Isolation & Fear (Damned of the 2/19th Book Seven)

Dark and Cold Inside

War Fighter Tunnels
Secure Area
Alfenwehr, Western Germany
06 January, 1988
1800 Hours

I closed the door on the clinic and walked into the egg. I felt exhausted, the whole gritty eyes, dry mouth, sore back, aching joints exhaustion thing going on. I knew I was dragging ass, but at least I'd stopped the labor for right now. Heartly had another 6 weeks to go, and the last thing I needed was another preemie baby in the tunnels.

Chatter and voices were coming out of chow-hall as I walked down the tunnel toward the living areas, and part of me just felt too exhausted to head into the chow hall, but the smell of food made my stomach rumble and my tired brain just steered me into the chow hall section.

Two of the refugees from the FSB were on the serving line, and I ignored their grouchy looks, just slapping a tray down and having them throw the T-Rats on my tray. Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, and some kind of apple cobbler. Silverware, a glass of orange juice, and I managed to get to one of the tables and sit down.

Everything tasted like cardboard, and I chewed and swallowed mechanically, just staring at my tray as I ate. My brain was idling in neutral, and I wasn't really thinking of anything, just staring, my thoughts a dull blur that really had no meaning.

I was trapped in the War Fighter Tunnels. Everyone here relied on me. I was only 19, I'd only completed the Special Weapons Combat Medic Course and the Field Surgery course this spring.

I missed my friends. I missed the chatting and intimacy of Atlas.

Hell, I even missed Stillwater.

God, it was like the explosion at Atlas had sent me to some kind of bizarro land.

I didn't want to be down in these tunnels any longer. I didn't want to be responsible for ten women and their babies, or a dozen rape victims, or two men who the military had found wanting and was now returning to civilian life.

I wanted to be back at Atlas. Stink, fear, pain, danger, blood and all. I just wanted to be out there with my friends, sitting in my CUC-V ambulance with my feet up on the dash, reading porn mags and smoking cigarettes while I waited for someone to almost kill themselves again.

The chaos and insanity out there made sense. There was us, the Russians, and the mission. Everything was clear cut, and everything made sense. Even the random and shocking sudden violence and injuries made sense. They were just part of life.

Here, everything was topsy-turvy. I was one of the youngest people in here, the second highest ranking, but I was in charge of a multi-million dollar underground facility designed to allow several hundred people fight on the nuclear and chemical wasteland of Europe during World War Three.

It wasn't fair.

I was only 19.

the average of the combat soldier was nineteen, nah nah nah nineteen

The chorus of the song yanked me out of my gloomy thoughts and I realized that I'd been staring at my empty tray, holding my fork loosely in one hand.

I felt like the day I'd gotten my sleeve caught on a passing truck's trailer and dragged for almost fifty yards down the pothole covered dirt and gravel road of Atlas.

My muscles felt bruised, my blood felt thick, my thoughts felt sluggish. I ached all over. My joints hurts, my teeth hurt, my...

wait...

I ran over my symptoms again.

Vitamin D deficiency.

Crap, we didn't have natural light, and looking up I saw the middle tube of the each fluorescent light was not active.