H-1 UMAN-1

Chapter 8

"Well, we're screwed."

That one was from me. First I have to run away from my mother, now I have to run from the cops? Yeah, like hell. I'm not going to jail. It's like those horribly cliched situations we see in our vid-sims, someone getting pulled over, then foolishly deciding that they'll run for their lives instead of complying with the officer's demands. Either that, or they pull a gun out of the glovebox and fire a few rounds through the window. Every day, there's at least three or four officers that leave the mortal toil that way.

But I don't have a gun, and running would probably get me shot, because while I may not have a sidearm on me, just like everyone else in this van, the cop does, and I'm more than willing to bet that if circumstances warrant, he wouldn't hesitate, not even for a picosecond, to pull his pistol out of the holster that hangs at his right side and shoot me as I fled. Of course, that's all hypothetical. Who knows what would actually happen? Not me, that's for sure. But whatever the case may be, I'm afraid, and it looks like I'm not the only one. It's the middle of the night, none of us are anywhere remotely close to calm and relaxed, and we're running for our lives from a madman, and I have the flu.

As if to emphasize a point, I sneeze.

"Atchoo!"

Well, crap. Sneezlets are everywhere again, and I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that was happens next will not be anything good, again. I don't think I much care for this freaky feeling deja vu, I hear it's called?. What can I say? I'm a good guesser? Hmm, no, not so much. But in this one instance, I am. I was thinking that this would be trouble, and what do you know, I'm right for once? Huh. Yeah, while that may sound good to those of you distanced from the fucking mess that this reality is, a shitstorm that's only bound to get worse, I suppose then it's not as bad. Oh, she's finally right! Hooray, good for her, the beat-down, you're-never-good-enough girl is right! Let's celebrate.

Ummm. I'm not quite sure how I'm supposed to respond to that, because I'm talking to myself. But no matter. We have a trooper knocking on our van's driver's side door, and he does not look happy with us. Not. One. Bit. Well, fuck it, we're screwed. The officer starts rapping on the door, and Doctor Anderson rolls down the window. Problem is, this van doesn't have electric windows (How could it not, though? That's what puzzles me- it's nearly the twenty-second century, and Mr. Anderson's van has crank windows?), and I can tell it's annoying the cop, whom I can see is tapping his foot impatiently on the asphalt.

"I'm sorry, Officer," Doctor Anderson says, his cheeks darkening slightly in a blush. I didn't even know that was possible, for guys to blush, I thought it was just a girl thing. I guess not...

"What's the matter with them windows?" he asks, voice gruff and yep, like I thought would be the case, tinged with anger slightly.

"If you'd be so kind, officer, take a look at them yourself, then you'll see, and I hope you'll understand," Doctor Gutierrez says. The officer looks puzzled for a second, but does as Doctor Gutierrez asks, poking his head through the window to see what she's talking about, and as soon as she does, she snatches the heaviest book off of the floor beside her and wails him over the head with it. The officer tips back out of the window, shocked and stunned, then stumbles backwards over his own feet, tumbling to the pavement below out cold.

"Well, mierda," Doctor Gutierrez says. "¿Que he hecho?," she says in Spanish, then in English, "What have I done?"

Doctor Martinez is more than willing to answer that for her, saying, "You knocked a cop out, Doc, that's what you just did. Now, here's where we need to be wise. We can't just leave him here, and we can't just bring him with us, that would cause more shit than it's honestly worth. Let's just drag him off to the side of the road and leave him, mm?"