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To say that the ride had been rough was an understatement. To say that Peter came out of it well was an outright lie.
At 75, Peter was far too old to be flung around the ship like a ragdoll. Although he had grown up on a farm and served in a war, his body was simply too old and too used up to support such abuse. His brain, too, was no longer in peak condition, and it insisted on playing tricks on him...
The nightmares which had plagued him all week sharpened into flashbacks. He could feel bodies against his, smell the stench of the living and the dying and all those in between. A blast sent them flying, crashing to the earth. A child lay in front of them, her stomach ripped open and her innards heaving out of her bloated body. Another explosion, and he felt his knee tear open.
Silence.
Peter lifted his head, a ragged, tired gesture. Grass grew up between the tiles of the med lab's floor. A filthy child, dressed in rags, played with a bullet beside Katie, and Sergeant Walsh was lounging against a group of trees beside Rita.
He knew they weren't real. That is, not all of them could be. Peter closed his eyes tightly, praying to God to grant him clarity, to grant him strength. And when his eyes opened, there was only the present. The past had returned to its grave.
The moment Peter moved, he knew he was not well. The ache in his legs had faded to a dull throb, the pain overcome by his confusion. Moving brought reality and its consequences back to him. He felt his knee snap a little, and he gasped through gritted teeth. The elderly man hauled himself into a sitting position, but he knew that was all the further he was going go get.