A Scripta

Bomber had taken to sitting at the docks with his helmet off. He could smell the sea, the rotting fish, the garbage, which didn't bother him much. He could feel the cool breeze off the water, and sometimes the wetness of some spray caused by a distant boat. His ears were peeled for any tell-tale walking or slither of movement: one hand was on his rifle while his helmet was safely tucked between his legs.

He heard someone approach, so he picked up the rifle and held it loosely in his arms. His finger found the trigger. He had worked with this weapon long enough that he automatically placed his hands in the right places.

"Take it easy, Mickey," came a voice to his left, and he shifted the gun so that the barrel pointed in that direction. "Put that down."

"I don't know you. I can't see you. You know what happens when people get scared and they can't see you and they're backed into a corner and someone comes at them and you know what that person in the corner would do to you?"

"I can get an idea."

"Good, because I don't feel like getting shot."

"Mmmmkay." Bomber felt the man come closer, and he pointed the gun up a little higher. "Mickey, I'm here to help you."

"So is that my name? I thought it was Bombardier."

"It was supposed to be, but it didn't quite work out that way."

"Who are you?"

"You don't remember me?"

"Should I?"

The man chuckled. "Good. Very good."

"I hate when people do that, it sounds like something very evil is going to come down the pike. Do you know anything about sea monsters?"

"Actually, I do. I am one."

"Oh. Gonna eat me, then?"

"Actually, I will." Then Bomber felt something on his head, like a vise, something wrapped around his skull and started to crush it.

He didn't have the helmet, so he had no protection, and he felt his skull get tighter, and smaller, and heard the crack of the bones of his skull - he uttered only a small scream before he felt his head break open.

The connection re-esablished as he came out of consciousness. He could see through the darkness of the disposed metal crate, knew he was alone here. Nobody would come into this box, it's a tomb.

Mickey, Mickey, Mickey.

He whirled around, grabbing his gun from the floor of the box, looking all around him.

The levee breaks...where's your microphone?

"Two turntables," he muttered.

Go north to Chicago.

"Swan..."

Hummingbird! We're all free now.

Bomber sat on the floor of the box, continuing his disjointed conversation until the sunlight erupted through the hole in the ceiling of the box, centering on the floor near his hand.

"Goin' to Chicago...goin' down...goin' down now..." He tried to grab at the shaft of light, but it escaped his grasp.