Life on Mars

Chapter Three

Vic's second return was dynamic and instantaneous, from dead to alive in a split second. A burning light stung his eyes, and his instinctive reaction was to cover them with his hands. Instead, he was forced to dip his head under his armpits finding his wrists restrained by leather straps on the arms of a chair. Squirming, he attempted to bury his face beneath flailing elbows. Mercifully, it turned out he was wearing sunglasses which reacted rapidly to the light and the scene before him slowly came into focus. 

The stinging pain behind his eyes subsided after one last piercing stab. For the first time since his death, he felt mentally alert and yet this was far from the case with his physical state. The act of simply raising his head took an almighty effort and it was now that he perceived a third belt loosely placed around his waist. As intended, it was preventing his flaccid body from falling forward onto the tiled floor. 

He stole a moment to take stock of his surroundings, but there was no solace in what he observed. He was strapped into a wheelchair that sat squarely in the middle of what could only be a stage or raised platform. It was in what resembled a lecture theatre; instead of seats, it had glass booths that cascaded up and back to around ten levels. The smell of almonds and lemon filled his nostrils and the chequered floor was so polished it reflected the surroundings. The booths that filled the wall in front of him curved around and together resembled the eye of an insect. 

Each lens was a tinted dark booth, curving and bulging towards him. He could see movement behind every pane, but the silken mirror finish distorted any detail. Inside each one he could make out shadowy figures jostling for position. They reminded him of royal boxes in a theatre, yet they were devoid of golden garlands made of plaster, no ornate fronds or royal crowns. Occasionally he spotted a door open at the back, slightly illuminating the figures inside. People appeared to be stood in open doorways and on tiptoes to see through into the room.

He'd expected some kind of interview or triage nurse to explain where he was, perhaps even a doctor or consultant. It could be a reality-based illusion caused by the drugs? At one point he thought he might have died after all. Logically, he had to be in one of the local hospitals, there'd been little time to take him elsewhere. But what was with the freak show? His neck muscles burned with the effort to lift his head once more.

There was a hush from the gallery and then an electronic Ping, similar to what one might hear in a foreign airport before an announcement. There followed enthusiastic applause and cheering from another room nearby. 

Before Vic could see anything more, his chin dropped under the strain and he saw his bare knees protruding from a crisp white hospital gown. The muffled applause wasn't coming from another room after all; it was from the glass booths. The sound of cheers and clapping slowly died and there was another long silence. He could hear his own heartbeat before he physically jumped at a loud electronic thump followed by a second ear-piercing feedback. 

A clear male voice spoke; the volume in the room was at a deafening level.

"Good Morning, Mr Nova." The voice echoed around the cavernous space, the man speaking cleared his throat nervously with the mic still open. Vic could only stare down at his knees, waiting for the burning sensation in his neck muscles to subside so he might look up again.

"My signature is Burroughs."

Nova? That name again, who the hell was Nova?

"Entree to Heathen," a slightly less enthusiastic ripple of applause followed. "We are very pleased to have you here with us," he continued. "I understand that you may be a little unsettled and we hope to make things as tranquil as possible for you. Please be assured you are quite cherished and free from danger."