This story may be archived by the Cascade Library.

This is just a little ficlet I wrote up a few months ago to get an image out of my head and to satisfy the SentinelAngst dues requirement. I'm not altogether happy with it, but don't have it in me to make it any better. If you'd like to take a stab at it, go for it.

Out of the Darkness

by Helen W.

It was a dark, blustery, moonless night.

Of the ten men and women ostensibly on sentry duty on the Rt. 8 bridge over Fleuve Cascade, nine huddled in the guard shacks behind the barricade, playing cards by candlelight. Only one stood on the lookout platform, watching and listening.

Cascade's watchdog.

Not that Jim Ellison could isolate much on a night like tonight, between the wind carrying in the sounds of the city behind him and the constant, muffled chatter of the other guards several yards away. Only two years before, he could have listened in on a conversation in a crowd 200 yards away - piggybacking hearing on sight, Blair had called it. Then, he had been a protector, not just a watcher. Blair had called him a Sentinel.

Damn, he was doing it again. Letting his mind go where it shouldn't.

Conversation in one of the shacks had gone low, private. To rumors of the Oregon - the Free State of Oregon, they were calling it. A dangerous turn of phrase. The criminal gangs who ruled Cascade justified their actions - and even got support from many, many people who should know better - by saying that, in these times, their way was the only way. But some said it was different in Oregon, that the petty tyrants who had seized power in the wake of The Collapse had been overthrown.

So many in Cascade also chaffed at gang rule, even other members of the Cascade Guard. All they needed was a leader and some hope. If he'd been the man he was before... maybe he could have done something. If not him, then Simon, with Jim's support. But Simon was in prison, a hostage to his good behavior, and he - he could almost measure his decline, his loss of strength, the waning of his senses.

But, for a while longer, he could do this - help guard Cascade against threats from outside, if not from within. Armed bands. Hungry refugees fleeing toward Canada, heedless of the closed border that awaited them.

That he was also helping isolate Cascade from news of the rest of the world was a constant, nagging shame.

Still, he stood watch all night, every night, at what had long been Cascade's most busy point of entry. It kept Simon alive. Kept him alive, too.

Somewhere, a baby was crying. Poor thing. He tuned her out. Another gust carried - was that a radio? Must be a hand-cranked short-wave - it was the BBC's international broadcast. Someone was taking a terrible risk. "This is Owen Bennett Jones..." and then it was gone. Then...

Between one breath and the next, he was running, sprinting, working atrophied muscles to their limit.

- - - - - - - -

"Yowch!"

Blair Sandburg hopped twice, then sank to the still-warm asphalt and pulled his left foot up to his face. Something - glass, almost certainly - had torn a bloody gash in the arch.

Just freakin' wonderful.

Well, he was no more than a half-mile from Fleuve Cascade; not too far to limp. There would probably be some sort of post there, if the stories about Cascade were true.

Or maybe he wouldn't have to walk all the way to the bridge - someone was coming. Fast. He rose, ready to fight if need be, hoping that flight wouldn't be the better option because that didn't seem like a really good idea at the moment.

It was...

Before he could even make out the man's features, Jim Ellison had barreled into him, grabbed him around the shoulders, and was now squeezing the breath out of him while he fought to maintain his balance without putting more than a fraction of his weight on his hurt foot.

Well, leaning into Jim would take care of that, come to think. He managed to free his arms enough to raise them and squeeze back. Jim was gasping for breath, back heaving.

"Ugh, Jim..."

Jim loosened his grip and pulled back, taking hold of Blair's shoulders. "I thought you were dead. I was sure of it."

"No, just, uh, busy," said Blair, wishing he could see Jim's face more clearly. "How ya been?"

Jim barked out a laugh. "Terrible." He looked down. "You aren't wearing shoes!"

"Uh, yeah," said Blair. "Some thugs jumped me, stole them and my bike, out near Riverdale. Slowed me down a touch."

"You're - you're hurt."

"Just now. Stepped on some glass. I bet I'm still bleeding" - which Jim should have been able to smell! - "Mind if I...?"

Jim released him and Blair eased himself down again to take another look at his foot. Jim crouched beside him.

"This wasn't how this was supposed to go down," Blair said. "I was supposed to kinda saunter into the station, perch on your desk and see how long it would take you to notice me."

"Saunter?"

"Yeah. Real casual."

"Well, that would be a trick - the station's disbanded."

"Moving toward community policing, eh?"

Jim grunted. Blair ran his thumb across his wound; yeah, he was still bleeding, but not badly. "Don't suppose you've got a bandage or a tissue or hanky or something?"

"Sorry, chief."

Blair flashed a smile at the appellation, then frowned. "Hey, you're ALWAYS prepared!"

"Not anymore." With a groan, Jim shifted to sit next to Blair.

"Why couldn't you smell my blood just now?" Blair asked.

Jim was silent for a long moment. "I don't smell things anymore."

"You mean, your sense of smell isn't enhanced anymore?"

"No, I mean I turned it off!" Jim snapped.

"Wow, man."

"And taste."

"Why?"

Jim sighed. "Something had to go."

Yeah, right. "How's your hearing and vision?"

"Okay. Serviceable."

"And... touch?"

"Tried to turn it off too."

"That doesn't sound like a good idea."

"It wasn't."

"So...?"

"So now everything hurts like hell."

"Sorry, Jim. I'm sorry I wasn't here."

Jim was looking away from him now. "There's nothing you could have done."

Blair doubted Jim believed that; he sure the hell didn't. "What hurts the most?"

Jim just snorted. Blair took Jim's right hand between his palms.

"Does your hand hurt?"

"No. It's fine."

Blair rubbed it. "Feel this?"

"Of course."

"Now, concentrate on this and try to picture all your nerve synapses looking this-a-way..."

"It's not going to work," said Jim. "The pain's not in my head."

"Sure it'll work," Blair replied. "We got you control of your senses before, we can do it again."

Jim drew his hand back. "We can't do this. I can't - I'd better not start relying on you."

"I'm not leaving, man. Just got here."

"You don't understand. The city's closed. And it's not safe to be my friend. Just ask Simon."

"Huh?"

"He fought them. We both did. And... they figured out that I was more use to them dead than alive, and that I'm pretty cheap. If they get their hands on you... they'd own me completely."

"Wow. That's crazy." Blair shook his head. Sure, he'd heard plenty about Cascade - how, with limited local agriculture, food had run out early, and so people either ate fish or starved. And how fishing in the Sound was controlled by the same organized crime gangs he'd been helping Jim fight for years. But he couldn't believe Jim hadn't figured out some way around the system.

"I'm sorry," Jim muttered. "It just - everything hurts."

Blair leaned into Jim. "Aw... but, you know, things don't have to be like this. Is there a good way into the city?"

Jim nodded. "Nobody's really paying attention, not anymore. Not if you don't make a racket. Come up to the bridge with me, and you can cross using the crawlway underneath. If you go south from there, nobody will see you, and we can hook up after I get off duty."

"Great."

"If one of the guys does sees you, we'll just say I knew you from before... as long as they don't think we're too close, that should be enough to get you across and buy you time to go low. The guys are really okay, most of them."

"Works for me." And pretty much matched the way Blair'd planned on entering the city in the first place, if he'd found someone he knew at the border.

"But then... Blair, you really should just leave. Cascade isn't safe for anyone. Unless you join the Guard, there's nothing for you to do here."

Blair laughed. "The whole nation isn't like this. I mean, things were bad for a while, but, you know, it didn't take much."

"What didn't take much?"

"Where do you think I've been, man? You're talking to Captain Blair."

Jim pulled back a little.

"Of the Free Oregon force. I got over my gun thing."

"You're kidding."

Blair smiled. "Nope. Let me tell you about the battle for Portland..."

* * * * * THE END (unless you feel like writing more) * * * * *

All feedback welcomed, negative particularly! helenw@murphnet.org.

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