Mission of Mercy - Chapter 1 The Leaving

Mission of Mercy is a story about an old man who is taken across the country to see his dying son for the last time. The journey is difficult and filled with guilt, desperation, and anxiety. The old man is in poor health due to years of smoking, requiring constant oxygen. The crew, consisting of a driver and copilot, must face the challenges of the trip, including driving through Texas, which they fear. The old man is a burden, but the crew is determined to fulfill his wish. However, they realize they forgot the spare batteries for his oxygen machine and are forced to turn back. They return home, exhausted and frustrated, but the captain remembers a sedative prescribed by the doctor and uses it to help the old man rest. This is Mission of Mercy, written in an attempt to try and change my writing style and do it in a way that captured things that were difficult, highly difficult to write. First time I'd ever really tried to address death in any of the writings that I had. What I'll be reading now is Chapter 1. It's called Mission of Mercy, Chapter 1, The Leaving. They took an old man across the country to see his dying son for a final time. It was a mission of mercy, hurriedly conceived of guilt, desperation, and crushing anxiety. Tinctured with an unholy fear they would lose the race against time. The great western expansion done in reverse with no oxen or wagon, just a tiny and overburdened Honda CRV. It was an expedition no thinking human should ever be forced to make. A trip even the most dark and sinister creature would fear and reject. Even an ancient hero such as Perseus might shrink in the face of such a distasteful task, but that was not their fate. Tickets had been punched and the destination selected they could not alter course. They would need to cut the head of the Hydra and stare deeply into the abyss before their journey was through, for no one should be present at the birth and death of any living soul. The sun's crash had come suddenly, like a blast of Santa Ana wind, fierce and fatal. It was against all odds. The fates could not foresee something so obscure, awful and final. The end was certain. Cancer had won. There was no gap, no sliver of light to squeeze through, no happy Hollywood miracle. The most vibrant and vital man would be taken early with a force so brutal that Torquemada himself would find it excessive. But into this whirlwind they were committed to go. A crew had been recruited to assist in the effort. It was a small crew, just a driver and copilot. Pitiless fools whose devotion to the old man made participation mandatory. Flying would have been the better option, but it was not possible. Too weak, too frail. He required oxygen constantly, fed to him via a hose firmly attached to a machine, pumping out the only thing keeping him alive. It was not how he envisioned his end. His life had been spent in active pursuits, but decades of inhaling tar and nicotine led to a decline in health that was irreversible. The Marlboro man he cherished turned on him like a vicious dog and ravaged his lungs. This meant that the crew needed to prepare for an exceptionally long voyage and quarters would be tight. For one, the oxygen machine needed a fair bit of room. It would share the backseat with its remora, the old man. He could and would not ever be far from it. The crew may not have packed his clothes, their clothes, water, food, but that device was paramount. That it plugged into the cigarette lighter was an ironic and bizarre twist not lost on them. At the height of his power, the old man would blow the acrid blue filth he loved more than life itself at every object within range. Like a dragon belching fire, he would hurry through a meal in order to flick ashes onto the newly emptied plate, then stab the shortened butt into anything remaining. The ashtray in his automobile was overflowing with spent sticks. His ties burned with holes and his home reeked of stale tobacco. Few pictures may be found without a smoke in his hand, his connection to nicotine stronger than his marriage. The love affair began at an early age and continued unabated nearly all of his life. When asked if he didn't care to see his grandchildren, he answered, not particularly. It was all a joke. On his bathroom wall hung a sign which read, if I knew I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself. But the sign was a lie. He lived exactly as he intended. Heart valve blockage and surgery may have caused a hiatus, but the infatuation remained undimmed. He was full of pithy sayings such as, the family that smokes together, chokes together. Charming. Now Johnny Smoke had run him to ground. No more jokes. C.O.P.D. was a killer and he was both sad and angry that his lifelong companion was treating him in this rude and insensitive way, ignoring the fact that this was exactly what he had done to dozens of people who came between he and his beloved. A sad, spurned man who could not accept his fate, tethered as he was to a machine. This was the crew's cargo. Its sole passenger, and neither of them had any idea how daunting this trip would be. On its face, the journey was straightforward. Keep the daily distances down, so as not to tax the old man and balance that against reports of the sun's declining health and extreme treatment options. Try to cover as much ground as possible each day without the cargo spoiling. Of course, it was summer and the trip from Los Angeles to Tampa would require them to drive through Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. Of the three, Texas scared the captain most. There was no way to avoid it. There was no way to drive around one of the largest, hottest, nastiest, and most backward places on the planet. Close to a thousand miles of flat, barren, baking temperatures that would fry a Gila monster. Thinly populated by a few ultra-conservative swine who held exactly zero enlightened opinions. These are people who would tie a black man to a car and drag him for miles. Cheer while ICE agents ran down pregnant women and fly the American flag out of a dog's ass to demonstrate love of country. The captain and mate had nothing in common with such people and would need to navigate through the passage unnoticed. It terrified them. But the captain had been this way before and knew every oasis between El Paso and San Antonio. It would take every ounce of beaded concentration, every muscle firing in unison, and the cunning of a panther to avoid catastrophe or capture by a raging army of toothless Republican meth-heads. Clearly, the old man was a burden, a heavy pile of concentrated trouble, and the captain was banking on the mate to keep the load in balance. Strain on the crew was enormous. If the old man made trouble, it would be the responsibility of the mate to right the four-wheeled ship. Few could manage it. Fewer still would have accepted the assignment. But the mate had history, and this encumbered the mate. At one time, the old man had been an important part of the mate's life, a father figure in the absence of any other. A ghastly guide, but a dispenser of wisdom, nonetheless. Now the poor bastard was facing the most horrible evil, and the mate was drawn gravitationally toward involvement. Was it martyrdom? Perhaps. But truthfully, the motives were pure, and the captain could not manage alone. Preparations were finalized, and at last the expedition was sent to commence. The captain had the vessel in fine trim, weather was fair and cloudless. Bags were loaded and squared away, when finally the old man was hoisted aboard. The mate carefully connected the oxygen pump to its proper source, and the captain pointed their ship east. East would be their direction for the next several days, as the enemy's sun seemed to press against them. At first, the journey went well enough, with the captain's course dutifully charted into the navigational system. The mate distracted the old man with a song list of long-forgotten favorites, and the grim expedition began cheerfully enough. That is, until the captain asked the old man if he remembered to pack the spare batteries to his life-giving shark. Didn't you? he replied. It was his one job, and the one the crew felt he was unlikely to forget. They were wrong. In his grief and confusion, he stumbled through each day, addle-headed and oxygen-deprived. Now there was no option. The machine could not function without power, and while connected to the car battery, it was fine. But the old man could not survive without its life-giving juice for more than a minute or two, and if they did not intend to drive straight through to Tampa, it would be required at night. The battery pack and spares permitted mobility, allowing them the freedom to stop at the greasy diners and flophouses adored by the old man. The batteries were critical, and as essential to him as gasoline is to an automobile. They had no choice. They must turn back. The odyssey would have to wait another day to begin. It was dusk when they reached home. The old man was a wreck, a shell of his usual cheerful self. The mate and captain exchanged glances. How would they ever transport this cargo across the entire width of the United States? A few hours left him spent and exhausted. Climbing out and depositing himself on the living room sofa took every ounce of energy he had, every drop of corpuscular fuel left in his system was drained and laid bare. Further travel on this day was impossible. The captain had gained no ground on the objective and had lost a fair bit of precious time and damage to the old man's health. He was clearly frantic to see his son while they were both able, but there was nothing he could do. He lashed out at the mate and blamed everyone for the delay but himself. The crew needed to calm him if they were to attempt the crossing again the following morning. They needed rest. He needed rest if he were to regain sufficient strength for the voyage. But he was too agitated, too nervous about his own failing health as well as the condition of his son for rest to be possible. It was then that the captain remembered the medicine prescribed by the old man's doctor should exactly this situation occur. The captain was furious. He had not thought of this sooner. Perhaps this was the answer. Sedation. The potion did the trick in short order. In fact, it affected him so rapidly that the captain and mate were lucky to be able to get him into his bed. Burden shed. The crew felt it was appropriate to anesthetize themselves, and soon the house was filled with the sounds of contented slumber. That's the end of chapter one.