1. Chapter 1 (1/2)

disclaimer: i don't own the last ship, et al.

the lottery

my heart raced, pounding hard against my chest cavity, a machine gun's rapid fire, banging around against my ears now as i watched dr. scott walk off the ship without looking back. the sun was high in a gorgeous blue sky. a throng of official looking people waiting for her below. beyond them was an angry crowd of people flanking the scene on all sides. two uniformed guards (army) at dr. scott's side. i glanced down the port side at the line of sailors. most faces of my shipmates were the same as mine. stoic. shocked. and set in stone. unwavering against captain's orders.

i dared myself to steal a look at him. his face was the same as it always had been: jaw set, eyes intense and clear and fixated on the horizon – looking beyond the mess at hand – far beyond his decision to turn her over to authorities. i felt sick. i swallowed hard, once again seeing sorensen's last moments in the deep recesses of my mind – blood, thick, dark, red – everywhere, an unstoppable force.

and then dr. scott's placid face.

her resolve strong.

her will even stronger.

she had been tested.

tested and she passed.

or had she failed?

rage overtook the crowd.

the scene swallowed her whole.

she didn't look back.

she didn't look for help.

and then she was gone.

gone forever.

the woman who saved us all.

while we stood tall on the nathan james to pass judgment.

and then i woke up.

the dreamscape … always the same … always damning – always reminding me of something i'd seen in my mind's eye before and yet – i could never place it ... a movie, perhaps a book.

it had been only sixty hours. five days and counting since dr. scott killed (murdered, executed, extinguished) that hack, sorensen. and within that time, i'm pretty sure i developed a full-blown ulcer and had become an insomniac. my stomach was tied in a perpetual chaos of knots – churning and twisting and not at all like the queasiness i felt for the first few days on the nathan james – instead it was a relentless force of pressure created via its own volition, one that only bolstered by my stresses and weaknesses.

sleep evaded me. every time i closed my eyes all i saw was that watery image of sorensen's face from behind the plastic lab windows, blood oozing out of his orifices. his death happened so fast, i barely registered that there was a problem, until it was too late. but in my dreams – the events were in slow motion – each second was amplified and i always seemed to wake up feeling a bazaar sense of misplaced guilt. like i should have done something to stop what i already knew had started to play out.

and then invariably i stopped myself … because if i really dug down deep enough, i knew i would unearth the truth: that i wanted him dead too.

and then i would think of my mother.

and the son she raised.

and the man she was sure i would become.

and i wasn't sure what to make of it all.

would she condemn me?

would she understand me?

would she still love me?

call it redemption. call it vengeance. call it retribution. i'll call it whatever makes sense, but the fact remained: he killed my entire family.

something i didn't find out until the extraction from the vyerni was completed. and i'll be honest; this was a hard fact to comprehend. and it ended up being the central thought in my mind before the vaccination trials began. the fact that this virus was a weapon – 'weaponized' was how they termed it – someone (niels sorenson) had modified the virus, adding a human gene and turned it into a weapon … and killed my family. and five billion other people worldwide. weaponized. the more i thought about the magnitude the more disgusted and angry i became. weaponized.

sometimes all i could think about was my family – my amazing family, quintessential american family – and the slow, miserable and painful death that they endured to this weapon … a virus with the intent to kill. other times i thought of my friends and the friends of my friends – mothers, fathers, sisters,

others, aunts and uncles and school teachers and baristas in coffee shops and bag checkers at the grocery store – a multitude of nameless, faceless victims … and the wave of nausea would come and fester in my stomach. more than half of the world's population ceased to exist, the number was staggering. and disheartening. and i can admit, i hated that bastard sorenson for it. weaponized.

if the court of public opinion was the jury, i'm fairly certain sorensen would have hung for his crimes anyway. but dr. scott apparently took what she needed from him and killed him in the process (on purpose) … and now she was confined to her quarters. and this was a hard pill to swallow.

i rolled over and got dressed in the dark. i had been 'asleep' for two hours. my shift started in another hour and everything would be busy and i wouldn't feel so much like jumping out of my own skin. i exited my cabin and headed down the p-way for the gym. my eyes burned from fatigue, my legs felt like rubber bands, my stomach twisted, hard right and then left. i entered the space and was thankful it was empty. the air was cold and smelled slightly of salt water and sweat. i started my circuit, keeping my mind busy with counting repetitions and it worked for now: avoidance and adrenaline, a beautiful combination.

###

i squirted water into my mouth and looked around the desolate space, once used for a sickbay after the solace rescue mission. my thoughts returned to the captain and dr. scott and the fight against the immunes or the ramsey's as they'd dubbed the campaign. my reprieve over now, any clarity on the situation quickly evaporating into more of the same: uncertainty and ambivalence. my stomach pinched. guilt claimed me again. i rose and walked toward the door and then turned around. i paced, silently berating myself, the shame spiral just too intense to stop now.

there was no way out of this mess for me, i decided then. the sooner i resigned myself to the fact that my hands were tied, the better. i told the truth in that testimonial meeting with garnett. of course i did – i wouldn't have lied – but now i only wish i said more! i wish i gave some color on how uncomfortable and horrible it felt to even be in the vicinity of that creep. i thought of the toxic teddy bears i'd heard about and the '

eathing on people thing' he said he did. i thought about how smug that fucker was!

my head began to pound, throbbing in tandem with my churning stomach and i let it eat me alive, devour me. because i felt rotten about it, the whole mess of it – the guilt of wanting him dead – the helplessness of not being able to do anything or say anything to either help dr. scott or help myself out of this mess because of my rank.

frustration festered now, pricking at me like a sewing machine's needle – i felt rotten to the core about the treatment of this woman whom i admired so – this force of a doctor i had trusted with my life … this strong woman who'd fought for everything she ever needed … from a naval destroyer … to a primordial strain … to dozens of monkeys … to the rescue of the captain and tex.

this incredible woman i used to look at like she was a lone warrior among us – this visionary woman who saved my life and gave me this chance – to stand here, right here, right now and not worry about the virus or my health or my longevity … and yet, i could do nothing to change the outcome of her confinement … her incarceration.

she was ousted. off limits. sequestered.

###

the door opened and i stopped pacing. it was wolf man. he smiled and nodded with his usual

and of

avado and began to work out. i watched him, counting his repetitions now. i sat down again and felt the panic slowly ebb from my heart and stomach. his presence a mere distraction. a welcome one. he lay down on the bench and picked up a barbell with a couple hundred pounds on it.

"you okay, miller?" came his aussie baritone as he gritted his teeth.

i nodded in the affirmative and stared at him still, watching the details of his arm muscles as he worked them out. he heaved another repetition and then another and another.

"miller!" he called more firmly as he sat up. he moved his forearm across his forehead. "you all right, mate?" he asked again, crossing the space toward me.

"oh yeah, sorry … i thought i answered," i said, searching his eyes for something, maybe some kind of answer.

he sat down across from me and squirted water into his mouth. "you don't look so well,

other," he deemed with his swagger, his intense, all-seeing eyes not missing a beat.

"yeah, well …," i nodded.

what was i supposed to say? i'm lost. i don't know what to do. i have nowhere to go. anxiety is eating me alive.

"well what?" he prompted, cocking his head. he swiped his forearm across his

ow and stared at me. "something's wrong, boss," he persisted.

"yeah," i agreed, looking away.

i can't eat. i can't sleep. i have nowhere to go, no escape from my demons.

"listen … you look like shit," he said more directly now. "like something's eating you alive," he added, catching my eyes.

"nah, i'm doing all right," i lied. i made to stand on my rubber band legs.

"i don't buy that for a minute," he said, setting a firm hand on my forearm. i sat down again. "spill it," he said, looking around. "just you and me, pal," he said directly.

i looked around and heard my heart again, thumping wildly into my ears. i swallowed hard and thought about this – the idea of shedding some of my guilt, wondering now if it was even possible given that i felt it had become part of who i was. i hesitated. i thought of my mother (dead). and dr. scott (imprisoned). and then it hit me … the familiarity of my dreamscape.

"have you ever read a book called 'the lottery' by shirley jackson?" i heard myself ask him then.

he shook his head, "no mate."

i swallowed hard again and took a deep

eath. "well, it's a really provocative story i read when i was in fifth grade about this town of people and how they are getting ready for this annual ritual they have," i

eathed, the lieutenant listening intently now. i continued. "and as the book opens, the townspeople do all these mundane things in the process to get ready for it," i explained. "and the whole time you're reading it, the author builds the story such that you think the winner of the this lottery will get something … but you're not sure what, it all seems pretty benign …," i went on.

"but it's not …," wolf man presumed.

"right … not at all because then there's this awful turn of events in the last part of the book when the name of the winner is drawn out of this black box – i remember it's a woman, a wife and mother – and she doesn't want to be the winner. she protests heatedly, but then even her husband just resigns himself to her fate … he even encourages her to accept it – and then finally the reader becomes privy to the real reason for the lottery – that the 'winner' is stoned to death by the rest of the townspeople …," i relayed, trying my best to articulate this lingering, defining memory i had.

"really?" wolf man pondered. "wow."

"yeah … and then people begin to pull stones out of their pockets – kids too – and throw them at her … aiming at her … hitting her head, hitting her everywhere …," i said, my heart racing. "and the thing about it is, they don't even know why they're doing it anymore," i said. "if you go back and read the book again, you realize that some of the elder characters don't have all the facts – but they do remember one protocol – to use stones …," i recalled. "so whatever the ritual had stood for had been lost over the generations … and so now all that remained was the

utality of murdering someone – a neighbor, some innocent person – it's … awful … and alarming … the definitiveness of their blind decision to just … stone her to death …," i

eathed, my heart twisting.

"that's a horrible story for a kid! someone made you read that?" wolf man asked incredulously.

"yeah," i answered, thinking now of my fifth grade teacher, mrs. watson and how she'd probably died from the virus along with most of the kids that were in that class with me … the not so nameless and faceless victims. i exhaled sharply.

"and this book is troubling you?" he prompted quizzically, his serious eyes searching mine for answers.

"no – i mean – yeah … it's not the story … just so much as what's happening with dr. scott and the fallout … it made me think of it …," i exhaled (and dream of it), quickly trying to reign my heart in as i dangled on a precipice somewhere altogether foreign.

"and who is she in this story?" the diligent soldier asked curiously now. "one of the villagers? or the winner of the lottery? the one who gets stoned? or the one who throws the first stone?" he persisted, asking the harder questions, an intonation of sarcasm there too.

i looked at this fearless man now, knowing that i trusted him but also accepting that i was marking myself in some fashion (as what i had no idea) – except that a great many of the navy's lines seemed to be blurred now and maybe that was the whole point – that things weren't as they were supposed to be or as they seemed anymore.

"i don't know – maybe a bit of both – i mean if we're talking about niels sorensen, he was the only one who was gonna 'win' that lottery eventually – but if we're talking about blind punishment – like what's happening with dr. scott and her confinement … maybe she's part victim … ," i tried to articulate.

"hmm … and part executioner," the more experience soldier answered as he stared at me. "maybe they both are," he added reflectively.

i didn't answer that. i didn't look at dr. scott like she was an executioner. the immunes, lining doctors up … the immunes, blowing new orleans up – they were executioners – but not dr. scott, no … even if her actions were calculated, there was still a large, gray area, one laden with self-defense and self-preservation.

this was not black and white and though, wrong, her actions previous to this event, should have proven the type of person she is – that she's a woman of her word – that she 'would stop at nothing' to make sure she succeeded … that she would indeed go to the end of the earth or to this darker, unimaginable place to solve this problem … to find the cure and save the world.

"you feel badly," wolf man deemed now. "you were there, you watched it happen and let me guess, you're not all that upset that he's dead," he triangulated wisely. "you're conflicted … on one hand – she offed public enemy number one – and on the other hand, you know she was wrong," he stated evenly, dissecting my conflict aloud.

"pretty much sums it up," i conceded, my heart alighted that maybe i didn't feel so differently than others. "i feel … bad or guilty, and not because i could have done anything to prevent the outcome," i said with haste. wolf man nodded in assent. "but because – dr. scott, she's amazing – she saved all of our lives! and now … she's ostracized … it's just so hard … so hard to imagine how bad things got so quickly," i sighed.

"hmm … you have to realize – there's no right or wrong answer here – but there is protocol and she did kill sorensen, admittedly, from what i hear," he stated evenly.

"i keep having these weird nightmares of her leaving the ship and a throng of angry people going after her … like 'the lottery' … it's just –"

"listen mate," he cut me off. "chandler – he's the best man on the helm i've ever encountered – he's the best strategist there is … so maybe he has a plan," he deemed, his eyes searching mine, trying to impress his position to just fall in line on me.