Emergence by John Birmingham Page B

be drawn into an argument with Pradesh. He just kept shaking his head, appearing to grow calmer the more the doctor lost it. Mr Hooper would be coming with him. End of story. The orderlies who were supposed to be watching Dave had been distracted by the three-way argument.
    Dave leaned forward and glanced across the hallway into the room opposite, hoping to see someone he knew in there, possibly even Martinelli. But Nurse Fletcher’s considerable bulk intervened, blocking his view. She raised her voice, trying to talk over Pradesh, who was trying to convince Allen that he was in charge. Dave was suddenly aware of just how hungry he was, ravenously so. His stomach growled and saliva jetted into his mouth as he sniffed the chemical-scented hospital air and thought he discerned a faraway hint of boiled potatoes and some sort of meat.
    The thought of meat brought up memories of the nightmare he’d rather forget, and he forced them away. The argument around him grew a touch louder and a lot more irrational. It was like listening to his two boys go at each other over some stupid and pointless playground bullshit. Nobody had answered any of his questions about the rig and what had happened. Nobody had told him who made it off and who didn’t. They didn’t seem to understand that he was responsible for what happened out there. He was the guy who was supposed to keep everyone safe, and he hadn’t.
    He had failed.
    Epically.
    Again.
    He just wanted everyone to stop for a moment and listen to him. To answer his goddamn questions. He wanted to know why he was in hospital, apparently unharmed, when so many others were not. He wanted to know why he was having psychotic visions, even if the answer was obvious. One of those hookers had to have slipped him something last night, and he was about to fail a drug test. Probably about to be charged and prosecuted. And that wasn’t even close to the worst of the shit coming down on him.
    But nobody was paying the slightest bit of attention to Dave Hooper anymore. Nobody cared. Certainly not about him and probably not about any of the men and women he had failed out on the Longreach. Before he even knew what he was doing, Dave let his temper off the leash. He balled his right hand into a fist and slammed it down on the little bedside unit on which rested his empty water glass and the TV remote.
    ‘Shut up!’ he shouted, but not loudly enough to be heard over the enormous crash of the bedside table exploding under the force of his blow. He had not meant to destroy another piece of furniture. Jeez, would the insurance even cover that? All he’d wanted was to stop them from bickering and get them to pay him some attention.
    Mission accomplished. Nurse Fletcher shrieked. Pradesh spun around in alarm and almost tripped over his own feet. Allen came off the wall as if roused from a nap, his hand on his weapon, ready to use it. The two orderlies didn’t know what to do. Dave just stared at his fist where it hung in midair over the shattered sticks of furniture. He hadn’t been looking when he’d lashed out, and his fist had come down on top of a drinking glass. It’d exploded as if dropped from a great height, and jagged shards of glass laid open the side of his hand. One long, bloodied fang of glass had penetrated the heel of his palm and emerged on the other side.
    It was uncomfortable but not as painful as it should have been, Dave thought. He must be in shock. Reaching across, feeling a little queasy but fascinated at the same time, he pinched the shard between the thumb and forefinger of his uninjured hand and pulled it out. It was an unusual sensation, having something hard slide through his body like that. But again it didn’t really hurt. Not like his arm had hurt all those years ago when he broke it playing on the trampoline with his cousin.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in an almost childish voice. ‘I hurt myself. And I broke your table.’
    He held his hand up to Nurse Fletcher, who