POSTHUMAN

Chapter Fifteen

They made for Angelene. A weight appeared in his stomach, his mouth went dry, his palms sweated. He was certain he would not enjoy whatever was about to take place.

        He heard Philip shouting before he saw him, the doctor argued with several men dressed like Morgan (though they wore sunglasses). Philip blocked the entrance to the tent, a steely determination in his tone and apparent in his eyes. "She's a child! Can't you understand what's wrong with what you're doing?" he was vehement and jabbed a finger at a bald agent.

      "Dr Albion, please, be reasonable," the bald agent implored Philip, the doctor gave him a venomous look. The Exodus Corps soldiers had seemed to fall away but now some hovered on the edges of Marcus' vision. Marcus walked to stand level with Morgan so he could assess the man's expressions, annoyance was evidently the overriding feeling. "Are we still arguing with the doctor?" Morgan swept ahead, his hand darted inside his trench coat and then he was upon Philip. He side-stepped the doctor after a buzzing sound was heard, Philip convulsed then dropped to the ground. The doctor been hit with an electroshock weapon. The agents stepped around him; he saw one pull out a syringe. Marcus dragged Philip out of the way of the door and crouched by his friend; moments later the agents exited the tent, the bald agent carried Angelene in his arms. Morgan Stern was at the back of the group, he called out to Marcus: "I'll see you in London before the week is out Colonel Sewell. Nothing's left for you here."

"Zambezi, stand outside for a second would you...no, no, don't try and help me carry him, I've been doing fine up to here, haven't I? Good, now get out," Marcus ordered his adjutant, he was being short but the only friend he had made in years had just been tasered. Zambezi nodded and exited Albion's tent, rolling down the entrance as he went. Marcus lay Philip on the bed and sat on the end of it. He burst into tears, these great, hacking sobs wracked him. Philip made some groggy attempt at speech before sense returned to him. "Marcus? Why are you crying? I'm fine," Philip sat up and regarded the weeping colonel, "What's wrong?"

        "I killed him Phil, I killed the rebel kid, I'm no better than any of these other officers. I might be worse, Phil, I looked him in the eye and shot him," Marcus had never cried like this before, not in front of anyone, he used to though, "Every night for five years I cried myself to sleep Phil, I had lost everything. My world was over; I didn't know what to do!" This time it was Philip who drew Marcus into a hug, it felt strange. Yet there they sat, as Marcus' tears soaked through his shirt, the man's forehead pressed to his chest like Marcus was a child.

        "Don't do this Marcus, don't you dare! I'm the nervous, neurotic wreck! You can't go breaking down, what the fuck will happen to us if neither us can think for grief! Jesus Christ, Marcus, stop –" Philip started up as well. They clutched at each other and wept: indulgent in their misery, exultant in grim reality. Their sobbing changed into bitter laughter, Philip muttered, "Imagine how we sound to Nick? Pair of blouses, hugging and crying and talking about feelings."

        "God, I love this, nothing can fuck with me because I'm already totally fucking screwed!" replied Marcus, he leant back and lay down, his legs dangled off the bed.

        Philip leant back as well, "Nothing left for you here, Marcus."

        "That's right Phil, nothing's left for me."

        Marcus was wrong of course, we are never beyond another sobering smack from reality.