Aerosol Charlie: Aerosol, #1

By A. Michael Sylm

When the brutal Mongolian Wars had ended, a community stowed away on high ground survived. This story finds an ex-Army surgeon named Lieutenant Khenbish, and his furry friend Narangerel living in a city of myth and scientific prowess. A breeder by trade, Khenbish is locked into a form of prison set aside for this abominable profession, one where work is nearly inescapable. Is Hell eternal? Or is it just one more job post to wade?

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. Michael Sylm
• Release date: Apr 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223389675

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Valence is the remnant of an old somewhere, a city lost to history once the Mongols were surrendered to. A cold peace was made between the two of them, in exchange for fresh water and supplies; enough to feed what was 50,000 men, women and children at the time of the treaty.  The population was upwards of 1.5 million now.

The desert surrounding Valence was known for its destitute lengths.  It was regarded as impossible to cross in any direction aside from the west—where the Mongols were in constant watch, their post directly over the only uncovered road.

The ruins provided the shade needed for a layperson to be safe from the blistering heat of the permanent sun and evening.  Old buildings and parking garages, cars and overpasses, were homes to all, where cups of cold water were passed in communities, destined for little more than togetherness.

Concrete slabs and collapsing steel-beamed sky scrapers made up the ruins of rust and cement that lined the streets as monoliths formed from unknown technologies, their placement seeming more an act of God than a feat possibly achieved by man.  Military men here were trained to embrace the darkness offered by the stone bellies of these, restoring their evolutionary needs for darkness in the eyes.  Foraging there often in the tricks of the dark, whereas citizens were not entitled to the knowledge of the belly's relief.

This city was vast and mangled, village and market intertwined.  The people lived with little or no separation, that seemingly made up for the lack of evolutionary purpose in protecting genetic family.  Their trades consisted namely of building trinkets, which the people collected for spiritual purpose.  Powerful talismans covered the shelves of the people and were sometimes nailed directly to the wall.

Ornamental painted hubcaps decorated the elaborately colored common rooms, brushed with careful strokes of bundled twine dipped in turquoise powders and finished with a wash of dense red clay. Pieces of clockwork etched with runes hung from the necks of the largest men, considered worthy of battle, though often never tested, only spoke rote memorization of the stories of the war long over. 

Assorted technologies, from bare copper threads to telephone wires, were woven to make baskets that the women would toil at for months at a time, managing fine patterns and intricate bead work as they too shared the burden of a war torn world.

Materials were gathered for the relics from isolated and distant places, later sanctified by priests and ritualistically painted or confounded by clay to be mixed with sands from even greater journeys. To own more of these precious items was to be prestigious.

The heart of the city was piled on top of itself. A heap of mangled aluminum and rusty iron covered the only source of fresh water.  The heap provided spiritual protection, and shielded the source from thieves that would otherwise raid the area in desperation.

The sheet metal covering of the water source was decorated in the blood of lizards which were pounded into clay and painted onto the sides in the shapes of a calligraphy; a calligraphy that had remained as long as the history of Valence were aloud to recall.

The water was kept in holding tanks underneath the pile, and rationed  daily to the people where it was then made into a very weak beer for safe drinking and placed in large pots to boil beans. Women came daily to fill their buckets until the military shut down the well, leaving many empty handed at the close of the first sun.

The roads were of dust and asphalt holes that never ended. Some would take the risk of migrating without extra fuel, going any of 10,000 directions with no aim, never returning in word or person. The lands were desolate and unforgiving, only offering a promise of solitude outside the concentration that flocked to the military hand outs.

Aside from some illusive tribes, the desert was occupied by the Mongolian Army. They had been there since the War of 2190, a war that still raged in the minds of the people of Valence. With their backs pinned to the plateau, the last of the battles left thousands dead before evacuation efforts could take place, bringing the people to safety at the top and to the center of the city.  The peace was more of a cease fire that the Mongolians agreed to; not to overtake the plateau and respect the restricted airspace of the city was about all it amounted to.  So much as a peak over the ledge of the plateau would ring out shots.

How their Army survives in the open desert became a mystery to the citizens. The unforgiving nature of the area requires massive shipments of water and food, and the simple task of maintaining their phasers seems a hopeless effort with the amount of fine dust and sand that blows constantly, a sand that traps the chambers of their weapons and distorts the accuracy of their shots.

The city went largely unnoticed to Lieutenant Khenbish, his daily jollies seethed by driving and pulling in nostrils full of the diesel exhausts from traffic in front of him. Stained yellow, his teeth became blue and gray at the base of the gums, his face faulted with purple venules and purple-red scars that gave the appearance his face were shattered. A large jot indented his ash-red and furrowed face across his brow line.

Lieutenant Khenbish was part of the final war efforts in 2190, an outstanding member of a forward surgical unit that was dug into the side of a dune. When the forces became overwhelmed, even the noncombatants were in serious danger. His fate seemed sealed as the Mongolians rushed the hidden encampment.

If he were drunk enough to recall, a grenade of Sarin Gas was tossed into the common area of the hospital, where, luckily, no one remained. The explosion and puff of the fruity-gum scented neurotoxin dissipated quickly into the vents. The company was already donned in Neuro-Biological masks due to a storm of suspicious red dust that had plumed over the area and hung for several days. Khenbish was performing surgery in thick black gloves that the desert air had filled with pools of his sweat at the fingertips.

A patient lay open on a gurney, badly fried at the lower right lung, where a hole was present down to the lining of the sac.  That hole had filled with air at this point, expanding between the outside and the inside of the lung, badly compressing the organ, and making it impossible to breath.  Pink foam was exuding from the patients lips, and her neck was distended to the left side further compressing airflow.  Khenbish was inserting a catheter into the top of the lung when suddenly the explosion ripped through the hallway.

We're being hit! screamed one of his Soldiers, the Lieutenant looking up abruptly, interrupting the surgery.

Status of the patient? asked Khenbish to the orderly next to him.  She seemed to freeze at the news of peril.

STATUS of the PATIENT! he repeated.

Blood pressure is 90/30, pulse thread-like, She shook a little losing her train of thought. She's lost a lot of blood and we can't carry her open like this...

Khenbish nodded. He tore the family name off of the woman's shirt. Get out of here! That's an order! He crouched as he ran for the front hatch, well concealed near the wall, an effective barrier to the frequent chemical attacks. The powdered bleach on the floor still smelled acrid even with the mask on.

Khenbish pulled his phaser. The trigger made little sense to him in his thick gloves and the phaser nearly went off by him placing his sweaty pooled fingertip close to it. He shut down the safety and charged the weapon. The sound of chaos ripped from out in the hallway. He crouched down and peered around a gurney closer to the entryway of the operating room.

He didn't have a chance. His peripheral, vision being obstructed by the mask, gave him little time to squeeze off a shot at an enemy that was flailing and ballistic with an apparent madness. His stray shot ended at a light on the ceiling, as he caught a shot in the side of his head.  He was left with a sudden white flash, and a movie-like viewing of the the dust of his yesterdays.

The head shot melted half of his mask to his head, cooking part of his hippocampus deep within his brain, leaving him with a peculiar wound. He was nearly incapable of discerning the difference between past and present, his thoughts about present happenings would seem like memories.

A fence separated the weed overrun parking lot from the red door where he knocked. The door hung loosely by the bottom hinge so that it had to be slightly kicked open initially, and then held upright in order to be propped at the outside of the wall.

Khenbish was recognized immediately by an aged Oracle that appeared crippled from a crooked spine, her left side taller than the opposing. Her sagging right hand thumped the knob at the sight of him.

The door had opened an obscure memory of his:

No one wants to feel that way, said Batzorig calmly, standing over Khenbish, the man's voice shrill to the ears of his throbbing head as he lay across a bench in a dark room.

What did you give me? asked Khenbish, clutching his abdomen, now laying in a guarded position, bent at the belly.

Batzorig consoled him like a doctor of illegal remedies, squatting to his level and looking him over like a wounded insect that he was ready to snuff out.  You'll be fine, just breath and enjoy the ride, he said.

Batzorig was part of reconnaissance unit of the Valence People's Militia. The location of the Forward Surgical Unit was no secret to anyone fighting for Valence. Fallen and wounded Soldiers were constantly evacuated from the area in the cover of evening. Batzorig happened to be the medic that discovered Lieutenant Khenbish laying on the surgical room floor.

Batzorig looked him over for bloody clothing indicative of a flesh wound. He had seen that he was breathing normally but confused. He injected morphine into the medial-lateral left thigh of Khenbish and threw him over his shoulder. Khenbish was mumbling when he was placed on the helicopter that chopped the air in place with rhythmic pounds and thuds.

The angels Soldier, the angels, Khenbish told him with an urgency that caused him to sit up even with the restraints tied tight that held him to the gurney. He was then evacuated, the thumps of the helicopter now more aggressive and seeming to thieve the bumps of the ticker in his chest.

Patient confused, respiration normal at 15, blood pressure good points at 140 over 90. Possible head injury... looks to have phaser burn across the side of the head, Batzorig voiced in over the radio to a doctor stationed on the plateau in the heart of Valence.

You don't understand, Khenbish grabbed Batzorig and pulled him closer. They are with me, he said.  What did you give me? He repeated, though the repetition was uncertain in reality.

An echo filled the cold shuttering air around the gas bar parking lot. Fiends and shadows were siphoning gas in the corner whispering under the moving speakers, air valves pressed tight and connected to yellow pressurized vats, Khenbish lay curled into a ball overwhelmed by confusion.

Hi Mother, Khenbish said to the Oracle at the door. I have a confession to make. He walked through her door, a door that always welcomed strangers, though rarely used as the old God was hardly known to the Military.

CHAPTER 2

Driving the city streets would help Khenbish play out long evenings without event. He'd move through the dimness of traffic with the assistance and clarity of cheap alcohol. With an orange malt liquor dumped into a juice bottle like a mobile bar, his movements blurred the street signs, the traces of light causing him to nearly scrape his tank into the sound walls. He followed the roads like a lost sense of honesty, the type of demeaning