."

"But I have got nothin' to fear. There's no Hell for a ginger." he laughed and started wiping the floor again, singing some song under his breath.

He opened the envelope tentatively and started to read quickly. He was shocked that it was from Cassie's mother of all people. Had she written to tell her Cassie's dumped him and found some bronzed Adonis who happens to be an Heir to some fortune? She was such a sour bitch of a person that Alex reckoned if such a thing would have happened, she would have been eager to gloat.

The letter was short but it hit him like a train. His insides turned to ice and panic set in. Cassie was ill. Cassie was in hospital. She coughed a little in the past couple of days but he took no notice of it. He had only been in the training facility three days. She had taken ill soon after, according to her. She mentioned no information that could have been useful, like what ward was she on, which hospital she was in, was the baby okay?

"You and me are on Fire Guard tonight an hour after Lights Out, yeah?" he said, looking at Jack. He looked back up at him with a bemused expression.

"Yes. At least we have an early shift. That shift last night was Hell. Why?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. Alex thrust the letter under his nose. He looked back up at him and shook his head. "You're not gonna...are you?"

"I'm not." he lowered his voice and stared at Jack, an expression that Jack would have called identical to the expression of a madman. "We are. Just a visit and we'll come back. It'll be easy."