When Spirits Beckon

When Spirits Beckon, Part 2, Chapter 13

3 February, 2.33pm

"... what Barry did and get the hell out of here. Whooooff!"

The fall on his rump completely stupefied Fred Adivet, for he hadn't expected to lose his balance when he did. The simple act of getting up from his chair had taken a surprise turn simply because, as he was standing up, the seat he had been pushing back with the back of his calves was no longer there.

This isn't funny anymore, he wanted to shout at the general but the shock of the unexpected fall had frozen his vocal cords and all he could do just right then was simply gasp out a croak.

Almost immediately, Fred saw the futility of voicing out his frustration. Because the general wasn't there! Not anymore. Neither was Dr. Shawna Preston.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing?"

Instant dismay filled Fred when he heard this admonishment; unable to understand how there could still be a witness to his humiliation. Further, the stranger who had just barked at him was evidently not amused. It was then that he also realized that he was no longer in the sterile room at that hidden military base. He was instead in a lavatory somewhere. Looking up from the cold floor at a stranger with water dripping from his hands and wet patches appearing on his shirt and tie.

"Why did you just shout at me? And what are you doing here?"

Fred's confusion became complete at these questions, because they were the same ones running through his mind as well. What was he doing here in a restroom, of all places?

"And who in bloody hell are you?"

"Adivet. Fred Adivet," he answered in automatic reflex. This simple act of saying his name out loud helped rein in some of his confusion. And, it was also at that very moment that he was finally able to place the voice of the man still standing and glaring down at him. "Are you Barry Stevens?"

"Yes," came the reply. Seeing the confusion painted on Fred's face, the fury in Barry immediately softened. "Are you alright? That fall must have hurt pretty bad."

"I've felt better." And stopped himself before adding that he was in no actual pain. Again, there was that sensation of being in the clouds, like he was sitting on the softest pillow ever.

Looking at Fred's mystified frown, Barry quickly deduced that the rest of his questions could wait for a moment. He offered his hand out instead. "Let me help you stand up."

"Oh thanks." Fred took the proffered hand and stood up. "Sorry for dropping on you like this."

"No problem. You didn't have to shout at me though."

"I'm sorry. I thought I was talking to someone else." The surreal nature of this bland conversation finally got to Fred. "Am I dreaming all this?" he thought out loud.

"I don't think so. People popping out of thin air. Being shouted at in the men's room. Wetting my only change of clothes in midwinter. Sounds like another typical day in a journalist's life."

Fred stared, trying to decide if Barry was simply humoring him.

"It's true. As a journalist, you never know what's going to happen to you next. Of course, it is not this weird every day, but you know what I mean."

Still not convinced, Fred reached to touch the sink and his hands came away dripping wet. "If I'm dreaming, this is quite convincing."

"I'm surprised you haven't pinched yourself yet."

This comment didn't need a reply, so Fred didn't. He looked around, trying to decide what to do next.

"Do you need to use the loo, by any chance?"