“Shit, I’ll take redundant questions for 500 thanks, Alex.” Sweat is pouring off me in buckets and the towel I was given an hour ago is soaked through. I signal for another one. Just wish I could see the face of the person bringing it out to me.
“Hang in there, buddy. You’re doing really well.” He keeps saying that and funnily enough it seems to have lost some of its meaning.
The noise coming from the back of the trailer is a constant buzz punctuated by the gas from the cylinder. It’s grating on my last nerve and the cramp is coming back into my thigh. I know that in about ten minutes they will stop and the voices will start as everyone checks on everyone else, to which the answer will be, yep, we’re still fucking here. Not going anywhere. How about you?
“Aaah, Jesus Christ!” A pair of hands massage up the back of my legs from another faceless Samaritan, slowly rolling the knot of pain down my leg and into my boot. “Just tell me where the fuck we’re at.”
“Another half an hour.”
“That’s what you said half an hour ago.” I want to hear a chuckle from under the mask. Anything that will make me feel more human but his face is impassive and his whole demeanor is about placating not entertaining. This must be the fourth hour psyche protocol. “Shit, who is that?”