M McDonald - March Into Hell

Taking a closer look, he wondered what would make all these people come out to see him. Every age and race seemed to be represented. He did a double take when he saw more than one wheelchair in the throng. His eyes roamed the sea of people, picking out a small child perched on sturdy shoulders, a young couple holding hands, and a woman with a dog on a leash.

Mark squinted. Was that the same dog he saw from his window a few days ago? It could be. He smiled. The dog tangled the leash around the woman’s legs and then wandered over to a man nearby. The man wore black sweatshirt and held a large poster board. His attire sent a shiver through Mark, and he glanced at the sign and staggered backwards, almost tripping in his haste.

The sign depicted a human figure on a cross. The figure’s coloring matched Mark’s. Even from here, he could make out red streaks on the hands and feet. The water bottle fell from his fingers. His vision narrowed and he heard a dull roar in his ears.

“Mark!”

Voices swirled around him and an arm went around his waist and several hands pushed down on his right shoulder.

“Sit down, Mark. There’s a chair right behind you.”

Mark complied and blinked a few times as his vision cleared. He looked around to find himself the center of a small group made up of the nurses, his doctor, Jim and Jessie. Everyone focused on him and he squirmed, not comfortable being the center of attention. Looking down, he realized he was sitting in a wheelchair. Embarrassment seized him and he dropped his gaze and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and fingers. Dr. Jenkins knelt in front of the chair, looking up into Mark’s face, his expression full of concern.

“What happened, Mark?”

Mark shook his head and let his hand fall to the armrest. “I…I don’t know. I was just looking at all…all the people and I saw a guy with a sign. I guess I got light-headed for a second.” A nurse slid in beside the chair and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Mark’s arm.

“Light-headed? You almost went out on us,” Jim said. “What sign are you talking about?”

Mark didn’t want to look at it again and his arm was immobilized while the cuff squeezed it, so he just inclined his head towards the crowd in general. “Just a stupid sign. It’s nothing.” He evaded Jim’s steady look and instead watched the needle on the cuff bounce its way down.

Jessie rested her hand lightly on his bad shoulder. “Mark, can you give us a description?”

Mark found her regarding him with an expression he couldn’t read. He didn’t think it was pity, but it was close. “A guy in a black sweatshirt over towards the north end.”

The nurse removed the cuff. “BP is 86 over 48. Pulse is 112, Dr. Jenkins.”

Dr. Jenkins stood and sighed. “Well, the numbers are a little out of the normal range but not too bad. What do you want to do, Mark? You don’t have to do-”

“I see it,” Jim broke in. “Bastard.” He raised his radio to his mouth and hurried away, motioning at some other officers to follow him as he left.

Everyone but Mark turned to look at the sign. He didn’t need to.

“Mark, I’ll just go out there and tell them that you aren’t up to this right now, okay?” Dr. Jenkins turned towards the front doors.

Mark almost let him go, but then the anger that had been simmering for days boiled over. He was tired of being the victim. Tired of being the object of pity. “Wait, Doc.”

The doctor went first and gave a rundown of Mark’s medical status. They had discussed it when he agreed to the conference. Dr. Jenkins explained that it might make it easier if Mark didn’t have to answer too many medical questions, and Mark was only too glad to agree.

A nurse handed Mark another bottle of water, and he downed several gulps, but his mouth still felt parched. He nudged the footrests out of the way and stood, waving off the hands extended in offers of help. “Thanks, but I can do it.”

The podium looked a mile away, and he felt the weight of hundreds of eyes hanging on his every move. He fumbled with the microphone, trying to adjust it to his height. As he raised his eyes to the crowd, dozens of cameras flashed, and he squinted against the dots in his vision. Was he shaking as badly on the outside as he was on the inside?

He took a deep breath. “Uh…good morning. My name’s Mark Taylor and-”

The crowd erupted in laughter and Mark had to smile. “Yeah, I guess you guys know that already.” He cleared his throat and continued, “I can answer a few questions if anyone has any.” Even though he knew it was beyond unlikely, there was just the tiniest flicker of hope that nobody would ask anything.

Reporters began shouting and Mark shook his head in confusion. He wasn’t able to understand any of them. He spotted George Ortega near the front and felt a little better. He pointed at him. “Hey, George. Do you have a question?”

The reporters quieted expectantly.

George grinned and shot a triumphant look at the woman beside him. His face sobered before he said, “Hey, Taylor. How are you doin’?”

Well, that was an easy enough question. “Pretty good and every day is better than the one before, so I’m…I’m doing okay. Thanks for asking.” He didn't know if that was George's only question, but his friend just smiled, so maybe this was going to be easier than he thought.

Mark took another swallow of water, and before the questions could be shouted at him, he pointed at the woman beside George.

“Thank you for taking my question. Can you tell us what was going through your mind when you were taken from your home?”

“Nothing specific. I was just trying my hardest to get away.”

After that, more questions were shouted and Mark did his best to understand them. “I had no idea what was happening at first.”

“No, I’ve never had a relationship with Judy Medea.” He shook his head wondering how that rumor ever took hold.

“Lily Martin had nothing to do with Medea and the missing keys. I’m sorry. I can’t discuss that aspect of the case.”

The questions were coming fast and furious, and he tried to answer as many as he could. “I guess I’ve just been lucky that I’ve been in the right place at the right time to help a few people.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been advised not to answer that due to the continuing investigation.” Mark was glad that Jim had given him a few good comments to say in reply to questions he either couldn’t answer or didn’t want to answer.

“Hell yeah, it hurt. A lot.” Mark glared at the reporter. “What do you think?” Idiot.

“I’ve never claimed to be anything except a co-owner of a photography studio. All that other stuff, that’s crap you guys said, not me.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jim move up on his left, just a little behind him as a reporter asked Mark if he was the second coming.

“No, dammit! I’m not the savior. I have no divine powers, and I am not the Son of God. I’m the son of Gene Taylor!” Mark ran his hand through his hair and ignored the rest of the shouted questions.

Looking down, he circled his finger in a wet spot on the podium left by the water bottle and tried to find a way to make them leave him in peace. Finally, he looked up. His eyes roved the crowd, lingering on some, willing them to understand. Needing them to understand- praying that they would. “I just want to go home and live my life.”

“Come on, Taylor.”

Jim put a hand on Mark’s back and guided him from the podium, making it easier for Mark to ignore the questions that were still being flung at him. He limped through the main entrance, dropped into the wheelchair, and propped his head on his hand. The chair began rolling, but Mark didn’t bother to look where he was going; he just watched the white and gray flecked tiles slide beneath him. Vaguely, he heard Jim walking somewhere behind him, the rapid clip of his shoes matched by the squeak of the nurse’s as she pushed the chair. On his other side came Jessie's quick familiar step.