The Hero's Welcome - Part One

My eyes were open, but despite the smoke, they did not burn. And it was thick, swarmed above me, below me, and through me as if every single crack and crevice was subject to its menace. The fire, ablaze with the furor of sweat, oil and gasoline, coursed along as if guided by wickedness, and through it all there were faces, mangled and bloodless with eyes as black as coal.

I felt nothing, neither warmth nor coolness, and my own senses seemed to have failed me, except for my vision which seemed heightened by my desperation, my confusion. I tried to reach out, to touch someone, to feel something, when a singular shot rang out.

There was a voice, enigmatic of its origin and yet so distinct that one had to take notice. As it spoke, little more than a whisper, my ears trembled as leaves in a summer breeze. “Samuel Croom,” it said as clear as day, and I was awakened.

“Look at dat negro,” Smokey said, voice raspy as ever in the early morning, as I began to orient myself, perplexed by my circumstances. I sat up in amazement, as the dream had been so real, and yet here I was, half-naked and freezing on the floor of my barracks, surrounded by darkness. As my eyes adjusted, I could see that dawn was approaching and I would soon have to begin my day. But the dream still lingered.

“Lil’ Sammy fell out da bed agin?” someone asked, although it was more of a slight. I then got up slowly, still drowsy and a little sore from the fall, and placed my bedding back onto the top bunk, more of us rousing in time to the rising sun.

Collins, usually shiftless, although slightly roused, just turned over and continued to sleep, and if it weren’t for me, he would be late and subject to humiliation every morning. This morning was of no exception, more light trickling in, more hot water trickling out, as we all showered and dressed. I decided that this morning I would go ahead and let Collins feel the pinch, and let him sleep.

As I showered, I couldn’t help but feel the speculation, catechismal faces etched with inquiry. The air was thick with it, suspicion and steam, but I tried to ignore the feeling, washing vigorously as if intending to remove soot and ash. Smokey seemed to be the only one to ignore me, the others, however, focusing all of their energy as if to coerce me into submittal. The looming intensity, frothing like a billow of dense foam, was even greater than the means I used to distract myself, so I finished quickly, getting in a swift shave and leaving just in time to see Collins, eyes still heavy, shoot me a hurried and threatening glance before sleepily rushing to the now cold barrage.