Hero (Gone 9)

“They said we’re here for our own safety,” the woman said, reluctant to relapse into silence.

But Markovic was already on to considering the possibilities. He could just get up and walk out. He was in pain, but the serious wound in his chest had been sutured and, well, whatever had been done with his hand. Presumably he was not in imminent danger of death. And he’d be a lot more comfortable at home than here.

But could he leave? That was the question. He took a moment to observe, twisting painfully this way and that. He saw two different people attempt to exit, and both times be sent back to their seat by a guardsman.

So, not a hospital: a holding cell, a temporary jail. They were prisoners. More importantly, he was a prisoner.

“Why hold us prisoner?” he wondered aloud.

The answer was not long in coming to him. They had all been struck by shrapnel from the meteorite. And by now everyone knew the possible consequences of exposure to the rock.

“They’re isolating us,” he muttered under his breath.

“Dad?”

“Simone?” There she was, standing right before him. “Oh, God, baby, I’m so glad you’re okay.” The word “okay” died on his lips as he realized that she had been peppered with shrapnel as well, that her body was a series of leaking bandages. Her face looked like she’d tried to shave during an earthquake.

Simone made a half-hearted effort to hug him, but stopped when she realized the pain it would cause them both. She lowered herself gingerly into the seat beside him.

“What are they going to do with us?” Simone demanded.

Markovic shrugged and winced at the movement, which sent pain stabbing up his neck. “I don’t know, but I’m calling Cowan.” Cowan was Markovic’s lawyer.

“They took everyone’s phones. I don’t think they’ll let you call,” Simone said.

“The hell they won’t,” Markovic snapped. He stood up, fighting crashing waves of headache and nausea, and steadied himself with a hand on Simone’s shoulder. He looked around imperiously, decided he should go straight to the top, and weaved his tottering way up the aisle to the main doors where a National Guard major stood, surrounded by junior officers.

Simone followed him. She didn’t approve of her father, but he was still her father, and the truth was he generally got his way: no one was better at bullying underlings than Bob Markovic.

“Major, a word,” Markovic said.

The major was a middle-aged man with blond hair cut so short he appeared bald from a distance, a fleshy nose, and a body as fit as a fifty-year-old man whose real full-time job was managing a branch office for a mortgage broker was likely to be.

“Sir, you need to take a seat,” the major said.

“Actually, Major, I don’t take orders from you. See, you’re a National Guard toy soldier, and I’m Bob Markovic. If that name doesn’t mean anything to you, I assure you it means a great deal to the mayor, the governor, and all the congresspeople and senators you could name. So—”

“Sir. I’m very busy. We have an emergency situation here. So please take your seat.”

“I will not take my seat, you jumped-up doorman.” Markovic stabbed a finger at the major’s chest.

The major turned away, a l

ook of distaste on his face. “Lieutenant, have this gentleman escorted back to his seat.”

The lieutenant reached for Markovic’s intact arm.

“Don’t you lay hands on me!” Markovic yelled, and slapped the lieutenant’s hand away, and that was when a military police sergeant stepped in and jabbed a black rectangular object into Markovic’s side.

Markovic heard the sparking of the stun gun. He jerked wildly, staggered back, and was saved from falling by the lieutenant and a sergeant.

“This man with you?” the lieutenant demanded of Simone.

“He’s my father.”

“Then you need to get him to calm down.”

Simone said nothing but stepped in to wrap her stunned and quivering father’s arm over her shoulder. He had been barely ambulatory. Now he was not just weak but confused, unable to control what direction he was going, and Simone led him back and deposited him in his seat.