Flu by Wayne Simmons Page B

sir," Gallagher said in a matter-of-fact way. Jackson walked to the microphone at the control panel. It hadn't changed a bit since he was last here. Still as minimalist looking as before, featuring the mic and huge red button. A small dial allowed the sound control to be adjusted. A nearby chair, also familiar from days gone by, beckoned Jackson. He sat down, facing the one-way window, knowing, from experience, that the colonel would only be seeing his own reflection when looking at the glass. Yet, his cold, hard stare seemed to be burrowing through Jackson's own eyes, as if he somehow could see beyond the mirror. As if, in the ongoing transfiguration from life to death, the colonel had achieved some sort of enhanced vision, a sixth sense that allowed him to see everything and everyone.
        Jackson turned to look at Gallagher, who was standing by the door, facing the colonel as if on parade. "He's… already turned," he said, without pressing the red button.
        "Not quite, sir," Gallagher corrected. "He's in the later stages of his illness, of course, but still able to talk. I've been just with him, before we got the call from the gate advising of your approach." Gallagher pointed again to the mic, as if Jackson had forgotten it was there. "Sir, if you please…" he said, as polite as ever.
        Jackson looked back at the colonel, still drawn to his eyes. He hadn't noticed them blink since he had entered the room, as if the colonel was in some kind of trance. His hands clung to an old, bloodstained towel, now disused, as the effects of the flu were in freefall. Bloody mucus seeped from his mouth and nose, unchecked. He gurgled, as if choking. He spat on the ground beside him, clearing his throat. Jackson's hand reached for the red button, noticing how it lit up as he pressed it. The colonel didn't react, not seeming to hear the fuzz of the speakers kicking in.
        "You may wish to turn the volume up a little louder, sir," Gallagher whispered. "The colonel's hearing is failing, you see."
        "Of course," said Jackson, as he turned the dial, noticing the colonel suddenly looking around the room, as he heard his words.
        "Hallo?" the colonel said, "Is that you, Gallagher?"
        "No, sir…" Jackson said. "My name's Major Connor Jackson. I've been sent to… er…"
        "Replace me," the colonel said, calmly. "It was me who sent for you, sir. Welcome to the Chamber."
        "Thank you, sir," Jackson replied.
        "Of course," the colonel said, picking up a clipboard from the mess littering the table in front of him, "I'm led to believe this isn't your first time at The Chamber. Bit of an old pro, you are. Duties alongside Dr Gallagher in the early nineties, it seems. Capture and interrogation of prolific IRA operatives… those were your specialities, weren't they?"
        "Yes, sir," Jackson said. He reckoned that the clipboard contained excerpts from his personnel file. He knew what was in there, and felt a little uncomfortable at it being perused so liberally by the colonel, a man whom he had never met, in all his years of service. Those dark days seemed irrelevant to him, now. As if it were a different Connor Jackson detailed in that file. As if it had all just been a mix-up.
        "Yes, sir, indeed…" the colonel repeated, as if he were a headmaster chastising Jackson. Jackson was a bit taken back by that, but said nothing. "However, seems you weren't always best pleased at the kinds of practices which went on around here," the colonel continued. "Retired from the Army after a certain incident involving -"
        "Clearly, sir," Jackson said, interrupting the colonel and struggling to hold his cool, "there are things which a man must do in a war situation which are questionable." This was a dying man, he reminded himself. This wasn't the time or place for debating the rules of engagement. "I find I'm much more principled now, though," he said, feeling the stab of bitter memories