Read Online Survivalist - 20 - Firestorm by Jerry Ahern - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerry Ahern
Ads: Link
and locked.
He could hear the wind, his room on an outside wall of the central courtyard for the hospital. Doctor Munchen had explained to him, “We have always felt that psychological well-being is a great contributor to physical well-being. Often, a chance to experience the sunlight, the fresh air, a pleasant breeze, can be quite surprisingly therapeutic. With the modular construction of our field hospitals, it is very simple to merely leave out a center module, or even several, thus creating a central courtyard in which recuperating patients can experience a natural environment. Statistics indicate as high as a five percent reduction in overall hospitalization in hospitals using this technique, among a certain class of patients, of course. I feel its validity can best be tested against the opposite extreme. Here, in American Georgia as of late, the climate is so extreme that patients, no matter how otherwise hardy, cannot be exposed to the cold and the snow. Periods of hospitalization, based on preliminary raw data, with comparative wounds to comparative personnel, are of greater duration. But perhaps the snow wfll stop.”
This was Darkwood’s first truly prolonged experience on the surface, and the weather astounded him in its severity. That men constantly lived and worked and fought with such conditions of extreme cold, high winds and falling snows was a testimony to their character and their endurance.
Darkwood felt himself smile. He imagined a surface dweller would have marvelled equally at the adaptability shown by Mid-Wake personnel to a life-How could he classify the life of Mid-Wake? Enclosure? One was almost always enclosed, beneath the great domes of Mid-Wake itself, within the hull of one of Mid-Wakes vessels. Only a very few were ever able to escape enclosure, albeit for a brief period of time. Even swimming as part of a mission rarely took someone to the surface; and, while swirnming, one wore helmet and suit and was encased from head to toe, even the hands.
Suddenly, Jason Darkwood wanted to be in the cold, feel the wind, the snow.
He stood up-a httle too quickly-and held onto his nightstand.
Here he was a prisoner, really, enclosed within the walls of this room, within the larger confines of the building itself. There was a door leading to the outside. But logic dictated he not pass through it.
Prisoners of ice and snow and wind and prisoners of the sea were very much alike.
There was a sound, like something scratching against the outer door leading to the courtyard. It wasn’t like any of the sounds he had heard before, the howling of the wind, the creaking of the very building joints themselves at times.
Darkwood took up his pistol, stared at it.
Was it Rausch come to get him?
His right fist tightened on the butt of the Lancer 2418 A2. He wished he had some sort of missile at his command instead of just a pistol.
Jason Darkwood edged back from the door to the outside, crossing the room toward the door leading to the corridor. Was it merely the feet that it was “outside” beyond that door which somehow, on an almost primordial level, terrified him?
He had his hand reaching out for the door handle leading to the corridor, to an inside place, enclosed.
Darkwood stopped moving his hand.
If he touched that door handle, he would be giving in to the fear which had begun to grip him here, stalked by Rausch, trapped in an unfamiliar environment, one of unbridled hostility, his head and neck aching, medication for the pain coursing through his system.
Darkwood thrust his left hand into the pocket of his robe so he couldn’t reach for the door handle. He knew enough about the human body to know that things like fear and confidence were controlled by chemical triggers. Some chemical trigger-it had to
be the medication-was tying him in knots of indecision. But he could start other chemical triggers working. Brave men conquered their fear because they had no choice, not because they wanted to. He
He could hear the wind, his room on an outside wall of the central courtyard for the hospital. Doctor Munchen had explained to him, “We have always felt that psychological well-being is a great contributor to physical well-being. Often, a chance to experience the sunlight, the fresh air, a pleasant breeze, can be quite surprisingly therapeutic. With the modular construction of our field hospitals, it is very simple to merely leave out a center module, or even several, thus creating a central courtyard in which recuperating patients can experience a natural environment. Statistics indicate as high as a five percent reduction in overall hospitalization in hospitals using this technique, among a certain class of patients, of course. I feel its validity can best be tested against the opposite extreme. Here, in American Georgia as of late, the climate is so extreme that patients, no matter how otherwise hardy, cannot be exposed to the cold and the snow. Periods of hospitalization, based on preliminary raw data, with comparative wounds to comparative personnel, are of greater duration. But perhaps the snow wfll stop.”
This was Darkwood’s first truly prolonged experience on the surface, and the weather astounded him in its severity. That men constantly lived and worked and fought with such conditions of extreme cold, high winds and falling snows was a testimony to their character and their endurance.
Darkwood felt himself smile. He imagined a surface dweller would have marvelled equally at the adaptability shown by Mid-Wake personnel to a life-How could he classify the life of Mid-Wake? Enclosure? One was almost always enclosed, beneath the great domes of Mid-Wake itself, within the hull of one of Mid-Wakes vessels. Only a very few were ever able to escape enclosure, albeit for a brief period of time. Even swimming as part of a mission rarely took someone to the surface; and, while swirnming, one wore helmet and suit and was encased from head to toe, even the hands.
Suddenly, Jason Darkwood wanted to be in the cold, feel the wind, the snow.
He stood up-a httle too quickly-and held onto his nightstand.
Here he was a prisoner, really, enclosed within the walls of this room, within the larger confines of the building itself. There was a door leading to the outside. But logic dictated he not pass through it.
Prisoners of ice and snow and wind and prisoners of the sea were very much alike.
There was a sound, like something scratching against the outer door leading to the courtyard. It wasn’t like any of the sounds he had heard before, the howling of the wind, the creaking of the very building joints themselves at times.
Darkwood took up his pistol, stared at it.
Was it Rausch come to get him?
His right fist tightened on the butt of the Lancer 2418 A2. He wished he had some sort of missile at his command instead of just a pistol.
Jason Darkwood edged back from the door to the outside, crossing the room toward the door leading to the corridor. Was it merely the feet that it was “outside” beyond that door which somehow, on an almost primordial level, terrified him?
He had his hand reaching out for the door handle leading to the corridor, to an inside place, enclosed.
Darkwood stopped moving his hand.
If he touched that door handle, he would be giving in to the fear which had begun to grip him here, stalked by Rausch, trapped in an unfamiliar environment, one of unbridled hostility, his head and neck aching, medication for the pain coursing through his system.
Darkwood thrust his left hand into the pocket of his robe so he couldn’t reach for the door handle. He knew enough about the human body to know that things like fear and confidence were controlled by chemical triggers. Some chemical trigger-it had to
be the medication-was tying him in knots of indecision. But he could start other chemical triggers working. Brave men conquered their fear because they had no choice, not because they wanted to. He
Similar Books
