Zach Hughes: Pressure Man

“Yeah, just take it easy,” the voice said.

He heard a clank, a loud hiss. He froze. Gas was now escaping rapidly from the tank at the rear. And there were more sounds. He froze, not believing it. A small pop. The workman had just activated a self-igniting cutting torch.

“Turn that thing off, you dumb bastard,” he screamed. “The gas is leaking.”

“Yeah,” the workman said.

The blue-clad legs moved. He saw the flame at the tip of the cutting torch and knew what was going to happen. He braced the back of his neck against the caved-in roof of the auto and pushed, momentarily panicked. He heard the methane ignite, whooshing into flame. He felt the heat immediately, and the rank odor of combustion was in his nostrils. Like millions, billions before him, he was thinking, “No, not me. Not now. Not yet.”

Burning paint filled the crushed cab with smoke. The heat was a blast furnace. Evil black tendrils of heavy smoke snaked up into the small area in which he was trapped. A sheet of flame sprang up outside the slit of the window, cutting off his view of the world.

His mind was surprisingly clear. In a few seconds the entire tank of gas would go. At least it would be quick, one massive blow as the explosion fireballed up. At least it would be quick.

J.J. Barnes was no angel. He never had been and, unless he did a lot of changing, he never would be. Precise, calm, methodical, overbearing, yes. Angelic, no. Tall, graying at the temples, eyes cold gray behind functional rimless glasses, he towered over the world, his face just as remembered, smooth-shaven, masculine, almost handsome. But he was not an angel.

All this was evident in a slow swim upward into awareness. The world was J.J.’s face, and it was a burning world, and there was a stench of burning garbage gas.

His feet hurt. He lifted his head and looked down his body. His feet were bandaged.

“It isn’t too bad,” J.J. said. “It’s painful, I know, but the damage is minor. That sore spot you feel on your ass is the only place they had to take skin for grafting.”

He turned his head and saw a hospital table with water pitcher, pill tray, glass, and a small vase of roses.

“Are you with me, Flash?” J.J. asked.

The use of his old nickname helped him bring his eyes into full focus. “I think so,” he said.

“That bastard had passed a double screening,” J.J. said. “Are you ready to hear about it, or do you want to let your head clear a bit more?”

“Water,” he said.

“Sure.” J.J. poured and he took the glass, almost letting it slide through his fingers.

“Thanks,” he said. He felt a twinge of soreness on his left buttock. The world tilted a little, then stabilized. He drank, and J.J. took the glass. “OK,” he said.

“Flash, we can’t keep all of them out. No matter how we try we can’t screen all of them out. There are too many of them. They’ve been infiltrating too long, and some of them are damned smart.”

“Why me?” he asked.

“Probably because you had a DOSE decal on your auto,” J.J. said. “Working for DOSE is reason enough.”

He was looking at his feet. They were bandaged from the calves downward. He wiggled a toe and it moved and there was only a small pain. He could feel the motion, but he couldn’t see it through the bandages.

“They’ve got the pain senders blocked off,” J.J. said.

“Yeah. I’ve been burned before.”

“They’re not as bad as you might think. One spot on the right instep had to have a graft. With these new methods you’ll be on your feet in no time.”

“I know about burns,” he said. “What I don’t know is why the administrator of DOSEWEX is taking time to hold my hand personally. And I don’t quite buy your reasoning why some yoyo tried to kill me. I can’t quite see it as an accidental selection, based on my being in a DOSE vehicle. And while I’m wondering, I wonder why said administrator of DOSEWEX pulled me away from my first ground leave in two years to come out into the desert to be almost burned to death.”

J.J. chuckled.

“Dammit, J.J.,” he said. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“My old ball-carrying buddy,” J.J. said, shaking his head with an uncharacteristic expression of kindliness on his face. “Just take it easy. Eat, drink, and rest. You’ll be walking in a couple of days.”

He turned his head to try to see the sore spot on his rump. It, too, was bandaged. “When you went back to pass, I should have let those cadets cream you,” he said.

“If you had, who would have spread your fame as the man who pulled the Army game out of the fire, excuse the reference, in oh-6? Now you take a nap like a good little aging running back and I’ll see you in two days.”

“J.J., you didn’t send for me just to pay me compliments,” Dom said. “What’s going on?”

J.J. put his hands behind his ears and looked around the room. Dom got the message. The hospital room had not been swept. The walls could have ears.

“There’ll be a couple of base investigators in here shortly,” J.J. said. “Just tell them the truth about what happened. Tell them you were coming to DOSEWEX on the invitation of your old friend, the administrator, to talk over old times and have a drink or two. Tell them you have no idea why you were singled out as a target for terrorists.”

“Just the truth,” Dom said.

“When you’re up and around I’m sure you’ll enjoy our friendly little visit.”

Dom sighed wearily. “I was invited by my old classmate, who kissed ass and got promotions. I have no idea why I was attacked. That last, at least, is the truth.”

J.J.’s look was serious. “Just cool it, Dom.”

Two uniformed security men stood beside his bed and asked the same questions repeatedly, getting the same answers repeatedly. Just the facts. Dominic Gordon, Fleet Engineer, DOSE Spacearm, arrived from Mars five days past for ground leave in the Los Angeles conclave. Dominic Gordon was to visit DOSEWEX upon the invitation of J.J. Barnes, administrator of that facility. Dominic Gordon had no information regarding possible reasons for his being attacked. He gave a minute and detailed account of the events beginning with his overtaking the convoy of construction vehicles. He did not see his assailant’s face, only his legs and hands.

Any friend of J.J. Barnes was treated with great politeness. A friend of the administrator’s could even ask questions. No, they had not been able to question the assailant. A passing patrol had seen him deliberately ignite the fuel, and to simplify matters, they zapped the fellow, putting seven slugs into his chest in one-tenth of a second, covering him and the burning vehicle with fire foam split seconds later.

“Your main problem,” a nurse told Dom later, after a nap, “is that you inhaled some of the fumes from the foam. You’ll have sore lungs for a couple of days.”

The nurse was a buxom, motherly, gray-haired lady with infinitely tender hands. He fell in love with her and, on the morning of the third day, walking rather well considering his bandages, he kissed her on the cheek and promised to bring her a carbocrystal next trip back from Mars.

Outside of his room he was met by one of the policemen who had questioned him. They walked down a long corridor in silence, boarded an elevator, exited the elevator. The security man guiding Dom boarded a tube car, and zipped at back-snapping speed to an unknown destination underground where Dom was left to wait in J.J.’s outer office. He passed the time by looking at the left profile of the receptionist. It was a very nice profile and he was in the midst of some interesting speculation when she rose, smiled, and told him that Mr. Barnes would see him now.