Argent Glass

Chapter 20 - Recoup - Pierce

"No, I'm not going to take it easy. I need to get back out there." The soldier sat on a hospital gurney holding an ice pack to his head. His shirt and guns lay on the bed beside him.

"Pierce, please hold still." The nurse peeled back the tape from his arm and examined his wound. "This is definitely going to need stitches."

"I already told you that," Pierce growled.

She put several sterile bandages into a saline solution to soak while she prodded lightly around the wound. The wound sealant had done its job and it would not come off easily.

"Can we speed this up a little?" Pierce snapped. "I need to get back out there and do my job. Which, I might add, would have been a damn sight easier if I had been alerted last night when the alarms went off instead of eight hours later. I can't even believe Michael said he thought it was another turtle."

"Mmhmm," she murmured as she placed the bandages over the wound. She wasn't listening. Or she was ignoring him. "This needs to soak a minute. Let me take a look at your head."

He leaned his head down so she could examine the blue lump on his scalp.

"Nice lump."

She turned and typed into a computer, then walked the door. "I'll be right back. Dr. Galen will do the sutures and you'll need antibiotics. Sit tight."

"Mmhmm," he angrily mimicked at the closed door. The bandages fell off when he stood up to pace the room. He slapped them back on and held them in place.

There were no posters on the walls, no canisters of cotton swabs on the counter, just a bed with a sheet and pillow, a cabinet, a sink, and a garbage can. The room was rarely used, and there was little need to keep it stocked with supplies or make it more welcoming. Not that he wasn't perfectly fine with the spartan surroundings. He kept his apartment the same way.

Living simply was something he took pride in. America was filled with unnecessary excess and, until finding his current position in security at the dome, he often felt disgusted in the gaudy clothes, bright lights, and flashing neon that filled the cities. His dome apartment, like the clinic, held only the items necessary to live: a couch to sit on, an end table to kick up his feet, a bed, and a closet filled with fatigues. And a locking cabinet. Or armory, considering the number of knives and guns it held. Tools of the trade.

Pierce took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

He sat on the only chair in the room. He understood it was an honor, though he felt none of that while an older woman hovered in the corner of the room rubbing her aching back. Her small grandson, Alam, sat peering out from behind her skirts, his bright inquisitive eyes barely visible in the dim light coming through the glassless window.

When he first arrived in the small village, Pierce had been appalled at the lack of necessities, including books and toys for the few children who roamed the village chasing dogs or having mock gunfights. One day, Alam had a broken gun he had found somewhere. It was a stock and grip but had no barrel, and he had tied a dirty rope to it so he could carry it around on his shoulder.

Pierce sat in the grandmother's chair waiting for Ibrahim's return. As he sat waiting, his die-cast Mustang found its way into his hand to roll back and forth up his thigh. He looked around and noted Alam's gun was missing in action.

"You lost your gun?" he asked him. An older boy in the village had probably claimed it. Instead, the boy relayed that his grandmother had taken it away from him saying it was not a good toy for a boy. His bright eyes never left the cherry red die-cast wearing a path in Pierce's fatigues.