The Martian Chronicles - Terror Firma by Lopaka Tanu

January 23th, 1944 - Washington D.C.

Light was visible through the oneway mirror. It was the only source of illumination in the small room. He didn't particularly care for the hows or whys of it. This was a necessary function was all he knew.

Now, he was the only one in the room. A few hours ago, nearly a dozen men in coats and jackets had gathered around the table behind him. None of them had spoken a single word in the near fifty minutes they had been there. Everyone of them had simply taken notes.

He didn't understand their fascination. None of this was important to the war effort. Still, they had insisted that he be a part of this whole sideshow. And that was what it all boiled down to, wasn't it. A freak show.

Taking a step towards the glass, the man crossed his arms. All these men did was sit in the dark and watch. Their attention was for the men on the other side in their beds. When they did speak, it was in hushed tones and husky voices. If he wasn't so sure where their hands were, he would have suspected the whole lot of them were nothing more than degenerate perverts!

Then again, even with the fact that this was a scientific observation, he still wasn't too sure on that last one. There were many a sick mind out there in the wide world. Hell, his boys were facing them down every god damned day. The men he was watching now would have been too, if not for...

He let the thought hang in the ether. There had been no point in even finishing it. Those men weren't going any where for a long time. At least not until those witchdoctors and their voodoo clipboards were satisfied. Who knew how long that would take.

Placing a hand to the glass, he leaned against it. Those boys deserved better than this. It wasn't their fault. None of this was their fault. But, they had to know. Someone had to find out what had happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

JOSIAH MEETS WITH A GOVERNMENT AGENT GETTING THE RUNAROUND ABOUT NATHAN'S LOCATION.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
February 8th, 1944 - Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

Groaning softly, he turned into the pain, trying to curl around it. All he managed to do was make his stomach hurt more. Gasping, Ezra clenched a fist against his belly and rubbed his knuckles against the tender flesh. It soothed some of the burning, but not enough.

Tears leaked at the corners of his eyes. The ache had started over an hour ago and he hadn't been able to make it stop. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't force it away or ignore like the last several times. That didn't stop him from trying though.

Eyes closed, he rocked in the soft sheets. A sudden spasm in his guts had his limbs flailing. The soles of his feet scratched against the silky material as he thrust them down. Fist smacking the bed, he cried out. His entire body shook from the pained sobs.

This couldn't go on! He knew that no matter what, he couldn't face another one of these attacks without help.

Fists clenched in the sheets, he arched off the bed from another spasm. Head thrown back, he deliberately smacked it against the headboard. The world quickly went away after the blow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
March 28th, 1944 - Border Camp, New Mexico.

Wind kicked up dust, chasing giggling children through the mud brick huts and tarp covered hovels. Watching a dirt devil swirl out past the last building and into the tents, Rafael pushed the hat a little lower. The sun had set an hour ago and the people were coming in for the day. Smells of cooking had begun to fill the air and soon their laughter and music would follow.

It wasn't a bad life, these Braceros. There was long, hard work for little money, but they were employed. That was more than most of their kind had.

Hearing a disgusted grunt, he looked across the ruins of the mud brick hovel at Don Paulo. The pendejo was sneering at the children again. Cholos, he called them.

They were just the people to him, not that it mattered.

They weren't of Spanish nobility was all that was important to de Madera. El Nino believed what flowed through his veins was more valuable than what rested in his head. It was not a trait that he inherited from his father, god rest the man's soul.

Rafael shifted the burden of a bag higher up his shoulder. He knew this would probably be a bust too, but that was not for him to say. It was all on Don Paulo to decide when they left. She would not be here and they would move on to the next camp.

There would always be another camp. Bracero camps sprang up like mushrooms in the spring. Just as quickly, they would be gone too. It was why they had been so long searching without any luck. That, and they probably warned her of El Nino's arrival.

Sighing, Rafael dropped his chin to his chest. Pushing the hat lower on his brow, he settled back to get comfortable. They would wait here until way after dusk had faded into night.

He was crossing his arms over his chest when he felt something. It wasn't much, just a tiny tremor. Curious, he rasied his head a little. When it did not come again, he put it from his mind.

Shouts in the distance turned into horrified screams.

Suddenly, the wind picked up and dust filled the air. The dying sunlight was blocked out by the rising clouds of sand.

He heard Don Paulo begin to cough, choking on the dust.

Raising the neckerchief around his throat, Rafael covered the lower half of his face. It prevented most of the dust from getting in. A little snuck through and it was enough to make him taste the sand.

The whistle of the wind shifted to a dull roar, drowning out the cries of the people around them.

Ducking his head, Rafael pushed off the wall. Making his way through the thick air was difficult. Eventually, his seeking hands found Don Paulo and he gripped the man's jacket tight. There was no point in trying to speak. The dust was too thick and the winds would swallow any sound. All they could do was hold tight and wait for it to be over.

While they could do it there, he didn't want to be so close to the street. The back of the hovel would be more protected. He started to drag the other man with him when he felt something tug at him. The pull surrounded him, it tugged him away. Rafael couldn't tell which direction until he opened his eyes.

Blue light surrounded him. Sand stung at his eyes, but he had to see, he had to know what was going on! A strange feeling twisted in his gut and he glanced down on instinct. To his alarm, his feet were no longer on the ground.

They were floating.

Rafael tried to draw in breath to scream, but no air would come. Eyes wide, he released his hold on Don Paulo.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
October 15th, 1944 - Annapolis, Maryland.

Walking the historical streets was a special treat for the boy. Chris could watch his son race from one building to the next snapping pictures. He was still a little young even for the box camera, but they were on holiday. With a twinge in his gut, he realized for the hundredth this was probably the last time he would see them for years.

A tug on his arm drew his attention back his wife. She had a patient expression which meant he had done something wrong again. Sighing, he waited for her rebuke.

Instead of speaking, she held out her hand.

He stared at the gloved appendage, searching for anything. There was nothing out of the ordinary. She had no stains on it, no holes from having caught it on something. Confused, he raised his eyes to her face. "What?"

"Oh, for the love of..." Sighing in exhasperation, she snatched up his hand with her own. The difference in size mattered little in her aggressive hold.

It was then he caught on. She wanted to hold hands. Feeling his cheeks blush, Chris snorted. "It never occurred to me."

"It never does, dear." After patting his cheek with her other hand, she started off down the street. "Stay close, Adam. Don't get scuff your shoes!"

He tagged along at a more sedate pace. His long legs let him keep stride even if he walked a little slower. Besides, it wasn't like they had any place to be. That was the wonderful part of having time off.

Matching his pace, Sarah watched Billy. "What say we take in a matinee? A movie with a newsreel, some trailers, that new Warner Brothers short, maybe some popcorn, candy for Billy, and a soda water. Doesn't that sound like fun?" Her voice was low, for his ears only.

It wasn't the words he heard though. Chris knew that tone. His wife had something else up her sleeve. Using her hand to pull her closer, he spoke in a hushed clip. "What do you intend?"

"Nothing, dear. I figured you'd want some time off your feet, maybe rest a while." Her fingers clenched slowly tighter around his hand. Voice teasing, she gave him an innocent look. "After all, it's nice and dark in those theaters. Sitting in the back, no one would notice what you were doing."

Oh, he definitely knew that tone of voice. It was the 'what' part that got his heart to hammering. Swallowing, he nodded. "Sounds like a good idea." Chris cleared his throat. "Billy, see if you can find a movie house." Hearing her snicker made him grin. "If you get us kicked out again, Sarah, I'm telling your father."

"We're not sixteen anymore, he doesn't care." Her coy smile said everything. "Besides, If I recall correctly, Mr. Larabee, you didn't complain when I had my hand," she leaned into whisper the rest in his ear.

Chris knew that if anyone had seen his strangled expression there, they would have rightly assumed she had done something impolite to him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
November 8th, 1944 - Sydney, Australia.

"I'm not going to lie to you."

Closing his eyes, Ezra felt like walking out then and there. At this point, there was no reason to stay and listen. Picking up his brown jacket, he slid off the exam table.

The doctor continued on as if he hadn't noticed. "I can't find a thing wrong with you. All my tests come back negative."

After checking the material for any unwanted lent, Ezra slid his jacket on. The material felt comforting to his sore dignity. His pride had taken a lot of abuse these past several months. Every little bit he could salvage was a boone.

When he looked over at the doctor, he found the man hadn't even glanced up from his paperwork. He cleared his throat to get the other's attention. "Is there anything you can do for me?"

That actually seemed to startle the man. His skin grew ruddy with anger. "Right now, I figure you'll be lucky to leave this office without my reporting you for dereliction of duty, soldier!" He took a threatening step towards Ezra. "I've seen your kind before. Well, I've got news for you. There's no medical discharge in your future, maybe a courtmartial, though. You should be ashamed..."

Ezra cut the man off with an uppercut across his jaw. He winced, shaking out his hand as the doctor fell to the deck.

This had been a mistake. He knew he should have waited until he was rotated back to the states for help. At least some doctors there actually retained a modicum of their humanity. Picking up his hat, he dusted it off. He wanted no part of that syphillitic brained imbicille retained upon his person. After putting it on, he stepped over the unconscious man and walked out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 5th, 1944 - Albany, New York.

The paper still felt like it weighed a hundred pounds in his pocket. It wasn't much, but the others had felt like the thing was made of solid gold. Not Nathan, though. He was glad to be out of the place, but what he wanted more were answers.

Shivering, he watched the cars pass by. The white sides of their tires moved seemingly endlessly as they rolled up the street. Muddy snow and ice splashed under their tires. He was well enough away from the curb to stay out of the spray.

Hands tucked up under his armpits, Nathan fought off a shiver. Despite the cold, it felt good against his skin. Nineteen months he had spent locked away in that hellhole. With the modified air, electric lighting, and the regulated temperature, they spent entire weeks in a daze unaware of their passing. Never again. He'd rather die first.

Flashing lights at the end of the block drew his attention. Seeing the bus pull around the corner, he stood up. He checked his pockets for the ticket. Upon locating it, he sighed with relief. Shouldering his duffle, he made his way to the stop.

It was time to go.